2006-11-21 - 1:55 a.m.
Earlier today, I went with my mother to the local pharmacy to pick up some morphine for my stepfather (don’t ask). In the store, they had this sort of Christmas exhibit set up. There was this sort of series of little baskets, all stacked up in a row. The baskets were the sort of wide bottomed, short sided wicker things that you might lay on the floor for your pet to sleep in, and each was, in fact, lined with little fluffy pillows.
Inside each basket, also, was this new line of stuffed animal – an almost disturbingly accurate stuffed cat or stuffed dog, posed in a position of cutiepie slumber in a style calculated to make old ladies go “awwww” and teenage girls coo “Ooooo!”
Me? I found the display to be downright creepy. Each basket had a little label tied to the side – “You can adopt me! You can name me!” the label read, as though the stuffed ever-sleeping creatures were meant to be adorable pets. But they weren’t pets! They were stuffed animals, painstakingly made to fool you into thinking they were real animals! Quite ghastly, it seems to me – like you were filling your house with dead things. Not even trophies – I can see the purpose in having a deer’s head over your mantle – but dead things.
I was reminded of the Victorian tradition of taxidermy: The Victorians would often kill kittens and little puppies and then embalm them, ripping out their organs and stuffing the corpses with sawdust. Then they would pose dozens of the corpses into weird and “quaint” poses. I remember once at a museum I went to at Bodmin Moor, they had this exhibit of dozen of stuffed kittens, posed to resemble students in a classroom. It was both sentimentally saccharine and creepy. And the way that these baskets had little “sleeping” cats and puppies in them felt remarkably similar.
Wouldn’t it be adorable to have one of those model kittens, lying like a long dead thing, in your living room? And what if you never cleaned it, so it would lie there forever, day after day, with dust coating it, like a forgotten corpse? You just got the shivers looking at them. If you want an animal sleeping in a basket, adopt a real animal and let it sleep in a basket! Don’t buy some creepy stuffed dead thing at the pharmacy. That’s my advice.
Yes, dear Blog-a-licious Blog, it HAS been a while since last we talked. I can’t even tell you the number of times that I have started to write to you, only to stop when the so-called “ideas” didn’t start flowing from my finger tips onto the keyboard like spring rain on the veldt, as they are traditionally wont to do.
What can I say? My life is so devoid of exceptional incident lately, it has been difficult to dredge up enough news to regale you with. I mean, can it be that you are fascinated by the odious tales of a man who works for a junior high school teacher grading tests on fractions and percentage ratios? Am I supposed to yammer on about how Sammy Laderhoffen is flunking math but doing better on geology? No, I wouldn’t think you’d be interested in that, either. I would almost rather pluck out my eyebrows than clutter up the psychic airwaves with it.
Actually, I am pleased to report that things aren’t quite as bad as all that right now. Yes, they sure ain’t good, either. But there have been enough little projects hither and thither to keep me entertained and reimbursed beyond merely being a paper grader. For one thing, this week has marked a brief, short term return to the Big Paper, which sent me out on a couple of assignments, albeit to plays that I wouldn’t want your mama to review.
Then, Pathetica has been sending me a few bits and pieces of work, which is rather kind of them, all things considered. Pathetica, if the rumors are to be believed, is going to be starting up again in a big way at some point – it is a company that has Great Potential and I have Great Expectations that good things might happen at some point. The assistant dogsbody or the junior executive or whatever he is said that as far as scripts there are concerned, I am to be their main analyst.
Now, if only that meant a lot of work! Perhaps it might some day. Just not this month, when all they send me is about three or four scripts. I do certainly need more money and that’s a fact – but there are little dips and daps which imply more and better opportunities in the future if I am just capable of holding out and holding on.
Aside from all this, the sands of time have slipped through the hourglass at a peculiarly swift rate this week, almost without my even noticing. I have been a bit down, as well – and given that I have a strong policy of never blogging depressed, when I am in one of my “moods” I have stayed well away from my keyboard.
But really, my most wonderful Big Blue Blog-a-roo -- you who are the apple of my eye, the salt of my ocean, the sugar of my tea, the whipped cream of my hot chocolate -- there are so many things going on in the world right now, I just felt that the time has come to break my self imposed silence. I mean – the elections! Iraq! OJ! And, given that I have just calmed my racing heartbeat following a torrid and acrobatic sex session with a 21 year old male cheerleader from Pico Tech, my tongue is now quite loosened, if you will forgive the expression.
