Monthly Archives: July 2002

I am in Delaware for the weekend, at an artists’ retreat, being hosted by these two lesbians named Y. and H. Y. is 60 and large and round; H. is 56 and small and thin. They have three little dogs and they run a photo gallery full of beautiful, beautiful photos of (at the moment) naked gymnasts. They have been together for ten years (the lesbians, not the gymnasts) and when I arrived, they said, “The only two rules are, one, don’t let the dogs out, and two, no matter what you do, don’t look out the window between 7 and 8 in the morning, because that’s when we go skinny dipping in the pool.”

Sometimes I think it would be so much better to be a lesbian.

But then I remember that I wouldn’t be able to be a whorish slut fag and then I feel okay being just the way I am.

Apparently, by the way, not all of my scruples have disappeared. I’ve been flirting with this gorgeous actor all day; we’ve been talking about going swimming together but clearly meaning something else. I just realized, however, that I am simply incapable of having sex with somebody in a home where I am an unfamiliar guest. I just can’t do that to my hosts.

You can take the boy out of the south. . . .

And the actor is staying at a motel, and that’s just too gross.

I thought I could become a totally unprincipled harlot, but I guess that dream has been crushed.

So I finally finished the hat.

It is gorgeous.

It looks like this. And here is a close-up.

My next project is going to be a sweater for my dog. A dog sweater with spots and little dinosaur spikes coming out of the back.

The pattern is called Dogosaurus Rex.

I am so, so, so fucking gay.

The Time Warner guy came today to hook up our cable. The instant he left, I turned on Billy Elliot and within two minutes I was bawling like a baby.

I am so fucking gay.

Tonight I saw Margaret Cho’s new movie, The Notorious C.H.O. Aside from being hysterically funny, she summed up my existential crisis in one sentence:

“I don’t know if I’m a bottom because it turns me on, or if I’m a bottom because I’m lazy.”

In my case, I’d say it’s 50/50 at the absolute best.

Though perhaps I shouldn’t be so optimistic.

Last night I went to my first sex club. The differences between a sex club and an orgy are as follows:

1) at a sex club, you don’t introduce yourself to someone before you put parts of his body in your mouth; and
2) the snacks available for when you’re taking a break are far less high-class—individually wrapped pieces of candy rather than cheese and crackers and cold cuts. Though of course I would be terrified of any cheese, crackers, or cold cuts offered to me at a sex club. So it’s probably just as well.

To my delight, I was perceived to be one of the cool people almost as soon as I arrived, and lots of guys wanted to play with me. Unfortunately, I was, um, saddled with somebody who didn’t want to share. Now, it’s awkward enough as it is to tell an adult, “All right, you’ve played with the toy enough, now let others have a turn.” When you are the toy in question, however, eager for others to have a turn, the situation becomes even more difficult.

And he wanted to spoon and cuddle with me afterwards.

What I thought: “Are you CRAZY? This is a SEX CLUB. Do you think we’re on a DATE? What PLANET are you from?”

What I said: “Oh, okay, sure, whatever you want.”

Clearly I need to work on this expressing my needs thing.

Today, I was IMing with a friend about T.H. She asked, “does he adore you?”

“Yes, he does,” I typed. “And I adore him.”

Luckily I erased “and I adore him” before I pressed enter.

Because if I said it to somebody, that might make it true, and where would that leave me?

This morning, a contractor came to my new apartment to give us an estimate on some work we want done (“we” being my brother and I, who are now roommates). E.S. was over, having spent the night. As soon as the contractor, wily woman that she was, figured out that his relationship to me was not entirely Platonic, she started directing her questions to him, especially since I was clearly a design idiot.

CONTRACTOR to FAUSTUS: “What color are you thinking for the bedroom?”

FAUSTUS: “Um, I don’t really know.”

CONTRACTOR to E.S.: “What do you think? Do you have a favorite color?”

I wanted to seize her by the neck and strangle the life out of her, screaming all the while, “HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND!!!”

Instead, I just smiled broadly at her and decided ice cubes would have a fun vacation in hell before I gave her company the job.

T.H. left for Cleveland this afternoon to visit his family for the Fourth of July. We had breakfast in Times Square and then went to the Marriott Marquis so we could make out in the elevators. The way up was great but on the way down we were thwarted at every turn by children and old people.

I am very scared by how much I like him.

Then I went to Bed, Bath, & Beyond to get a scale that measures not just my weight but also my body fat. Because of course I’m not nearly obsessive enough about my body image.

I have decided to get a tattoo. I have long been considering it, but what tipped the balance is that T.H. has a really sexy tattoo (of an Aquarius sign) on his pelvis just above his crotch.

The trick, so to speak, is to come up with the right tattoo. I suppose I could get a Capricorn sign, but that looks too much like the delete mark in proofreading for comfort. What if somebody who was fooling around down there thought I wanted to delete him? Or thought I had deleted somebody else?

My friend B.N. suggested just “This Way” with an arrow pointing down, or perhaps “Objects in crotch are larger than they appear.”

Really, though, I like T.H.’s suggestion, which was “Deliveries in rear.”

Oh, all right, all right.

I have been avoiding telling the story of my entry into porn simply because it’s so boring. But since certain people evidently won’t be satisfied until I’ve, um, spilled everything, here goes.

In surfing the web, I came across this web site for a company that makes amateur porn videos. I e-mailed the proprietor with a picture and vital statistics. He e-mailed me back and we set up an audition at which he would film me naked and jerking off.

I went to meet him in Brooklyn. (I know, I know, this is the search for love in Manhattan, but cut me a little slack.) I filled out some paperwork saying I am over eighteen, etc., etc., and listing what I like to do in bed and what I won’t do. Then I took my clothes off and he started filming me naked and jerking off. This didn’t last very long, as you might imagine, as shortly after I’d started jerking off he took his pants off and we had sex (with the camera off—perhaps he’s shy).

Evidently I gave a good audition, because the last part of the afternoon involved selecting a porn name. I had no idea that I would get to do this, and I can’t tell you how fabulously exciting it was. It was so exciting, in fact, that I’m going to break the convention I’ve set up on this blog and tell you the actual name: [redacted].

Good heavens. I feel like I’ve just been glimpsed in my lingerie or something.

Now, here is a mind-numbingly dull question for the more computer-savvy among you. I have been tracking hits to this blog on geocounter.net. A few days ago, when Time Warner Cable disconnected my service because of the move, geocounter stopped registering any hits. I assume this has something to do with the fact that I am now connecting through a dial-up AOL connection. I have two questions: first, is there a way to get geocounter to register hits that come between now and the time my service is reconnected, on July 10? And second, assuming I’m assigned a different static IP when my service is reconnected, is there a way to tell my geocounter account to keep track of that IP? (If the mere fact that I am asking these questions demonstrates my complete idiocy, I hope you will forgive me.) I of course am freaking out because I had gotten up to 807 unique IPs having visited my blog, and I was very excited at the thought of reaching 1,000—and now that number has presumably passed, and I missed it.

I’m devastated.

What am I going to do without being able to assure myself every day that people love me, and measure exactly how much, and be miserable and despondent if they fall short of the goals I set for them without telling them?