Gabby Gays

Red Handed

2006-08-16T09:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

Your many letters and emails thanking the Gabby Gays for our pearls of wisdom have meant a great deal to us. Today I have a doozy, so whip out your note pads and pencils!

When home visiting family on an extended visit and if hypothetically perchance you have forgotten your favorite nighttime lubricant, be sure to read the label on the moisturizer you borrow for your bedroom. Because without such careful scrutiny, the next day your eagle-eyed niece will ask you why one of your palms is darker than the other and you will realize that the moisturizer is also a self-tanner.

Your friend in the battle against humiliation,

Shirlee

Burritoville

2006-08-09T14:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Gabby,

I think I might be dating one of those illegal Mexican. His name is "Sam", but this morning when I was doing important research by going through his medicine cabinet, I saw a prescription for someone named Santiago Garcia. Later, when he was ironing his shirt for work, I joked, "Why don't you get Santiago Garcia to do it?" He said, "How did you know my real name?"
I hadn't thought Sam was short for anything but Samuel. So the real question, dear Gabby, is how should I figure out if Sr. Garcia is Central American or South American. If we had a car, I could ask him to turn on the air conditioning and see if he rolled down a window, but I don't have a car. I tried humming La Cucaracha under my breath, but I think I was off-key.

Only you, Gabs, can help me solve the mystery of Where In The World is Santiago Garcia from. And what if he is one of those illegal immigrants? What's a law-abiding white boy to do? Should I call up George Bush or one of those red-faced right-wing Republicans who can't seem to focus on more important things than whether the person who cleans my house has a Visa?

Oh, and another question Gabby. He tans beautifully. I began calling him my chocolate lover. Is that racist if he's Mexican?

Your intrepid American Citizen,

Holy Frijoles

Caa Caa Saturday Night

2006-05-13T11:16:00.000-07:00

I’m a nanny now. Live with it. So I’m giving the baby a bath and she starts splashing me. So I pick up a bucket and fill it with water and I’m about to throw it at her, hoping to knock her down so she’ll learn not to fuck with me, when she tries to get out of the bathtub. I push her foot back down off the edge and tell her that we need to take the toys out first and she starts screaming like I’d punched her or something. I would never do that by the way. She picks her foot up again and puts it on the edge and I push it back down and tell her that she has to pick her toys up first. So then she screams, “Caa Caa! Caa Caa!” I look in the tub and she’d shit a month worth’s of food in the tub. So I take her out and of course she gets shit all over my jeans. Together, we pulled the plug and watch as her feces went down the drain. Then I had to hose off her as there was still Caa Caa dripping down her leg. It’s Saturday night. Who the hell am I?

Resurrector Set

2006-04-16T17:05:00.000-07:00

Hi Lavurn!

I'm watching the torture and crucifixion scenes of "The Passion of Christ" while eating jambalaya and drink blood red wine. This might not seem like the best way to celebrate Easter, but as a recovering Catholic I never enjoyed the more traditional Easter bonnets and weird-tasting Cadbury chocolates.

One of my Jewish friends asked me yesterday what the Easter bunny had to do with our holiday. I was at a loss, so I confused her by making up a passage in the Gospel of Matthew which says that Jesus laid twelve eggs while on the cross and Peter Rabbit denied the eggs three times before they took them away. I added lots of Old English in my quotes like "Lo, though the bunny walketh through the shadow of death, it layeth eggs covered in chocolatey goodness." I figured no one reads the Gospel of Matthew anyway. The dirty secret of the New Testament is that Mark and John were much better writers.

Comparing Passover to Easter is like taking a semester of religious study at Bennington College. In Passover, Jews get to celebrate NOT being persecuted for once. Great idea, but if you were going to celebrate being spared from the wrath of God, I think they should break out better food than unleavened bread and gefilte fish. For the Holy Week surrounding Easter, Christians praise someone else for doing their dirty work and absolving them of sins, much like Enron, which I'm sure was full of Christians. Christians eat spiral ham and jelly beans, which of course, haveas much relevance to the Savior as the Peter Cottontail, but there's no denying tradition!

Ugh, this movie Mel Gibson made is disgusting! Skin is being ripped from Jesus as he's being whipped. I can't even finish my jambalaya now. Remind me NOT to go to S&M night at the Cock this week. Well, unless of course, this guy is here. I might be willing to shed a little blood for those legs.

Anyway, kitten, I hope you're looking forward to our upcoming trip to Espana. I know I am. Hallelujah!!!

Won't You Be My Friendster?

2006-03-30T14:09:00.000-08:00

I, Shirlee Spew Liquor, have been embarking on an Erin Brokovich-style investigative journalistic expose of the underbelly of new York. First, I uncovered the secrets of the fashion world by experiencing the cheap thrills associated colored AA underwear. Today, I want to bring to our readers attention an issue that is vastly more pervasive and insidious in our community, the world of online chat rooms.

Wondering aloud why I haven't had a real date in months, my soon-to-be ex-roommate encouraged me to try the Connexion website. I had heard of this site once before, but honestly it seems like a lot of work to log on, upload pictures, scan others. I mean, I have important couch potato-ing to be doing. Who has the time to multitask more than drinking and channel flipping during entertainment hours, I ask?

Anyway, I took his advice and created myself a profile. I think it blends my style of sexiness and humor in an appealing way, but I wasn't getting anyone to nibble, so I went into the chat rooms. Now, to be honest, Vurn, I'm a much better chatter in person when I've had a few cocktails. I can't seem to get the rythyms of online chat, let alone those GDF acronyms! LOL.

So, I looked through the pictures of the local boys currently on Connexion, which unlike Friendster, doesn't announce who you've been snooping on. I found one who looked appealing, read his bio and found out he liked Felicity. Perfect! I'm in! I think I can quote half of the scripts. So here's a snippet of the transcript which I've conveniently saved for further embarrassment:

ME: Hey.
Hot Guy #1: Hi.
Me: So you're a fan of Felicity. I live by her college years.
Hot Guy #1: Yeah, it was great. You're kind of cute.
Me: Do you know that Keri Russell works out in my gym?
Hot Guy #1: Oh, are you at Equinox?
Me: My roommate told me she's a coke head.
Hot Guy #1: She's not a coke head!
Me: Not that it's any of my business. You know you're kind of hot yourself.
Hot Guy #1: Where did you hear this?
Me: Oh god, you're her best friend, aren't you. Or her agent. Look, it doesn't bother me. Some of my best friends are coke heads! Can we get back to us?
Hot Guy #1: She's NOT a coke head!! [Hot Guy has closed his window. Actually he's slammed it shut on you.]

Me: Wait! Come back! Sigh! Why did I sigh online to no one? Why am I still typing? Sigh.
[Ugly Guy #1 has opened a new chat]: Hey.
Me: [Shirlee has closed and locked her window].

I don't know what to do, Vurn. I've tried Friendster, but you know, the weird thing about the people who invite me to be there "friendsters" is that they don't actually want to be friends. I'll see some of them out, one of who had invited me to be his "friend" only hours earlier, and he actively ignored me. What's that about? I think they just want to be linked to as many 2nd degree people as possible because it helps bump up their monthly profile views.

L, living a 21st century social life is too confusing. I think I need to go back to the old-fashioned method of passing out at a bar and waking up in the home of a stranger. At least all the chatting is dispensed with. In my next journalistic expose, I shall delve into the world of subletting.

Your two-faced blogging partner in crime,

Shirl

LOL!
xo
MSM

American Apparel's Secret

2006-03-22T06:46:00.000-08:00

Lavurn, so sorry that I have been away from Gabby Gays for a while, but I must confess that I have been busy doing research for our upcoming musical, "Bloggin'!", which may star Hugh Jackman if I can drug him long enough to sign the contract.
Among the interest findings that I have uncovered since my last entry is colored panties. Victoria has been divulging her Secret long enough to the delight of straight men, so I figured that gay men must have an underwear secret of our own. Last week I found the Holy Grail of briefs in a store called American Apparel.

Now I know what you're thinking, Vurn. Come on! Gay men have been overpaying for undies for a decade, ever since Marky Mark giggled as he tugged on his CK boxer briefs. But this is different. Sure! Calvin Kleins show off the derriere, and 2xist have a package-enhancing design, but I'm talking about is something more important because other than the gym locker room, objects of your affection don't get to see those benefits until you're undressed. I'm talking about using the Power of the Panties to get you laid. It's had 100% efficacy for me so far! I swear gurl, it's like wearing rohypenol!

I'll just give you a small sample of what has happened to me since I have been purchasing my baby blues and kelly green AA briefs (I like using the acronym because it makes me think I'm getting professional help). A week ago I spent some time at a popular new club here in the East Village of New York City. The club was packed with hot guys, some drinking, others dancing, and there were quite a few boys whom I've unsuccessfully flirted with--the hot doctor, the young writer, the slutty bartender. You get the idea. A bunch of adjectives and professions--HOT. At one point I left my friend to go upstairs to dance. I luvs me some dance music, so I was gyrating around when suddenly I was circled me like carrion for vultures. There was the tattooed butch guy on my football team who hadn't give me the time of day all last season.

But I'm telling you, Lavurn, this guy could smell my baby blues smoldering under my jeans. He had to have me right then. And so, to make my blog entry PG-13, I abandoned my friends and had a night of passion with one of my fantasies. Two nights later, I wore my green AAs and had an even wilder time with even more men (and one drag queen).

So, this is what I'm saying to you. Don't let it out, or we may have work stoppages by the gay community which could wreak havoc in the florist/flight attendant/interior design worlds. But get thee to an American Apparel store soon and you will never have to worry about where your next bed partner is coming on, I mean, from.

The END

Pot Wet Dream

2006-02-10T00:13:00.000-08:00

Shirl,

Last night I had the strangest dream. I didn’t sail away to China, in a little row boat to find ya, but it was pretty close. You see, I was hanging out with these two French actors, I forget their names, who decided to steal some flowers. Well, they got caught by The Home Depot. So The Home Depot made them install some faulty fire alarms in my house. Well, I started crying and crying and was so upset by this. The Home Depot told me that if I gave them $500 or a bag of pot, they’d remove the faulty fire alarms. So I go to my sister’s house, who is a drug dealer and apparently Claire from Six Feet Under. So we decide that I should smuggle the pot on a bologna sandwich. So then I get high with Claire and some other people and decide to buy two more bags of pot. Well, Claire’s apartment is also a van. And it stops and suddenly is filled with all these people. And then this guy tells us that we’re going to be drug tested. So we’re standing in line to pee in a cup and one of the doctors starts flirting with me. So, once Claire, our two friends and I get in the doctor’s office, I lock the door and make a deal with the two doctors that I will give them blow jobs if they pass us on the drug test. Then I woke up because the baby I live with fell off her high chair.

