It is a complete mystery to me that the blogosphere has not been flooded with the publicity photos of Daniel Radcliffe (aka Harry Potter) in the upcoming London production of Equus.
Since it has not, however, I feel it is my duty to share.
Harry, if you meet me just before midnight tonight at platform 9 3/4 I’ll teach you some magic infinitely more entertaining than anything you’ve learned in Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration class.
Sometimes I really just love the world.
(Thanks to him for sharing.)
When I was five, I went to summer camp at the Jewish Community Center. On the first day all the campers were divided into groups, each led by a counselor; our first task was to choose an animal name for our group. I was thrilled that the other campers in the group saw the genius of my suggestion that we call ourselves the Golden Eagles (I really wanted to use the appropriate scientific name, Aquilae chrysaetoi, but even I knew better than to try to foist that on the other campers). The rest of the first day of camp was delightful in all respects, and I went home fully satisfied.
Then, that night, I had an epiphany.
Before the Golden Eagles’ counselor could convene the morning meeting, I explained that I had something very important to say. I had realized the night before, I explained, that although the Golden Eagles was a fine name for our group, the perfect name had been staring us in the face the whole time, and we really needed to be called the South American Giant Anacondas.
Our counselor squelched this idea even before I could insist that it be put to a vote.
The summer went downhill from there.
If you haven’t seen the scale model of the Battle of Helms Deep from Lord of the Rings, you must go here at once. I should warn you, however, that possible reactions include wanting to take out a contract on your significant other’s life and the life of this man’s girlfriend so you can have him to yourself.
I mean, I’m just assuming.
In exactly two days, at 9:01 a.m. Eastern Standard Time on Friday, January 12, I will turn 34.
If 30 is dead in gay years, does this mean I am approaching resurrection?
Or has my flesh finished rotting off my bones and is my skeleton just lying here, deluding itself that there is any life left in it at all?
Today I taught my first Total Body Conditioning class of 2007. I am always a very enthusiastic and supportive Total Body Conditioning instructor, but this morning, in an effort to inspire my students to new levels of exertion, I pulled out all the stops. I used words like “fabulous” and “gorgeous” and “brilliant” even more than I usually do, and the class seemed to be responding as I had hoped.
Then I actually said–I am not making this up–“Come on! It’s a new year, it’s a new you!”
As soon as the words left my mouth I was horrified. “I can’t believe I actually just said that,” I said, and the class, evidently able to see through the enthusiasm and support to the acidic, rotting heart at my core, laughed heartily. Then I made them promise on pain of death never to tell anyone what had just happened.
I rang in the New Year with a revival of my brief career as a go-go boy, dancing naked with several other go-go boys at a party in Soho. I have danced naked at parties thrown by this promoter before; they have tended to be pleasantly decadent events, although they have kept me up way, way past my bedtime. The tone of the interactions between the party guests and the go-go boys is decidedly sexual, and the amount of groping, licking, jerking, fingering, and sucking performed on the dancers increases over the course of the evening. Each go-go boy sets his own boundaries, however, and I have drawn the line at cocksucking. Party guests are welcome to touch me anywhere, but, while I am happy for them to put almost any part of my body in their mouths, when they aim for the erection I laughingly guide their heads away. There are some things to which only E.S. has rights. (He is aware of my participation in these events, by the way, and he approves, if only because the tips help us pay our mortgage.)
Last night at one point two cute guys, perhaps in their mid-twenties, came over to the platform on which I was dancing. The shorter one, with sandy blond hair, grinned up at me. “Tell him to suck your cock,” he said, indicating the brunet.
I made an apologetic face. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said. “But what if I dream tonight about both of you doing that together?”
They laughed. The blond reached out, fondled certain parts of my anatomy, and then drew his hand away, looking almost guilty. “You can keep going,” I said.
“No, it would be too weird,” he replied.
The brunet said, “Yeah, this is too new,” meaning, I understood, that they had recently started dating.
“Congratulations!” I said.
“So why can’t you tell him to suck your cock?”
“Because it would make my boyfriend very unhappy,” I said.
“Oh, good for you,” said the brunet, smiling.
The blond looked at me blankly. “Dude. You’re a stripper.”
And I was like, You don’t deserve him at all.
I do hope they both have a good year.
But I hope one of them has a slightly better year than the other.