tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73343071033406352432024-03-19T03:37:47.174-07:00guttermoralitymkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.comBlogger665125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-88302337137269703112024-02-10T02:15:00.000-08:002024-02-10T04:41:49.591-08:00Mikey One Time<p>Objects can have great power, but only that with which we imbue them. A crude wooden golf club you wouldn't give a quarter for at a thrift store suddenly takes on museum-level value when you're told it was JFK's favored putter when he was in prep school, right?<br /><br />Of the thousands of objects I currently own, there are maybe a dozen I can think of offhand to which I've assigned any meaning (and thus, a story) and I was reminded of a few of them today.<br /><br />My meaningful objects tend to fall into two categories: those that carry a sentimental weight, and those that I can use to beat myself up with long after their practical lifespan has ended.<br /><br />For an example of the former, I offer the following:</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CeZqQnSs8TgGjd0QFzFclKzx8kLlgO8eIBi3IWfZcJ1L6PND3pTUlaibqWTvtN37gc-QpaICN66OQaU6tKKQ_HaoJMG280GqA9ScE7WerT9LHPnvbUGSPPdLzJPIPFxquqpSU3sqrKLhYzJmGFyf_6DeRM88UcYucUg1k1vFwY26tX2Aa9EGSowNgnE/s4032/IMG_0825.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CeZqQnSs8TgGjd0QFzFclKzx8kLlgO8eIBi3IWfZcJ1L6PND3pTUlaibqWTvtN37gc-QpaICN66OQaU6tKKQ_HaoJMG280GqA9ScE7WerT9LHPnvbUGSPPdLzJPIPFxquqpSU3sqrKLhYzJmGFyf_6DeRM88UcYucUg1k1vFwY26tX2Aa9EGSowNgnE/s320/IMG_0825.JPG" width="240" /></a><br /><br />A worn book, held together by tape. Growing up and watching my grandmother read and notate its dog-eared pages every night I knew her, I'd always assumed it was an heirloom that had passed through many family hands before it made its way to hers. It was only after her death when ten-year-old me, holding it for the first time in my own hands, turned to the dedication page and realized it had been an Easter gift from one of her grown sons when I was two, and she'd managed to transform it into the Dead Sea Scrolls in less time than I'd been alive.<br /><br />Looking back, I wish I'd slipped it into her hands before they closed the lid all those years ago, because that's where it belonged. But I didn't, so who's going to give it the sacred value it's due when I'm gone?<br /><br />Why one should have kids, I suppose.</p><p> </p><p>*. *. *. *. *. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTs4y3oZaOgqpJOd9jK1FtMY9bre3nW3DSivTXJTKhtj-avZCkS-sIqHjF0-4JSgkHdGr9Emvp1n2dNXNxK_QSwU7iVVxCoL8MrLHAKvS67xq64pYMkRE-_RHOdEA-7F2fs3dZHM1biWt_phTcZREqImdRyNwk0D-2fJlQBulHtruiI8VlqP4R5OMZFZY/s4032/IMG_0824.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTs4y3oZaOgqpJOd9jK1FtMY9bre3nW3DSivTXJTKhtj-avZCkS-sIqHjF0-4JSgkHdGr9Emvp1n2dNXNxK_QSwU7iVVxCoL8MrLHAKvS67xq64pYMkRE-_RHOdEA-7F2fs3dZHM1biWt_phTcZREqImdRyNwk0D-2fJlQBulHtruiI8VlqP4R5OMZFZY/s320/IMG_0824.JPG" width="240" /></a></p><p>Garage sale, mid-80's, nice Austin neighborhood.<br /><br />Contrary to all the picked-over crap I've seen all morning and at every garage sale ever, this one has some primo stuff. </p><p>I can't believe it--moving quickly, I snatch up armfuls of my-size Brooks Brothers button-downs, ties and chinos at give-away prices. Heading toward the check-out, I notice this nearly-new Braun juicer that's $50 at the store and that I don't really need but that's so damn cute I can't pass up--it's marked ridiculously low at five bucks and I offer the woman at the table two and she says ok without looking up and I kick myself for not offering one.</p><p>Heading back to the car with all my treasures, I'm hailed by the next-door lady as I tramp across her lawn.<br /><br />"Got some good stuff, did you?"<br /><br />Yeah.<br /><br />"Whole damn family--such a shame."<br /><br />Huh?<br /><br />"You didn't know?" Gladys Kravitz gleam in her eye.<br /><br />Know what?<br /><br />"Jerry, Barbara, the four boys--they were in that plane coming back from a ski trip in Colorado that went down back in February. It was in the paper for a week--you don't remember? The woman doing the sale is Barb's sister."<br /><br />I don't know if I was Jerry's size, or one of the sons. Doesn't matter--I washed and ironed and wore those clothes until they disintegrated. And although I long ago switched to an all-metal juicer, that old Braun machine still works and will have a home in my bottom kitchen drawer for as long as I'm alive, and I think of that family every time I pull it open and see it.</p><p>*. *. *. *. *</p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnu9lwT4k-LSOeol3-GW4ZVUfSychTgloa0I60JqbgBJncrn9v7BrsaMnIs7YCZaF0btlsUWKFdWX1rsGbhR5H_Gue7e7mCRoXoywA7YF_mB1vf1wgVms0fGU8IjGxG3a7AOwNe1y97Mkzyv4UabXChXFijhN5xnx1DGtAxZ1wB5prnkYp8-8SXKWOQq0/s4032/IMG_0823.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnu9lwT4k-LSOeol3-GW4ZVUfSychTgloa0I60JqbgBJncrn9v7BrsaMnIs7YCZaF0btlsUWKFdWX1rsGbhR5H_Gue7e7mCRoXoywA7YF_mB1vf1wgVms0fGU8IjGxG3a7AOwNe1y97Mkzyv4UabXChXFijhN5xnx1DGtAxZ1wB5prnkYp8-8SXKWOQq0/s320/IMG_0823.JPG" width="240" /></a><br /><br /><br />Staedtler-Mars--ever heard of that company? I hadn't either until I saw that compass set for the first time.<br /><br />Late 70's, foolish youth, junior college, working for Exum's, dreaming of being an architect.<br /><br />Exum's, you ask? A charming little mom-and-pop art-supply store with a couple locations in the Tyler I grew up in. I'd been hired to work in their picture-framing department at the Troup Highway location part-time after school.<br /><br />Great gig--easy work, well-paid, behind-the-scenes so no customer contact. The owners were good people who loved me, and I loved them back.<br /><br />After the store closed I'd often wander around looking at new stock, and one day I spotted the new Staedtler-Mars display. I was blown away--their stuff was so slick, German, well-designed, made and packaged, light-years ahead of all the stodgy old drafting tools I'd previously used.<br /><br />This compass, especially--so cool and expensive and well-made and well-fitted into its clever little case. My starving-student ass absolutely loved everything about it. <br /><br />So much so that I stole one. It was easy--I was trusted, could go anywhere in the store I wanted. No one watched me. I slipped it into my pocket and left with it when my shift was over.<br /><br />I can honestly say that in my eighteen months there, I worked hard for that company and gave them full value for their money. I can also honestly say that that compass set is the only thing I ever stole from the Exum family.<br /><br />I can further say that, though I am no longer a draftsman nor have I been for decades, that compass set currently residing in the fourth-drawer down in my utility room cabinet will serve until the day I die and whenever I randomly come across it to remind me of the long-term price anyone with a conscience pays for short-term unearned gratification.<br /><br />Speaking of which....</p><p> </p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhpNXoRv4qkxVX9Mo4UbxEqftyKJtGvNxP654DyvNr9uDV57b6y_0lL4-WntquLQ2lQNZ_klAVwnrkoqNJEExZLT1sXEr0TIToGM_1748YjX_bNznIbbCBTRIGAnrNtwoHjiIGmH170MxHpl_eHSxCjeMJZfB9VruiRzL2MnEyjSiEH9rwdDzRr9dE7VY/s4032/IMG_0820.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhpNXoRv4qkxVX9Mo4UbxEqftyKJtGvNxP654DyvNr9uDV57b6y_0lL4-WntquLQ2lQNZ_klAVwnrkoqNJEExZLT1sXEr0TIToGM_1748YjX_bNznIbbCBTRIGAnrNtwoHjiIGmH170MxHpl_eHSxCjeMJZfB9VruiRzL2MnEyjSiEH9rwdDzRr9dE7VY/s320/IMG_0820.JPG" width="240" /></a><br /><br />Although the above may look like a dead bat hanging from a refrigerator, it is in fact a 90's-vintage London Fog umbrella--a finely-made implement that, in its day, would instantly snap from compact repose to widespread attention with the merest push of the button on its polished wooden handle.<br /><br />These days? Not so much--after three decades of faithful service, it's tired. It doesn't spring to action anymore and two of its ribs have snapped and I know I look ridiculous walking around in the rain with this broken piece of shit and should probably toss it and buy a new one, <br /><br />but I can't.<br /><br />Why?<br /><br />Because it's not mine to toss--this umbrella belongs to a trusting trick named Marvin who lives on Norton and who loaned it to me on a rainy LA night in 1991 with the full expectation that I'd return it when I came back like I promised I would.<br /><br />Explain it to him, Brenda. <br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y61hs0zomtU" width="320" youtube-src-id="y61hs0zomtU"></iframe></div><br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-91067811354035371862014-05-24T09:28:00.000-07:002014-10-25T16:22:01.057-07:00post no. 819, in which mkf first experiences the magic that is meth<br />
<i>1991 (or maybe '92--fuck, i don't remember)</i><br />
<br />
what i do remember is, the reason i found myself in vaseline alley that particular no-action night had less to do with sex than just wanting to get outta the house, because little arthur and his desperation were starting to get to me. this also explains why i sat there in my car long past the point where it had become clear that the pickings had gone from slim to none--whether or not i got laid that night, i was determined not to head back to 841 until i was sure our visitor had gone to bed.<br />
<br />
and then, suddenly, as i'm giving up, flicking my last butt out the window and reaching for the key, that thing that almost never happens, happens: outta the 3am desolation, this blond twink fantasy vision in torn jeans, a chain harness and little else emerges from around the corner by the dirty bookstore, starts heading down la jolla, moving fast.<br />
<br />
i wait for him to walk toward what must surely be home without even throwing me a disgusted glance. but no--he looks over, spots me, makes a beeline straight to my window, leans in all bright-eyed, licks my face before i can even react, says, "i need a place to stay tonight."<br />
<br />
if two years working the low streets of weho had given me nothing else, it had at least taught me not to question the random gift from god when it drops into my lap, so within five minutes of that first lick we're in my bedroom, and five minutes after that i'm deep inside him.<br />
<br />
bliss, right? turns out, not so much.<br />
<br />
i mean, his beauty combined with the novelty of the whole thing carried me for awhile, but after twenty minutes or so of vigorous A-game fucking, i begin to notice some things that kinda take the edge off.<br />
<br />
like, for instance, he's distracted--and after two years of generally taking for granted the undivided attention of whoever i happen to be fucking, this is new. what's more, kid isn't even hard, and what the fuck could possibly be up with that?<br />
<br />
but the worst thing is, he will not shut up (and it ain't sexy talk, trust me).<br />
<br />
so, what had started out hot fairly quickly morphs into something else entirely--some kinda endurance marathon challenge that has far less to do with sex than with just getting the damn thing done.<br />
<br />
and i am determined to get 'er done; it becomes a validation thing, a point of pride. i pull out all the tricks--bend that boy into every position possible, fuck him hard, fuck him slow and sweet, use long strokes, angled attacks, even resort to quick little asian-style rabbit-punch jabs, but nothing--not even my patented never-fail sideways prostate-tickler special--can get him off.<br />
<br />
when after a full hour (because i could do that back then) of futility i finally roll off him, unspent, over it and exhausted, and he looks at me with those bright eyes and says, "that was great--rest a few minutes and we'll do it again," i know i'm up against some new, potent unknown evil force in the universe that is stronger than me; i just don't know what.<br />
<br />
what i do know is, dawn is coming soon, i need sleep, and i need to be rid of this freak. but i promised him a place to stay, and i'm a man of my word.<br />
<br />
so i do the first of the two bad things i'll do this night.<br />
<br />
as we stand together outside my roommate's door, i reassure the boy once again what a great top paul is (while crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping god won't strike me dead for this egregious lie), open the door, shove the kid through the blackness in the general direction of paul's bed, pull it shut and stumble back to my own room, turn out the lights, hope for the best.<br />
<br />
which hope turns out to be remarkably short-lived--before i've even gotten my eyes good and closed, my door flies open, the lights go on, and there's paul, wild-haired, wild-eyed, red nose snot-clogged with sleep, underwear askew, screaming, "<i>a bottom--seriously? you sent me a BOTTOM? WHAT'D YOU THINK WE WERE GONNA DO--BUMP PUSSIES?!</i>", as he shoves back the gift i'd so thoughtfully sent his way before totally unnecessarily slamming my door.<br />
<br />
"fuck, " i think, knowing i'll pay for this. "what am i gonna do with this kid? if only royce was here."<br />
<br />
but royce isn't here--the roommate who might've actually been useful in this situation is currently bunking with his boyfriend so that his visiting friend, the aforementioned arthur, can use his room at our house while he's in town.<br />
<br />
see, royce was constantly inviting friends from texas to come out and stay with us, but arthur has been by far the most needy of the bunch--he'd arrived all innocent and starry-eyed and shit, anticipating a week of decadence and debauchery in this legendary sin city where the fun never stops. and it's not like arthur isn't presentable, and it's not like we haven't tried to serve his fantasy up for him--we've taken him to rage and mickey's and studio one and mother lode and circus and even spike, practically shoved him at any guy who checked him out--but the shyness that arthur had hoped to leave behind in fort worth has unfortunately accompanied him to LA.<br />
