sorry, but if this must live on in my head, it must live in yours too

so i'm sitting out on the deck havin' the first smoke of the day, perusing the day's news whilst sipping on my protein shake.  distractedly taking a large swig, i bite into a blueberry the blender's blades must've missed.  as a juicy, bitter taste floods my mouth, followed immediately by a hot, stinging sensation, it occurs to me that i hadn't put blueberries in my shake this morning.

so now i'm carefully studying what's left of the fuzzy, half-masticated little creature floating in the former mouthful of liquid which is now splattered all over my deck, wondering if the bite the unidentifiable, vindictive little fucker applied to my inner lip as his last act on earth will make this my last blogpost ever.

stay tuned--oh, and enjoy dinner.

from the guttermorality mailbag

comes what has to be, if for no other reason than its unusual absence of words like "racist", "asshole" and "quisling", my all-time favorite reader email:

so on some entry that you had half your address mailing thing scanned in, i searched for hours on facebook for people with those initials and i thought your last name was flores for some reason. so this one guy i found actually started texting me and we met up after i was thinking it was you cause i asked if he had a blog and he said yes (i shoulda asked which blog, but i'm remedial like that). made out a little, found out he was the opposite of hung (and not you) and i rolled out on him.

i figure it's ok to put this up because it's been awhile and i don't think he comes here anymore.  goddam stalkers--so fickle.

9/11.2

After a shooting spree, they always want to take the guns away from everyone who didn't do it.

william burroughs

i've been helping my overworked sister out on her new show, ghostwriting lead-ins and filler for the various stories she produces.  she texted me this weekend, said, "forget that piece for monday--it's gonna be all sandy hook elementary, all week long."

well, of course it is.

and why shouldn't it be?  the media and the politicians don't get to partake of a feeding frenzy like this one every goddam day, and boy, are they making the most of it.  those broken little bodies in connecticut weren't even cold before opportunistic, authoritarian "progressives" were out there shrilly demanding new laws, regulations and crackdowns to "fix" a problem they themselves played no small part in creating, helped along by a voracious, non-stop media that would never dream of examining the role it plays in creating and encouraging these monsters.

and the people?  instead of taking even a moment to reflect on the path that has led us to this sorry societal state, they eat it all up indiscriminately, their emotions high and critical faculties dulled by a half-century of ever-increasing, dumbed-down media manipulation and unearned overindulgence.  of course the guns must be the problem--easy, right?

i could go into all the reasons why the guns aren't the problem--i could go all micro and talk about adderall-addled, fatherless kids, and parents who substitute mindless consumerism for actual parenting.  i could talk about marathon stints spent in splendid, brain-rewiring techno-isolation behind a joystick playing "grand theft auto" and "call of duty", racking up rewards for every kill.

or i could go macro and talk about how politicians from time immemorial have exploited emotionally-charged crises to foist upon the populace wars and draconian, freedom-restricting laws that, five minutes prior to the crisis, the populace wouldn't have for a moment entertained--all to keep them "safe".

or i could even get specific and point out that violent crime has plummeted over the past decade even as gun ownership has skyrocketed.  or that states that have enacted concealed-carry legislation have seen the greatest drops in gun violence. or that most of the gun violence that does occur happens in those war-zone neighborhoods that are the happy product of the politicians' "war on poverty". or even that countries like switzerland in which the preponderance of families own at least one gun enjoy a very low gun-violence crime rate.

but i've already spent the weekend and much of today doing that--conversation after pointless, fruitless conversation--and i'm tired.

and i see the handwriting on the wall.  because this one--this one--will be the 9/11 of which the gun-control cadre have for so long dreamed.  i know it--and so, for that matter, does the NRA, which is laying quite low while the demagogues cry their crocodile tears and prepare their latest onslaught on what little freedom we have left.  it will happen in incremental steps, of course, like it always does, but it will happen nonetheless.

for the record, as of the date of this post, i do not own, nor have i ever owned, a gun.

this state of affairs will most likely soon change.

