2006-05-27 - 4:06 p.m.
Today’s mood – Cranky! In fact, I would have to tell you that I fear that I am losing my mind. Oh, I know what you are saying: Dear Johnny Darling, you are losing your mind the same way that the Germans are losing the war – it happened years ago.
But everything I see, just about everything I read, all the people I meet – all of them just fill me with a dread and a loathing that I almost am incapable of articulating to you. Nothing pleases me, and I seem to be able to get pleasure out of none of it. It is more than a mere Hedda Gabler-eque ennui. It is a frustration somewhat born from boredom, but also from a general awareness that happiness is, for me, far more distant than it has ever been.
I seem to have devoted the last ten or fifteen years of my life to utter nonsense. Tell me, dear reader, how is it that folks manage to get ahead? Even my dear mother seems bewildered by it.
“Dearest son,” she coos. “You are so smart, so bright. So funny! But you have had such bad luck. Nothing seems to pan out for you.” Mind you, there are more important things in the world than just “getting ahead.” In fact, “getting ahead” has generally seemed to be a loathsome thing, when it involves doing stuff for the sake of mere greed.
But given that I have tried to do things in my life that are all about finding contentment, it is simply appalling how little of that I have managed to achieve. It is brutally clear that after college I should just have gone into insurance or banking and made some cash, which I could have used on purchasing a male prostitute each and every night of the week.
My work? Almost non-existent. Oh, there is a script or two, here and there, but not enough to do anything but pay the rent. And for the first time in some years, my reviewing work seems to be falling into a sort of doldrum. I am particularly incensed by the Little Paper, which has inexplicably all but dropped me from their crew, and for no reason that I can ascertain. The Big Paper still uses me, albeit sporadically. The New Paper, thankfully, comes through week after week – but I am profoundly irritated by the behavior of the other papers, which is fundamentally beyond frustrating.
In addition, I am afraid that I might have basically “gone off” the Novel Café, the bohemian little coffeeshop in which I spend a decent part of my time over the last few years. Oh, who am I fooling: When I say “last few years,” I actually mean “this last decade, if not longer.” For, as I am fond of noting, I seem to have slept through my late 20s and my whole 30s in the damn place. And for what? For nothing!
Today is a beautiful, sunny Los Angeles late spring/ early summer day, and so I have come here to write a little this and that. And what do I find here? The place is fetid hot – steam bath hot. The room reeks of bacon fat, and the pretty, but stupid coffee girl behind the counter is spiteful and sullen. The radio is stuck on some idiotic “coffeeshop central” satellite system that plays only Top 40s music of the sort to make me grind my teeth. The table I am sitting at has not been bussed or wiped since perhaps the Fall of Troy. It’s disgusting!
I just went up to the front counter and bought myself a pot of tea. As I ordered, I asked the stupid coffee girl for an extra cup of ice, the idea being that it would be fun to make ice tea by pouring the tea from the teapot into the plastic cup full of ice. And what happened? The stupid coffee girl sneered at me and then she gave me a Dixie cup full of ice. A Dixie cup. Put tea in a Dixie cup and it will melt the cup into a mush of squishy wax and soggy paper.
“Pardon me,” I queried, politely. “Do you think you might give me one of those plastic cups over there? The Dixie cup will melt totally if I try to pour scalding hot tea into it.”
The coffee girl gaped. Her eyes bugged! Her shoulders rose, making her ample, perfect, young-actress-in-LA boobies stick right out. And she gibbered in an idiotic tone that seemed translated from the original Bimbo, “Uhh, well I’m really not supposed to give those out unless you buy something.” Her mouth opened, her face beaming, her perfect teeth glittering. “But it’s OK – I’ll let you get away with it THIS TIME.”
She winked, behaving as if she, an idiotic coffee girl with the brain of a hibernating marmot, was doing me some kind of a favor. Stupid cow! For one thing, I had bought something – I had bought the pot of tea. For another, she was an idiotic, rules-quoting cunt who should have been beaten with bamboo for being so uppity and attitudinous.
Perhaps some miserable flacced dicked breeder would have been charmed by her manner, but I was not. So of course I whipped open the tea pot and hurled the boiling hot tea water right into her face, which instantly erupted in pink, bloody blisters.
“Oh my god! Oh it hurts! It hurts! The agony! Aieee!” the coffee girl howled, as she dropped to her knees, the blisters deforming her previously photogenic would-be actress’s face. “Please! Please help me!”
“I’ll help you, bitch,” I snarled as I threw the ceramic tea cup against her head, so it hit her in the temple.
“Guuh!” the stupid coffee girl moaned as she fell flat against the floor, hitting her head against the side of the refrigerator.