<br />
so, bottom line, despite the collective and exhaustive best efforts of three of the biggest whores in weho, poor arthur hasn't managed to get himself laid, and his week is almost up.<br />
<br />
as the blond bottomless pit crawls back into my bed and starts pawing at my limp junk, i think about it for no more than a second, figure, hell, it'll give him a story to tell the folks back home, and i might even get some sleep.<br />
<br />
and with no more consideration than that, i drag the blond boy outta my bed once more and lead him down the hall to door number three.<br />
<br />
ready or not, arthur, it's showtime.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
when i awake with a jolt, remembering, the sun is high in my window. i hear the tv--paul's at work, so that must mean arthur's out there. i throw on clothes, walk out to the living room, apprehensive.<br />
<br />
arthur's sitting on the couch with his back to me, watching sally jessy or something. he hears me, whips around, animated in a way i'd never seen him before, his formerly perpetually-morose face splitting into a huge grin.<br />
<br />
i just stare at him, amazed--this is a changed boy, and i guess i did it. i relax.<br />
<br />
the words start pouring outta him. "wow, what a going-away present, mike! cody told me you picked him out just for me--i can't believe you got me a <i>porn star!</i>"<br />
<br />
i smile, willing to let him go back to fort worth thinking that's what life is like in weho--porn stars just routinely and magically appear in your bedroom in the middle of the night. hell, what can it hurt?<br />
<br />
and then he says, "and that crystal stuff--i never knew sex could be like that. we did it for hours."<br />
<br />
and that's when i look closer, notice how bright his eyes are.<br />
<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-61503301059011749582014-02-02T07:26:00.000-08:002020-07-30T13:23:50.192-07:00on money, and the lack thereof<br />
<i>since i'm not writing much these days, i cobbled this together from a couple old emails to a friend; it's apropos of nothing in particular. there may be more of these in the future. or not.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
growing up, i never thought about money much. my parents were depression babies, so they were on the same page financially and always careful with a buck, but there was never a sense of either deprivation or excess in our house; things in that regard were always pretty much just right.<br />
<br />
after my father died, three things changed (as regards this subject, anyway): we became poorer to the point where money suddenly was something we talked about; my father's brother eventually became quite rich; and i, for reasons quite unrelated to money, became quite unhappy.<br />
<br />
i've talked about my uncle don a lot on this blog--hell, he's even got his own section on the sidebar--but what happened to him and his family, and me and my family, as either a result of, or maybe despite, all that sudden money, really started me thinking about the whole scarcity/abundance thing.<br />
<br />
because while don's rise to riches was heady and fun, and he and my aunt pat were incredibly generous with what they had come into, it really didn't make a goddam bit of difference in how happy any of us were; in fact, in some ways it might have made things worse.<br />
<br />
i remember one night, sitting miserably in my nice, new uncle-don-supplied condo three blocks from the university, with a nice uncle-don-supplied car down in the parking lot, years of plush, prepaid education ahead of me and enough cash in the bank to carry me through the school year in comfort, and thinking about how decisively that wish i'd made back when i was a 15-year-old slaving away for $1.10 an hour at a sizzler steak house--how, if only i had money, all my problems would be solved--had come true. and how it hadn't.<br />
<br />
and i saw don and pat's marriage deteriorate, and how he coped with success by drinking, and she, remodeling, and how their kids went from great to losing-their-way spoiled, and how insufferable all their rich friends were, and how, although my mother's cage was plush and gilded now, it was still the same cage.<br />
<br />
I didn’t study architecture so i could design taj mahals or high-rises to
the sky; all I ever wanted to do was houses—my houses. But I knew
before that could happen, I’d have to cut my teeth on other people’s
houses first. so, after graduation, and to that end, I worked for two high-end residential firms; first in austin, and then LA.<br />
<br />
and I hated it, so i quit.<br />
<br />
for
a bunch of reasons, actually, but not the least of which was because
designing and building a dream house seemed to bring out the worst in people. or maybe it was just the people who made up our client
base--<i>nouveau-riche</i> types who wanted monuments to their success. it wasn’t all
bad—some of ‘em were actually fun—but so often it came down to couples
bickering like sibling rivals over colors, or whose closet was bigger,
or which mega sub-zero would look better in the kitchen. I mean, these were people who
really seemed to pin all their hopes on the notion that their new
house would finally make their lives complete. and then, after all the
drama, angst and knockdown-dragouts along the way from concept sketch to
finished house were exhausted, and the crystal bowl with the three
perfect apples had finally been placed on the gleaming granite
countertop, more often than not, they’d look around at all the magnificence they’d paid so dearly for, and i'd hear 'em say something like, “ok—now what?”.<br />
<br />
and then after i quit architecture for other people and did my own first house and talked to the day laborers i hired to help me--about how much they missed their countries, how they were only here for the money, how they'd never bring their families--and certainly not their daughters--here, and saw america through their eyes, it propelled me on to look hard at the myth--you know, the one that ours is the life to which everyone on earth aspires. and i started looking at happiness indices for the various supposed hell-holes of the earth, saw how little those people managed to live on, saw how a cast-off pair of nikes could give some kid in mogadishu a bigger grin than almost any american kid on his playstation-extravaganza christmas morning; saw how, in those primitive countries, family was everything, like it used to be here.<br />
<br />
and then i widened my scope of vision to look, for the first time
critically, at the panoply of wretched souls whom we've pushed to the top of the world we've made--the judy
garlands and marilyn monroes and elvis presleys and justin biebers--and then, eventually,
even wider to encompass my whole goddam country. america, we're number
one--in both wealth and sales of antidepressants.<br />
<br />
when I finally hit my big payday, i surprised everybody with my restraint--i bought a
decent car for my mom, a little pickup for myself (because I needed one),
and invested the rest. while I’m by no means anti-materialistic (in fact, I
just indulged in a little of it recently), I have come to believe that things really don't
matter all that much.<br />
<br />
don't get me wrong--i'm not extolling the virtues of poverty here. poverty sucks, and sucks happiness outta the lives of people who might otherwise be happy. all i'm sayin here is that maybe there's a point beyond which money doesn't buy happiness.<br />
<br />
and that maybe we here in the first world have passed it.<br />
<br />
that's all. <br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-56127283050320591662014-01-23T05:40:00.001-08:002014-02-22T20:11:25.129-08:00hard out there for a ho (part 3)<br />
i used to be annoyed and mystified by those bloggers who, without any explanation to their readers, just stopped blogging one day for no apparent good goddam reason--until, that is, i became one of 'em.<br />
<br />
because now i understand why it happens. one day, you just look up after years of doing this shit and realize you've pretty much shot your wad, said everything you have to say. but you don't formally call lit quits--you figure you'll come back in a week or so, when the muse whispers into your ear once more. and then that week turns into weeks, and the weeks become months, and…well, here we are.<br />
<br />
so, yeah, i'm still (1) battling my demons, (2) having lots of age-inappropriate sex, and (3) watching the western world devolve into chaos exactly as predicted, but, having had nothing new to add to these three pillars upon which this blog rests, i've kept my distance, figuring if anything truly outta the ordinary came up, i'd maybe check in again.<br />
<br />
well, something finally did, so here i am.<br />
<br />
this story started out ordinarily enough (for me, anyway), back in late december, with a truly memorable night with a cute 20-year-old named ruben out in riverside. came home the next morning, packed up the car a couple days later and headed east for the holidays.<br />
<br />
it was the morning after christmas, in wichita falls, texas, in the bosom of my family, standing there sleepily contemplating the big jesus-loves-you cross hanging over the toilet whilst waiting for the stream, that i first felt the burn.<br />
<br />
i dismissed it as nothing, of course, because denial always comes first.<br />
<br />
it was only later that day, standing in fronta that same toilet, when i whipped it out, cautiously gave it a pre-piss squeeze, saw the unmistakable, tell-tale pearl emerge, that i knew for sure.<br />
<br />
i rotated through the other four stages in a matter of minutes--first, goddam you ruben you little whore, then please god no, then kill me now, and, finally, fine, deal with it.<br />
<br />
i went out on the front porch, sat down on the steps, lit a smoke, called ruben, wished him a merry christmas, broke it to him gently, told him he needed to get tested immediately. (how did i know it was ruben, you ask? simple process of elimination--ruben was the only one i'd had sex with in the past two weeks (due only to a bad cold), and there had been no one after.)<br />
<br />
<i>a word now about STD etiquette: blaming poor ruben woulda been pointless, because it really doesn't matter who clapped whom--we're both reckless sluts, and if that guy in amarillo hadn't flaked on me two days after ruben, i'd have no doubt passed it on to him. so you gotta be philosophical about these things, is my attitude.</i><br />
<br />
at this point, faithful readers, you might be wondering why mkf has broken several months of radio silence only to tell you this sorry little story, and you might have a point, if i didn't have a point, too.<br />
<br />
see, i was in a mess--here i was in a strange town in texas, about to leave for another one, and then another one two days after that; it wouldn't be until i was in austin nearly a week later that i'd have even a hope of getting treatment for what suddenly ailed me.<br />
<br />
and i couldn't wait that long, because it was bad, and getting worse.<br />
<br />
so, two excruciating days later, as soon as my mother, sister and i arrived in dallas (i.e., semi-civilization), i made my excuses and burned rubber for the nearest whole foods, where i picked up the two strongest natural anti-bacterials of which i know, started dosing myself with same at staggered intervals throughout each day and night.<br />
<br />
and prayed.<br />
<br />
all for nothing, so it seemed--by then, the pus had given way to blood, the bowl turned dark every time i pissed, and the pain was intense. but i kept on.<br />
<br />
the darkest moment, i think, happened the night i finally hit austin. intensely horny, and having had to cancel a long-standing appointment (with the hottest, hungriest boy you or i have ever seen, trust me), alone in my motel room, and for the first time in ten days, i gave in and jerked off.<br />
<br />
before that night, i had never even imagined such a thing as red semen was possible.<br />
<br />
but, yeah, it is.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
<i>austin free clinic, four days later</i><br />
<br />
she was the coolest doctor i've ever met--about my age, years in the trenches, had seen it all, yet still retained her humor and humanity. which is probably the only reason i told her the story.<br />
<br />
she listened, as i explained my regimen, and how i'd obsessively jerked off repeatedly those last few days, tryin to shoot all the bad stuff outta me, and how it got progressively lighter and lighter, until, just that morning, i had delivered a load that finally looked normal.<br />
<br />
she seemed interested but dubious, took a swab, disappeared for a few minutes, and came back and told me with some surprise that, while white blood cells showed up under the microscope, indicating a reaction to infection, there was no infection to be found. to make sure, she had me piss in a cup for lab analysis and gave me the shot anyway, told me to call back for the results in a couple weeks.<br />
<br />
which i did. the results: negative for any STD.<br />
<br />
fuck gut-destroying antibiotics and drug-resistant superbugs--using natural methods, i cured my own serious bacterial infection, bitches.<br />
<br />