So I can understand Claire, because I’ve been watching a DVD of the third season of Six Feet Under. And I can understand the two French actors because I saw a movie poster with them last night. And I can understand the pot because last night we passed a store called Indico Chico that had pot plants growing in its window. And believe it or not, I even understand the bologna sandwiches but that’s too weird to explain. Blow jobs are a recurring theme in my dreams so that’s cool. But where the hell did the Home Depot and faulty fire alarms come in? If dreams are made up of things you’ve experienced, what is all the other stuff you didn’t experience about? Are those premonitions? And most importantly, why hasn’t Claire, who was fantastic in the hit teen Jennifer Love Hewitt movie, “Can’t Hardly Wait,” and was mesmerizing as the depressed, dark, sex symbol with a weight problem funeral home daughter in, “Six Feet Under,” gotten bigger parts?

By the way, my assignment for today is to uncover what Indico Chico really sells. And the picture has nothing to do with the story. I'm just trying to use photos and I thought this was a cute picture of us when we did that Gary Marshall sitcom about the fifties (until we moved to California and it was the sixties) in the seventies.

Lavurn

Bathroom Etiquette For The New Millenium Mary

2006-01-31T08:34:00.000-08:00

When I was a small girl, my sister in-law wrote a college paper entitled, “How To Flush a Toilet in Europe.” I thought it was so funny, mostly because she used the word, “toilet,” in the title, but also because I couldn’t imagine it to be any differently than flushing a toilet in my parent’s house. You pushed on the handle with one hand while you pulled up your panty hose with the other.

As I began to travel, I saw that she was right and that in different countries, there is different bathroom etiquette. In Bolivia, the toilet was a hole in the ground and when I was finished, I just kicked dirt in it. In India, they didn’t use toilet paper and I had to fill a bucket up with water and balance myself while I poured it down my backside. (Thankfully I had stopped wearing panty hose at this time.) And in France, the toilet is often in a different room from the bathtub or even the sink. So word to the wise, never shake anyone’s hand when they’re coming out of a bathroom in France.

Recently, here in Switzerland, I experienced something else new. I went into the bathroom of my favorite coffee shop, Bar Tabac, to reapply some lip liner that had been removed while sipping on an apple martini. I bent down to get some toilet paper to press my lips against to remove any clumps, when I noticed a dispenser for, “Seat Cleaning Foam.”

I had notice similar dispensers in gay bar bathrooms in Paris before, but those usually contained lube, not seat cleaning foam. Since I am a big advocate of the expression, “When in Rome,” I tried the stuff.

The Swiss are known for being very clean, so it shouldn’t have surprised me to find seat cleaning foam. What did surprise me, however, was that the foam was peach scented.

I hadn’t wiped the seat well enough so when I sat down, it was a little wet. At first it felt weird, but I got used to it and felt a little bit at ease knowing that the seat was clean. It didn’t burn like I thought it would but was a little sticky.

As I sat there, I imagined what it would be like if humans were like dogs and smelled each other’s backsides. I laughed a little when I thought of some stranger smelling me and then standing up and saying, “Wow! That smells great! What is that, peach?” Then I remember that as a sexually active woman, I did often have men smell my ass. I wasn’t sure if the peach scent would be a plus or not but knew that it would definitely create quite the buzz.

I only sat there for a few seconds because my sole purpose was to test the seat cleaning foam. When I felt I had enough information, I stood up and lowered my skort. I was about to head back to my apartment when I noticed that my Mary Jane’s were unbuckled and so I sat back down on the seat to fasten them.

When I arrived at the apartment, my best girlfriend in the whole wide world asked me, “What’s that on your skirt, girl?”

“First of all, Brandy, it’s a skort. It’s like skirt and short combined. That’s why it’s called skort. You know brunch is breakfast and lunch combined. Do you need other examples?”

“Whatever. What’s on your skort?”

I turned around and saw wet marks. It occurred to me that when I had sat down on the toilet seat to buckle my Mary Jane’s, that the seat was still a little wet. I felt like a teenage girl who’d been just gotten her period and wasn’t ready to share the fact that I’d finally hit the weight of puberty and became a woman.

“Oh,” I said. “I must have sat in something.”

“Did you put on some peach moisturizer or lotion?”

I took a whiff and sure enough, I smelled like the seat cleaning foam.

I didn’t know which was worse; telling her that I was trying out seat cleaning foam or that I used peach moisturizer. Everybody knows that avocado is the scent of 2006.

“Soap,” I told her. “There was some soap at the coffee shop and it must have been scented.”

So what have we learned girls? When in a bathroom in India, your ass will be wet. When in a bathroom in France, your hands will smell like shit. And when in a bathroom in Switzerland, don’t sit on the toilet to buckle your Mary Janes!

Walking and Stalking

2006-01-26T03:03:00.000-08:00

When Shurl and I first started Gabby Gays, our mission was to create a blog with stories of love, politics, culture and stalking hot guys on the street. After the blog took off and began to get up to 10 hits a month, the fame got the better part of us and we forgot our mission. Shurl had a drinking and drug problem but we won’t talk about that. Don’t even get me started on that whore Diane Prince. Anyway, it’s a new year and I’m in a new city so I decided to look at our roots and stalk someone.

It happened when I went to the Geneva airport to report some damaged goods. I had no intentions of stalking anyone that day. It just happened. Kind of like when you end up at one of those bars on Christopher street. You never have any intentions of going there but sometimes after a few drinks, some pot, cocaine, and an enema, you just end up there.

So I was on the train on my way back to Lausanne, where I reside, when I saw him; the man I would stalk. He was passing his hand through his dark, thick, curly hair. It was the kind of hair you read about in romance novels or see on the cover of Honcho. And by hair, I mean the one on his torso. You see, he was slouched in a seat on the train so his shirt was lifted up a little and I could see his flat stomach. He had his finger in his belly button and I wondered if it was Swiss code for, “Meet me in the bathroom because I want to penetrate you.” He also had thick, dark hair on top of his head and reminded me of a young Antonio Saboto Jr. Not really but I wanted an excuse to post a picture of Antonio Saboto Jr. because Shirl says I need more pictures.

When the train approached Geneva, he sat up and walked to the exit. I hadn’t planned on stopping in Geneva but I thought, “It’s time I sacrifice myself for the good of Gabby Gays.”

I followed him out of the train station towards the lake. When he began walking across, I wondered, “Should I really follow him across the lake? What if he has a group of friends on the other side, waiting to gang rape me?”

When I thought about this danger, I knew what I had to do. So I followed him across the lake onto a main shopping street. He went into a pharmacy as I pretended to look at a window display of Swiss Army watches. I’d hoped he was buying lube and condoms, but he didn’t walk out with a package.

I continued to follow him into this department store called Globus. I was carrying a guitar so I was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible by not following too close. When he took the escalator up to the second floor, I let him get about 3/4's up before I jumped on myself.

When I got to the second floor, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I panicked and ran around the floor looking for a man the way everyone does when the lights go on at closing time at The Cock. I didn’t see him anywhere, which is kind of a relief because the floor was filled with ladies lingerie and smart business suits. This is when the detective in me said, “Maybe he went up to the men’s floor.”

I went up two more flights to the men’s department where my little man was skimming the packages of no-name underwear. I saddled up a few displays from him. He looked at me for a couple of seconds while I pretended to be reading the back of a 2Xist package. Since I knew that he saw me, I decided to walk to the robe and pajama section so I could stare at him unseen and maybe even get a picture.

While in the robe department, I became engrossed in a pair of cashmere slippers which I decided I had to try on. So I bent down to untie my shoe and stood back up to grab the slippers. This is when I noticed that my man was looking around nervously. I bent down again to ensure that he couldn’t see me and watched him slip a pair of no-named underwear in his coat. I’m not sure if it bothered me that he was shoplifting or that he wore no-name briefs. Regardless, I bent back down and tied my shoe because I had the feeling he would be making a quick getaway.

Once again my detective radar was right and he headed towards the down elevator. I waited a few seconds to give him a head start because I didn’t want him to think I was store security. When I headed to the escalator, a woman with a baby carriage slipped in front of me. She blocked the escalator so I couldn’t run down to catch up with the guy. When I finally got to the first floor, he was no where in sight. I ran out on the dark, Geneva street, where crowds of people walked around with briefcases, bags of groceries and bottles of wine. And amongst them all, somewhere, was my name with a pair of no-named underwear stashed in his coat. I’ll never know his story or how he looked in those underwear but at least I’ll have an image to masturbate to for the next week. So I encourage the five people that read this blog to spice up their lives and follow someone.

Lavurn

Back to the cradle I go...

2006-01-20T09:42:00.000-08:00

Well gurls, Diana is back to robbing the cradle. I know I have been complaining about how difficult it is to find eligible bachelors in their thirties so last night I went on a date with a twenty-something...on the low end of the twenty something chart I might add and had the best date in years.

So what if he lives with a girl from his corporate training program, who cares that he can remember keg parties like they were yesterday, Pish-posh that he looked at my apartment and said, "i wish I could have a place like this someday..." It still was a great date and diana will be taking another spin with him in her invisible jet this weekend.

Did I mention he loves dogs?

So the morale of this blog is for me to get over my justice league rules and date based on the person and not the age at this point of my life.

Thats all for now....
Forever crime fighting,
Diana Prince

What Two Sides Would You Like With That?

2006-01-17T06:45:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, well, last summer, a beautiful Prince, named Lavurn, went off to Switzerland for three weeks to eat cheese and have sex with the Swiss Army. While I was there, I met a cook at a Mexican grocery store chain that wined and dined me. He took me on bike rides and brought me to a charming cottage at the top of a mountain to eat fondue. To repay him, I sucked him off on top of the town’s water tower and then poured wine all over him and licked it off in his garden.

The guy was nice and sweet and had all the characteristics of what I thought I wanted in a boyfriend. Well, I didn’t really imagine dating someone who cook 25 pounds of mashed potatoes and then scooped it into Styrofoam containers to be sold for $6.95. But hey, I’ve put up with worse. Regardless, the guy never really clicked for me.

After I left Switzerland, he continued to send me these long emails telling me how much he missed me and how depressed he was. We only went out three times so I didn’t know what he was talking about. He sent the emails in French and since it’s not my first language, I didn’t really understand what he was saying. One time, he wrote me that he wanted to kill himself and I wrote back, “Who is this? Just joking. I’m in Stockholm now. The boys are beautiful. Anyway, shout at you later.”