I can’t believe that so much time has passed that I have missed the chance to comment on the election. My goodness! Wasn’t that a good time! I have to admit I was quite pleased that the Demos retook the House and the Senate. After all, our own dear Founding Fathers arranged all these checks and balances for a reason. Who wants one party to be able to ram through whatever awful business they desire at their whim – such as, oh, a pointless and ego-driven war, for instance?
However, I have to tell you that elections are a serious business to my parents – in fact, they are such serious things that you’d think they were actually running for office themselves. It is frankly weird – and a little distasteful. I mean, you and I know the truth: As far as our little lives right here, in this little coffeehouse is concerned, where I am sipping a fine iced cappuccino and waiting for my computer battery to die, it matters little which corrupt sleaze pig is in office.
And, yet, my stepdad is so obsessed with these political things, you’d think the Republicans losing was a death in the family. You want to know why we went out to get him morphine? It is because of the election. It is so little distasteful and out of balance, if you want to know the truth. It strikes me as being misplaced passion.
For instance, my grandmother went in for eye surgery last week at age 82. It wasn’t a particularly dangerous operation, but given that she’s a blind lady, back in New York, it was quite a hullabaloo with an ambulance being called to escort her to the surgery and two cousins staying with her the entire time. In my folks’ madhouse, did anyone even mention the surgery for five days? No. Any time I raised the subject, it was brushed aside and was clearly considered much less important than the upcoming election.
And, on the day of the election itself, as the reports of a Democratic victory, which for all intents and purposes had been assumed days, no weeks in advance, started pouring in – well, it was like a Greek funeral.
“I… I… I’m sick. I can’t stand it. I’m gonna die!” moaned my stepdad. “I can’t believe it. An astonishing calamity has befallen us! No one talk to me for the next few days. I’m taking to my bed! Leave me alone!”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” peeled my mother, literally wringing her hands. “This is terrible! It means that we can’t have Thanksgiving this year with Myrtle and Magus Doofadorra. They’re such liberals. How they shall mock and ridicule us!”
As though any of it matters. Meanwhile, I had to wait a full week to hear about grandmother, who came through the operation with little improvement, really. The emphasis on the election over real people – well, what can I say? It sort of turns my stomach.
It doesn’t turn my stomach as much as this new book by OJ, though. My goodness: Have you heard about this? OJ has written a new book, which is ostensibly a “hypothetical” explanation of how he “would have” performed those ghastly murders.
“Well, not that I had anything to do with it,” one portion of the book reads, “but if I had, I would have plunged that knife deep into the bitch’s breast while she shrieked and howled! And I would have slashed the through of that waiter punk, until I heard the sound of him gurgling and choking on his own blood! And I would have orgasmed in my black jeans with pure lust at the blood I was a-spilling. If I had done such a thing. Which I didn’t.”
You sort of wonder about the sheer temerity of people, really. You’d think that they’d just shut up. But, alas, it isn’t the way of folks, is it. They just blubble on and on and on. Now comes the news that the TV network is going to cancel their planned interview with OJ – and the publishing company is deciding to cancel rolling out the book. Fine: But what the heck – You might as well go through with it, right? The book is already written, and the interview was already taped. Not going through with it now only smacks of cowardice and censorship. The person to fire is the person who originally Greenlit the OJ book in the first place, and ok’ed the Fox interview. It’s already been written and done, now: You might as well give us the opportunity to see it all. Censoring it now just deprives us of the chance to hold a meaningful debate on it.
But I am full of equanimity because, frankly, I have been well laid this past week. I have been on a sex jag, really! You would be so proud of me. I have been the most amazing and astonishing slut. I have been supapimp. I have had more sex than you’ve had chicken dinners! My feats of sexual cocksmanship are so impressive your wig would flip and your eyes would bug.
It all started out on Monday with the extremely handsome 37 year old yuppie with curly blond hair and a lean track star’s body, which was covered with soft brown hair. This fellow contacted me via a Craigslist ad, and invited himself over on the pretense that “he’s totally straight, it’s just that every so often he likes getting it on with a guy.”
He only lived about four blocks away, too, so his offer of bringing over his enormous cut cock was prefaced with the statement, “I’d like this to be totally discreet. If you see me on the street after this, you don’t know me. And if I see you, I don’t know you.”