and i'm betting you can, too, should such an eventuality ever present itself. which is the point of this post.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6WGLHfZDsgNlLJfXNkVCIv95nKL7uEjkweyripDejiUmFk6tq6OTsE1flKPr_iMo6I9BPJlrWlo9ELGTo9oSxeiz5INLqxFuu2G_FbbAtKRhAHW8CuAuBaEyLts6sff94g_P2WT14jA/s1600/nature's+miracles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6WGLHfZDsgNlLJfXNkVCIv95nKL7uEjkweyripDejiUmFk6tq6OTsE1flKPr_iMo6I9BPJlrWlo9ELGTo9oSxeiz5INLqxFuu2G_FbbAtKRhAHW8CuAuBaEyLts6sff94g_P2WT14jA/s1600/nature's+miracles.JPG" height="400" width="387" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
get you some of this stuff, ok?<br />
<br />
<i>and yeah, i'll be dosing myself with same before and after all future encounters with all present and future rubens, you can damn well be sure.</i><br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-56722787004790579172013-08-17T06:59:00.000-07:002014-02-22T20:32:16.975-08:00the art of the slam piece<br />
[<i>yeah, i'm back. or this could just be a drunken aberration. we'll see.</i>]<br />
<br />
<br />
so i recently made the acquaintance of a hot lil' 22-year-old who's captured my more-than-casual interest. and while i know such an otherwise common occurrence would normally barely rate a raised eyebrow from anyone who's followed this blog for any length of time, this one's different.<br />
<br />
because this one's straight. no, really--as an arrow.<br />
<br />
ran into him one night at work when i went downstairs to grab a smoke, and he walked up, hit me up for a light. i looked him up and down, profiled him immediately--cocky ex-fratboy on his first job outta college, too young to be a law-school grad, but a go-getter nonetheless.<br />
<br />
we struck up a conversation, vibed, and thereafter it became a routine. most every weeknight around 8 you'll find the two of us in the parking garage, level 4, leaning against my car like juvenile delinquents, smoking and shooting the shit.<br />
<br />
he's a young republican (naturally), and i mostly listened and nodded to his standard talking points without much comment (other than a little mild socratic questioning from time to time to throw him off balance), until the night he started going off on teh gays, at which point i stopped him and said, "before you embarrass yourself any more than you already have, lemme tell you a little about me."<br />
<br />
and i did, and he was surprised--for some reason, they always are--but he rolled with it, started peppering me with questions, wanted to know everything.<br />
<br />
so i told him, all the ins and outs--the politics of cocksucking, buttfucking, tops and bottoms, how we're horny like men and insecure like women, all of it. he was fascinated, in a purely clinical way; asked good questions, picked up quickly (he was particularly curious about the mechanics of successful anal sex--apparently most women of his acquaintance don't understand the necessity of preparation, so i gave him a few pointers to pass along).<br />
<br />
and then it was my turn--finally, an opportunity to interview a young, highly sexually-viable straight boy of the new millennium, and i wasn't about to waste it.<br />
<br />
and he freely told me everything--about his lightning transition from monogamous, freshly-dumped, broken-hearted high-schooler to freshman college stud in the top frat on campus. a few highlights:<br />
<br />
<i>lots of girls?</i><br />
<br />
yeah, it was too easy.<br />
<br />
<i>pretty ones?</i><br />
<br />
oh, the pretty ones are the easiest.<br />
<br />
<i>so everybody's fucking in college these days?</i><br />
<br />
pretty much, yeah.<br />
<br />
<i>so how did you and your buddies differentiate between the girls you'd date and the ones you'd just fuck?</i><br />
<br />
well, a good girl you have to work a little, but a slam piece? you can have her right away.<br />
<br />
[<i>with a little questioning, i was able to determine that "slam piece" is the straight college-boy equivalent of "pass-around party bottom", which tells me that whoever said that we come up with all the best slang is full of shit.</i>]<br />
<br />
<i>and how does a young girl fresh outta high school make the transition to slam piece, exactly?</i><br />
<br />
it goes back to what i said about the pretty girls being easiest. because they're always the most insecure. see, at the first party we threw every fall, we'd plant a couple brothers on the front steps of the house and they'd rate the new girls as they walked in--you know, 1 to 10.<br />
<br />
<i>wait, you mean they'd do this out loud? while the girls were walking by?</i><br />
<br />
oh, sure--that's the point. we'd discount every girl by at least two points, but we'd always rate the really hot girls about five points lower than they really were. you could tell a '9' she was a '4' and watch her wilt right before your eyes--she'd strut up to the house thinking she was the shit, and by the time she got inside, she was convinced she was nothing.<br />
<br />
<i>you mean they'd actually fall for this?</i><br />
<br />
about 3 times outta 5, yeah. you gotta understand--these sorority girls, they rip each other to shreds. they're so competitive and insecure that all it takes is a couple guys from the top frat telling 'em they're dogs, and they totally buy it.<br />
<br />
<i>and then what?</i><br />
<br />
simple--you walk up to her an hour later when she's completely shitfaced and miserable and tell her you were just kidding--she's really a 10. and she's so grateful she practically spreads her legs for you right there. so you take her upstairs, and then afterwards you tell her your buddy thought she was really cute, too, and send her down the hall to his room. <i>bam!</i>--instant slam piece.<br />
<br />
<i>so, fifty years of feminism all comes down to this?</i><br />
<br />
yeah--it's so great.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>note to my people: next time some straight asshole tries to tell you how we're destroying civilization, run this one by 'em with a big shit-eating grin, ok?</i><br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-24547394963629465702013-06-29T07:42:00.002-07:002013-06-29T07:42:33.278-07:00while you were sleeping<br />
so the other night i had to run home on my lunch hour to grab the laptop i'd forgotten--century city to laurel canyon and back; normally 40 minutes, tops--and found myself mired in honking, bumper-to-bumper traffic before i'd even made the transition from beverly hills to west hollywood, tryin to figure out what and why the fuck.<br />
<br />
and then it hit me--the supreme court decision knocking down prop 8 had come down today, and i was about to find out once more why santa monica boulevard on a night of gay hysteria was the last place anyone on a timetable wanted to be.<br />
<br />
as i inched my way forward through the throngs of screaming LGBTUVWXYZ's of every stripe waving their rainbow flags and tearing their tits off with joy, i reflected once more on how much less i cared about this than about a little story i'd read online that day.<br />
<br />
<i>imagine you're a normal guy with a normal job who's gotten involved with the occupy movement after becoming fed up with the bailouts and get-outta-jail-free cards that had been handed out to the big banks after they'd wrecked the economy of the world.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and you've decided to involve yourself in a little mild activism in the form of scrawling anti-bank messages on sidewalks in front of bank of america branches in southern california.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>hateful, inflamatory, anti-social, riot-inciting messages such as "shame on bank of america".</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and, even worse, "no thanks, big banks".</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>in chalk.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>impermanent, erasable, washable chalk.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>on the sidewalk.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and how, as a result of these heinous crimes, and in spite of the fact that not one executive from the bank in question has seen even a day in jail for the consequences of his world-class greed and malfeasance, <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/2013/06/28/us-usa-graffiti-chalk-idUSBRE95R04P20130628" target="_blank">you now face thirteen years in prison</a> for daring to express your outrage over that fact.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and how--in fact, what had brought the story to light that day--the judge on the case had chosen to interpret your actions not as the simple expression of a citizen's outrage that they clearly were, but as criminal vandalism; and consequently had just ruled that you would not be allowed to invoke the first amendment in your defense.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>clear message to the rest of the sheep: you fuck with the banks, you forfeit your rights.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>because you're an enemy of the state, you see.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
but that little story wasn't enough to make me write this post--i mean, maybe you people think i enjoy being a buzzkill and a Bad Fag, but i really don't. it was the one today, coming right on top of the one the other day (and all the others much like it i've seen lately), that tipped the balance in my head.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>imagine you're a kid--a typical dumb, clueless american kid--playing an online video game, and you respond to some facebook comment from an opponent claiming you're crazy with something like the following:</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Oh yeah, I’m real messed up in the head, I’m going to go shoot up a school full of kids and eat their still beating hearts
</blockquote>
<i>and then you follow up with </i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
lol</blockquote>
<i>and </i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
jk</blockquote>
<i>and then you go on about your business, forget all about your little joke, little knowing that some woman in canada saw it, became alarmed</i><i>, looked you up, found you lived near an elementary school and alerted the local authorities.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and then next thing you know, you're <a href="http://dailycaller.com/2013/06/27/texas-teen-makes-violent-joke-during-video-game-is-jailed-for-months/" target="_blank">arrested for making terroristic threats</a> and held in jail for months and months awating trial, facing eight years in prison, while your parents bankrupt themselves in a futile effort to try and get you out.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and your dad goes on television, not to vent his outrage that his son, a citizen of the united states of america, could be arrested and face years in prison for a joke, but to beg and promise that if they'll give you a pass just this once, you'll be a good little sheep from now on, for ever and ever.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>but, no dice--not a fuckin' chance.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>because you're an enemy of the state, you see.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
i remember back when i was a kid, and the plane hijackings started, and the authorities announced that thenceforth, any jokes made about hijackings or bombs in an airport or on board a plane, no matter how light-hearted, would be construed as true threats and treated accordingly, and how uneasy that made everyone at the time, but that this abridgement of our right to free expression was probably necessary to keep us safe.<br />
<br />
well, while you were sleeping, that little mandate's been somewhat expanded--by, first, the PATRIOT act, and more recently (and courtesy of the bestest, most gay-friendly president ever), the NDAA, to the point that no one knows what's a crime anymore--under these new laws, it can be whatever they decide it is. and now we know the NSA is listening to and reading every word we utter. so now the whole goddam country is basically one big 747.<br />
<br />
and as they continue to dismantle our consitution with one hand, they'll toss us the occasional shiny, distracting bauble with the other, and we'll dance in the streets in response, and wave our rainbow flags and celebrate.<br />
<br />
so enjoy your new freedom to marry, but watch what you say, and what you do--and for god's sake, when those kids come along, make sure and teach 'em not to <a href="http://www.kndu.com/global/story.asp?s=11979866" target="_blank">point their fingers at anyone and say 'bang'</a>.<br />
<br />
and if you do screw up without even knowing why, console yourself with the knowledge that at least you'll be able to get gay-married in prison.<br />
<br />
hell, they might even let you have conjugal visits.<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-71653160813067690442013-06-18T08:15:00.000-07:002014-11-02T04:10:42.773-08:00just when i think i'm getting tired of telling these stories...<br />
<i>sometime in 2007</i><br />
<br />
when i met him, he was 24, spoiled and pouty and loaded with attitude.
and he has this thing he does, drives me crazy: when i get there, even
though he's usually had at least an hour to do so, he's never
prepared--he leads me to the bedroom, hands me a drink, puts on some
porn, hands me the remote, tells me he'll be back in a minute, then
disappears for a fucking hour.<br />
<br />
first time he pulled this shit, i laid there, did a slow boil as the
minutes ticked by, kept reworking the pleasure/pain equation in my head,
decided to wait him out, and when he finally made his appearance all
freshly showered and perfumed and unapologetic, i got up, grabbed him,
tore his robe off, threw him on the bed and ravaged him angrily. which,
turns out, is what the whole thing was all about, of course--he had
(correctly) gauged me as easygoing, but wanted angry and dominant.