He wrote back telling me that he couldn’t believe how insensitive I was. I had to get my French roommate to translate it for me. I wrote the guy back telling him that I was sorry but that I’d misunderstood his previous email. I suddenly realized that he was a little too Glen Close, Fatal Attractions for me.

So anyway, I am moving back to Switzerland in a few days. I met the Mexican grocery store cook on a website popular amongst the gay community. I’d like to put my picture up there again but am afraid he will find my profile and beat me to death with a big metal spatula. So tell me, is the chance of having sex with hot Swiss boys worth the risk of being killed by a kitchen utensil?

Lavurn

A date...A date...

2006-01-16T11:59:00.000-08:00

Gurls,
I had a date with an age appropriate gentleman on Friday night. We met on a friendsteresque website and seemed to share similar tastes in pop culture and classic sitcoms. What a great start. He was going to be a possible solution to my challenge of where are the eligible thirtysomethings...

We met for a drink and hit it off well, so we planned a real date. Dinner.

The conversations were going very well and the margaritas on the rocks were going down like water. I was starting to think that Valentines day might not mean a night of Chinese food and a steal magnolias DVD again this year. We laughed, we flirted, we touched hands and legs under the table and then the first of the bombs dropped. When I asked him if he liked dogs, his reply was, "I am deathly afraid of dogs!" THUD (the sound of my chin hitting the table)! I don't want to seem judgmental or not sympathetic, but I just don't understand people who are so afraid of dogs. But having being raised with a furry companion all my life, loving dogs is in my nature. But I always wonder when someone jumps out of the path of my sweet mutt why they are so frightened. It is not like I am walking a saber tooth tiger.
So, I asked him why, and also reminded him that I do have a trusty side kick that means more to me than my ex boyfriends. He told me the reason and hoped that I might help him get over his fear. I thought to myself, I am not sure I want to have that responsibility. I do not have many "must haves" but a love for dogs and a comfort with them is one of my few. Relationships are hard enough without this added element working against us from date 1. Some people like blondes, some people only date a certain race, my "type" is, you must love dogs.

But I carried on, thinking I do not need to make any decisions during the entree.
After dinner, I was invited back to his place for some necking. He could kiss. Bonus! So as we started to make out on the couch, he looked at me and said, "lay on top" of me. So I did...Then positions changed and again he stopped and said, "lay on top." This became a little game for me as I would intentionally roll off him and see if he would ask me again to "lay on top" and sure enough everytime our positions changed, he would stop what we were doing to have me LAY ON TOP.
I and am more inclined to"lay on top" anyway, but this was starting to unnerve me. It actually became a turn off. I tend to like versatility in someone...What if I wanted to stand up and fuck in a doorway?
I don't know gurls, maybe I am just too set in my ways...Am I being too critical? Am I being too hard on him? Or...Is it okay to look at these characteristics and rationally say to myself, this is dating and getting to know someone and it is okay to feel like he is not the one.
Is it wrong to feel that my "must be on bottom" and "deathly afraid of dogs" date is not a match for me?
what do you gurls think? Help a wonder woman out...
Forever single,
Diana Prince

Dental Dam it!

2006-01-13T11:17:00.000-08:00

This blog was supposed to be about the love lives of gay friends, but since I, Shirlee, have no love life to speak of, I have often branched out to other topics important to the gay community like the looming changes in our judicial system and tips on how to cook special brownies for maximum impact.

Today my blog topic is not about love, although I will say that last night I managed to get one boy to flirt with me at a bar. "Your body is so humpy!", he said to me, which is a compliment that is both flattering and confusing. Does that mean he wants to hump me? Does he assume me to be a bottom just because I have the ass of an 18-yr-old Hungarian porn star? "Thank you," I said, "but I'm in the process of becoming more lithe." "It's really your body I want," I flirted back suggestively if not convincingly before he returned to his friends. Readers, that boy has the potential of becoming another Gabby Gay post. I first wrote about him in an article entitled "Triple Play" back in November, so stay tuned and keep your fingers crossed for Shirlee!!

The real focus of today's post is, "WHY ARE ALL DENTISTS HUMORLESS RETARDS?" No offense, dear reader, if you are a dentist. I'm sure you're lovely. But the rest of these bitches!...

The Backstory: Having no current dental insurance, I began experiencing mild pain last October which quickly turned to sharp pain. I decided to do the cost-effective thing and check myself in for review at the local dental school. Dentistry and internal medicine, unless it's cosmetic surgery, is really a waste because no one sees the result of the thousands of dollars you spend to repair your body. But like my mama said, there's no denying a pain in the butt! But back to my mouth...

The Plot: I went in for emergency repair and was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the care I received. The student dentist and attending senior dentist informed me that I might have to spend thousands of dollars on a root canal, but first they were going to give me a medicated temporary filling to see if my pain went away. Sweet Jesus! A root canal? All my shakras were going to beam healing light on my gums to ensure that I could stick with the filling.

The Twist: When it was time for me to go back, they assigned me to another dentist. Well, he wasn't so much as a dentist as a Sadist. During my exam, he used every wedge, forcep and drill in sight, I think just to test them all out. Then when he had my mouth full of metal torture devices, he used my forehead to press his palm with such force that I assume that he had a cramp and was trying to strecth it out. He then told me I wasn't cooperating with his examination. Sweating and silently apologetic, I watched as he then spent 10 minutes having a lovely conversation with a female dentist about what they would be doing that night while I got lockjaw waiting for him to return to my mouth. Exam completed, he told me that I would have to come back to get the permanent filling put in. Okay.....

The Plot Thickener: I called up the dental school and had them reassign me another dentist, preferably that lovely young woman who first worked on me. They granted my request with a new dentist, so when I went in to meet her, I tried to soften her up with humor about plastic on the furniture, etc. Nothing! Lavurn it was more silent than our "End Of The Season" party sketch material. So, I just shut up and watched her bring out her instruments. Only these were not the same instruments as before. She brought out the kinky rubber and began to cover my mouth and nose like in a snuff film. I figured that eventually she'd uncover my nose so I could breathe, but that didn't occur to her, so I did it myself. "Ooh, having trouble breathing?" she said. I smiled, not wanting to offend another person about to inflict pain upon me. Her dental dam was supposedly to help her isolate my back tooth, but she stared and stared as if it was nowhere to be found. Finally, after much prodding of the most sensitive area of my gum, she began the work.

The Denoument: Five hours later, I walked out of the dental school looking like Sandra Dee had been practicing how to make a hicky all over my face. It was a horrible experience and I hope to get dentures very, very soon. Polident Extra-Grip, here I come!

A new years afterthought....

2006-01-12T12:54:00.000-08:00

I attended a similar new years eve party where a certain brownie almost made Diana Prince give up her secret identity. I also witnessed an escalated level of horniness or was it competitiveness? I have learned that competing over a boy is never worth it for the following reasons: 1. It makes one look desperate. 2. It detracts from the overall enjoyment of the evening. 3. It becomes more about winning and being the top alpha gay versus actually getting to know a person. and 4. Life is too short.

So back to New Years...

While I was having a nice talk with a new handsome stranger, I began to notice the stalking ritual of hungry gays happening. I tried to keep focused as the salivating wolf gay began to approach and begin sniffing around my handsome stranger who was now a sitting duck waiting to be torn apart. As the evening progressed, I could not help but be faced with the decision men have faced for centuries...Fight or bow out gracefully. Despite being a Wonder Woman, I chose to focus on the purpose of the evening (ringing in the new year with new friends) and not worry about scoring this new handsome gentleman who did not even live in New York and was 10 years younger than I. Once that decision was made the evening began to be quite enjoyable and educational. Every once in a while, I would check on the poor duck and the wolf to see how it was progressing. As one might have expected, it appeared the wolf was more into the chase and capture than the duck itself. This was determined by the wolfish overall expression of victory and his sneaking back off to his den without the duck in his mouth. The duck wore the expression of surprise and sadness that he wasted his evening on the wolf only to be licked a few times and left to be plucked by another hunter. But by then, all the hunters had returned home. How sad for the duck that he fell for the wolf versus Diana Prince who had nothing but genuine intentions for him.
Well, the new year began with a lesson learned for all involved. Including Diana Prince. Apparently, I may be a super hero, but even I still have a lot to learn about the behaviors of men. And more importantly, I learned how to watch "friends" and their mating habits and re-think my desire to develop friendships further based on such behaviors. A wise Amazon once told me on Paradise Island to be careful of your words and actions, because they become habits and thus your character is then defined by those habits. I would hope WW's character remained intact on New Years which is more than I can say for the wolf.
Diana Prince

Back on Paradise Island

2006-01-12T10:08:00.000-08:00

Gurls,
Recently I posted about the poor experiences of dating within the football league and how it lended to a not so hot experience this season. I think my fellow bloggers that this was only part of the issue. After some soul-searching and a little exercise in hard thinking about the past two years of my life (single years) I realized that it was more than the bad dating experiences with my league-mates, it was also the pace for which i was throwing myself back into the gay world.

So with my golden lasso tighlty around my petite waist, I will thrust by bosom forward into a state of honesty...

I am a gay man in my upper 30s who has spent more years single than in relationships and I feel like I am caught in a no-gayman's land when it comes to dating eligible men. When I go out, I see the young ones and I see the much older ones, but I dont see the age appropriate ones. Am I missing the hot spot for the thirtysomethings? I remember when it was so trendy to be a moody thirty-something...Remember Ken Olin? Hello???

So without really realizing it, my alter-ego, Diana was slipping into a state of depression and becoming an emotional mess. Luckily after a return to Paradise Island, I was quickly able to do a spin and change back into the wonder woman I am. For the past two weeks, I have managed to work out like I used to and get my super-hero body back into shape. Even my Donna Karan slim fitting suit fits me again! I also have not gone out but twice in two weeks proving the fact that I am so much more happy when not drinking in a bar getting trashed.

I still throw out the challenge of where to meet eligible professional gay men in their thirties, outside of 12 step programs to my fellow bloggers...

So lessons I learned for myself as 2005 came to a crashing end..
Try never fall for someone that plays on your team with you
Try never to date other teams to get over said person previously mentioned
Its not pretty to be in a bar all the time drinking when forty is right around the corner
and...its that much harder to lose 10 pounds in your thirties than it was in my twenties when my diet consisted of cigarettes and coffee.

I have to get back to work, I think someone is in need of a superhero...
bye for now
Diana Prince

The Twelve Days Of Hearings

2006-01-09T09:23:00.000-08:00

I don't know about our vast reader base, Lavurn, but I have been waiting with baited breath for the Senate hearings of Justice Samuel Alito. Nothing says sweet partisan bickering like the potential shift in our judicial system, although to me, these "activist" judges that Bush keeps referring to don't seem to be doing a thing for me. Where's my legal marijuana to celebrate when I marry my man and then realize what a horrible mistake it is so I can perform euthenasia, hmm activist judges?

