Monthly Archives: April 2006

This may be the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen:

“Let’s make believe that blood is coming out from inside your body through an opening between your legs now”?

Dear God, I am so, so very glad that I live in this decade.

I’m also glad I don’t have Down Syndrome, but that’s really another topic altogether.

Thanks to him for the link.

So yesterday was my official début as a go-go boy. The dollar in the contest photo was given to me the night I auditioned; from 11:00 p.m. last night to 3:00 a.m. this morning I had my first paid engagement. For four hours, I stood on a bar and writhed in simulated ecstasy while appreciative men stuffed cash down my underwear.

And I now have an important piece of advice for everybody:

Try never to touch singles with your bare hands again.

You have no idea where they might have been and with the remnants of what effluvia they might still be covered.

Well, you probably have some idea. But that should be enough to give you pause.

I want to write a post about the hour-long conversation I had with the professor of a writing class I took in college (freshman year) after I looked him up tonight on switchboard.com and called him to tell him that although I was a terrible student in his class I finally understand what he was trying to teach us, fifteen six years later, but, given the time stamp on this post, I am writing instead about how I must face the fact that the days when I could pull an all-nighter and end up with anything to show for it (other than a now-empty jar of Smucker’s Low Sugar Strawberry Preserves) are officially over.

Can Botox and suppositories be far behind?

A quick and boring note: I will not be dancing at Splash tonight. I have been rescheduled for next Wednesday.

You know, in case you were planning to come and stick cash in my underwear.

This year, to celebrate Passover, E.S. and I went to the house of my second cousin once removed for a seder. There were about fifteen guests there, all of whom were related to me and none of whom I had ever laid eyes on before, with the two exceptions of my cousin’s daughter, who used to be Puff Daddy’s dresser, and my second cousin twice removed who is the funniest bitchy old lady I have ever met and who is in fabulous shape. She ended up sitting on my left; on my right was E.S., and on his right was a (literally) demented old lady (way older than my second cousin twice removed) who kept telling E.S. about how Hitler had built these camps, see, and sent everyone in her village there. She was talking to him, but it was impossible for me not to overhear her.

My experience of the seder conversation went therefore something like this:

FAUSTUS: Gosh, this turkey is terrific.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: Oy, I can’t eat a bite. It’ll ruin my figure.
FAUSTUS: But your figure is divine.
DEMENTED OLD LADY: Hitler built camps, you see? And he sent my whole village there.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: I love you. You wanna be my son? My son was supposed to be here tonight but his wife invited him for dinner. They’re separated, why should they have dinner together? Whoever heard of such a thing? Young people today.
DEMENTED OLD LADY: Everyone in the village. The men to one camp, the women to another.
FAUSTUS: Have some turkey and then come to my aerobics class on Sunday.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: I used to do aerobics all the time.
FAUSTUS: It shows.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: Pass me the salad.
DEMENTED OLD LADY: There were showers at the camps, but there was no water in the showers. Instead it was poison gas.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: What’s that book you wrote?
FAUSTUS: It’s called Gay Haiku. Here, have some more matzah.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: Make sure it’s the salty kind. Would I like it?
FAUSTUS: Probably. I’ll send you a copy.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: It better be good.
DEMENTED OLD LADY: When Hitler took over Poland, he started building camps, concentration camps.
FAUSTUS: It is. I promise.
SECOND COUSIN TWICE REMOVED: There’s not enough salt on this matzah.

Our dollar-bill contest has a winner!

Among the many excellent entries people sent in for the contest, the audience favorite was written by the Faggoty-Ass Faggot, who is now the lucky recipient of a gift certificate to Powell’s City of Books. Here is his entry, after which I will reveal the truth behind the mystery.

Faustus and E.S. recently closed on their new home together. Because of taxes and fees, the final purchase price was an odd number. Rather than splitting the costs down the middle, resulting in a number that included cents, Faustus generously agreed that he would round his half up to the nearest dollar, and E.S. would round his down. The difference being a single dollar.