and he got it, and it was such an unexpected turn-on, watching his eyes go from
cool and remote to afraid and submissive as he meekly complied with my
every barked order, and we both had a great time.<br />
<br />
afterwards, easygoing once more, i curled him into my arms, and we talked. he was a
puzzle--not the brightest bulb on the tree, but sweet once the shields
were down. but the interesting thing about him was, unlike every other
pretty, slightly dim boy like him i'd ever slept with, he lived like a
fucking prince. the robe i'd torn off him was gucci, the cum-soaked
sheets we were wrapped in were pratesi, and all about the large, lavish,
messy apartment he occupied were strewn the debris and detritus of a rich boy (or a kept
one--i've never figured out which)--from the high vantage of his
king-sized, canopied bed, i spied a crumpled vuitton bag in one corner
with clothes spilling out of it, a pile of barney's, saks and neiman's
shopping bags in another, and gucci (god, does this boy love him some
gucci) watches and sunglasses carelessly littering every surface.<br />
<br />
i asked him as casually as i could what he did for a living,
and he told me he was in the beauty business, catered to wealthy women, gave few details beyond that, and i didn't
press. i looked around this chamber of the sun king again, considered
the sheer number of rich, desperate housewives in this town, looked at his face, trailed a
finger across the contours of his lush, incomparable lips as he gazed
back at me cluelessly, did the mental math, thought, "yeah, maybe".<br />
<br />
he'd grown up in fresno in humble surroundings, had met his
first lover online at 16 ("he'd send a limo up from LA to pick me up on
weekends, take me to all the clubs--he was fun"), and had escaped to the
big city for good the day after graduation and never looked back. he
sent his family money on a regular basis; got no appreciation for it,
apparently. and this galled him.<br />
<br />
"and it's not just my family--it's my friends, too. i try to
help them, and they all take advantage of me, steal me blind, because
i'm too nice."<br />
<br />
or too dumb, i thought, as i gazed once more
around this roomful of small, pocketable treasures in which he'd left
me, a guy he'd known for all of 45 seconds, alone for an hour.<br />
<br />
"so where do you meet these people you call
friends?", i asked him--and this time, i did press. eventually, he
admitted that most of 'em were guys he'd met while partying, and i
mentally rolled my eyes, thought about how quickly any one of a number
of tweakers of my acquaintance--and i'm just talkin' the more ethical
ones--left alone, coulda stripped this room clean as a whistle and been
outta there before this boy'd even finished hosing out the lower chamber
of his ass.<br />
<br />
i proceeded to lecture him about the dangers of allowing druggies into his house and he meekly nodded at the wisdom of this, but not
convincingly, and i understood why: he was locked into his pattern of
trying to buy the love of indifferent people, and he wasn't listening to
me anymore--he hadn't paid attention to a word i'd said since i'd
turned from hard, indifferent fuck-dad into concerned ward cleaver.<br />
<br />
it was time for me to go. and as i drove home and
replayed the interview in my mind as i always did, i reflected on yet
one more lost boy selling himself short. i also couldn't help but
reflect on the fact that i was probably the only trick who'd ever walked
outta that apartment poorer than he'd walked in.<br />
<br />
that was a brand-new bottle of poppers, goddammit.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>new year's eve, 2012</i></div>
<br />
early
afternoon, he called me outta the blue,
said, "come shopping with me--i need some shoes for a party tonight."<br />
<br />
it had been awhile--this was a once- or twice-a-year boy for me, at most--so i was naturally suspicious.<br />
<br />
"why? you've never asked me out anywhere before, and it can't be for my fashion sense."<br />
<br />
he laughed. "you keep me grounded (which was true enough), so maybe i won't spend too much if you're there to tell me not to."<br />
<br />
and...?<br />
<br />
"and because you'll fuck my brains out afterwards, and this is an
important party and i wanna walk in with my head held high instead of
all desperate and horny and needy and shit."<br />
<br />
kid's smarter than i'd given him credit for.<br />
<br />
to
say they knew him at barney's would be an understatement--the waves
parted in a flurry of bows, scrapes and can-i-help-you's in a way that
had never happened when my scraggly ass had wandered in there
alone--and, once we had arrived at the destination department, he zeroed
in on a spotlit pair of shoes such as i'd never seen before, gave the
salesgirl a nod, and she scurried off to the back room without even
asking his size.<br />
<br />
he unzipped the garment bag he'd brought with him, fished
out a fine, black woolen cuff, draped it across one shoe, looked up at
me.<br />
<br />
"perfect", was all i could say, because they were--not only for the outfit, but for him.<br />
<br />
"i've been waiting for these to go on sale forever", he said, "and they finally called me yesterday, just in time--20% off!"<br />
<br />
i
picked up the right shoe, glanced inside--stuart weitzman, whose "mr.
seymour" line i'd sold to rich women when i was in college--ran my hand
over its fine, stubbly surface, held it up to the light, where it
glistened with the fire of a thousand diamonds.<br />
<br />
"swarovski crystals on black silk, mike--hundreds of 'em, hand-set over every square inch of surface. aren't they fantastic?"<br />
<br />
and yeah, they were--pure elegance, nothing tacky about 'em. but only on the feet of the right guy, the guy who could pull 'em off.<br />
<br />
he changed into the outfit, slipped into the shoes, took a few
sparkling laps back and forth as spectators gawked and applauded, and i
looked at him, at his radiant smile, thought about the figure he'd cut walking into that
party in that armani suit and those shoes with his head held high, and i
said,<br />
<br />
"yeah. i approve."<br />
<br />
as an afterthought, i picked up the display shoe again, flipped it over, staggered back a few steps.<br />
<br />
and
tried to wrap my head around how much things had changed since
college--and the idea of a five thousand dollar pair of shoes.<br />
<br />
"no, no, i told you--they're 20% off!"<br />
<br />
oh. yeah. wrap 'em up, then.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>last night</i><br />
<div>
<br />
when he called last night, i asked "what address this time?", because it had always been onward and upward with this one.<br />
<br />
<div>
it was lower beverly hills, but a nice building--one flat
per floor; i noted the name that was not his as i pressed the buzzer.
he dragged me outta the elevator, through the living room, ignoring the
hot, wasted-looking guy on the couch who didn't look up from his laptop,
and into the first bedroom on the right--obviously a playroom, not his
room--handed me my drink, said, "back in a minute", and i cued up some
porn, settled in for the wait.<br />
<br />
<div>
afterwards, once we'd stopped moving, i looked him over
to see how he was holding up, and the news wasn't good. he'd put on at
least ten pounds since new year's, and the receding hairline that had
been so barely-noticeable last year was creeping its inexorable way
backwards. the boy who'd been a 9.5 at 24 was at best a 7.5 at 30, and
slipping fast.<br />
<br />
"so how you been?", i asked, and he told me about the
friend who'd wandered into his apartment the previous week wearing the
diamond gucci watch that had been bought off the friend who'd stolen it off his
nightstand a few weeks previous, and how it had only cost him $800 to
get it back.<br />
<br />
and then he showed me around the new place. the second
bedroom had become his closet (think oprah's closet), the master
bedroom was bigger and messier than ever, and the master closet
was...shoes.<br />
<br />
i scanned the floor-to-ceiling shelves left to right, up and down, and--third row down, fourth from the left--there they were.<br />
<br />
i picked one up, turned to him, asked, "so were they a hit?"<br />
<br />
he sorta-laughed, said, "i didn't wear 'em. boyfriend
said he wouldn't take me to the party looking like a whore--he made me
change into plain black ones instead."<br />
<br />
i thought about that, thought about him, thought about how happy he'd
been that day at barney's with all those people applauding his choice
and his beauty, turned the shoe over, rubbed my hand over its shiny,
black, unblemished sole, told him to go get me a bottle of water,
snapped a pic with my phone while he was gone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlAj_u52u4RRCtj2RLIVL-Fq5wtGF6mtfjr907aV6l8BHmeDrlbXqxo-GFyoe3Z9rEUw28vP_vYR1RPvG5F_bbvUA9fedUnvrLmN1v9HNo3A39iowmnuPC5GK_0J3HMMcjC5FLYC8AvZk/s1600/diamond+shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlAj_u52u4RRCtj2RLIVL-Fq5wtGF6mtfjr907aV6l8BHmeDrlbXqxo-GFyoe3Z9rEUw28vP_vYR1RPvG5F_bbvUA9fedUnvrLmN1v9HNo3A39iowmnuPC5GK_0J3HMMcjC5FLYC8AvZk/s400/diamond+shoes.jpg" height="400" width="367" /></a></div>
<br />
because somebody oughta get to see those goddam shoes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-81378521786732200832013-06-14T08:15:00.000-07:002013-06-14T08:15:30.983-07:00and i'm gettin' old<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/owQOxJeupt8" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
why? doesn't matter--he'll know why.<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-81617411053467491012013-06-13T05:49:00.000-07:002013-12-19T09:40:20.731-08:00i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 2)<br />
<i>so i've been tryin to come up with some way to make the lorenzo half of this post at least somewhat less dreary than <a href="http://guttermorality.blogspot.com/2013/05/im-getting-tired-of-telling-these.html" target="_blank">the joaquin half</a>, and that means serendipitously presented itself today in the long-lost form of <a href="http://guttermorality.blogspot.com/2012/10/god-i-love-this-medium.html" target="_blank">this boy</a> (not the first one in there, god forbid--the second).</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and now, after a long, langorous afternoon of a steady transfusion of the most potent joaquin anti-venom i coulda hoped for (because, god, sex with joey is just so fucking perfect, and even more so after a long absence), i am ready to finish this sucker.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>because my afternoon with joey served as more than a mere palate-cleanser; he's also the one who, a few months after that first text exchange, inspired <a href="http://guttermorality.blogspot.com/2013/02/fuck-blogging-i-think-ill-just-text.html" target="_blank">this little back-and-forth</a>. which sets this post up nicely, because said little back-and-forth coulda just as easily been about lorenzo, or all the the thousands of other lorenzos out there just like him.</i><br />
<br />
<i>including the one typing this.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
i don't usually attract guys like lorenzo, or if i do, it's rarely more than a one-timer.<br />
<br />
a classic LA hipster, lorenzo is one of those skinny-jeaned, offhand, ironic types who cares a lot about not seeming to care about much--you can see it in the attitude, in the walk, in the random, eclectic, thrift-shop outfits (the perfectly-chosen shoes, of course, always being the dead giveaway that there's nothing in the least random about any of it).<br />
<br />
there are other clues, too--the artfully tousled just-got-outta bedhead, but the five-day stubble meticulously groomed; the mercedes key on the cheap, kitschy fob, stuff like that.<br />
<br />
and then there's the face--el greco, always slightly haughty and amused by something you're not in on, until you say something sufficiently funny that the facade breaks in spite of itself to reveal a big, goofy grin that lasts just long enough to hint at the sweetness buried under there somewhere, before it's gone just as fast.<br />
<br />
so that first night, i walked in, looked him up and down, got attitude back, took the place in at a glance--2,000 square feet of prime loft space, creative rubble strewn everywhere, maybe three pieces of actual furniture--figured i was a one-night aberration for sure, got down to business and discovered, to my surprise (and maybe his, who knows), how much passion could be unleashed in this boy if you hit just the right spot.<br />
<br />
whatever--as is usually the case with guys like this, the heat of his passion pre-cumming was equally and oppositely matched by his aloofness immediately afterwards; and, no stranger to this phenomenon, i dragged myself off the mattress before the globs had even started to run, headed to the lavatory, ran half a hand-towel under warm water, wiped and dried myself, rinsed it, wrung it and tossed it at him, sorted my clothes outta our collective pile, dressed quickly, gave him a wave over my shoulder and a "call me" as i headed, unaccompanied, for the door.<br />
<br />
and two days later, he did. and two weeks after that, when i called back, all pretense of aloofness was gone, and he was all over me from the moment he opened the door.<br />
<br />
i made him wait a month next time, and another month after that, and mostly ignored the interim phone calls and "are you mad at me?" texts, until i finally told him i was involved and couldn't see him anymore.<br />
<br />
and that, as they say, was that.<br />
<br />
did i behave like an asshole? yeah, maybe, but i had my reasons, and they were good ones.<br />
<br />
in the first place, i really was involved at the time; my heart, or what little of it was free to give, belonged to v back then. but the bigger reason was, i had learned the hard way, and more than once, what happens when you drop your guard with a boy like this.<br />
<br />
and time, as it often has a habit of doing, would prove me right.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
<i>a month or so ago</i> <br />
<br />
he hit me up outta the blue, and at just the right time, and i did the pleasure/pain equation, thought to myself, "i'm single now", and then, "why not?". <br />
<br />
he looked almost the same as he had the last time i'd seen him so long ago, except for the new close-cropped hair which revealed his bone structure and set off his fine features in a way the shaggy mop had not. and the sex was good, as good as it had ever been. and afterwards, when i surprised him, finally took him up on his long-standing and oft-repeated offer to stay the night, he acquiesced with a sudden uneasiness that didn't surprise me a bit.<br />
<br />
and when i tried to hold him during the night and he rolled away, that didn't surprise me either. and when i reached for him the next morning and he said he had an early call, i merely got up without reply, headed for the shower, then headed home.<br />
<br />
<i>i walk in the door, and jeannie, my roommate's girlfriend, is already there, supervising the workers on day two of the demo and remodel of our only bathroom.</i><br />
<br />
<i>when, in response to her remark that i look well-rested, well-shaved and well-showered, i reply, in my best mae west voice, "yeah, and i'm not particularly proud of how that happened" and she shrieks, "</i>you can be had for a SHOWER?!<i>", all banging and hammering comes to a halt in the bathroom as laughter breaks out, and i give the boys a wink as i sashay by on my way to my bedroom and slam the door.</i><br />
<br />
he texted me a week later, invited me over; i didn't reply. a week after that, they started coming every three days, and then every two, and now there's at least one a day.<br />
<br />
nah, i'm not mad at you, lorenzo, and i'm not playing power games. i'm just tired of this shit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_itg0ZHVe3w" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<i>and nah, i'm not sayin this song is particularly appropriate to this post, but it's the random it-came-up-on-shuffle set to repeat that got me through it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>oh, and this:</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<i>i swear, you put this shit through a brita filter twice, you get grey goose. seriously.</i><br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-54934122540077285952013-05-22T16:35:00.003-07:002013-05-22T16:37:45.862-07:00a brief snapshot in time<br />
this is what you said you wanted, america:<br />
<br />
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<br />
i hope you'll be happy with it.<br />
<br />
and <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2329089/Woolwich-attack-Two-men-hack-soldier-wearing-Help-Heroes-T-shirt-death-machetes-suspected-terror-attack.html" target="_blank">this</a> is what you've brought into your midst, my cousins across the pond:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3t2RhDv3zqWS2lCeoQCbK93zLgiBmnYzUa-O1wbN73w9epIo7Ji7DjGRnOcAGrVkuHkVs_QZkLgVNDnCg5XAerzlILKhEeLP3uQ8atbxfY6vYQoLZjKBLuHl-7K_VIlQBHY9ZcwlrXYM/s1600/content+of+his+character.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3t2RhDv3zqWS2lCeoQCbK93zLgiBmnYzUa-O1wbN73w9epIo7Ji7DjGRnOcAGrVkuHkVs_QZkLgVNDnCg5XAerzlILKhEeLP3uQ8atbxfY6vYQoLZjKBLuHl-7K_VIlQBHY9ZcwlrXYM/s1600/content+of+his+character.png" /></a></div>
<br />
and you've freely given up your guns.
