Happy Valentine’s Day

This morning, while watching cartoons in our bed, Audrey pushed the comforter onto the floor. The top sheet soon followed. Next she removed her pajamas and shoved them into the space between my bedside table and the bed.

How long she stood there naked watching TV, I can’t say. I was in the next room trying to get the words right for Matt’s Valentine’s Day card. At some point though, her eyes wondered to the top of my table where Matt had left one of his cock rings sitting out. Some night-before bedroom-reorganization resulted in it being left out and forgotten. It’s silver and looks kind of like a crown with a single very high point that stretches up and is meant to stimulate a point lower down. Audrey had picked it up and put it onto her wrist just as we entered the room. She put her arm forward to show us, and announced “look at my new bracelet!”

She looked like a naked 4-year-old Wonder Woman, back on her home island, wearing her bullet-proof bracelet, waiting for the military men to arrive with the guns to expose a new use for what had previously been only pretty jewelry.

“I think Audrey has found a new use for your cock ring,” I said.

“Don’t say ‘cock ring’ in front of her,” Matt replied.

Funeral

I always really liked my step-sister-in-law Helen. Fun to talk to, fun to be around. I’d always been closer to her than my step-brother. Not that there was anything wrong with Daniel, he was just a hard person to get to know. Helen’s sister Sara was a blast also. I’d met their mother, Maxine, a good number of times also and was suitably impressed.

So when Maxine died I didn’t hesitate about going to the funeral.

I met Clifton in the lobby of the funeral home. I didn’t know who he was but I wanted him right off. He was tall, thin, hot. He turned out to be Helen’s nephew, in town from San Antonio for his grandmother’s funeral.

The first part of the funeral was pretty dry. The preacher said all the words he was supposed to say while we sat still and listened. He said Maxine’s name a lot but it didn’t really feel like she was there. But for the second part he opened up the floor for people to come up and talk about their memories of Maxine.

One by one and in small groups most of Helen’s family took the stage and talked about Maxine. Suddenly Maxine was there with us, their memories were palpable and we could feel this strong willed, amazing woman in the room with us. When Clifton got up and spoke, he too was eloquent and a great story-teller. His memory involved Maxine chasing him around the backyard with a switch. The fact that he could talk so comfortably in a room full of people ( something I suck at) made me want him even more.

Out of respect I think we waited until the next day to get it on. At least I hope we did.

After a couple of dates though my interest waned. He was a great guy and handsome but, well, desire does not listen to reason. Unfortunately Clifton’s desire for me did not wane, so I stopped returning his phone calls.

There are a lot of things in my past that may hinder my ultimate goal to one day be the 15th Dalai Lama.

A couple of months later we had a family get together at my mom and step-dad’s house. Clifton wasn’t there of course, since he was a distant in-law but Helen was. She asked me, as casually as possible, “so what happened with you and Clifton? He says you stopped returning his phone calls.”

Shit.

I turned bright red and started sort of stammeringn “um, well, uhh, I just, uhh . . . “

Helen laughed and said, “that’s okay, I think I understand.”

Frederick’s Phone

I don’t remember when Allen started dating some black guy named Frederick, I just remember that Frederick supposedly had a lot of money, or some high falootin’ job, or some amazing education, or something else that was supposed to be impressive. I’m pretty sure he liked to drive Allen around in a giant American rental car.

Allen had another black boyfriend who drove him around in a car with zebra strips. The guy claimed the car was his own, but it turned out to be his sister’s car and she took it back.

Fredrick was from out of state and staying in a hotel. He would come into town often for work and hang out with Allen. At first it was blissful but then all the stories Frederick told stopped adding up, which made Allen crazy. One day Fred told Allen he wanted to take him back to Kentucky (or some other middle state) so he could show him his home. Allen jumped at the chance thinking maybe Frederick would feel more comfortable with him afterwards and stop telling so many lies. Off they flew to Kansas.

Every item in Frederick’s house was taken from hotels. The towels, the bathrobes, the shower curtains, the bedspreads, the sheets, the hair dryers, the sample size shampoos, soaps, and sewing kits. The phone still had a sticker on it that told you to dial “9″ to get an outside line or to press ”4″ for a wake-up call.

“Why is everything here from Best Western?” Allen asked.

“Come on, they expect you to take all that stuff,” Fredrick said, “it’s built into the price.”