At the closing, just before both lads signed away their lives and fortunes, E.S. suddenly had a revelation. Faustus was not being generous, he was using the tactic to gain the upper hand! He would forever get his way because he would own just more than half of the house.

E.S. dug in his pocket, found a lone dollar bill, and handed it Faustus.

“You’re a sneaky little bastard,” he said. “And if you ever think I’m topping you again, you’ll take my dollar and never speak of this again.”

The transaction went off without further hitch.

I must say [Faustus here again] that I hadn’t actually considered this brilliant plan. We haven’t closed on the house yet, however, and so I suspect that E.S. will soon be finding himself a dollar richer than he expects but a tiny fraction of a house poorer.

In any event, the true story of the dollar bill is a long and sordid one, but I will boil it down to its essentials.

I have become a go-go dancer.

The dollar was the first dollar bill a strange man ever shoved down my underwear. It was not, however, the last.

I used to be fat and unpopular, and now men are paying me for the privilege of touching my penis.

For those of you in the New York City area, I’ll be dancing at Splash this Wednesday, from 11:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m.

The last time I was awake at 3:00 a.m. of my own volition was in 1998, so this stint may not go on for very long. But I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.

Voting for the contest continues through midnight (EST) next Monday. In the meantime, back to our regularly scheduled blogging.

Recently, one Saturday, I pretended to be sick and got a sub to teach my aerobics classes so that I could spend the whole day with E.S. This seemed like a terrific idea until I actually got sick Friday night. I woke up Saturday coughing and feverish, at which point I proceeded to take as many different cold medicines as I could find in my apartment. E.S. was feeling fine, but since he had not so long before been in a position to get my germs–in several positions, in fact–I suggested that he fortify himself with vitamin C; he replied that he already had. Then we had the following conversation.

FAUSTUS: How much did you take?
E.S.: Five hundred milligrams.
FAUSTUS: That’s not enough. You need to take, like, ten thousand milligrams a day. That’s what I take when I’m worried I’m getting sick, and it always helps.
E.S.: You’d die from ten thousand milligrams.
FAUSTUS (snarkily): And yet I’m still alive.
E.S.: You wouldn’t actually die from ten thousand. I just wanted to make you say “and yet.”
FAUSTUS: Oh my God.
E.S.: Won’t it be great when we live together?
FAUSTUS: No.

Alas. The contest entries are all in, and I owe everybody an apology. The rules were not at all clear, a fact that led to almost as many different approaches as there were entries. Furthermore, the perspicacious among you figured out the truth by unscrupulous means, and were therefore able to include it in your entries.

Let us pledge to remain silent, therefore, on the subject of the contest’s multifarious faults, and get on to the entries. Please vote, in the comments for this post, for your favorite entry. Note that you should not vote for the entry you think is most likely to be true unless it is also your favorite. Since so much else about this contest was ill-designed, I’ll leave the definition of “favorite” up to individual voters as well. I wish also to make it clear that I did not write any of the entries below. The truth will come later this week.

The person whose entry gets the most votes wins a gift certificate to Powell’s City of Books. The deadline for voting is midnight, Eastern Standard Time, on Monday, April 16.

And so, without further ado:

1. Faustus and E.S. recently closed on their new home together. Because of taxes and fees, the final purchase price was an odd number. Rather than splitting the costs down the middle, resulting in a number that included cents, Faustus generously agreed that he would round his half up to the nearest dollar, and E.S. would round his down. The difference being a single dollar.

At the closing, just before both lads signed away their lives and fortunes, E.S. suddenly had a revelation. Faustus was not being generous, he was using the tactic to gain the upper hand! He would forever get his way because he would own just more than half of the house.

E.S. dug in his pocket, found a lone dollar bill, and handed it Faustus.

“You’re a sneaky little bastard,” he said. “And if you ever think I’m topping you again, you’ll take my dollar and never speak of this again.”

The transaction went off without further hitch.