<br />
<br />
mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-73537332639100478672013-05-13T05:04:00.000-07:002013-06-21T13:58:44.024-07:00i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 1)<br />
<i>or maybe it's more i'm getting tired of living 'em. whatever--</i><br />
<br />
<br />
he called outta the blue last week--a very pleasant surprise, because joaquin is special. when last we'd spoken, he was preparing to head down into mexico, the land of his parents, to research indigenous ingredients and recipes for a cookbook he was writing--joaquin is a fine young chef--and he'd call me when he got back, fix me a great meal. that had been almost two years ago.<br />
<br />
he was back in LA, he told me, working as a private chef for a family in the hills above sunset plaza, they were outta town, he was without a car, he'd love to see me and could i come get him? we arranged for late last night, and when i texted him that i'd arrived, he emerged from the house looking much as i'd seen him last--lanky and cute, with thick, black hair falling over his eyes, and that smile.<br />
<br />
and those lips--he gave me a hungry kiss when he got in, and as we drove the narrow, twisting back route connecting his canyon to mine, i remembered how it had been with him, and sped up a little.<br />
<br />
he'd done a lot of living in these last two years, he told me during the drive--from mexico, he'd gone on to work on film locations all over the world (sixteen-hour days, nothing glamorous about it, he assured me), and was happy to be back home in a low-stress job that would allow him the time to finally finish his book (and maybe even spend some time with me, i hoped).<br />
<br />
and then at my place, in my bed, he broke away from me at a moment in which he would have never broken away before, to reach into his bag. <br />
<br />
"you don't mind, do you?", he asked, as he started fiddling with the paraphernalia. "i wanna feel it with you this way--the instant the needle comes outta my arm, i want your dick going in."<br />
<br />
and i just said, "well, we'd better time it right, then--gimme a minute, 'cause i've lost it." and he did, and i put it outta my mind, rose to the occasion like i always do, and then we did.<br />
<br />
and it was wild, and he was wild, and not joaquin at all. i entered him much faster and harder than i would have joaquin, and his tightness gave way and i was deep and he was clawing at my back and gasping into my neck and sweating and bucking and straining for more, and his eyes rolled back and he was off into some place that didn't include me at all.<br />
<br />
but whatever it was he was experiencing, it wasn't sex, i know that. sex with joaquin had always started slow and sweet and ended with him coming like a freight train, all the while kissing my lips and looking into my eyes. but this--whatever it is these walking dead experience, and as transcendent as it may be for them, it's not sex, or at least not human sex, because the dick always knows what sex is--and when the mouse stays soft, small and sleeping inside its little house when the body it belongs to is doing what we did, it's not sex, and i don't care what anybody says.<br />
<br />
afterwards, drenched in sweat--mine and (mostly) his--i asked him if he's gonna be able to sleep, and he said yeah, it leaves him quickly. and it did (after he showed me all 68 apps on his ipad in three minutes, that is), and he fell asleep in my arms, and as he snored gently like he used to, i pushed the wet strands of hair out of his eyes, looked at his face, kissed his mouth (he responded in his sleep, just like he used to), and wondered what would become of this boy whom i'd once thought was so focused, so grounded, so together for his age and so immune to this shit.<br />
<br />
oh, joaquin is 25 years old.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>stay tuned for part 2, and lorenzo</i><br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-67182681416908968332013-05-11T03:56:00.001-07:002013-05-11T03:56:37.142-07:00because there are rules, and there are Rules<br />
advice to a young newbie who (shouldn't have) found my adam profile:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
eighteen, my ass.<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-6502148062380468872013-05-10T23:50:00.000-07:002013-05-11T04:04:14.376-07:00he does die at the end of the movie, right?<br />
a kinder, gentler email to my roommate (to replace the previous ones i just took down, because they were ugly. oh, and hey judi--long time, no see):<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-33182669255654976462013-04-22T02:52:00.002-07:002013-10-16T16:16:00.681-07:00post 652? (yeah, let's go with that), in which mkf waxes philosophical<br />
<i>from a recently rediscovered email i'd written some time ago to a handsome young man who'd asked me why the right one never seemed to come along:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
apropos of your existential question: i was thinking last night about my maternal grandparents--how they met in rural west texas, and, after a brief courtship, married in 1918. she was 16, and he 20. they were incredibly young, incredibly inexperienced, and neither had ever dated prior to their meeting.<br />
<br />
when i think about the odds of an arrangement like that working out--two kids, living in one of the most sparsely-populated regions of the world at that time, where the pickings were, needless to say, very slim, meeting at random--i'd give 'em about a zero-percent chance of even liking each other, much less anything beyond that. and yet, the opposite turned out to be true. their love was immediate and enduring, and by all accounts (and i've heard many), they enjoyed the happiest and most devoted of marriages.<br />
<br />
of course, they had several things going for 'em: they'd both grown up fast by necessity; they had similar backgrounds, similar values, compatible goals--oh, and chemistry (they were both fine young animals).<br />
<br />
but they also had something else going on--something which, on its face, would appear to be a great limitation, but which i've come to believe might be the greatest gift of all.<br />
<br />
but how do i put it? lemme go at it this way: from time to time, and most particularly since i've started writing myself, i'll go pull up an old handwritten letter or essay by someone like jefferson or madison, struggle through the archaic script, and marvel at the clarity of thought expressed therein--the clear, cohesive, flowing line from beginning to end, unbroken and unmarred by strikeouts or rambling incoherence.<br />
<br />
and then i'll consider what it takes my spoiled, techno-modern ass to produce an average blogpost--the editing, overthinking, deleting, backspacing, cutting-and-pasting--and i just laugh.<br />
<br />
those writers of the past--even the mediocre ones--could spit it out mostly right the first time because they had no other option--they had to organize their thoughts, focus their efforts and be at their best in a way modern writers with all their fancy tools and toys can't even begin to approach, simply because their primitive medium was unforgiving.<br />
<br />
i think it was the same with my grandparents--there was no internet in their world, much less casual dating or, god forbid, divorce. their primitive medium was unforgiving, and thus they were forced by circumstance to bring their A game to the effort.<br />
<br />
oprah winfrey used to ask her guests, "what is the one thing you know for sure?" had she asked me, my one thing, arrived at after many years of experience in the field, would be the belief that humanity handles scarcity far better than it does abundance.<br />
<br />
so, you might be wondering--by way of all this, am i trying to tell you that you should just quit yer bitchin', pick one and make it work goddammit? no. because, unlike my grandparents, we've eaten from the tree of knowledge, you and i--we know what's out there, what's at least potentially possible, and have been mass-marketed into the belief that we won't be "happy" until we find just the right needle in that big ol' haystack. cheery thought, no?<br />
<br />
keeping my options open,<br />
<br />
mkf<br />
<br />
p.s. needless to day, jefferson would be appalled at the amount of editing that went into the production of this email.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
<i>and yeah, i know, i'm like a dog with a bone with this "scarcity v. abundance" thing, but with every passing year, it just gets truer and truer.</i><br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-20528509163822275932013-04-21T05:31:00.002-07:002013-04-21T16:53:30.307-07:00post 651 (or thereabouts--fuck, i can't keep track), in which mkf relates some existential angst<br />
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<br />
<br />
[<i>fine--you want personal, i'll give you personal (god, why didn't i stop drinking an hour ago)</i>]<br />
<br />
<br />
i had really been dreading this bathroom remodel planned, perpetrated and suddenly sprung upon me by my mostly-absent landlord/roommate and his girlfriend (see? he's not my lover), fearing the disruption of my sacred routine, but turns out it's not been so bad.<br />
<br />
in the first place, it means i'll finally be getting a showerhead that's positioned to hit me at somewhat higher than mid-stomach level, so there's that.<br />
<br />
and showering at the office has turned out to be an unexpected treat--thick, turkish towels, endless hot water, and who knew attorneys kept such nice triple-blade razors and designer shaving balms in their (unlocked) lockers? (j/k, sorta)<br />
<br />
but the best part has been getting to know gary, the (hot 58-year-old) contractor, because what a pleasant surprise and font of useful knowledge he's turned out to be.<br />
<br />
first, you gotta understand: i hate contractors, and i came by that hatred honest. after years of watching 'em fuck up my carefully-rendered details on job after job, to the point where i was 86'd from a jobsite for throwing a hammer, not <i>at</i>, but <i>near</i> (which point i stressed over and over as they dragged me away) a contractor early in my architectural career, ol' gary has been a welcome breath of fresh air.<br />
<br />
rescued from mcdonald's drudgery at the age of 17 by a builder/uncle who first saw his potential, gary has become a master of many trades who takes tremendous pride in his work, and has delivered far more on this little job than he'll ever be paid for.<br />
<br />
i first laid eyes on him when i stumbled bleary-eyed outta my bedroom at the crack o' nine a.m. last monday, to the sound of pounding demo hammers, noted his studly form as i pushed past him on my way to the kitchen (because i'd already gone out back and peed behind a tree). he wandered in behind me, watched me mix my morning shot-o'-cayenne-in-warm-water eye-opener, asked me why the fuck i was drinking that stuff, to which i merely looked up at him with a bland expression, raised my left fist with index finger curled, and then shot it <i>boing!</i> straight up in the air.<br />
<br />
he said, "no <i>shit</i>?", and even after i warned him he'd have to work up to my dose, demanded i mix him one just like mine, downed it, and then doubled over, gasping, while i laughed.<br />
<br />
and with that, we were tight.<br />
<br />
i've had many conversations with gary since that day, and have grown to like him more and more. he's my age, had his wild time, grew up, got married, got land and horses, had kids, and now has grandkids. and his family's his whole goddam life.<br />
<br />
as i type this, i'm wrecked because the 23-year-old i fucked yesterday stood me up tonight.<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-46792058024719238222013-04-21T02:59:00.001-07:002013-04-21T03:03:11.876-07:00dream, baby<br />
[<i>yeah, i know, but i don't feel like getting personal tonight</i>]<br />
<br />
roy orbison was a weird guy, and an even weirder performer. he'd walk out on stage looking neither left or right, oblivious of the applause, stand stiffly in fronta the microphone, deliver the goods, and then when he was done, leave the stage looking neither left or right, oblivious of the applause, the same way he'd come on.<br />
<br />
but, my god, could the man work magic with a song.<br />
<br />
in 1987, having faded to obscurity in the public mind and towards the end of his life, he was approached to do a "greatest hits" live concert for television, and when word got out, the biggest headliners in the music business at the time clamored for the opportunity to accompany him onstage.<br />