There’s something peaceful about the moment when you realize your current relationship is over and that’s totally okay. You have no regrets, there’s no heartache, and no extra baggage. Well, maybe a couple of towels you slip into your suitcase when he’s not looking, but hey, they were built into the price.

I scream, you scream, we all scream when Barbie’s post modern condo is burning to the ground

Hey folks. This is Kevin. Brian’s friend who would jump off a cliff if there were drugs at the bottom.

Well, let’s just put it all out there in this first blog entry. I’m a big sissy.
What do little sissy boys play with when they’re young? Barbie Dolls.
________________________________________________________________

It was a normal summer day back in say, 1976-’77 and I was playing outside on the carport with my pretty little Barbie one of my aunt’s had handed down to me. Barbie was walking along the brick border with not a care in the world.

My Daddy was in the back yard burning trash in a 100 gallon barrel drum. This may have been one of his favorite past times.

If you’re a fan of post modern architecture you would appreciate the beautiful form of the barrel drum much as Barbie did. It was actually her post modern condo.

What does Barbie do when her beloved home is burning to the ground right before her plastic gorgeously lashed eyes? Bitch screams! Barbie’s scream is not unlike that of an 8 year old sissy. I don’t remember how long it was before my Daddy ended up on the carport telling me to stop screaming. It could have been minutes and God help my Daddy it could have been hours.

All I know is he was seriously tired of hearing me scream. I’m sure it wasn’t a shining moment for him to see me playing with Barbie either.

So I quieted down A LOT and quickly.

Poor Barbie couldn’t express the grief she was feeling.

Now, at the age of 8 I was a forgetful child. With that and the extreme stress Barbie was going through it wasn’t long before she was at it again.

I don’t know who felt more pain that day. Barbie with the total loss of her condo or me with my ass on fire from the whipping I got for screaming.

The Bottom

I’m gonna bring us up closer to present day to talk about my best friend Kevin here in San Francisco. Kevin knows how to have a good time. Sometimes Kevin knows a little too well, gets carried away, and misses a day or two of work after partying all weekend.

To be fair to Kevin, this actually hasn’t happened in a long time. Lately Kevin has gotten responsible and turned into another boring homosexual, just like me.

But sometimes he misses the old days. A month or two ago we were at the gym at 6:30 AM on a Monday morning working out. We work out at the gayest gym in the world, Gold’s Gym in the Castro. It’s filled with porn stars. If you see a boy you like, after the gym you can walk a block to the video store and rent a DVD of said boy getting gang-banged in a fake prison cell. I digress, but come on, that’s pretty cool.

So we’re at the gym at 6:30 AM on Monday morning. It unusually empty and suddenly Kevin says: “I know why there’s nobody here, they’re all still dancing at the End Up.” (local dance club that has a weekly Sunday night event that runs well into Monday)

Kevin says this and starts looking all pouty.

“Kevin, come on, we’re doing something so much healthier for our bodies.”

“They’re all cracked out of their heads and having a good time.“

“Yeah, and either they don’t have jobs, or they’re not going to make it to work until Wednesday. Think of how much better you are going to feel today than they are.”

He remained pouty. I couldn’t believe it.

“Kevin, if they all jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?”

“If there were drugs at the bottom.”

This. This is why Kevin is my best friend.

PS. I bet from the title, most of you people thought this story was going to be about somebody who likes to take it up the ass.

Quasimodo

It’s hard getting laid when you’re a fat-ass fag. Finding a boyfriend is harder. But breaking up with a boyfriend makes the first two look like cake walks.

You go your whole life despising fags who won’t date you because you’re not hot enough. You should be attracted to brains, not looks. It’s the inside, not the outside. So what do you do when your boyfriend’s not doing it for you? How can you break up with someone who is perfect in every department, except looks?

Answer: You make something up.

While Brian was fucking cheerleaders, I wasn’t fucking anything until Quasimodo came along. I am unsure how we met. I think Jean introduced us, but it might have been a lot more tragic. It could have been on-line or through a “Chronicle” ad. Who knows? I was high.

Anyway, we met in person for the first time on campus one day around noon. I walked to our designated meeting spot. As I walked up, I noticed a guy waiting. Height—short (perfect). Weight—a little pudgy (perfect). His ass—you could chip a tooth on it(perfect). But when he came into focus, I saw his face.

Before I could bail, he said, “Allen?”