Well, today is the first day of hearings, so I thought I would start a running holiday song as we learn about our potential new Supreme Court Justice. Hummmmm....

"On the First Day of Hearings, Alito said to me, 'I don't know nothin' bout birthin' no babies!'"

A.D.D.? Try Touching Your Testicles

2006-01-05T11:35:00.000-08:00

This morning as I was laying in bed trying to think about my day, my mind popped around from scenario to scenario like a coked out cheerleader from the special Olympics was changing it with a remote control, powered with a Suzuki outboard motor.

“Is it raining outside? Should I try to have sex with the guy lying next to me? Should I start researching hair replacement options? What does Carmen Elektra do for a living and is that her real name and lips?”

After my mind went through every channel offered by Time Warner Gayble, I for some reason stuck my hand in my pants and fondled my manhood. I don’t know why I did it. I wasn’t horny or had an itch. It was a natural instinct like breathing or saying someone’s fat when someone fat walks by.

Suddenly my mind stopped bouncing around and focused. I thought about my day and what I was going to do. I planned my week, balanced my check book and created a recipe to remove those pesty brown stains from my sheets and towels.

I ask you America, what is it about a man’s dick that makes him want to touch it? Why do we feel comfort in moving our testicles around like a couple of Chinese relaxation balls? Do women stick there fingers in their vagina to relax and concentrate? If so, do they wash their hands before they shake mine? If anyone has any answers to these thought provoking questions, please let me know.

Lavurn

Resolution No. 9

2006-01-05T07:33:00.000-08:00

Lavurn,

January 1st has come and gone and since most people whom I've polled have scoffed at the concept of New Year's resolutions, the worst these slackers have to contend with is to remember to write "2006" on their checks. Being a contrarian, I have decided to pile up on resolutions this year, figuring that if I achieve even one of them I can comment on that success and forget that I made the other promises (taking a cue from our current President).

One of my resolutions is to "be more Buddhist". I think of this in a generic sense of being more accepting of the way things are, blah, blah, blah. These guys are clearly pretty lenient with life's lumps. I mean have you seen what those monks have to wear? It's like an episode of Bravo TV's Project Runamok. That orange in their robes has to be the least flattering color in the Crayola box and don't even get me started with the shaved head look. SO Chelsea 1998. And if you're going to wear footwear, you might want to something more sensible than those flat sandals on those slippery mountains.

Anyway, as I'm sitting on the toilet thinking about how much more accepting I will be this year, I notice that my roommate has purchased some toilet paper as I had asked him. Now, I know how people favor different brands for their home products, but generally, when talking about my tuckus, I like to spend the extra 20 cents so that I am not chafed for the entire day. The roommate, however, does not have such worries, as he purchases rolled up newspaper to wipe his bum. I unrolled the Scott new "Extra Soft" brand and wondered whether this was the equivalent of sandpaper "extra fine", which I think they randomly number as 2. And Lavurn, to my amazement, it wasn't that at all. This sandpaper had to be a 6 or an 8. Oh joy! And to think I'm going to spinning after this. I'm going to look like one of those asses at the Lure after a long night of punishment.

Maybe I should change my resolution. I mean, it's not like there's a performance review out there judging how well I'm doing on this Buddhist acceptance idea. Maybe I should be contrarian and be completely intolerant. Oh wait, the Republican Party has already staked out that resolution. Well, I'll let you know when I come up with something good.

Your intrepid do-gooder in the field,

Shirlee

A Brownie Aphrodisiac

2006-01-02T13:04:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve. Not the best holiday of the year, but certainly better than Columbus Day.

This year I decided to spend some quality time with friends over dinner. Dinner was going to be beef tenderloin, so I thought I would add my own culinary knowledge to the menu by making some special brownies, brownies with a secret ingredient. Duncan Hines, if you want to sell more boxes of brownie mix, I suggest you start marketing these because they were the hit of the party.

About 20 minutes after the lucky selected party revelers ate their dessert, they all started getting REALLY horny. It was as if someone had turned on Isaac Hayes and turned the overhead lights to candlelight, because all around me, people were grinding their crotches and smooching with people they had just met. Finally a New Year's Eve worth talking about!

Cute guys whom I had fantasized about only the night before started showing me their nipples. Before long I thought the room was going to sprout mattresses for the group orgy. But alas, the night did not hold hot and sweaty sex for this Irishman. Stupidly, I kept enjoying the alcohol poured by some bartender who was determined not to put any mixer in my drink! And so, Lavurn, this Shirlee spent his first day of the New Year purging from all the binging the night before.

C'est la vie! Long live Christopher Columbus!!

Puppy love

2005-12-31T19:40:00.000-08:00

I left for a holiday visit with my family seven days ago, and I don't think I'll ever be the same. My mother has one of those challenged pets that for years has been positively afraid of men. Up until a year ago, she treated me the same as others, running to hide when I approached, but she started to be more friendly to me over the last few visits.

This Christmas, I came home and the little girl Wheaton Terrier with the long shag hair who we will call Biffy to protect her privacy, was positively beaming when I arrived home. After the initial sniffing to remember me, she started to sidle up to me and request pettings. She wasn't very subtle about it. She backed into my hand, turning her head around with a come hither that was reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich. Then after a few pets to the butt, she'd immediately flip over spread eagle. Little Biffy had turned into a power bottom! I played with her stomach, but I could tell she was looking for more. It reminded me of one crazy afternoon when I was 11 and my neighbor's cat was purring like she needed a good going over, but that's another story when I'm drunker...

Anyway, I went to bed that night and had the strangest dream. Perhaps, Vurn, you can decipher it for me. It was my wedding night, and the crowd was in great spirits. I had a bizarre but incredible line-up of talent, Elton John, J-Lo, Naked Boys Singing. The cafe tables were decked in this bizarre wheat-colored shag tablecloth, and people were doing funky Austin Powers style dancing. For some reason, though, I couldn't figure out who was my husband. I would scan the audience, and nothing but a bunch of party revelers who I didn't recognize, much like many of my parties. Then, right before the dream ended, Thomas Jane in his buffest as The Punisher, danced through the revelers to me. He had a tuxedo shirt on, but had sweat through it completely so that you could see every minute ripple in his body. FINALLY, this was going to be an erotic dream, rather than one of those boring Merchant Ivory dreams where I focus on the china and the sun beaming through the windows.

Thomas looked good, but he had this funny grin on his face that I couldn't decipher. He wanted us to be naughty, I could tell, but was he going to role play his Punisher role or his role in The Deep End? Then he slowly approached me and started licking my hand. It was kinky, yes, but not what I expected, and certainly not in front of a crowd. Maybe, I thought, this is how married people have public displays of affection. My hand was getting wet and he wasn't getting any kinkier, and that's when I woke up and saw little Biffy on my bed. With her sidelong glance. Sigh, maybe 2006 will be my return to bestiality. She did have a good tongue....

Comment on Cut Down in His Prime

2005-12-31T09:35:00.000-08:00

Shirl,

I just read your article Cut Down in His Prime. I have been there. I've had a 21 year old flirt with me and then shoot me down. First, he told me that he liked my belt. I mean, why didn't he just ask me to pound him until he bit off his tongue. Then, his friends, "accidentally" left him at a party once, so I had to give him a ride. When I asked him if he would want to go out some time, he told me that he didn't usually date older men. I was 29 at the time and the guy he'd been dating 2 weeks before was 39. Cut my sack off and pour salt, why don't you. From then on, I never hit on a youngster again. I leave it up to them to make the first move. And by move, I mean, pull my dick out and stick it in their mouths. There are vicious twinks out there that hit on us thirty year olds to get free drinks and tips on how to clean their ass. Consider it a life lesson. From now on, let those dirty ass, broke, girl lena, son of a bitches twenty somethings hit on us!!!

Not Bitter,
Lavurn

Cock a Doodle Do Me in The Ass

2005-12-31T09:10:00.000-08:00

At 6:45 this morning, a 23 year old Canadian boy who is working as a diplomat in Africa, called me and woke me up to masturbate.

“I woke up with a raging hard on and decided to call you.”

“Hey, Kevin. What’s going on?”

“I’m thinking about your dick in my ass.”

“Oh. So did you have a nice Christmas?”

“You have me bent over the bed and you’re pounding me.”

I’m totally into dirty talk during sex and I admit that I’ve had my share of phone sex experiences. However, I’ve never been commanded at the crack of dawn to talk dirty to someone I hadn’t spoken to in 8 months. I at least expected a short conversation about the latest African fashions before telling Kevin that I wanted to shoot my load down his throat.

But here I was blinking my eyes trying to see the time while he was telling me, “Yeah. Fuck that ass. Fuck it good!”

I couldn’t let the young boy down even though I was in no mood to masturbate. So I sat up in my bed.

“And then I’d turn you over so I can see your face.”

As I urinated, seated so he couldn’t hear, I told him, “You have one leg on my shoulder and the other is laying sideways so you can fit my huge cock inside of you.”

While I drank a glass of orange juice and made some tea I decided that it was time to cum. “Oh yeah. That feels so good. I think I’m going to cum. It feels so good being inside of you. Oh my God. I’m cuming. I’m cuming. Yeah. Oh yeah.”

Fortunately, Kevin was able to cum at the thought of me cuming. When he was finished, I expected a conversation about his life and what he’d been doing. Instead I got, “That was great dude. Thanks. Listen, I don’t want to burn up all my minutes so I’ll send you an email.”

I understand that I have the look of a whore. No amount of bleach or Spray and Wash can get rid of it. However, I would appreciate it from now on, if people waited until I’ve had my cup of green tea before barking at my dick to perform miracles. Thank you New York and good night. Oh, and have a great New Years.

i am back...

2005-12-27T13:51:00.000-08:00

Well, i have been off the blog circuit for a while...But I am back...and with much to say...
After two seasons of football under my magic belt I have decided that the game is much more fun when "romantic" interests are not involved.
What a difference from season 1 when i had no interest in anything but making some new friends and learning the game of football. Season 2 I opened to the idea of mixing business with pleasure and needless to say it was not the greatest experience for me.
I plan on putting my golden lasso around me and spewing details at a later date. But for now, I hope you both and any readers out there had a WONDERful Christmas a WONDERful Chanukah and a very WONDERful new year.
until next time,
Keep fighting for your rights...
Diana

The Day of the Big Show!

2005-12-20T19:35:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday, Lavurn, I have to say that you and I rocked a few worlds at the Big Awards show for our football league. It was just as we planned, full of naked men writhing with pleasure, and that was only one minute into the show! You gotta love fag football.