<br />
the show was intimately shot at the ambassador hotel's legendary coconut grove nightclub (which would also soon die thereafter), before an audience of hollywood's best and brightest, and the resulting masterpiece would not only revive roy's career, but go down in history as one of the all-time great live performances, and one that i--who generally hates live concerts--would have given my left nut and two inches of my dick to have attended.<br />
<br />
as hard as it would be to pick a favorite from the show, when "dream baby" came up on shuffle tonight at just the right moment of (semi) intoxication, i immediately flipped over to youtube, grabbed the video, watched it a few times, felt my mood elevate immensely, and dashed off this post.<br />
<br />
originally released in 1962, i liked the song, but had never considered it one of roy's best--that he'd somehow missed something in the arrangement. well, 25 years later, he found it.<br />
<br />
accompanied by bruce springsteen on lead vocals (whom i'd never thought of as even remotely sexy before i saw this show), with elvis costello, j.d. souther and jackson browne coming in behind, and k.d. lang, jennifer warnes and bonnie raitt providing the oohs and aahs--and all of whom flew in that night and ran through it once before shooting, btw--this is, to me, as good as it gets.<br />
<br />
if after watching it you don't agree, then all i can say is, you're either a clueless whippersnapper, or your pleasure centers are wired very differently than mine.<br />
<br />
[<i>and naturally, after ascertaining that the video was embeddable before writing this goddam post, and then writing the post, and then embedding the goddam thing, youtube informs me it's "restricted", so you'll have to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANy4x3wgTSA" target="_blank">watch it here</a></i>]<br />
<br />
or maybe you should just have a couple stiff ones and watch it again. and again after that. and again after that.<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-35544661230236242842013-04-11T03:35:00.001-07:002013-04-11T03:46:33.120-07:00progress of a sort, i guess<br />
so we're remodeling our bathroom, and the contractor is this 58-year-old i'd climb up one side of and down the other if i didn't think he'd swat me off, and then take home to mom.<br />
<br />
so, see, noblesavage? there's hope for me yet.<br />
<br />
and in other news, i've been in discussions with a couple editors about maybe pulling some of the stuff from this blog together into the form of a book, and one of 'em, while passing on the project since he didn't think he was the one (and he's not--basically, i need carrie fisher off her medication, but she won't return my calls), wrote me today that<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>You do what you do (especially the reversal) quite well.*</i></blockquote>
<br />
and it occurred to me that, if i'm gonna talk to these serious professionals about my writing, then perhaps it would behoove me to maybe pick up a book on the subject so i have at least some passing knowledge of what the fuck it is that i'm doing.<br />
<br />
___________ <br />
*<span style="font-size: x-small;">now, you could read volumes into that little sentence, but i've decided to take it as a compliment. and after a quick google search, i find i have to agree with him--i am a minor master of that particular technique; i just had no idea there was a name for it.</span><br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-89225960152017417062013-04-08T02:21:00.000-07:002013-06-21T15:09:36.804-07:00denver<br />
<i>from an email to a friend:</i><br />
<br />
so tonight i ran my usual "here i am, come and get me" ad that i always run on craigslist whenever i hit a new city, to (i'm happy to say) gratifying response.<br />
<br />
but i had specific needs tonight which had nothing to do with being a performing donkey, and i finally settled on this wholesome, cute, buffed-out 30-year-old white guy as my best bet to fulfill them. because his ad was interesting--he was looking for an overweight daddy, and i knew there had to be a story there.<br />
<br />
i opened my reply with "look, i may be too thin for you (words i don't get to utter very often these days, so that was nice), but...", and he came back very quickly, invited me over.<br />
<br />
i found his place, and it was clean and bright and nice, and so was he. he led me down to a basement bedroom, away from the sleeping roommates, and when he turned to me i took him in my arms, kissed him and gently/roughly felt him up and down for a long while, loosened his pants, while he melted. when i felt the time was right, i breathed into his open mouth, "so tell me about your first time", as my hands and mouth continued their work. between kisses, he breathed the story back to me.<br />
<br />
he was 15, on vacation with his family at a resort, had left the pool and wandered into the locker room, and then into the sauna, where he came across this--you guessed it--fat daddy in a towel, whom, i have no doubt, took one look at this little vision and knew his every dark dream had just come true.<br />
<br />
"so you were wearing a swimsuit"<br />
<br />
yeah<br />
<br />
"baggies, i'm guessing."<br />
<br />
yeah<br />
<br />
"what color?"<br />
<br />
lime green<br />
<br />
"with your adolescent boner standing up just like it is now (i lightly feathered my fingers up and down his rock-hard dick, making him shiver), except in a little green tent, right?"<br />
<br />
oh yeah<br />
<br />
they eventually retreated to a shower stall, but he didn't get fucked that first time--that would happen during the following year's family vacation, with the following year's fat daddy. we eventually worked up to that--we're in bed by this point--and i recreated the experience for him, while we breathed words back and forth into each other's mouths until we came simultaneously.<br />
<br />
i left him dazed, surprised and happy in a puddle of sweat and cum, came back to my room, showered, flipped open the notebook and started this letter to you.<br />
<br />
i don't fuck around with kids, victor. there are a number of reasons for this, but the main one--the guttermorality--behind this Rule is simple: i refuse to imprint my baggage on a brain and psyche that are not yet fully formed, leaving 'em with fat-daddy fantasies for the rest of their lives. hell, i have enough work picking up the pieces all those fat daddies who lacked this particular scruple left behind.<br />
<br />
but i love the roleplay, when it's right--taking these kids in men's bodies back to the moment of their lifelong fixation, making perfect--for them and for me--what probably wasn't the first time around.<br />
<br />
i haven't decided whether this is wrong or not. i'd love to know what you think.<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-73849870896722542742013-04-02T04:04:00.000-07:002013-04-02T04:04:35.127-07:00she was nice, but she was watchin' me like a hawk<br />
<i>the following is from an email to a friend on sunday. i know i shouldn't be heading off in a new direction, considering all the hanging threads and unfinished business all over this blog at the moment--but what can i say, it was a helluva weekend, and i thought i'd tell you about a little of it.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
read your post--hope you're having a great time with your family.<br /><br />me? well, since you ask, last night i had fun in a bar for the first time in years. met up with adam and laura, and her cousin, the legendary porno joe (which is how he's known all over this dusty little town, i would find out--by the end of the weekend, i'd be calling him the marine whisperer), and he dragged us out to one of his recruiting grounds, this military dive bar on the main drag at the outskirts of town.<br /><br />i was dreading it, tell you the truth, but it turned out great--everybody knew him there, so we had, like 80 instant friends, most of 'em smokin' hot. there were lots of women there too, of course, most of 'em dressed like, as laura put it, women who hang out at military dive bars, but they were really fun too. and all night long, young guy after young guy would come up to joe--this cheerful, bald, middle-aged, nondescript lookin' dude--drape their arm around him, and shoot the shit. he told me later, "mike, i swear, the more guys who find out who i am and what i do, the more they wanna be my friend." it was kinda surreal.<br /><br />i spent most of my time out on the back patio where the music wasn't so loud, and--me, who never talks to strangers in bars--did interview after interview with these kids. there was the navy corpsman, nico, who i found mildly cute (until i spent half an hour with him, by which time i was half in love) who i got to open up about his field experience and training, and, eventually, all the lives he'd saved.<br /><br />and there was bret, this tall, raw-boned marine IED specialist from kentucky, who, as he put it, "blows up shit in afghanistan". fourth-generation military, enlisted when he was 17, and at 25--after enduring three direct hits on armored vehicles in which he was riding, has wrecked knees, a wrecked back, partial deafness and god knows what else. i asked him what it was like in the aftermath of such an event--do you black out, do you just lay there, stunned, or what?--and he just said, matter-of-factly, "nah, you jump up, wipe the blood outta your ears, take care of the wounded and keep moving."<br /><br />he's going back in ten days for his fourth deployment--which he anticipates will be the worst, seeing as how, since the current administration has thoughtfully announced our pull-out in 2014, the enemy will wanna make it look like they ran us out on a rail (i asked him what he thought would happen after that, and he said, casually, "oh, it'll all go to shit." yeah.).<br /><br />his wife drifted over a couple times during our conversation--we talked about how she's struggling to budget in the face of recent news that washington is trying to cut their housing subsidy by half--and at some point i said to her, "this guy's really something, huh?", she just rolled her eyes, smacked him on the side of the head, and we laughed. it was really cute.<br /><br />lemme tellya, after years in weho being surrounded by man-boys (myself included), it was really eye-opening hanging out with these boy-men last night. and now, if the time ever comes when i give up my boy-chasing ways, make my final selection and move to the checkout, it's gonna be very hard to settle for anything less.<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-13960989121872915532013-03-30T14:51:00.000-07:002013-03-30T14:51:56.387-07:00oh god, here we go<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwAqp3NzICx2eoBiNL25MqyFWo-netViHXzZcroVBb9xB6iSEP7dCE1NOW89VkQPS6aSg1qA3nyp1c4UuaD-zlRtdi2XRDMc9B2JbCM0aUWt3NpJx35KBNW8coUiRGEBmFO8ibAR-NJk/s1600/red+meat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwAqp3NzICx2eoBiNL25MqyFWo-netViHXzZcroVBb9xB6iSEP7dCE1NOW89VkQPS6aSg1qA3nyp1c4UuaD-zlRtdi2XRDMc9B2JbCM0aUWt3NpJx35KBNW8coUiRGEBmFO8ibAR-NJk/s400/red+meat.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
note to self: stay away from joe.my.god for at least six weeks.<br />
<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-79526744120473610992013-03-26T07:16:00.003-07:002014-06-07T13:33:47.012-07:00day 5, in which mkf comes out to his brother<br />
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<br />
<i>lots
of things happened on days 1 through 4, too--and even more during days 6
through 16--and i'll eventually catch you up on all of 'em, but let's
start with this one, because i think mitch might find it instructive. oh, and if you're
expecting a tale of heartwarming reconciliation between long-estranged
brothers, you've obviously forgotten where the fuck you are.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
day
5 found my mother and me rolling into tyler, texas fresh from atlanta, where i
had fetched her at my sister liz's house in the near-cherry dream benz i'd
just picked up for a song in cassville, pennsylvania (see? i told you a lot had
happened). there were two purposes for our presence there in our old hometown, but only one
of which is germane to this post; namely, some unfinished business i
had with my brother.<br />
<br />
some context: for as long as i can remember,
it's always been my mother, sister and me over here, and mark over
there; he's always been separate and superior, alien and apart.<br />
<br />
my
mother and sister have spent a lot of time agonizing over why this is.