“Cody?” (or Peter or Toby or Troy or Santiago or whatever his name was) I replied.

“Let’s go get some lunch,” he suggested, and we did.

As we waited for the waitress, I got a better look at him. While his body made me nine kinds of puffy, something was wrong with his face, very wrong. Swelling and discoloration consumed the right side of his face, but if you covered that side with—oh, I don’know—a menu, he was cute, very cute.

Even before our waitress showed up, he apologized. He had fallen during a bender in San Antonio, and his face had not yet healed. I relaxed.

I will score this boy. I will nurse his wounds. I will make him beautiful again. And then I will be rewarded. I will have gained his undying love, and all of his prettiness will be mine to show the world and to bask in and to skull fuck.

I had a 7:30 p.m. lab, so our date was cut short, but not before we went back to my place and dry humped for an hour. I had blue balls so badly that my lab instructor asked why I was walking funny. After lab, we met back at Marna’s for round two.

Marna was a hard person to like, but he liked her. More surprisingly, she liked him. When Marna broke out the pot, he partook. He was smart, charming, funny and a pot head. He was everything I ever dreamed of, and his face would heal.

We did it on Marna’s couch that night. I was so turned on by his body that I shot across the room. A fact we learned the morning when Marna turned on the TV and screamed, “Why is there something dripping down Jenny Jones’s face?”

For the next month or so, we were together twenty-four hours a day. We would spend afternoons getting high with his friends who took bong hits through a gas mask so that the pot smoke would saturate their entire faces. New people would freak out and throw up in the gas mask. If you have never seen someone throw up in a gas mask, you haven’t seen shit. We would go back to his house, and I would fuck him.

Sometimes, I would wake up and come before I realized he was sucking me off or riding my cock in my sleep. I would get up, towel off, smoke a cigarette and a joint with him, go back to bed and dream of our deformation-free future. His face would heal.

The healing wasn’t going as I had hoped. I couldn’t see any change at all, and when I would try to help heal him, he didn’t want my help or to even talk about. His face was getting more and more in the way, and I was starting to lose interest. I could pull through. It would heal.

On our way through Jack in the Box one day, he handed me his wallet to pull out the cash. As I dug for the correct bills, I noticed his Texas driver’s license in the little see-through window at the front of his wallet. I had managed to go a long time without seeing a “before” picture of him. Unfortunately, his photo had been taken after the accident. I looked at the issue date—1992. It was 1996.

My lungs emptied.

When we returned to his house, we ate, and he showered up for sex. While he was in the shower, I called his long-time friend Kelli, a newly converted Jew vegetarian whose parents couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t eat baked beans with just a little bit of bacon in them.

“Kelli, when did Cody (or Troy or whatever) injure his face?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Kelli asked. “He was born like that.”

His face wasn’t going to heal.

When he came out of the shower with a hard-on I could see through the towel, I wasn’t in the mood. I suddenly didn’t feel well. I went home.

Here comes the hard part. I had to break up. I couldn’t wake up next to that face another day, but I couldn’t break up with him because he was ugly. I could have broken up with him for lying to me about it, but that would have been ugly too. I am sure, as I assumed he would have fallen in love with me by the time he healed, he thought I would have fallen in love with him by the time I realized he wasn’t going to heal.

I avoided him for the rest of the week, but Friday night was going to be a problem. One of his friends was having a surprise party, and we were in charge of the surprise. He invited her to meet me, his new boyfriend, on Friday night at the Hula Hut. On what she thought was the way to the restaurant, he would pretend he had left something at a friend’s house. We would drop in for a second, and surprise, a party would be going on.

Friday night came, and I hadn’t backed out yet. For once in my life, I was saved by Marna and not the other way around. Marna called from the mall. She was crying. Apparently, she was stoned when she got to the mall. When she left, she couldn’t find her car, and what’s worse, she wasn’t high anymore. She needed me to come pick her up, get her stoned and help her find her car.

I called Quasimodo and told him I couldn’t make it because Marna needed help. He was a little angry, but said he would figure something out. He gave me the address of the party and said to bring Marna by after we found her car, but we went back to my house instead. We weren’t certain there would be weed at the party.

He called me after the party, and unlike the earlier chat, he was pissed off. How could I have done this to him? Could someone else not have picked up Marna? Is she really so pathetic that she loses her car at the mall?