Oh, relax. Of course I did not do any such wicked thing as this. When the woman sneered that she would only give me a plastic cup of ice I just blinked at her and mildly accepted her inexplicable reasoning.
So this explains some of the reasons why I am so cranky today. But one thing I should feel better about is that I saved a life the other evening! I was a hero! Did I tell you about this? I don’t think so.
You see, a few nights ago, I arranged to have this sex date. He’s a nice young gentleman who meets me from time to time via gay.com, and who comes over, usually to get blown and rimmed. He’s a lovely kid, too: He’s from the Phillipines, about 29, but tall and slim and with beautiful eyes. In the manner of many Asian boys, his penis is rather small – but that’s all right, for he makes up for it with a butt that’s so perfect you could bounce a silver dollar off the orbs, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, I know that I am no big deal – but I sometimes amuse myself by chatting with this fellow on line and manipulatively turning him on. I am always amused by folks who get turned on by me. I mean, what is wrong with you, if that’s the case? Find yourself a real hottie.
Honestly, it is no more trouble to have sex with someone gorgeous than it is to have sex with me. I probably should not say such a thing too loudly, though, since if a potential sex buddy reads it here, they shall have nothing to do with me and I shall not get laid again, which would be a pity.
Sometimes, I just veer the conversation in such-and-such a direction, and I get the kid so aroused that he comes running right over to have sex. At other times, it’s harder work, and he will not budge, regardless of whether I tempt him with Sex Act A or Sex Act B. Thus it becomes a sort of puzzle as to whether on any given night I will be able to actually lure him over to actually have sex. It’s amusing either way, actually.
Last night, I had more success than I was expecting. I chatted with the fellow at around one in the morning and, at the time, he was entirely not interested in coming over. Yet, at around three thirty or so, he unexpectedly IMmed me – and now he was ragingly horny. He wanted to come over then and there and have a quick sex bout! Well, why not, said I, and we made arrangements to meet up ASAP.
Well, an hour passed. And then an hour and a half – it was coming up on 4:30. Now, I won’t lie: There are many folks in the world who make dates to come and have sex with you, but who then freak out and blow it off. But this fellow and I had met something like three or four times, and I knew for a fact that we got along in fact. So his disappareance was baffling to me.
Finally, at around a quarter to five, my lover from the Phillipines called. “I velly solly solly, Johnny Dalling! I yam lunning rate because I witness a car accident!” His lowered his voice to a whisper. “I still velly hawny hawny though. I will see if the police will let me leaf so I can come come ova and we can play, play!”
I kindly told him that would be fine, and I sadly apologized for the fact that he thought he was going to have a lovely night of sex, and instead he was being a witness as part of a car accident. Anyway, the cute young boy finally made it over about an hour later. It was late! I was thinking I was just going to bed, but he showed up, so of course I invited him in. His face was drawn and tight – and he looked like had been through the ringer. I quizzed him about what had happened, and this is what he told me:
As the young man was driving down the 405 towards the 10, he passed a car that had stalled in the left lane. Being a kindly, community service based fellow, my trick-to-be stopped his car on the other side of the freeway and peered over at the other car. The driver, whose description I am afraid my trick did not give me, was talking on his cell phone, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was seated in his car, in the pitch dark, on a fairly crowded late night freeway.
“Sir!” my trick called out to the fellow. “You are in the dark! You must get out of your car immediately! Sir! Get out of the car, now!”
The fellow in the car heard my friend’s advice, realized its wisdom, clicked shut his cell phone and clambored out of the car, crossing up into the brush slightly, out of the way of traffic. At that moment – or perhaps a short moment later – a car speeding down the 405 at a huge rate of speed crested the nearby hill and plowed right into the parked car, smashing it utterly and crushing the side door panel.
If the fellow had remained in the car, without listening to my trick’s command, he would have been crushed like an orange in a juice pulper. His head would have popped out the windshield, while his legs would have been flung over the side of the freeway. His blood would have sprayed upwards like the Grant Street Fountain in Chicago. But because my trick stopped off to tell the fellow to flee his car, he survived. And my trick was forced to wait around several hours to be interviewed by the police.
“Dude, that’s quite a story,” I marveled.
“Yes,” my trick noted. “So you see… it was YOU! You helped save the man’s life! Because if you had not turned me on so much, I would not have come out to have sex with you. And I would not have seen the man and made him get out of his car in time for him to live. So you, my dear, saved his life!”
And, in his fashion of Rube Goldbergian logic, I suspect the nice trick was right. I saved the fellow’s life! I am a hero! Isn’t that amazing? And so I rewarded myself by having a roaring orgasm all over the nice boy’s face. Oh, don’t get like that – he loved it. Guys often do, you know.