one of my mother's theories, for instance, is that, as she was in traction and
hyped-up on morphine as a result of near-fatal surgery to remove a tumor
from the base of her skull when he was born and thus unable to hold
him for the first three months of his life, they never bonded.<br />
<br />
liz
has never been able to figure out why he's always especially had it in
for her--maybe, she thinks, because he was the aggrieved middle child
and saw her as the indulged baby; or (my theory) maybe it's because she's the
only one who has ever consistently called him on his shit.<br />
<br />
<br />
me? my relationship with my younger brother has always
been arm's-length and uneasy, probably because we've both always known it would all
eventually come down to what happened on day 5.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
whenever i sit down to compose one of these little stories, one of the biggest challenges i face is what to leave out. in this case, for instance, i could double the length of this post by laying out a long list of the sorta family-destroying shit in which my brother specializes, in order for you to more fully understand what brought us to blows on this day 5--but, fuck that; let's just cut to the chase.<br />
<br />
simply put, around thanksgiving 2011, shortly after the sale of my mother's little house in austin was complete, my brother backed her frail, 80-year-old ass into an emotional corner and, without allowing her to consult her other children (there was no time, he told her), helped himself to half the proceeds of said sale in the form a "loan".<br />
<br />
my sister had handled the renovation of the house two summers prior (new kitchen, bath, flooring, roof, HVAC--it was beautiful), and i had ruthlessly negotiated the sale, gaining her top dollar, so it was a fairly tidy little sum. on closing day, liz and i talked, and the last thing she said to me that day was, "whatever you do, mike, do not let him anywhere near that money."<br />
<br />
i remember laughing, saying, "c'mon, liz, even <i>he</i> wouldn't..."<br />
<br />
i shoulda listened to her.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
on day 5, the deadline for repayment long passed, i gave him a call, told his voicemail i was in town and we needed to sit down and talk. he texted me back, said he had nothing to say to me. i replied that he could either come see me, or i was gonna drop by and see him--and, hey, was his wife at home, and did she know what he'd done? he replied that i could say whatever i had to say to him by text.<br />
<br />
i thought about it a minute, decided a written record might be more enduring and useful than a face-to-face screaming match, and began.<br />
<br />
i'll spare you most of it; while the resulting exchange has proven both enlightening and endlessly entertaining to various friends and family who know all parties involved, it would probably bore you, my readers--but, bottom line, the madder he got, the more infuriatingly reasonable i made sure to become.<br />
<br />
finally, after he'd exhausted his entire laundry list of grievances, accusing liz of me of everything from parental neglect to embezzlement in an effort to deflect blame from himself, i coolly gave him a deadline of six week to pay up, or i was gonna get serious.<br />
<br />
at which point, conventional arsenal depleted, he launched his a-bomb: <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3jGmD8BcVjQfNoQ4ExzzDsOGShHrpZ7Hycl5QlBEu-SLOya4Lwr71K6GFW8B7LDaYuwGyPEzCqPWASsz5OVIdk95lZUZ6-6Hxjj0v5zQnHBEOAfaO5-MDdwB2Nm9WxXXrmthyphenhyphenlq_eDSP/s1600/mark+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3jGmD8BcVjQfNoQ4ExzzDsOGShHrpZ7Hycl5QlBEu-SLOya4Lwr71K6GFW8B7LDaYuwGyPEzCqPWASsz5OVIdk95lZUZ6-6Hxjj0v5zQnHBEOAfaO5-MDdwB2Nm9WxXXrmthyphenhyphenlq_eDSP/s320/mark+2.png" height="286" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
and, boy, he had been sitting on that one awhile--<a href="http://guttermorality.blogspot.com/2012/05/faggots.html" target="_blank">33 years</a>, i suspect.<br />
<br />
and my reaction must've deflated him, because all he could come up with in response was the text at the top of this post. so, because i'm a giver, i decided to give him a little more--you know, remove any lingering doubts:<br />
<br />
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<br />
and finally, because it needed to be said,<br />
<br />
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<br />
nobody out-texts me, motherfucker.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
my brother slung a lotta shit at me during that conversation, and most of it bounced off my smooth teflon surface. but one thing he said did stick--that i'd run away in 1989 and left him to watch over our mother.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
and he was right; i did. and he'll never understand why.<br />
<br />
see, when i was growing up, i was loved--everybody loved little mkf, and he knew it. hell, i was a sweet, happy little kid--what was not to love? i got along with everybody--i could shmooze the grown-ups, i could play army with the boys and barbies with the girls, and . . .<br />
<br />
to this day, i dunno if it was something somebody said, or whether i just woke up one day and smelled the coffee, but when i was around six or so, my world started to shrink. i started avoiding the girls, i stopped dancing like nobody was watching--i didn't know why; i just knew it had to be done.<br />
<br />
by the time my balls had dropped and my loins alit with fire, i knew why, all right. i knew it was because i was like my dad's cousin billy mike--the schoolteacher with the sweet smile who was so unlike his asshole-athlete brother alvin in all the wrong ways, the one everyone had always smiled at and then spoken of behind his back in tones of syrupy, southern "bless his heart" contempt.<br />
<br />
and i started looking around at my family, all those people who had loved me all my life, and i started mentally dividing 'em up into the few who'd still love me if they knew, and the many who'd look at me like billy mike<br />
<br />
<i>who died in 1986 of "leukemia", bless his heart</i><br />
<br />
and from then on, i played my role--i smiled to their faces, even as my heart hardened to them. i stoically endured my father's suicide, and steeled myself in the face of my mother's disintegration as she lost first her husband, then her mother, best friend and favorite brother in three hard years. and all the while, i planned my escape.<br />
<br />
this process of shutting down made me a lousy older brother, i admit--cold, guarded, withdrawn--and i thank god mark and liz didn't follow my high-school example. but if my kid brother had told me back then he was sure there was a warm cock waiting for me somewhere, it woulda killed me, so i did what i had to do.<br />
<br />
and i eventually found my place in this city of angels, became a successful, hard-hearted homosexual nobody can hurt.<br />
<br />
it's been fun, but my mother needs me now, and it's time to go home.<br />
<br />
and as for you, my brother: after all the shit that's gone down between us over lo these many years, would i still give you a kidney?<br />
<br />
yeah, i would. but i'll see you in court first.
<br />
<br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-64443010296752573552013-02-27T23:30:00.000-08:002014-06-07T13:35:42.487-07:00van cliburn, 1934 - 2013<br />
<i>a repost from a couple years back; tonight, it seems appropriate. rest in peace, mr. cliburn, and thanks for the memory.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<br />
so i'm thirteen and on a trampoline in some strange kid's backyard in a strange city, having been dragged there by the kid of the friend my mother had dragged me along with her to visit [that's clear, right?].<br />
<br />
it's hot and we're jumping and hollering and generally having a good time, when suddenly there's the sound of a car out front and then the gate opens, three grownups appear and the action grinds to a halt. one of 'em (the woman, i think) steps forward and calls out, "c'mere, kids, there's someone we want you to meet!"<br />
<br />
"my parents," one of the kids who lives there mutters. "c'mon, we have to." obviously, he's done this drill before.<br />
<br />
we dutifully dismount and cross the lawn to the grownups. i'm embarrassed as i always am when meeting new grownups, but even more so than usual because they're all impeccably turned out in their church clothes, and we're a fuckin' mess.<br />
<br />
the parents proudly introduce their guest and the kids are all like, yeah, whatever, give him a half-hearted wave and head back to the trampoline.<br />
<br />
the parents are obviously mortified by their kids' reaction. i'm mortified, too, and more than a little stunned--because, unlike them, i know exactly who this guy is.<br />
<br />
see, my grandmother had told me all about him as we watched him perform on television one night. about how he'd gone to the soviet union at the height of the cold war as a callow young kid from the nearby town of kilgore, competed in their<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"> <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/02/world/europe/02russia.html" style="text-decoration: none;">fancy piano contest</a></span>, beaten the russkies at their own game and come home with the prize.<br />
<br />
about how america had celebrated his victory with magazine covers and ticker-tape parades.<br />
<br />
but more importantly--at least for my grandmother--about how he had vindicated east texas. because suddenly we weren't just backwoods hicks anymore--we had produced a prodigy.<br />
<br />
so without overthinking it too much, i walk my sweaty and grass-stained ass up to this elegant, imperially-slim gentleman, stick out my hand and say, "nice to meet you, mr. cliburn. my grandmother loved you."<br />
<br />
and then feel myself flush as it flashes through my mind--"<i>holy shit, is 'van cliburn' like 'van dyke'? does he have a first name i don't know about and i just made an even bigger fool of myself?</i>" <br />
<br />
no worries--he smiles and takes my grubby little mitt in his without hesitation. his hand is cool and supple, and i marvel at the fact that he'd let anyone touch it, much less me.<br />
<br />
we talk for a minute. turns out the kid's parents are real estate agents and are helping him find a house for his mother. he asks me about school and about my grandmother, and seems genuinely interested.<br />
<br />
and then he heads into the house to talk business with the parents and i head back to the trampoline to join the others, but i can't get back into it. the afternoon has changed, and i can't put my young finger on why.<br />
<br />
alas, the word "surreal" hasn't yet entered my vocabulary.<br />
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mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-13873108386745523062013-02-24T05:06:00.002-08:002013-12-19T10:43:18.815-08:00mkf offers a couple helpful hints<br />
while this blog garners few comments, i do get emails--boy, do i get emails. which is somewhat understandable since, judging from their tone, the majority of these emails come from folks who wouldn't be caught dead publicly commenting on a blog such as mine.<br />
<br />
said emails fall roughly into three categories: the ones <s>condemning me to gay hell for</s> taking exception to my politics; the ones accusing me of making shit up (as if, were anyone to take the time and trouble to construct the elaborate fantasy life of which i am so often accused, it would be this one); and, last but not least--and the subject of this post--the ones from closet fans asking for help in transforming their sad, sexless middle-aged selves into perpetually priapic love machines like the mysterious mkf.<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
it's not that i don't wanna help other men achieve this exalted plane from which i gaze down upon you mere mortals, it's more like i honestly dunno how much help i can be. because, you gotta understand, i'm very different in some key respects from most men you'll come across.<br />
<br />
see, most men--and, i mean, throughout history, and regardless of the degree of wealth, power, talent, intellect, accomplishment or romantic prowess to which they might lay claim--seem incapable of escaping obsession with their shortcomings in at least one (and usually more) of the following areas:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><b>baldness</b></span></i></li>
<li><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><b>penis size</b></span></i></li>
<li><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><b>body dysmorphia</b></span></i></li>
<li><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><b>loss of vitality and virility with age</b></span></i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
and, while i wish i could say i relate (oh who am i kidding; no, i don't), here's how mkf deals with each of the above manly existential crises:<br />
<br />
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">baldness:</span></b></i> the realization i was losing it roughly and, for a minute, happily coincided with the introduction of rogaine to the market--until, after a quick calculation revealed to my then-broke ass that it would be either rogaine or cable, it was really no contest. because like going bald should be my biggest goddam problem.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">penis size:</span></i></b> what can i say--other than a regrettable early surgical choice in which i had no say, i wouldn't change a goddam thing.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">body dysmorphia:</span></i></b> i gaze, naked, into the mirror at my doughy face, sagging posture, pasty skin and childbearing hips, and say to myself, "damn, you've got a big dick."<br />
<br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">loss of vitality and virility with age:</span></i></b> again, what can i say--use it or lose it, motherfuckers.<br />
<br />
<br />
but fuck most men--let's get back to gay men. because, in addition to the above, so many of our little tribe seem condemned to eventually and inevitably face a special hell reserved only for us; namely, loneliness, isolation and sexual starvation once we've passed our prime.<br />
<br />
and, again, i dunno how much help i can be in this regard, because staving off this inevitability seems to come naturally to me (so far), but if you're one of those who really wants to extend your dumbass adolescence into middle age, then i'll do my best to give you some pointers.<br />
