Monthly Archives: June 2003

The amount of cheersex I had yesterday with onlookers while I marched down Fifth Avenue with the cheerleaders in the gay pride parade would have left me completely drained and exhausted if the 457,283 one-handed cartwheels I did—it’s the only trick I can do (so to speak) with a cast on my left hand, so I used it to maximum effect—hadn’t already done so.

My favorite was the cute guy who beckoned me over and said, “Can I have a kiss for Pride?”

The answer was an emphatic yes.

Today I got fired from my church choir gig. Though this wasn’t my main source of income, it wasn’t peanuts, either.

I’d be amusing about the whole thing but I’m in too rotten a mood.

N.B.: This is today’s second post.

I will now share with you the most embarrassing story from my past, which, as you might imagine, is chock full of embarrassing stories. But this one takes the cake.

In my junior year of high school, I was required, as were all my compatriots, to take Health class. The course was made up of several units: alcohol (which involved stern warnings not to drink alcohol), drugs (which involved stern warnings not to do drugs), sex (which involved stern warnings not to have sex), and self-actualization (which involved stern warnings to self-actualize).

At the end of the course, we all had to do a final project. Allen Hutcheson and Grady Hendrix made a movie about the dangers of alcohol that was among the most bitterly tongue-in-cheek pieces of art or literature ever created, on par with, say, Bukharin’s speech in the Case of the Anti-Soviet Bloc of Rights and Trotskyites. I don’t remember what anybody else did.

I made a mix tape about self-actualization.

With my little tape recorder (this was before the days of CD burners, or even CDs) I recorded, alternately, songs and readings that seemed to me to support self-actualization, or at least the actualization of my own self. I included, if memory serves, the Indigo Girls’ “Closer To Fine,” a choral piece called “You Are The New Day” (which really is a gorgeous piece of writing), and passages (read by me in my just-cracked voice) from The Lord Won’t Mind and Tales of the City. (I’m sure there was more, but, mercifully, I’ve blocked further memories.)

When I was done, I made a cover for the tape; it was the faggiest thing ever created by the hand of man. I wrote the name of the project with curlicues in gold and silver writing with decorations done in colored marker. I think I drew a rainbow on it.

I called it—would to God I were making this up—Whispers: Steps Along the Path to an Understanding of the Joy of Life.

(Whispers was the name of the trendiest hair salon in town. Actually, its full name was Whispers Hair in Motion.)

I got an A+.

N.B.: This is the entry I tried to post last night, when Blogger decided not to let me log on. I’ll post another entry later today.

I logged on to men4sexnow.com last night and there was a guy online whose member name was “yahweh.”

I think it’s time to quit again.

Though, of course, when I was four I couldn’t decide whether to change my name to “Rainbow” or “Jehovah.”

But I was four. This guy is 60.

I think it’s time to quit again.

I just had sex with someone named Vlad.

As in Vlad the Impaler.

The number of funny things one could say about this is so great as to paralyze me with indecision.

He wanted to meet in a coffee shop first, which meant that I had to sit and talk with him for half an hour before going up to my apartment. Ordinarily I am a witty and facile conversationalist no matter how awkward the situation or how dull my partner, but Vlad’s English was quite bad and he mumbled, so I understood about every sixth word he said; this rendered me powerless to make conversation, as if I were the Green Lantern and he were dressed all in yellow.

In the event, we eventually made it back to my apartment, where he lived up to his namesake’s name, ha ha ha. Then, as he was leaving, he said, “I’ll see you sometime,” to which I responded, “I’ll see you soon.”

He said, “Well, maybe not that soon.”

What kind of literal-minded buffoon doesn’t realize that, in situations like this, “I’ll see you soon” means “I intend never to see you again as long as I live”?

Plus, why wouldn’t he want to see me soon? Even if I hadn’t been really good in bed, which I was (as usual), I should think the fact that I made absolutely no mention of his body odor would make me an eminently desirable partner for the activity in which we were engaged.

Clearly I am to take one of the following two lessons from this:

1. Require non-native speakers of English to show proof of a passing score on the Test of English as a Foreign Language before I have sex with them; or
2. Don’t have sex with smelly people.

Everyone must go here immediately to see the dueling Frida Kahlo haiku. (Link courtesy of this man [link no longer active].)

I had a brilliant idea for a blog post and then I forgot it.

My apartment is a mess.

This wouldn’t be a problem—after all, I’ve gotten along fine as a slob for 30 years—except for the fact that I can’t find my combination lock. (Those of you who follow Upside-down Hippopotamus may remember a post I made as a guest blogger about my difficulties with combination locks.)

In any case, my inability to find my combination lock means that, when I go to the gym, I can’t risk putting my street clothes in a locker while I work out or do step class, because someone might steal them; I have to take my gym bag with me, therefore, while I work out or go to step class. This in turn means that I have to take as little as possible with me to the gym, so that the step instructor and the other students don’t hate me when my bag takes up too much room.

This has led me to make certain economies in my gym-going routine. I now take only one towel, for example, instead of my usual two. Sometimes I don’t bring my Discman with me. On Wednesday, I came up with another good idea. “I’ll just go to step class in my regular shorts,” I thought, “and wear them afterwards on my date too.” Since any sweat generated in the region of my pelvis would be absorbed by my underwear, the shorts would remain unsullied and pristine.

I was half right.

The problem, of course, was that I was wearing a long t-shirt, the bottom of which overlapped the top of my shorts. It was an intense step class, and the air conditioning wasn’t working in the room, so I ended up sweating a lot. And although no pelvic sweat found its way to my shorts—which were, remember, the only pair I had with me—a lot of sweat from my t-shirt did.

So I had to go on my date looking exactly like I had peed in my pants.

Luckily, through a combination of distraction and legerdemain, I was able to keep my date from becoming aware of this before the sweat had dried.

Of course, it’s also possible that the thought of me peeing in my pants could have turned him on.

In which case it’s probably just as well that he didn’t notice.

N.B.: This is today’s second post of two.

I’m sorry, but the tale of my date with V., the Bulgarian, will have to wait until tomorrow.

Because I just met Bryant Gumbel’s dog.

Who is named Cujo.

Bette Midler’s dog is named Puddles.

Why is the world like this?

Okay, I was working on something to post today, but I came across this blog and had to interrupt myself to share it. I don’t know how I’ve lived without it all these years.

I’ll post about my date last night with the Bulgarian later today.

And a note to Anonymous #7: I just reread my comment to you and realized, with a dawning sense of horror, that it could be interpreted as mean and sarcastic. Rest assured that it was, in fact, an invitation and that I am, in fact, trying to get into your pants.