Half asleep, I jumped at my chance.

“How can I be with someone who places such little importance on friendship? Marna could have been hurt. I am sorry, but the safety of a friend is more important than a little party. I’m afraid it’s over.”

As he was begging for forgiveness, I hung up and took the phone off the hook.

I had done it. I was out.

A year or so later, I ran into Kelli on the bus. I asked about him. He had stopped going to classes when we first met so we could be together all the time and had failed out. When I wouldn’t return his calls, he had moved back to his small Texas hometown.

“Why did you guys break up?” she asked.

I gave her the same excuse I gave him.

“Look. You don’t have to lie,” she said. “We all know the truth, but don’t worry. We understand. Feel free to swing by the house. I’ll make some matzo balls and we’ll put on the gas mask.”

A Little More of that Cheerleader

I’d love some!

Kerry the cheerleader remains one of my hottest lays ever. He was in great shape. A cheerleader but very masculine. And very hairy. He kept his upper body trimmed to about a quarter inch length so he was kind of bristly. My nipples were sore for weeks. But the thing that made bagging him even sweeter is that I stole him from my friend Richard, and I put in zero effort. Here’s what happened.

Richard and I were workout partners. At the gym we would sometimes see this really hot guy. Richard, being more social started talking to him a lot, but could never ascertain if he was gay. I suggested we just ask him, but Richard didn’t want to “scare him off”. The guy was a cheerleading coach. I was pretty sure it would take more than a couple of gays to scare him off.

“Richard,” I asked, “if he would be scared of us, why would we want to hang out with him?”

Richard was unable to see my point, but then he had a lot of issues due to Marsha, his Baptist republican gun-totin-white-momma, but that’s another story.

So one night we were going to dinner at Trudy’s with Christian, my other workout partner, and best straight male fag hag. We ran into Kerry at the gym beforehand and Richard invited him to dinner. He said yes, he’d meet us there. On the way over in the car Richard re-iterated that we were not to let on that we were cock-suckers.

So at dinner I was kind of crabby. I don’t like pretending. So we’re all eating. Richard is trying to discern if Kerry is gay without asking. I ignored both of them and talked to Christian. Suddenly my co-worker and favorite functioning alcoholic Christine comes walking up out of the blue.

“Oh my god,” she yelled, clearly intoxicated, “it’s my favorite homosexuals! Can I join you guys for some margaritas?”

Now that the fags were out of the closet, and Kerry didn’t run screaming from the table (he was a cheerleader for Christ’s sake), Richard started to put the moves on him something fierce. I knew better than to get in the way. Richard had gotten mad at me in the past for “stealing” his prey. I kept ignoring them and talked to Christine and Christian.

We decided to all go to Harry’s, Austin’s #1 gay bar. We piled into Christian’s suburban. Richard made a big effort to get in the back seat with Kerry but Christine insisted that she wanted some time to get to know Kerry and practically shoved Richard into the front seat, then placeed Kerry in the middle between us. Rubbing up against him in the car was like being on fire, but I kept ignoring him, not wanting to get in the way of Richard’s attempts.

Of course, one of the best ways to get a boy interested is to ignore him completely.

At the bar Christine sat down with a nice drink next to the dance floor and proceeded to lose the ability to stand. Christian and I started dancing. Richard took Kerry out on the back porch. Christian likes to dirty dance after a few drinks so we were bumping and grinding when Kerry popped in between us. It was hot, yes it was. When Christian took a break it got even hotter. I actually tried to put a stop to it at some point by saying something like “hey, my friend Richard’s really into you and I don’t want to get in the way.”

“But I’m not interested in him. I’m interested in you.”

The world stopped moving. We headed for my car and then my house.

Allen basically picks it up here. The sex was like the horniest wrestling match ever.

As for the people left at the bar: Christine and Christian hooked up and had sex in his suburban. As drunk as she was, Christine insisted on a condom. Good for her!

Richard didn’t talk to me for 3 weeks.

It was worth it.

For Cheerleaders

Gay college boys who weigh 300 pounds don’t get laid. They spend their time watching porn, beating off and searching for sex of the pity variety. 

While I spent my fat three and half years in Austin turning over rocks and looking for anyone breathing who would let me put it, Brian was having a bumper crop, fucking his way through a who’s who list of Austin’s beautiful boys. The closest I got to decent sex was the noise that slipped under Brian’s door—and sometimes through the walls, ceiling, floors and vents.