<br />
next time.<br />
<br />
[<i>sorry, got too chatty, lost the point and ran outta steam. been happening a lot lately.</i>]<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3L49j3sH8uk" width="560"></iframe><br />mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-16065184272547613462013-02-17T07:54:00.005-08:002013-02-24T03:21:55.961-08:00mkf breaks a couple rules<br />
<i>disclaimer: i can already tell this one's gonna run long, ramble and be very inside. why? because i'm enjoying my first serious cocktail in over a month, and feeling a little chatty--sue me.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0rE86oZ63XEdchEzcsvLl5fdxsWhANHupqj_np942hC9PzEIUzBc0sxu6EAH3YsZqjxSnQpaxc3c50EzG2WHUO0ip8j43_OOrlElgcVWoP2uzIVGrKxfoOFsXk-ww_z1Gh-C2R60lt-1/s1600/you+partying.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0rE86oZ63XEdchEzcsvLl5fdxsWhANHupqj_np942hC9PzEIUzBc0sxu6EAH3YsZqjxSnQpaxc3c50EzG2WHUO0ip8j43_OOrlElgcVWoP2uzIVGrKxfoOFsXk-ww_z1Gh-C2R60lt-1/s320/you+partying.png" width="308" /></a></div>
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study the above text exchange from last night carefully before proceeding, because there are at least three important points contained within its brief bounds that i'm gonna expound upon tonight.<br />
<br />
but before parsing its meaning, a little background: back when i first--some would say finally--came out at 33, and knowing even then that, unlike most of my peers, my slutty kid-in-a-candy-store phase would extend well into middle age and probably beyond, i took note of the stark differences between the fresh-faced types who reveled in their sluttiness and the burnouts who were just going through the limp-dicked motions, and determined to learn from the latter group's mistakes and not repeat 'em.<br />
<br />
to that end, i started developing a set of rules the adherence to which i figured would be most likely to ensure a long, happy run. for the most part, i'd have to say i've succeeded in that goal, but what i've discovered over the years is that there are rules and there are Rules, and have learned through experience to differentiate between the two.<br />
<br />
rules with an upper-case "R" are the hard-and-fast ones, never, ever to be broken--eschewing hard drugs, for instance, and fetishes like leather, S/M and bondage, and fucking underage kids no matter how tempting and available they might be (and often are), and walking away when feeling even slightly hinky about anything. these, among others, are lines i don't cross, ever.<br />
<br />
but then there are the rules that started out as Rules but have devolved to lower-case status as exigencies arose and flexibility was required, a prime example of which would be my once ironclad prohibition against having sex with crystal meth users.<br />
<br />
which brings us to the subject of this post.<br />
<br />
when the above guy hit me up last night, saw my face pic and still wanted me to come over, i was at first quite happy to indulge myself in his lean, smoking, fresh-from-miami hotness, until i looked at the clock and remembered the first of the three points i alluded to above; namely<br />
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">anybody looking for sex at 3:03 am is probably up to no good</span></i></b></div>
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<br />
and sure enough, came the dreaded question.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsY1BFDq6pmZpHU_JDcKFfLWCMyXZpMF9XJ_puEEMaaxOzyPj6zUSMm99mK6OsBUw79OII39AmjX5SJFPJqVcBUJ51i-ItFabDpehAowvOcTs6LeU0Ra5pFaDIqNmIpO0sSrTL5mPhg_8N/s1600/u+partying+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="39" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsY1BFDq6pmZpHU_JDcKFfLWCMyXZpMF9XJ_puEEMaaxOzyPj6zUSMm99mK6OsBUw79OII39AmjX5SJFPJqVcBUJ51i-ItFabDpehAowvOcTs6LeU0Ra5pFaDIqNmIpO0sSrTL5mPhg_8N/s320/u+partying+2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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see, to mkf, the two ugliest words in the gay lexicon are "u partying?".</div>
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the question itself can be interpreted a couple ways; for instance, if it's asked before midnight, you've got a 50/50 shot at it being a non-partier trying to weed out the tweakers. but at 3:03 am? not bloody likely.</div>
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so i reflexively responded with my standard</div>
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and immediately kicked myself because i hadn't thought it through.<br />
<br />
because, see, there's two kindsa partiers: (1) the early-cycle ones who'll rule you out if you're not one of them; and (2) the late-cycle ones who, after three days with their own kind, would sell their soul for a hard dick that actually works.<br />
<br />
with that in mind, the non-partier can offer two responses to the question: (1) if you don't care one way or the other, a flat "i don't party" will do; and (2) if you do care, you can lie and say something like "yeah, i did a little earlier", just to get your foot in the door.<br />
<br />
and the thing was, in this case i did care--i knew i'd do this boy no matter how fucked-up he was, and by going with option 1, i may have aced myself outta the running.<br />
<br />
but nah, he came back with<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Z7JbaxXsZzbIxxd3B-BXoK3swfUbWNPg_-fhx44E7fKn9F3-nQ_OXKfpoCm7B75Rth0EarkmeljF2rYoghyphenhyphendaXzSUFddgc6bPdUl5hoYZA4Rwugx6kGZhtMFwPhFnIFgapRYBXo573uH/s1600/u+partying+4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="37" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Z7JbaxXsZzbIxxd3B-BXoK3swfUbWNPg_-fhx44E7fKn9F3-nQ_OXKfpoCm7B75Rth0EarkmeljF2rYoghyphenhyphendaXzSUFddgc6bPdUl5hoYZA4Rwugx6kGZhtMFwPhFnIFgapRYBXo573uH/s320/u+partying+4.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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which leads me to point no. 2:</div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">when it comes to partiers,"sometimes" always means</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">"i'm currently tweaking my ass off"</span></i></b></div>
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so i was still in, but, never one to leave well enough alone--and even though i knew the answer--i had to push it by asking</div>
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and then looked at his pictures again and immediately did the the only sensible thing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc0yQ6TbEfI1Cs1ty3lh8SpfOHRl5dbmuQswUQSIj5aoKfprpenmHu_5eX2iELcvlyOBggdH2f4MtHv3ESNgVt-sIrRs-6Y42T7_a2OI3Tw_lPAXWX8YlLK9SuRWMkyLcconu5LgX7-R53/s1600/u+partying+6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="55" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc0yQ6TbEfI1Cs1ty3lh8SpfOHRl5dbmuQswUQSIj5aoKfprpenmHu_5eX2iELcvlyOBggdH2f4MtHv3ESNgVt-sIrRs-6Y42T7_a2OI3Tw_lPAXWX8YlLK9SuRWMkyLcconu5LgX7-R53/s320/u+partying+6.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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* * * * *</div>
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when he opened the door, the boy turned out to be as advertised: 140 pounds of young, tight, compact, hard-bodied, thoroughly tweaked-out cubano. i pushed him into the apartment, shoved the door closed with my foot, pulled him into my arms, and, just as i was about to take a bite, he stiff-armed me, said, "wait", and looked back toward the kitchen, where out stepped the evening's surprise.</div>
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which brings us to mkf hookup postulate #4:</div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">when it comes to hookups, surprises are rarely pleasant</span></i></b></div>
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i remember back when i first came out during the <a href="http://guttermorality.blogspot.com/2012/10/spike-and-jason-dont-live-here-anymore.html" target="_blank">glory days of weho street cruising</a>, there was this breathtakingly adorable boy who used to ride his bicycle back and forth through vaseline alley and i couldn't figure out why he never got any takers--until the night i went home with him and found out that, to get him, you also had to do the 80-year-old daddy he had waiting in the wings. this experience, and many others like it, caused me to tense up as soon as i sensed movement in the kitchen last night.</div>
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but. you know what? sometimes it's the exception that proves the rule, because outta that kitchen stepped not the troll i feared, but the boy who would finally allow me check off that <a href="http://theberry.com/2010/03/04/afternoon-eye-candy-antonio-sabato-jr-17-photos/eye-candy-antonio-sabato-jr-7/" target="_blank">antonio sabato jr.</a> box on my fantasy roster.</div>
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if cubano boy was hot, this boy was a fuckin' vision--lustrous coal-black hair, perfect olive skin, limpid-yet-piercing eyes, voluptuous lips, gymnast body...i could go on and on and on.</div>
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which suddenly brought to mind the second rule i'd be bending if i went through with this; namely, the one about hooking up with guys spectacularly better-looking than me.</div>
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understand, this rule didn't arise outta any particular insecurity on my part--i know what i bring to the table, and i know its value--it was more a practical thing. see, the spectacular-looking guys almost always come into the deal with the assumption that their looks give them the advantage, and the time and effort it takes for me to disabuse 'em of this notion is usually more goddam trouble than it's worth. but one look at this boy's eyes as he fixated on my crotch and licked those luscious lips told me that wouldn't be a problem this night.</div>
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so, with high expectations of being the ham in this lovely sandwich, and even though i shoulda known better, i let these boys lead me to the bedroom.</div>
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mkf hookup postulate #22:</div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">there are three kinds of tweakers, only one</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">of which </span></i></b><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">is of any practical use to the non-partier in bed</span></i></b></div>
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remember <a href="http://guttermorality.blogspot.com/2011/10/dah-veed.html" target="_blank">david</a>? back when he was using, he'd often call me at the tail-end of his binges, knowing i'd be the one who could finally push him over the edge into that volcanic orgasm he'd been both straining for and holding back the whole weekend. and i was always happy to oblige, because his epic climax always made me come with him (and then he'd lapse into a coma for two days, but this post has too many tangents already so we'll leave that aspect of partying for another day).</div>
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i was really hoping that at least one of these boys would be a david, but fuck, no--instead, out came the cock rings, and what i got was one of each of the other types.</div>
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antonio jr., turns out, was an Obsessive, and cubano boy was an Organizer.</div>
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in practical terms, this entailed antonio jr. spending the next two hours directing me to alternatively one and then another of his chosen and anatomically-perfect erogenous zones at specified intervals whilst moaning mechanically; while cubano boy bustled about checking messages, fluffing pillows, monitoring drugs, searching for fresh porn, and sporadically throwing himself into the mix with vigorous, graceless and ultimately pointless thrusting of various body parts in, onto and around me.</div>
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this literally coulda gone on for hours, but eventually, because as somebody really smart once said (and i'm modifying it only slightly, and in this case you can multiply it times two)</div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;">show me a beautiful man,</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;">and i'll show you a man who's bored with him</span></b></i></div>
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i called a halt to the proceedings, but not before planting one of 'em on each side of me at strategic positions, assigning 'em specific tasks, and stroking my hard dick (the only one in the room all night which could claim such a distinction, btw) into a high-flying cumshot that both shocked and awed--one of my specialties, btw, and done to make a point.</div>
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as i drove home, i reflected, and not for the first time, on how i had massively outperformed two boys whose ages, added together and graded on a generous curve, did not even approach mine, and everything that implied.</div>
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and i wondered if they'll think about that, too--about how they're spending the prime of their lush young lives in dante's ninth circle, flogging away at limp dicks in a pale, sick simulacra of the sex they rightfully should be having right now, but can't.</div>
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but mostly, i chided myself for not remembering point no. 3 implicit in the text exchange which started this post:</div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">unless you're flying with 'em, sex with even</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">the most beautiful tweaker is almost never a good time.</span></i></b></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">update:</span></b> </i><i> </i><i>while i was writing this, antonio jr. hit me up--wants me one-on-one. will i do it? yeah, probably. did i mention how fuckin' beautiful he is?</i></div>
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mkfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03318945369075617745noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7334307103340635243.post-22678560782605076692013-02-02T04:43:00.000-08:002013-02-02T04:54:10.679-08:00fuck blogging--maybe i'll just post my texts<br />
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