It's hard to say where we went right, honestly. The skits were less funny than I thought they would be, no one could remember their lines, but somehow, the crowd just ate it up. It may have something to do with the free rum drinks and the $1 beer specials, but Vurn, there is no denying that we were Beloved, just like that Oprah movie.

You looked smashing in your tux without studs and I wore my cowboy hat with the dignity of Jake Gylenhall. If only I could have graced the stage in my Bjork Swan outfit as I had planned, there wouldn't have been a dry eye in the house. So, my friend, I only have one question for you. When do we take our talent on the road to Vegas?

Howdy Partner!

2005-12-15T19:23:00.000-08:00

So there I was in the movie theater, watching this movie about an actor whom I've drooled over in his first gay role, and I thought to myself, it could be worse. I could be at a different time in my life. As much as I'm frustrated by the "media" calling this love story between two cowpokes "controversial", I could be living the lives of these cowboys. Forced to love in secret. That is, if I could find someone to love....

Rewind. This past weekend was our football championship game, the end of a season where I thought I would meet someone unique, someone who I could click with and fall in love. Was that so much to ask? So there I was, at the bar after the Gay Superbowl, and I thought to myself, well shit, no such luck. No matter. I had friends. Good friends. And we were celebrating. We had had fun season on the field, but no sparks off. Then, while I was toasting you Lavurn, and we spotted a cute boy pretending to watch a football game in the sports bar. I sauntered over and began getting his information. Came from Canada? Good. Doesn't go out to bars more than once a week? Great. Vitamin salesman? Ignore.

Hours later, I had decided that maybe I should throw caution to the wind, just like those cowboys in the tent, and go for it. He suggested we leave the bar. I had been drinking for a mere 8 hours, so I was ready to call it quits. Then he suggested we go to one more place. A trashy bar with a name that lands like a thud in the water. Splash! Well, how bad could it be? I mean, at least I'd look more attractive than the sad sorts that frequent this establishment on a Sunday night. But truthfully, Splash is just not a good luck charm for me, so as we checked our coats, I told my future beau that I was anxious about getting lost in the crowd. He said, "Don't worry. We came in together. We leave together!" That sounded promising from my new faithful lover. That is until two minutes later he was chatting up a go-go boy and headed to the backroom with him. Sigh. I head home dejected, but not surprised.

Fast forward. So I sit in the movie theater watching the closing credits, satisfied that the tragic cowboy love story should end as the living lover watches over the bloody clothes of his dead lover, and I sigh to myself again. And then I wrap myself up in my dead lover's coat and head home.

Cut Down in His Prime

2005-11-30T19:52:00.000-08:00

I bit the bullet. I decided to put myself out on a limb and offer up myself for a date last night.

I met the boy in question at many a football social, but this time we met by chance at my gym. Actually, not completely by chance, since I know that he is getting physical therapy there, but I'm not so much of a stalker as to know his therapy schedule. Anywho, after a few rounds of hellos and verbal word play, we exchanged pertinent information like cell phone numbers and emails. On a whim and still listening to my gut, I sent him an invitation for a movie or dinner gathering. It seemed fitting since he had given me every indication of interest when I kissed him goodnight the previous Sunday.

Looking back on it, it seemed like a good move. I had enjoyed my potential date's company immensely the previous Sunday. He was really interesting, sweet, silly and a little horny. A good combination for me. Plus, of all the drunken football players that evening, he was the one I enjoyed talking to the most. I had some doubts but I always go with my gut instinct, and that is what I did yesterday.

But alas, dear Lavurn, sobriety or something else reared its ugly head because the boy in question, now mindful of his tender youth, reminded me of our age difference, and told me how sorry he was to lead me on. Well, I haven't put myself out there much, so it stung to hear him decline a simple gathering for dinner or a movie. I wasn't asking him to strap himself into a trapeze, or sign me up for Social Security benefits or anything. But all's fair in love and war, and so, I soldier on. This thirty-something boy has been put out to pasture. But you know what they say, right?

An old soldier never dies, don't ask, don't tell.

Triple Play

2005-11-21T09:51:00.000-08:00

Hey Lavurn,

I know it's been a while since I have posted on our wildly popular blog. I apologize to our readership for my absence. Your last entry made me curious to know our reader's answers to your masturbutory work poll. Last night I had an embarrassment of riches that I need your help with, Vurn. After many weeks of socializing with the boys in the football league, my efforts to be charmingly available are finally beginning to pay off. A couple of cuties began showing some interest in me last night. The bad news is that they all wanted to show interest at the same time.

Now, I know what you're saying, Vurn, "cry me a river", but I'm not as adept as you are at playing the field, especially when the field consists of more than one other player. I don't think in advance to have one meet me in the bathroom or pretend to go out for a smoke even though I don't touch cigarettes. You need to instruct me in the ways of a jedi master baiter.

It all began innocently enough. Very innocently in fact. We were at an after game social, which really is a loose term for drinking. I've never seen any strawberrys at any of these socials. Anyway, at the beginning of the social, I felt like I was at a Grand Poo Bah Lodge meeting. Chatting here, getting a drink there, no harm. I was getting to know more about my potential gentleman callers separately. But by the end of the evening, two of the three were vying to share my chair. It was kind of like musical chairs except the music never stopped playing. Finally, one guy asked the other guy's friend to get rid of him. I thought that there might be a rumble.

Long story short, everyone went home empty-handed so to speak. It was all too much for me. As I was assessing the situation later with the remaining Poo Bah friends, I asked them what they would have done in my situation. The answer I got was, "Choose". But I'm sorry, I don't know any of these guys that well, so it seemed kind of silly of me to throw one of my babies out with the bathwater. Instead I made no choice and spent the evening with my haunting visions and my hands full. What would Brian Boitano do, I ask you?

Finally, I just want to mention to our readers that we finished our regular season of Gay Football. Thanks to our stellar record, NBC is planning a special edition of "The Biggest Loser" just for our team. Go team!!

Hugs,

Shirl

Have You Ever?

2005-11-09T11:14:00.000-08:00

I know that I haven't written in a while but I have an excuse. I've started working again and it's really cramping my style. My one saving grace is that there are free Cokes in the kitchen. Anyway, I'm a temp which is the lowest of the low at Calvin Klein. I can't write much because people are watching and my temp career is at stake. However, I wanted to let you know that I just masturbated in the bathroom here. I would love to hear your "Masturbation at Work," stories.

Peace,

Lavurn

TGIF

2005-11-04T09:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, Vurn, it's hard to predict whether I'm going to like a certain movie. For example, I recently joined Netflix and found that the gay category includes all of these independent movies with boys in their underpants. I was sure I had uncovered a treasure trove of classics that I was going to give my highest Cannes festival rating. Unfortunately, most of these movies have turned out to be much better with the mute button on. I'm not a snob, though. I'll definitely rerent "Voodoo Academy" when the mood strikes.

Luckily, we have a barometer of good taste in independent film that is completely reliable. It's called Patricia Clarkson. She could read the side of a tampon box and I would be enthralled. I saw her latest movie release, "The Dying Gaul", at the Nantucket Film Festival, and once again, she proved me right. It didn't hurt that Campbell Scott was getting jiggy bisexual with Peter Sarsgaard either, but even if you take out the sexual tension, as an intellectual thriller this movie rocks!

So, faithful readers, those of you who took and appreciated my last film selection "Loggerheads", take your $11 and enjoy a good TGIF on me.

Your loving critic,

Shirl

Hallow Weiner

2005-10-31T13:06:00.000-08:00

What's scarier--getting a Supreme Court justice who will reverse 40 years of progress in American civil rights or not having anyone be able to figure out what your costume is?

I may be able to shed some light on this burning question as I ventured forth this Halloween dressed as the "evian flu". Okay, I know that the randomness of a costume like this is a stretch for your average party filled with gay Batmen and cowboys looking to show off most of their physique, but I live in New York, so I was hoping that I would find one enterprising adorable lad to figure me out. You see, when I was 10 years old, I asked my mom to make me a costume for school. She told me to make something myself, which began my life of bizarre and unique Halloween outfits. That year I was a Groucho Marx tree doctor, winning the most original costume, beating out 5 astronauts and three princesses. Since then I've been life-size magazines, Siegfried after his accident, and many other non-traditional costumes, but never an astronaut.

Anyway, as I made my way through our Halloween party schedule, one boy took a guess at who I was. He took one look at me and said, "Evian is dead?" which made me laugh, but he wasn't cute enough to go home with so I kept looking for the Costume Whisperer. I still look for him, to this day...

But that boy was right. Evian is dead.

Shalom. Easthampton!

2005-10-24T18:25:00.000-07:00

So there I was, still licking the wounds of losing my bid to be the next gay Millionaire thanks to some clever responses to Meredith Veira's tough questions, when my newly "committed" friend calls me up for an invitation to the Hamptons. Lavurn, I don't care if I'd planned to go to my own wedding, I never turn down a free trip to the Hamptons. This invitation came with special bonus--it was the Hamptons International Film Festival and my host knew the creative director, so we were going to fabulous after-parties. I am now a veteran of festival parties, which are a mix of tragedy and comedy, and involve a lot of people circling the event looking for the stars.

On the drive up to his house we chatted about my friend's commitment ceremony, life after being committed, etc, etc. He's an attorney, so there was no shortage of conversation. I could respond while dreaming of meeting Kip Pardue, who was one of the festivals "Rising Stars". Kip, who may remember from my previous post as the beautiful star of "Loggerheads", was going to be at the premiere of one of his movies with Q&A afterward. I wondered whether I should start with "Will you be my boyfriend?" or use it as a follow-up. Maybe we'd make out in the corner of one the after-parties behind the DJ booth.

The opening night movie, "Bee Season" starring Richard Gere as the father a child prodigy speller. With Microsoft Word's spell checking features, I'm surprised anyone bothers anymore. The real surprise, however, came when I found out the movie was more about spirituality than spelling and that Richard Gere was playing a Jewish scholar. I'm sorry, Mr. Gere, if you read our column. I am a fan, and I'm glad that you continue to work in musicals like "Chicago" and important work like "American Gigolo 2: The Buddhist Gigolo", but you are about as convincing as a Jew as Al Sharpton.

No matter, I tuned out Richard spouting about the Kabbalah and watched the actor playing his full-lipped son, Max Minghella. A confused boy who felt dejected once his sister becomes the star child, Max's character turns to Kate Bosworth as, surprise! a Hare Krishna. Have you ever watched those people dance, Vurn? It's kind of like me on ecstasy or a dancing to a good B52s song. I was sort of hoping Chris Evans was going to be the Krishna that Max turned to because I think Chris looks good in orange ("Flame On!"), but no such luck. The movie has a confusing ending so I can't exactly recommend it, but I know a lot more about Kabbalah thanks to Madonna and Richard Gere!