2. The very last dollar of repayment on your 1998 spree at Bergdorf’s.

3. You are underselling the rubber bracelets you made to support efforts to respond to the current rise of TB in the countries most affected by the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

4. Setting: a bedroom somewhere in Crown Heights

Characters:

First young man. Surprisingly attractive. His carefree attitude and slim physique belie the heavy spiritual weight he carries with him. He is clearly a bottom.

Second young man. Also attractive, but in a cruel and heartless way. He is careful with his praise, perhaps a man of science.

First young man undresses to his briefs while Second young man reclines on bed reading a magazine.

First young man: I have lost three pounds, does that make me look hotter than I ever have looked before?

Second young man (still reading): Ummm… Back in August, mid-August. That was when you looked hotter than you ever have looked before.

First young man (pouting): If I were a go-go boy would you hang out in seedy bars to watch me dance? Would you stuff money down my jockstrap to catch my attention?

Second young man (setting magazine down): I’d have to see you dance first.

First young man begins what appears to be an aerobics routine, but done with a slutty air.

Second young man digs through his pants pockets and finds a crumpled dollar bill. He stuffs the bill under the waistband of First young man, whose dance has slowed to something more seductive.

First young man: A dollar? One measly buck? That’s what I’m worth?

Second young man runs around bedroom searching the dresser, tables, etc.. Finally, he finds his wallet and pulls out a fistfull of bills.

First young man (batting the money to the floor, then grabbing Second young man by the collar and pushing him to the bed): You’re in trouble now, MISTER!

Blackout.

5. On the basis of my nom-de-plume alone, a little haggling with Mephistopheles was always on the cards. And you know, I’ve been ready for years, waiting and willing to strike a deal with the devil should the opportunity arise. Well, last week it arose.

It arose on the subway.

“Can I interest you in an exchange?” he said. He was sitting right next to me: big guy, handsome, thirty-something, goatee beard, greying at the temples; obviously a top. Normally I wouldn’t dream of talking to strangers on the subway — other than to assassinate them with the sort of withering putdowns that, alas, only come to mind many hours later — but who can resist the blandishments of the Prince of Darkness?

“Bodily fluids?” I asked, eyebrow raised; but I already knew it wasn’t that kind of encounter. The rattle of the train in the tunnel, the press of other passengers, the mundane details faded into the background. It was just me and him.

“Your immortal soul.”

“Oh. That old thing?”

“It’s not as if you’re doing much with it.”

I couldn’t argue with that — and, frankly, I didn’t want to. My mind was filling with visions of success and idolisation and the respect of my peers. I was having a one-to-one meeting with Satan himself, the world must be my oyster.

“That’s quite a proposition you’re making. You want to buy my soul?”

“Definitely.”

“And in return I get earthly riches beyond my wildest dreams? Every carnal wish satisfied?”

“Um. Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, truth to tell, times are pretty hard in the soul business. Prices have dropped through the floor. We’ve had to make cutbacks all over.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged apologetically. “What can you do?”

What indeed?

“But you still want to buy my soul?”

“Oh yes. It’s a really juicy one. Trust me, I have an eye for these things.”

“I’m sure you do. So if the whole riches and adulation deal isn’t on, what are you offering?”

There was a pause.

“I’ll give you a buck for it.”

“A BUCK? One measly fucking dollar for my immortal soul?”

“Yup. That’s the deal — and let me tell you, it’s way over the going rate.”

“Hell.”

“That’s about the size of it.” He’d taken on a sort of browbeaten, kindly, avuncular air. Approachable. Worldly. A devil you could relate to.

I mulled it over. Hardly the windfall payoff I was hoping for, but he’d been right when he said I wasn’t doing much else with my soul.

“Okay then.”

A dollar’s a dollar, right?

6. I was on the way to teach a step class, when I saw someone famous getting out of a cab. As she was paying the driver, a bill fell out of her hand and flew off in the wind.

I took off after it at full speed, and, three blocks later, I caught it. I ran back to give it to her, but she said that letting me keep the dollar was the least she could do to reward such a display. I told her that, actually, the least she could do would be to autograph it for me.

She smiled, pulled out a pen, and signed the back, remarking that I was certainly very fit.