Someone’s into spanking.

One night, Brian brought home a particularly hot piece of ass. Kerry, this guy Brian had picked up God knows where, made a B-line to Brian’s bedroom, but before Brian disappeared, he just had to rub it in: “He’s a cheerleader.” 

I hate Brian so much.

As the tell-tale noises began, I sparked up the bong, changed the channel to QVC and prepared for my normal weekend night alone. Pretty soon, I heard someone coming down the stairs. It was the cheerleader, clad only in a pair of white Calvins, complete with a hard-on. Through the cotton, I could make out every vein of his worth-cheering-for cock. 

I don’t know if he and Brian were finished, just starting or were taking a breather, and I didn’t care. 

“So you’re a cheerleader?” I asked. 

“Yep,” he answered. 

“That’s interesting. I bet you can’t do a toe-touch in here.” 

“I bet I can try,” he countered. 

And he did. 

I had no control of the words that came out of my mouth and soon had him doing herkies, back-handsprings and the splits, all in his tighty-whites. The swelling in his pants disappeared, but it transferred to mine. 

Brian the Selfish came downstairs and retrieved my precious, precious Kerry. 

As a parting gift, he gave Brian several boxes of cheerleading goods. Apparently, Kerry worked for some cheerleading organization that held summer camps. In his car, he had box after box of grab-bags for campers. The bags contained coupons for tampons, free samples of mud masks, those razors with big handles for shaving your legs and a bunch of other shit high-school girls need. 

I never saw Kerry again, but for the next three years, I shaved my face with a Lady Bic every chance I got. 

My Directorial Début

When Marna started dating a new guy (for the life of me I cannot remember his name), she knew it wouldn’t last. The guy, a former semi-professional football player, was built like a brick house. Although he was cute and had a stable income, something Marna’s boyfriends never had, there was one huge problem: his penis was microscopic. 

Marna decided that it wasn’t going to work, but before she broke up with him, she wanted me to see it. 

While he seemed gay friendly and didn’t have a problem with me, we doubted he would present it at our request, and any attempt by me to sneak a peek could have resulted in the ass-whooping of my life. So we hatched our plan. 

Marna would start discussing her fantasy to fuck on film. I would show up the next time they were together with a video camera and some porn, and she would say something like, “Hey, Allen’s got a video camera, and you know about my fantasy. Since the porn has you all horny, why don’t we fuck and let Allen tape it.” 

Not only would I get to see his miniature penis, but Marna would have the whole thing on tape, something to show her grandkids. 

One weekend, we put everything in motion. They were at Marna’s watching a movie when I showed up with some porn and a video camera. As lame as the plan was, the guy was lamer. In fact, after five minutes of porn, he suggested that I film them. 

Pretty soon, Marna was sucking his cock, and I was filming the whole thing. 

Marna was right. I had seen my share of small penises, but I wasn’t ready for this one, especially on a black guy. The thing, hard as a rock, barely protruded outside of his body. 

There are certain things in life that you think are going to be very, very funny, but when the event actually happens, it’s just a little sad. This was one of them.

I had seen it. It was small. I wanted to hide. 

Soon, things turned funny enough. He started moaning and begging, “Deep throat it. That’s it! Go all the way down on the shaft.” Marna looked up at me and rolled her eyes. Our bodies began to shake as we fought the laughter. 

We each knew what the other was thinking, What shaft? As far as I could see, it only had a head—and barely that. 

We moved into the bedroom. He began fucking her, or rather poking his small dick around her what’s gone sour. He began moaning like a woman and panting. “I’m going to fucking come,” he screamed so loudly that I was sure the neighbors were loving it. “I’m going to fucking come, baby!” 

Without emotion, Marna replied, “Come on my tits.”

I zoomed in for the money shot. 

Just as he was coming, Marna began hitting him. With confusion in his eyes, he dropped his weak load on her chest, too puzzled and in pain to enjoy it. 

Marna ran to the bathroom and slammed the door. “The next time you’re coming on my tits on video,” she screamed from the other side of the door, “don’t you dare put your arm between my face and the camera.” 

It’s a lesson we all learn sooner or later.

One Time #2

One time, Marna got knocked up and could only narrow the possible father list down to three, so she had all three pay for the abortion. We used the leftover money to buy weed. It’s what the baby would have wanted.