The next movie on our list was about anti-Semitism post 9/11. Apparently there has been a rumor circulating that no Jews died in that tragedy, which is of course, factually incorrect and a bizarre conspiracy theory. Compared to the West Bank, New York City is Disneyland for people of the Jewish faith. Who would want to blow up "It's A Small World"? The documentarian came up with a couple of interesting points, but his movie was so biased he made Michael Moore look fair and balanced. Plenty of shots involved the director talking to ranting sidewalk preachers who call the city "Jew York", and point out that the mayor before Bloomberg was called Jewwwliani. Um, okay. Good investigation! At the Q&A afterward, I asked the director why there were so many Jews in the movie, but he didn't laugh.

I was really surprised that every movie we went to after that had Jewish themes, so I started dubbing the festival the Hamptons Israeli Film Festival. Please don't think I'm anti-Semitic. I love my Jewish friends, it's just I believe in everything in moderation, particularly gefilte fish. At least we ended the festival on a high note. By high, I mean that we spent the final day getting facials and going on winery tours. Okay, maybe not EVERYTHING in moderation.

Reading While You Wipe

2005-10-19T13:16:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhh fall. A season of long sassy scarves, muliti-colored leaves and non-frizzy hair; well, at least for those of us who are smart enough to use deep conditioner. It is also a season of packing away tank tops and peddle pushers (a hint to you Chelsea boys) and replacing them with cashmere zip up tops and cargo pants. Some of these sweater tops have pockets and in them you’ll find an assortment of things including phone numbers, money and tabs of Viagra.

I recently had such an experience. Only, it wasn’t any of the above mentioned items but a folded up piece of paper that I’d picked up from a prison in Seattle. You see, it was when I was visiting a friend of mine who was a parole officer at said prison. I had eaten some bad seafood and so spent most of the day in the prison bathroom. Unlike my fantasies, it was not as cruisey as I’d expected. Just as well, because I was in no condition to let anyone swing across my monkey bars. Where was I? Oh yes, a bathroom stall in a Seattle prison. So anyway, I’m sitting there thinking, “I would love a slice of pizza and a glass of milk and Pepsi. And perhaps something to read.”

I would have no such luck with the food and drink, but as I reached to my side to grab a piece of knock-off Charmin, I did find something to read. You see, for there was a plastic box with papers inside. At the top of the paper was the headline, “Stall Times.”

“Stall Times,” I thought. “Whatever could this be?”

And then it hit me that it was a newsletter made especially for people who are looking for stuff to read. Seriously, have you ever heard of anything as disgusting yet genius as that?

This specific issue talked about such topics as, “Fire Drills and Why We have Them” and “June is Move-In Month at The New City Hall”

As mesmerizing as these two topics are, don’t you think that Stall Times should be about topics that people stuck in stalls can relate to? For instance, “What to do if You Start Sweating While You’re Trying to Squeeze Out Bad Mexican Food” Or, “How to Masturbate Quietly so Your Stall Neighbor Can’t Hear You” Or, “How to Ensure That You Won’t Get a Brown Stain on Your Underwear.”

America, I believe that this prison in Seattle has invented something brilliant. However, I also believe that we can take it to the next level. I am going to start submitting articles to Stall Times but would like to know what you as the public would like to read about while stuck in a bathroom stall in a prison in Seattle.

Lavurn

Subway Frottage

2005-10-18T16:00:00.000-07:00

So, Lavurn, I am sorry to report that my audition with "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" was a bust. I went to the test all dolled up with my best Ben Sherman shirt and suede jacket. I sat at a table with a mousy woman from New Jersey, a young pimply girl from Connecticut who took the Greyhound to the show audition and was supposedly going to use the money to buy her grandparents a house but I think she was secretly thinking of getting a stomach stapling and a few treatments from dermatologist Dr. Zismore. The other person at my table was this hot young guy whose tattoo was peeking out from under his short sleeve shirt. He had driven 11 hours from Ohio to come to the audition, which naturally made me inquire as to where he would be staying the evening (sadly he has relatives in New Jersey). I managed to get him to lift up his shirt to show us the entire tattoo. The pimply girl wasn't impressed. She said she had more interesting tattoos on her back, but no one at our table was asking her to show us her designs. I also thought it good luck that my test number was 69, so I was ready to get a tattoo with the hottie across the table.

Anyway, the test lasted 30 minutes and I honestly couldn't have missed more than 3 or 4 questions, which makes me wonder what was the magic number they were looking for. Apparently I was too smart. I think they were worried that I would bankrupt the show. Afterwards, feeling dejected with no hope of making a quick $1M, I took the subway home. Normally, I don't need to take the subway because, as you know, Vurn, we are making enough money off of the advertisements on our blog to live comfortably. I bumped into a really cute straight guy on the platform who didn't want to give me a second glance, so when we boarded the train I stopped staring at him and sat down. At the next stop many people exited for their exciting rides back to NJ at Port Authority (no sign of pimply tattoed girl though) and a hot military type guy sat next to me. He was quick to get to the seat, beating out another twink who was eyeing my neighboring seat. Since military man didn't really glance over at me, I kept my gaze ahead, fuming over the Millionaire debacle.

After a little while the stopping and starting of the train had our legs rubbing up against each other. As many people who regularly use mass transit know, it's easy to avoid this or not avoid this, and I have had many tittillating rubs in the past. I so enjoy human contact that's not a shove from an oncoming pedestrian. I engaged him in conversation by asking him what time it was. He smiled and gave me the time, so we started rubbing our legs and catching our gazes more frequently. Finally my stop arrived and I got out. It wasn't his stop because he didn't immediately get up to leave, but as I walked a little way down the platform toward my exit, I turned around and saw that he was out of the train staring at me. This was when I said, "What would Lavurn do?" which is sort of rhetorical and really bad plot material for some Michael Lucas video. Anyway, I glanced twice, stopped, and then realized that I had an appointment with a potential sugar daddy at the opening of the Parsons Dance company performance tonight.

Military guy would have to be a nice fantasy to pull up the next time my cast of fantasy characters aren't doing the trick. I traded the quickie in for something more inviting, a hot older rich man. After all, as far as questions go, none is more rhetorical than "Who wants to be a millionaire?!"

Real World Gay Hunting

2005-10-17T18:08:00.000-07:00

I recently turned a year older and it got me wondering where my life was going. I had no dreams and goals and I was beginning to develop a rash similar to the one I got from a Lithuanian guy I met in the bathroom at a Modell’s.

Then I took a trip to Seattle and I found a goal in my life. It was when I was in the bar, R Place, and I met Danny from the Real World New Orleans. He was really friendly and had a great smile and poured one hell of a Madras.

We didn’t hook up or anything, even though I could see in his eyes that he wanted to play a game of hopscotch. Anyway, I realized the next day that he was the fifth Gay Real Worlder (GRW) I’d met.

My first was with Norm from the first New York show. He was a friend of my boyfriend at the time. He was living in LA and shook my hand and then popped a bubble with his gum.

My second GRW was Dan from the Miami show. I met him when he was modeling for the uniform company I worked for in Chicago. I ran into him a couple of times after that and one time invited him to a leather bar. The last I saw of him he was disappearing into the back room. I never saw him again.

My third GRW was Chris from the Chicago show. I waited on him in Ralph Lauren in New York, where I was a sales person at the time. He picked out a lot of things and asked me to hold them for him because his uncle was going to come and pay for it the next day. I wasn’t in when he and his uncle came back, but according to my co-worker, the “uncle” had his hand on Chris’s ass. I didn’t realize he was from Louisiana.

My fourth GRW was the guy from Paris. I accidentally bumped into him at Open Café when someone burned me with a cigarette. Before I knew it, I had a camera on me, a production assistant having me sign a release form and my shirt was on fire.

So you see, now I have a goal in my life. I will spend the rest of my life meeting all of the gay characters that have been on The Real World. Can anyone tell me who I’m missing and where I can find them? Thanks a lot.

Lavurn

That's Entertainment

2005-10-13T08:58:00.000-07:00

Some of you may have caught my TV critique of the fall season. Since that post, my hottie Bradley Cooper at "Kitchen Confidential" is gliding perilously close to being cancelled because of low ratings, so Nielsen viewers who are reading this post, I implore you to keep those Monday night TV's glued to Fox from 8-9pm. PLEEASE!

But enough of TV. I am here to talk about music and film news today. On Tuesday I attended a one-night show at Irving Plaza of the jazzy pop British singer Jamie Cullum.

He's an odd-looking bird, kind of a cross between the lead singer of the White Stripes and the midget Peter Dinklage from The Station Agent. But man almighty, can he sing! His sound is similar to Harry Connick, Jr., but his personality is a lot more fun and young. He bounced around stage and randomly invited an audience member to rap while he played drums. His best stuff included a couple of new songs like "Photograph" and a cover of "Catch The Sun", and the audience thrilled at his favorites like "All At Sea" and "High and Dry". You can check out his music at jamiecullum.com.

In other news, Daniel Craig has been chosen to be the new James Blonde, I mean James Bond. Some may remember this manly hunk from "Lara Croft", but I disctintly remember him from the "Love Is The Devil" about gay artist Francis Bacon. That movie was whack! A robber (Craig) breaks into Bacon's apartment, and rather than shoot him, Francis Bacon (Derek Jacobi) makes him his lover. Oh, how art imitates life, Lavurn!

Finally, I want to make a plug for a new art-house flick opening in limited release this weekend in New York. The film stars one of the most beautiful presences to ever grace the screen, the actor Kip Pardue. In the screening I saw at the Nantucket Film Festival, I heard a woman on the other side of the theater whisper, "He's gorgeous!", saying out loud what everyone in the theater was thinking, even the straight men. Anyway, the story is also beautiful, so if you live in the Big Apple, you'll get the chance to see it this weekend. Or go to loggerheadsmovie.com for the film festival and future release schedule. You're welcome!

Sleep F@#king With a Cat

2005-10-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Shirl and Our Loyal Fan Base,

I hope the three of you are doing well. I am in Seattle right now with Two Straights and a Baby. It is nothing like that magical movie which starred Ted Danson and Steve Guttenburg. Anyway, after I told my friend that trips to the supermarket and a book entitled, "How To Make Sure Your Baby Girl's Vagina is at it's Cleanest", wasn't entertaining me, he suggested that if I was bored that I f@#k one of his cats. I told him that I'd come pretty close one time and it didn't do anything for me. He offered no more options to pass the time so I decided to share my story about sleep f@#king a cat with you. I'll start it off with a poem.