I explained to her that one of my jobs is teaching aerobics and that I was on my way to a class just then.

Anyway, now I’m Chita Rivera’s new personal trainer.

7. The dollar bill marks a momentous occasion in the life of our Faustus: it was the first dollar he earned from his songwriting. When he was but a wee intern, Faustus wrote and performed “My Umbrella is Blue and Has Sparkly Flowers” for his neighbour, Mrs. Joanna Billings-Monroe. She was so tickled by his performance, she opened her purse, pulled out a dollar bill (the one pictured) and said, “Here, take this dearie…” At which point he happily snatched the dollar and went skipping on his merry way, completely missing the rest of the sentence: “…and get me a soda!”

(Incidentally, she’s still waiting for her soda.)

8. Someone offered you crystal meth and bb sex and you instinctively rendered him powerless (MacGyver style) with a dollar bill and some sugar free chewing gum. I could see you, in true superpower fashion, folding up the bill into a chinese throwing star and implanting it into his forehead from 10 paces. You then removed the bill, inserted the used chewing gum (to spare his life), and called his sugar daddy to come save the wretch.

9. Upon awaking one morning I found myself in the mood for a tasty breakfast treat. I quietly rolled out of bed as not to wake E.S., who was sleeping soundly after last night’s escapades. I walked around the corner to explore my new neighborhood and the sight of a McDonald’s at the corner suddenly excited me. I scurried across the street, nearly being hit by a car, and found refuge in the grease-filled air that hit me on my way into the fast food establishment.

I ordered my food and waited with anticipation for the delicious taste of unhealthy nourishment. The bill was $3.21, a small fortune for the quality of food I was about to receive. I had gone to the bank last night, to finance my night out, but all I had remaining was one five-dollar bill. I paid graciously and upon receiving my change I was delighted to see that my order was ready. Gaily (no jokes), I rushed back to the house to devour my treats.

However, my happiness balloon was soon to be deflated when I opened the door to find E.S. standing at the entrance with a not-so-happy look on his face. He proceeded to lecture me on the courtesy of waking your boyfriend when one wants to delve in the realm of tasty breakfast treats. Meanwhile, my food was getting cold so I had to think fast of something to shut him up. I decided to reach into my pocket and throw all the money I had at him and make my way outside to eat my food in the hallway. Unfortunately, as I was pulling out the one-dollar bill, I had forgotten that I lacked the significant amount of monetary reparations it would take to appease E.S. Nonetheless I flung the one-dollar bill at him and proceeded to eat my yummy breakfast. We had a fight but made up soon after.

Okay, go to.

And no criticizing entries you think are bad. Play nice.

The contest entries will be posted anon.

In the meantime, I am in Seattle, where a theater is holding auditions for a presentation of a musical of mine in two months. This is actually the first time I’ve sat through auditions for a piece of mine–if I’m involved I usually just call people and ask them to do it, and if I’m not involved I usually just show up near the end of rehearsals and act happy with the people they’ve cast, whether I am or not–and I spent all day yesterday being shocked.

The first thing that shocked me after a day of auditions was the discovery that, when directors and producers tell actors, “You were terrific, you’re just not right for this role,” they actually mean it. They’re not just blowing them off condescendingly. In addition to the many people who would be really good in the roles for which they were auditioning, we saw many more people I would cast in a heartbeat in other roles in other shows, but not this one, with terrific voices and/or winning stage presences and/or really great pecs. It was difficult for me to say we shouldn’t call back the people with that last quality, especially as I’m sure the theater could have located a sofa somewhere for a hastily improvised casting couch, but in the end my devotion to my show carried the day.

The second thing that shocked me was looking at the list of male candidates at the end of the day and realizing with a start that next to about half the names I had written the words “too gay.”

I feel I should report myself to GLAAD or something.

Though really, if you’re delivering a paean to a nineteen-year-old girl’s breasts beneath her ragged blouse, there’s only a certain amount of lisping an audience can accept before suspension of disbelief becomes impossible to maintain.