the apartment

"this place is amazing," i found myself breaking one of my cardinal rules by blurting, to which he replied, "yeah. come on back," and led me to the bedroom.

but it truly was--high in the sky, minimalist-modern, 10' ceilings, vast expanses of glass in every room giving out onto a spacious terrace overlooking the lights of the city beyond.

he shed his clothes without ceremony or conversation--not muscular, but even at 35, he had one of those lean, bronzed, life-long-effortless speedo-bodies i've always envied. having already put myself at an early disadvantage, i compounded the error by lamely trying to break the ice by saying,

"jesus, is there even any such thing as an outta-shape brazilian?"

instead of laughing, he looked at me like i'd just farted in church, said, "why would you ask me that?  do i look like i know ugly people?"

ah, so he thinks it's gonna be like that.

thing he'd forgotten was, his sexual needs were urgent, specific and well-suited to my particular skill-set, so it only took me about 10 minutes to break through that haughty wall and put him where i wanted him; i.e., ready to spill his guts to me afterwards.

i listened as he recounted his indulged childhood, his emerging sexuality, his emigration to america, his rewarding-but-low-paid career, made all the right noises as i waited for the only thing i was really curious about:  how he had ended up in this goddam apartment.

turns out it belonged to a wealthy, married east-coast biotech-type who kept it (and him) so that he could come out three or four times a year and scratch an itch that couldn't be scratched at home.  when i met him, this arrangement was entering its fifth year.

jesus god, this guy had landed the weho holy grail--a stable, distant, undemanding, non-repulsive sugar daddy who allowed him to live in the lap of luxury, hobnob with movie-star neighbors, and he only had to put out once a quarter and on the occasional trip abroad.  what's not to like?

turns out, a lot.  he'd been in love with the guy from the start, knew he'd never leave his wife and kids, and, four years in and counting, was coming to terms with the fact that he was closing in on 40, still single, and wasting the prime of his life in this gilded cage.

so he satisfied himself with the occasional trick when he couldn't stand it anymore, never saw anyone more than once.

until me, that is.  once he let me in, i found a warm, smart, funny, sweet-if-somewhat-spoiled guy i enjoyed in and outta bed, and began to entertain stupid fantasies of taking him away from all this.

once a week (or two), i'd pull up in my crappy truck, hand the valet my keys, enter the marbled lobby, announce myself to the concierge, who, after giving me an only slightly-knowing smile, would key me up to the eleventh floor, where he'd be waiting.

one night i drunkenly poured out the whole story to an acquaintance--leaving out all the identifying details, i'd thought--only to find said acquaintance three weeks later standing in the living room of that marvelous apartment in the sky when i showed up for a party.  guy looked at me, looked at him, his eyes got big, his jaw dropped as i called out his name, strode quickly across the room, pulled him into an embrace, planted my lips on his and said into his open mouth, "say one word and i'll fucking kill you."

our last date, we went to see the movie of the moment, sat close, held hands, sniffled together, went back to the apartment, had brokeback sex.  curled up in my arms afterwards, he snuggled closer, said, "that's what i want, mike--a love like they had."

my heart fluttered a little.  "so why don't you reach out and take it?"

he raised his head, looked at me incredulously, said, "yeah, like i'm gonna move into some crappy studio in hollywood, buy some IKEA furniture and wait for true love.  diahann carroll had me over for dinner last week--how am i supposed to give that up?"

yeah.

many months later, i found myself back in that elevator, pressing "11", expecting...well, i wasn't sure.  what i got was, "i forgot you were coming, so i made other plans.  hurry--we don't have much time" as he headed toward the bedroom.

don't know for sure, but i imagine the "fuck you" he got in reply as i slammed back out the door came as big a shock to him as it did his genteel neighbors.

he hit me up on adam the other night, like nothing had happened.  i did the math--it had been almost six years, so he had to be well past that dreaded 40 mark.  i asked him, "so, you still in the same place?"  he replied, "yeah--come over", and i signed off, closed the laptop, went to bed.

guess i can't blame him.  it's a great apartment.