I once knew a fellow named Matt
Who liked to have sex like a cat
He didn’t make sounds
Not even a peep
And when I was in him
He would fall asleep

Now when I said, I had sex with a cat, I don’t mean that he was really a cat. For Christ’s Sakes, I don’t need Peta in my ass. There's not much room in there.

"Matt was a real person, Peta. Put away your picket signs!!!!"

Also, when I say that Matt the Cat would sleep f@#k, I don’t mean that he would fall asleep and lie there. Despite what my high school girlfriend, Tammy Touchet might say, I am not that bad in bed. It’s not my fault she was the biggest whore in all of Milwaukee and used to have sex with hobos and convenient store cashiers, who everybody knows are natural born lovers.

Perhaps I should explain what I mean so there is no confusion. You see, Matt and I started our love making like normal humans by kissing. But after a few minutes, Matt pulled his lips away from mine and started rubbing his head all over my body. I didn’t know if he thought that was turning me on or if he had dandruff and was looking for a scratch. So I rubbed his head a little and he responded by rubbing his face on my chest. The motion was consistent like he was a kitten licking my nipple hoping that milk would come out. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that since the implants, I’d been dry. His tongue never came out of his mouth though which confused me. Regardless, I didn’t like what Matt was doing because I was starting to get a rub burn. So I told him that it might be more comfortable for both of us if we played a little game I liked to call, “Hopscotch,” which in Latin means, “Sit on My Dick.”

So I lay on my back while Matt was getting in the position needed to play the game. He found the position quickly but was having some difficulty with the movement needed for a fun and exciting game. Instead of moving up and down slowly and then a little faster, depending on my commands, he bounced up and down. Also, instead of looking at me and telling me how good I was at the game, he closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side.

He did that for like five seconds and then curled his fingers into fists and bent his arms so that they looked like the front legs of a feline. His strange behavior didn’t stop there though. It continued with him rubbing his face on his shoulders and then his forearms.

If that wasn’t strange enough to make me question my decision to shop for, "hopscotch partners" on the internet in the future, his next action did. You see, he put his head between his two fists and passed it from one to the other like it was a ball of yarn or something.

Although I’d never fucked a cat, I’d often wondered what it would be like and except for the lack of a tail sliding in and out of my ass, sex with Matt was just like what I'd thought it would be.

I decided that I needed to stop playing Hopscotch with Matt because I was scared he might scratch me and since my insurance didn't cover Cat Scratch Fever, I didn't want to take a chance. So I called out his name, which was really Mathieu but didn’t rhyme with cat so I changed it to Matt so that the poem would make sense.

“Mathieu. Mathieu!” I screamed.

But he didn’t respond. He continued to bounce around like he was keeping beat to some Madonna song and if I had to guess, I’d say it was, “Lucky Star.” That’s just a guess though. I’ll never know for sure.

Anyway, I was stumped and didn’t know how to get him off of me. Would I have to throw an open can of tuna in the corner to get him off of me? Should I bark like a dog? Would spraying him with a water bottle work?

Suddenly divine intervention occurred. At least that’s what I thought it was. Maybe it was the fact that I’m allergic to cats. Whatever the cause, I sneezed and when I did, a nice little stream of mucus flew onto Mathieu’s torso. This was all it took for Matt the Cat to stop bouncing around and get off of me.

So I guess the moral of this story is: If you’re trying to wake up a cat, who is sitting on your dick, all you have to do is sneeze. Also, when stuck in the suburbs of Seattle with Two Straights and a Baby, fantasize about bestiality to pass the time.

Come out, come out, wherever you are

2005-10-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

Today is National Coming Out Day, so I thought I would open up my heart and tell you all the shocking truth, I am...

...a closet fan of Felicity. I know, this may shock your delicate sensibilities, you freakin' faggot, but the truth is both ugly and beautiful. I have followed every episode of Keri Russell's struggles through college as if it were my bible--like what not to do when Ben won't reveal his inner feelings (don't spy on his college application!), etc. and now I feel like I am better prepared for the many foibles of dating and loving, whenever that happens to come my way.

Oh, by the way, for those of you who want an update on the swimmer who disappeared from the dance floor moments before we were supposed to leave together last Sunday, you can rest assured that he was not sold into white slavery. I saw him walking his dog this afternoon. Now I know exactly where to stalk him and encourage him to come out. Thanks Felicity!

Shirl

So You Think You Can Dance?

2005-10-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

Happy Columbus Day to our Italian American readhership. Thanks to Christopher's "round world" theory, we now have one more 3-day white sale at Macy's. Columbus Day also allows normally responsible investment bankers and postal workers to have a Sunday night to get freaky until the early morning hours, which is where I begin my latest tale...

This Sunday a friend invited me out for drinks. I am not sure whether this friend is just trying to actively reestablish our friendship or if he's sniffing around for more, but he's called me more times in the past week than he has in the previous 6 months. Anyway, I kept that tucked in the back of my mind as we went out to watch the Desperate Housewives in a local watering hole. There's nothing more fun than having 80 queens cheer as Bree Vandecamp bitch slaps her mother-in-law. It really enhances the viewing experience.

Afterward we decided to be irresponsible at a hot new club in West Chelsea. We arrived and immediately bumped into some friends. The music was really good, so this was looking to be a random late night of disco fun. After a while, I started dancing with this hottie with a swimmer's build. I had been dancing my version of the lambada which involves a complex combination of cymbals and a butter churn. After a few minutes of dancing I started to get Crotching Tiger. If you don't know what that means, Lavurn, ask James Bekier.

Anyway, my dance partner put his hand down my pants and told me that he wanted to help me relieve the pressure in my pants. I thought that was really sweet of him in Florence Nightengale kind of way, although I wanted to tell him that his playing with it on the dance floor wasn't providing me any immediate relief. Here's the kicker though. On our way to the exit I said goodbye to a couple of friends. I finally made it to the exit door, but my boogeying Michael Phelps had just disappeared. I couldn't believe it! I searched outside and around the club, but no sign. Has this ever happened to you, Lavurn? I'm worried about him, so I'm getting an illustrator to draw a picture of him for milk cartons.

Signed Dance 10, Sex 3,

Shirlee

Fit to be tied

2005-10-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

My gym has been running a promotion prompting the question "Are you Equifit?" which made wonder whether they were asking if I was hung like a horse or if I could have sex like Catherine The Great, until I remembered that I belonged to the Equinox health club and this was a not-so-clever use of the club name.

Always keen on getting closer to some of our very attractive trainers, I signed up for the Equifit analysis. I assumed the test would have a noise meter on me to see how loud I grunted as I did a bench press, or how many gay men I could gossip with between the stationary bikes and the stretching mat. Unfortunately, what transpired in the course of the next hour was neither clever nor fun, but is based on a true story.

My trainer's name for my fitness test was Rondelle. Rondelle's not on the list of trainers that I would get off the treadmill 4 minutes into my run to follow back into the locker room to pick up that "thing" I forgot in my locker. I thought about asking him if how the other Rondelles were doing, but thought better of it. Especially after he brought me into the trainer's office, locked the door and told me to take off my shirt. All right, let's get this party started. Then he pulled out the calipers....

I suppose there's nothing wrong with using plastic child-bearing foreceps to randomly assign a body fat percentage, but what really weirded me out was the positions he had me in to accurately grab my skin for the assessment. First he asked me to stand like Wonder Woman as he tested my pec fat. Then he asked me to bend over as he grabbed my waist fat. "Hello, Wonder Woman never did this. Are you sure that this is an accurate reading? What, you want me to back up closer to you? Okay, just this once." Finally, the leg fat was tested by me doing a ballerina toe point followed by a bevel. I think Rondelle has a fixation with dancers. After the embarrasment of the caliper test, he fiddled with what looked like a Fisher Price model of a stethescope. He put the ear buds in and tapped the end once, twice, three times a lady. Finally he just grimaced and said, "We'll just wing it with your pulse."

Finally, I did a test on a treadmill. Rondelle wanted me to sweat, so he positioned the incline on the treadmill so high that I had to hang on as I walked upside down. Trainer Rondelle said, don't let go. It reminded me of an amusement park ride. I made it a lot further than he thought I would. We went back to the trainer's office, he locked the door again and I thought this would be our passionate embrace. He did some calculations on his computer, I assumed computing the cost of our weekend getaway house. When he looked up he said, "You have an amazingly efficient heart and incredible flexibility," sigh Rondelle, you really know how to sweet-talk a girl, "but you could afford to lose a few percentages of body fat." gulp.

So, dear readers, I'm cutting out a couple of nights of binge drinking and the Ben & Jerry's for a while, because Rondelle really wants us to be happy together before we take our act on the road. Wish me luck!!

Ass Tray and Bathroom for The Confused

2005-10-05T05:50:00.000-07:00

This morning as I was taking photos of my butt to compare them to the ones I took yesterday, I found a couple of old pictures that I thought were share worthy. One of them is an Ass Tray. This was taken in Stockholm. I wonder why Ikea hasn't started carrying this item. The other was taken in Paris. It's a sign to let people know that the door leads to the bathroom. But whose bathroom? Men? Women? Or the sexually confused?

Gay, Drunk or Italian?

2005-10-04T12:29:00.000-07:00

It always amazes me, how you can be experiencing something and it makes you think of a completely different past experience. Like when someone is going down on me, I think about my days as an alter boy. When I smell liquor or semen, I think about my childhood visits to my Uncle Ted’s farm. Or when I see feces spread on a bathroom wall, it reminds me of my first Celine Dion concert.

I had one of these “remembering experiences,” recently when I found myself in an Ikea in Jersey. The sleekly designed furniture and big-breasted blonde customers walking around made me think of a weekend I spent in Stockholm, Sweden. A city where most of the people are just simply beautiful. I’m talking, “I don’t care if you are my fourteen year old nephew and your mother is waiting to take you to the orthodontist, we’re having sex,” beautiful.

My most memorable experience in Stockholm was when I picked a guy up on the street. Well, technically, half of his body was on the sidewalk so I don’t know if that counts as picking someone off the street. Regardless, it was one of the strangest and eye opening experiences I’ve ever had in my life. Even more so than those twenty minutes I spent locked in a closet with a jar of peanut butter, a golden retriever and my sexually active, second cousin, Vanesa.

It was my first night in Stockholm, Sweden and I was walking to my hostel alone after being blown off by a guy named Anus, (I thought Lavurn was a bad name). I was wondering what Carmen Electra’s job was, when I walked up to this guy laying on his back in the street. I looked at his face and noticed that he was young and kind of cute. So then I thought he might not be some drunk, homeless guy, but some guy who’d had too much to drink or given the date rape drug or had slipped on a bologna sandwich. So I leaned over him and asked him if he was O.K.

