Monday, October 09, 2006
Note to the homo repressed
Hi. I just wanted to send a quick message to all those homo-repressed fathers out there at the Newton JCC: Please stop creeping me out. As I bend over to pick up kickboards and noodles that your careless children have left all over the pool deck, I can feel your lecherous gaze on me. Please stop staring and licking your lips. You are repulsive beyond words ( A quick note to readers: I'm not flattering myself. These men merely like that I'm young. It's not my ass they see; it is every ass they let get away in their forty-plus years of straight playacting). Normally I don't mind such attention; I even enjoy it. But you make me feel the way Catherine Keener does in "Being John Malkovich," wishing mangy John Cusack would just stop fucking looking at her.
It's not even your age that's the problem, although that's part of it. If I were eye candy for an older gay gentlemen, I could tolerate that. Lord knows I won't avoid looking at a nice young six-pack when I'm a senior. But you homo-repressed fathers are not really queer. You actually have to fuck men to be queer. You think about being queer. You aspire to being queer. But what you actually are are middle-aged men with wives and children, and when you eyeball me while holding your child's hand, it's genuinely disturbing. When you stare at me, I can feel every impulse you've stifled, all the desire left unfulfilled, all the love you have wasted, and every neurosis you created for yourself with your steadfast self-supression. The older gay man who looks at me is just horny, whereas you, homo-repressed father, are projecting mental anguish and exorcising demons. I'm willing to be a man's piece of ass, but not his shrink.
I'm sorry you felt it necessary to spend your peak sexual years with women, I really am. I wouldn't wish pussy on my worst enemy. But it's not my fault you weren't strong enough to break the chains of your own repression. Let's see, you're in your forties or fifties, which means you're at least thirty years into puberty. Thirty years! That wasn't enough time for you to get some ass on the side? You could have gotten a buddy of yours drunk in college; you could've gone after the cabana boy on your honeymoon in Hawaii; you could have set up a gaycation with other homo-repressed daddies like yourself. Fishing and fucking, fucking and fishing: Sounds pretty great. And you still have time. Pull a Ted Haggard--- feel free to leave out the crystal meth part. I would love for you to cum with another man. It's a wonderful experience.
Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I find your repression admirable in some ways. It takes dedication and strength to so completely bury sexual desire. Lord knows if I go a month without a gay blowjob I start getting tremors and cold sweats. But listen closely: There is no way it's going to be me who helps you. I have enough trouble helping myself. If you're lucky your wife is a closeted dyke and she'll understand. You guys might even be able to go cruising together---finally, something you have in common! Now if you'll excuse me, there's a hot 16 year-old in the weight room and I've got to catch him before he finishes. Don't even think about it old man--- he's mine.
It's not even your age that's the problem, although that's part of it. If I were eye candy for an older gay gentlemen, I could tolerate that. Lord knows I won't avoid looking at a nice young six-pack when I'm a senior. But you homo-repressed fathers are not really queer. You actually have to fuck men to be queer. You think about being queer. You aspire to being queer. But what you actually are are middle-aged men with wives and children, and when you eyeball me while holding your child's hand, it's genuinely disturbing. When you stare at me, I can feel every impulse you've stifled, all the desire left unfulfilled, all the love you have wasted, and every neurosis you created for yourself with your steadfast self-supression. The older gay man who looks at me is just horny, whereas you, homo-repressed father, are projecting mental anguish and exorcising demons. I'm willing to be a man's piece of ass, but not his shrink.
I'm sorry you felt it necessary to spend your peak sexual years with women, I really am. I wouldn't wish pussy on my worst enemy. But it's not my fault you weren't strong enough to break the chains of your own repression. Let's see, you're in your forties or fifties, which means you're at least thirty years into puberty. Thirty years! That wasn't enough time for you to get some ass on the side? You could have gotten a buddy of yours drunk in college; you could've gone after the cabana boy on your honeymoon in Hawaii; you could have set up a gaycation with other homo-repressed daddies like yourself. Fishing and fucking, fucking and fishing: Sounds pretty great. And you still have time. Pull a Ted Haggard--- feel free to leave out the crystal meth part. I would love for you to cum with another man. It's a wonderful experience.
Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I find your repression admirable in some ways. It takes dedication and strength to so completely bury sexual desire. Lord knows if I go a month without a gay blowjob I start getting tremors and cold sweats. But listen closely: There is no way it's going to be me who helps you. I have enough trouble helping myself. If you're lucky your wife is a closeted dyke and she'll understand. You guys might even be able to go cruising together---finally, something you have in common! Now if you'll excuse me, there's a hot 16 year-old in the weight room and I've got to catch him before he finishes. Don't even think about it old man--- he's mine.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Two on one
I'm getting a new roomate today, another girl, and now the girls in my house outnumber me 2-1. And although the new girl, Steph, is a good friend of mine, she's a better friend of my roomate Kim's, and her addition will almost certainly alter the balance of power. Kim and I have an interesting give and take dynamic in which certain arguments, and certain priorities of hers, usually win out. The same is true for me. When we choose a bar to go to, it's often a mutual decision. But if I have one slight preference and so does she, we go where she wants. The same is true with movies, only reversed. I usually win that one. She often chooses dinner. I choose the red wine. Music is always an argument, and its never pretty. The difference here is that I'll listen to music of hers that I hate to be nice, but she will throw a hissy fit if I put in a great band like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or Rufus Wainwright. But then I'm a very reasonable and level person.
Now we have Stephanie in the mix, and I have to assume, based on strength of friendships, that I stand to lose ground, especially music-wise. Both of these bitches like country and rap. The shift will not always go against me, but it will most of the time. Now there will be 2 drunk sluts (them) and one stoned wanna-be slut (me); there will be two who love to go out and party and one who doesn't mind staying in on a Saturday night to read; there will be two denim jacket wearers vs. one fleece jacket wearer; there will be One Man against two women. Perhaps it's not healthy to think in terms of war metaphors. There are some encouraging signs. All three of us like cock. So at least I'm not living with any bush eaters. And Steph and I both had the same reaction to Kim's idea of cancelling the cable. Steph sent me a text: "YOU CAN'T LET HER CANCEL THE CABLE BEFORE PROJECT RUNWAY IS OVER!!!! YOU CAN'T!!!!"
I'm sure it's going to work fine, I'm just used to going shopping, making plans, and buying drugs for two. From one roomate to another there exists a straight line of communication and action. Add a third and now you have a triangle, which involves diagonals, and angles, acute and obtuse. Triangulation, whatever it is, is not an easy process. For example, who ever heard of a simple love triangle, or of someone having a good time in the Bermuda triangle? It would be nice if this triangle is of the equilateral variety. With these three forceful personalities we shall just have to see. I mean, a Leo, a cuspy Aries, and Virgo with a moon in Aquarius all sharing the same space?!!! Insanity! Some respond to my anxieties by giddily urging, 'It's going to be like Three's Company!' That sounds all well and good, but poor John Ritter always looked hyperextended and somewhat nervous among those ladies, before he died young from a heart attack.
Now we have Stephanie in the mix, and I have to assume, based on strength of friendships, that I stand to lose ground, especially music-wise. Both of these bitches like country and rap. The shift will not always go against me, but it will most of the time. Now there will be 2 drunk sluts (them) and one stoned wanna-be slut (me); there will be two who love to go out and party and one who doesn't mind staying in on a Saturday night to read; there will be two denim jacket wearers vs. one fleece jacket wearer; there will be One Man against two women. Perhaps it's not healthy to think in terms of war metaphors. There are some encouraging signs. All three of us like cock. So at least I'm not living with any bush eaters. And Steph and I both had the same reaction to Kim's idea of cancelling the cable. Steph sent me a text: "YOU CAN'T LET HER CANCEL THE CABLE BEFORE PROJECT RUNWAY IS OVER!!!! YOU CAN'T!!!!"
I'm sure it's going to work fine, I'm just used to going shopping, making plans, and buying drugs for two. From one roomate to another there exists a straight line of communication and action. Add a third and now you have a triangle, which involves diagonals, and angles, acute and obtuse. Triangulation, whatever it is, is not an easy process. For example, who ever heard of a simple love triangle, or of someone having a good time in the Bermuda triangle? It would be nice if this triangle is of the equilateral variety. With these three forceful personalities we shall just have to see. I mean, a Leo, a cuspy Aries, and Virgo with a moon in Aquarius all sharing the same space?!!! Insanity! Some respond to my anxieties by giddily urging, 'It's going to be like Three's Company!' That sounds all well and good, but poor John Ritter always looked hyperextended and somewhat nervous among those ladies, before he died young from a heart attack.