Usually this sort of whiny demand makes me sort of laugh – it reveals far more about the insecurity of the guy and his shame issues than anything else. But, hey, it is not like it’s any skin off of my ass. I am not the sort of fellow who’d run up to you when you’re out with your wife and squawk, “Hey! Aren’t you the guy who makes all those REALLY great faces when I lick your balls?”
In any case, the nice man really enjoyed what I did for him, and he was much more polite and pleasant than I figured he’d be. As I sucked him, his low moans became more and more intense, and ultimately he ejaculated an incredibly huge load of semen all over my chest.
Not too long afterwards, I got an e-mail out of the blue from a fuck buddy from long ago – a cutiepie actor (age 28) with whom I had romped several times over a bucolic summer. He wanted to come over and get off after work – and his main request was that he wanted to make sure that I would cum.
“Well, sure,” I replied.
He had flat brown hair, slightly bleached blond from the sun. And he had slightly protuberant eyes and beautiful soft lips. While we were fooling around, he made the funniest and most expressive “fish faces.” You know the sort I mean: I love when guys make wacky expressions during sex – and from his expressions I can only surmise that the pleasures he was undergoing were probably extremely intense. He was especially fond of my playing with his smooth, white ass while I sucked his dick and licked his balls.
He insisted on getting me off first, too. And he set about this task using both his hands and his mouth. He was not bad at it, either! His eagerness bespoke someone who was having a “special treat” – cock, instead of flabby pussy! He got me off with ease – and then almost immediately afterwards, his slightly buggy eyes rolled upwards, like the eyes on one of those clocks with the cat’s eyes and tail that go back and forth with the seconds. And he spooged a mighty load all over my chest and belly.
It was not more than a few days afterwards that I found myself unexpectedly invited to a palatial Santa Monica condo overlooking the Ocean for a sort of orgy. Well, a “group session” is probably a better word for it, I suppose. But there were four of us there, in this astonishing condo. It was the place I think I have written about before – and the “host” was the former Brazilian flight attendant who has been an on again/off again buddy for about seven years.
I am exceedingly fond of my Brazilian flight attendant, who is as friendly a fellow as you can hope to meet – and who has the most amazing appetite for sex almost that I have ever known. I think he likes crystal meth rather a lot, but that is neither here nor there to me, as I would never partake of the stuff myself.
It was at this orgy that I actually found myself performing a sexual act of a type that I had never done before. You see, at this party there was this adorable Mexican American singer, about 38, with a long pony tail and a toned, lean body. I was totally attracted to him, and when he started boinking the Brazilian flight attendant (doggy style, if you really want to know), I slipped up behind him, and started fucking HIM so that he was both fucking and being fucked at the same time.
How he enjoyed it! He moaned and gasped, not sure whether to respond in the rhythm he was throwing the fuck into the Brazilian, or to respond in the rhythm of me fucking him. But that was the first time I had ever been in a sort of Daisy Chain situation, I must say. How nice it is to try something new after all these years.
A few days later, I was on the bus, coming home from a screening at the Fox lot, when I suddenly realized that the cute 21 year old kid who was sitting next to me, cadging me stealthy glances, was someone I had hooked up with off of Gay.com about six months ago. What are the chances of that happening, I wonder? About the same as they are of being hit by a car and dying a horrible death, I imagine. He was a Mexican American kid and a student at Pico Tech, a local college.
We got to talking, and it turned out he was right now heading to my neighborhood to look for a new apartment, as he had had a falling out with his roommate. There was a pause, and then I asked if he might want to “chill at my place” after looking at the new apartment. His alacrity as he replied in the affirmative was rather touching to behold! And so I walked him up 3rd Street to the apartment he was interested in, and then I left him on the doorstep. I rushed home to take a quick shower – and not 10 minutes later there he was, buzzing from downstairs!
The kid was on his college’s cheerleading squad, so I must confess he was remarkably adroit at a variety of acrobatic positions – there was very little he would not do! And as I played with him, he kept making me stop so he would not ejaculate too quickly. His orgasm was most amiably intense – and, after about 15 minutes of chit chat, we did it again.
And that, dear friends, was enough sex for a while, I think. Now I am enjoying NOT having sex. Indeed, for the rest of this Holiday Week, I fancy I am going to essentially be a nun and be happy about it. So I shall see YOU all at Vespers, promptly. Goodbye!