The cute, young, street guy, sat up, then stood up and stumbled around for a few seconds. He had on a gray sweatshirt with a cigarette burn in the back that was still smoking. He was about 30 years old and had a cute reddish beard that matched his cute reddish bob. I asked him where he was going and he pointed in the direction of my hostel. And then he put his arm around me and said, “We’re going this way.”

Although I consider myself adventurous, I am also very suspicious. I imagined a scenario in my head where a gang of Swedish guys would jump out of the back of a van and beat me up and steal my money. I thought about pushing the street guy to the sidewalk at that moment and making a run for it. But then, I thought the hot Swedish guys might also rape me and so I decided to continue walking with the street guy.

We walked up a hill and then street guy, whose name I never got, told me, “I want to show you a beautiful view of Stockholmo.”

When he said, “Stockholmo,” I wondered if he’d made a mistake or if he was hinting that he was gay. I was quickly distracted because he squeezed my side like he was doing a fat check.

So I got to wondering, “Is this guy gay or just drunk? Or is he gay and drunk? What’s better? Is there a difference?”

When we got to the top of the hill, he pulled me to the edge of the sidewalk, against a railing and pointed out. There was the lake with an amazing view of the city in the background. I hadn’t seen it before and was kind of glad that I had someone to share it with. Even if it was a drunk guy, who had laid down on a lit cigarette in the middle of the street and I’d only met a few minutes before. I kind of have this fetish thing about views. When I see them, I have an urge to kiss whoever I’m with. I looked at street guy to see if he was thinking the same thing, but he was pulling a bottle cap out of his hair.

After a few minutes, we stepped away from the view and continued walking towards my hostel with his arm still around me. This was when my wish from a few minutes before became true. This is when he pulled my face towards his and kissed me a few times. It was only on the lips and there was no tongue involved. Because there was no tongue involved, I wondered if it was a “gay kiss” or if it was a, “I’m so drunk that I don’t know what I’m doing,” kiss. Then I thought it might be a Swedish thing, like under aged whores and meatballs.

After his kiss, he pulled me to the railing again to look at the view of the city again and once more he said, “I love Stocholmo.”

The kiss, the fat check, Stockholmo? This guy had to be gay. But then he told that his mother was Italian and his father was Swedish. So I thought that the kiss and “Stockholmo” could be an Italian thing. Don’t they end most of their words with an “o”? I was really confused at this point and didn’t know what to do.

So we walked some more and I thought about my options. I really wanted to kiss him but was afraid that I might embarrass myself. Then I realized that I was in Europe and when I was really drunk or in another country, I could do whatever I wanted and not be embarrassed. So then I thought he might get offended and try to beat me up. But I sized him up and realized that I could take him in a fight if I had to. So, since I couldn’t think of any reasons not to kiss him, I decided to go for it.

So I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, pulled his face towards mine and kissed him. A few times only on the lips, but then I stuck my tongue in his mouth. And then, he stuck his in my mouth. I pulled him against the rail and kissed him some more. He didn’t seem like he was into though. But he didn’t push me away. In fact, he hugged me really tight and then pulled me to walk with him and told me that we needed a drink and some hash.

I don’t know about you, but when I kiss some guy that picked me up off of the street, I don’t think I need a drink and hash. I think I need condoms, lube and a 16 year old Hungarian gymnast. But I’ve come to realize that some people think differently than me and so I went with the Flo. And by Flo, I mean the woman who played the sassy waitress at Mel’s diner on the 1980’s sitcom Alice. She’d have gone home with him.

Anyway, after a few minutes, I saw my hostel but didn’t say anything because I was still hoping for sex. Or hash. So I followed him to a bar which was thankfully closed. And by thankfully, I mean that I didn’t want to sit with some drunk guy who would tell me about how his dog used to lick his asshole and his Aunt Cindy used to chase him around the neighborhood with her car. I didn’t need to be reminded of my childhood.

Anyway, I was about to give up on the sex and or hash and go masturbate in the community bathroom in my hostel, when street guy said, “We have to go to my place.”

Ding Dong!!!!!!

There were handbags and high heels all over the floor when we opened the door to his apartment.

“Great,” I thought. “He’s a cross dresser. That would explain the bob haircut.”

I wanted to know about his cross dressing but didn’t want to come out and ask if he was a cross dresser because that’s just rude. Instead I asked,

“Does a woman live here?”

“Yes. But she’s in Paris,” he told me.

Cool, I thought. He wasn’t a cross dresser. He just had a girlfriend. That is so much better. The bunk bed next door at my hostel was starting to look a lot better.

But then he hugged me and asked if I wanted to stay the night.

I didn’t see a possibility of hash or sex but something was keeping me there. I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t know why he wanted me there. Was he going to sell me into white slavery? Was he going to steal my body organs? How much did one get for a nine inch dick on the black market?

I was filled with curiosity and so I agreed to stay. We got undressed and then fell into the one bed in the apartment together. And there we hugged and kissed until he told me, “We’re going to have a beautiful sleep. That’s all.”

Sleep? That’s all? What the hell? I wanted to get out of that bed, put my clothes on, steal his wallet and go back to my hostel. But then I remembered all the times I’d wanted to just sleep next to someone and how angry I’d gotten because all they wanted to do was have sex. I never forgave my cousin Bobby for that.

I fell in and out of sleep the whole night. Partly because I wasn’t used to having someone hug me while I slept and partly because I was scared street guy would wake up and freak out on me. What would he do? Would he stab me? Would he boil water on the stove and pour it on me? Would he call someone to bring over hash and a 16 year old Hungarian gymnast?

I didn’t know, but I really wanted to know what this guy’s deal was. So as the sun came up, I got up and walked around the apartment. There were black and white paintings of women all over the place. There was another room with a sofa but no other bedroom. What did that mean? Was the girl in Paris, his girlfriend or roommate? I wanted to know everything, so even though I was wide awake, I got back into bed next to him and waited for him to wake up.

An hour passed and he didn't move. I amused myself by counting ceiling tiles, wondering if I could get a whole foot up my ass and staring at him. He had a nice body; hairy chest, although it looked like he shaved around the nipples. He had a tattoo on the inside of his right arm; 0123456789. His face was very handsome and he had nice full lips; ones so full that I wanted to lean over and kiss him at that moment and continue to do so until he spread feces on me or burped. But I didn’t, because as I looked closer at his lips, I noticed that he had bubble on his top one.

Well, this freaked me out. Was it there the night before when we’d kissed? Could I get a bubble on my lip just by laying next to him in bed? Were we going to smoke hash when he woke up?

I couldn’t stay laying there and take the chance of getting whatever it was he had. So I got up, got dressed, copied down his credit card number and went to the nearest pharmacy.

“Hello,” I told the pharmacist, “I need something to prevent a cold sore.”

“Why do you think you’re going to get a cold sore?” he asked.

“Because I kissed someone with a bubble on there lip.”

“A bubble?”

“Yes. A bubble.”

“Can you describe the bubble?” he asked.

“Yes. It was bubbly.”

“Like a sore?” he asked.

“No. Like a bubble or a blister.”

“A fever blister?”

“I’m not sure. I’m sorry I can’t describe it better. I wanted to get a picture of him but I was afraid it would wake him up.”

“Him?” he asked.

“I mean her. No, him. But it’s not a gay thing. He’s Italian and they kiss on the lips.”

The pharmacist shifted his eyes from left to right for a few seconds and then sold me some ointment that he said should prevent whatever it was I was exposed to.

I thought about going back to street guy’s apartment and laying next to him until he woke up. But then I thought it might be weird. Why did I want to know his deal so bad? Part of me felt like I had a crush on him. Is that possible? I had a crush on a drunk guy I found on the street who may or may not have been gay and had a bubble on his lip?

I don’t know what I was feeling but I know it brought me back to his door several times that day. I knocked softly each time because I didn’t want to wake him if he was still sleeping. I didn’t know what I was going to tell him or why I wanted to talk to him. I imagined the two of us going out for breakfast and maybe checking out the city together. I decided I needed to stop being so obsessive and just let him go. So I wrote a note and slipped it under his door because that is my definition of letting it go. This is what it said,

“Hi, I found you laying on the street last night and I brought you home. I hope that you are doing OK. This morning. I am staying at the hotel next door. Leave me a note if you’d like to get a drink or coffee. I am a writer and you seem like an interesting guy. Take care and good luck in everything. Peace and happiness.”

He never left a note and so the next day I thought about going to his apartment again to see if he was in. But then I stopped and realized that I was obviously looking for something. An adventure. A good story. Hash. I wanted someone that would make me feel special and forget about Carmen Electra and block out the fact that I'd gone to a Celine Dion concert. This guy obviously wasn’t the one to do that. So I decided that I would forget about him and instead conquer Stockholm and the world alone.

And I’m glad I did, because that night I met a guy who let me stick a cucumber in his ass. But that’s a whole other story.

Lavurn

Who Wants to Marry A Millionaire

2005-10-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

Nothing says autumn like apple cider donuts and a gay commitment ceremony in the country, both of which I had the opportunity to sample this past weekend. Driving up to the Berkshires with a friend, I was looking forward to camping and checking out the beautiful colors. I figured there would be no place better a gay wedding for both.

We arrived quite early on the evening before the ceremony, so my wedding escort and I decided to hang with the family of the betrothed at a local dining establishment. The bar, like every other bar in western Massachusetts, was blaring the baseball playoffs. The brother of one of the grooms was kind enough to explain to us some of the more arcane details of baseball as the Yankees and Red Sox battled it out, while I watched the butts of the players try to battle out of their uniforms. Scoring aside, this looked like a win-win situation in my estimation.

The morning of the ceremony, we drove to our first hike destination, but opted for the Norman Rockwell museum after the park ranger depressed us with his suggestions, "Well, you can hike to this point from here, but you're gonna see a lot of *&%$ people". On the way to the museum we got stuck in the traffic for the "Harvest Festival" aka Texas Chain Saw Macrame. I was dying to stop because you can never have too many God's Eyes and cable knit sweaters, but we needed to press on, so I just waved to the festival goers at the Pumpkin Toss. They looked so happy throwing squash around, but in the end the museum was a big enough slice of Americana for my sickly sweeth tooth. Did you know that Rockwell was partial to the color red and put it in many of his paintings? Me either, but the curator declined to say what other significance that held, so my mind wandered.

Next came the main event, the BIG GAY WEDDING. To be honest, I expected more pageantry from the ceremony, maybe a raised stage and a helicopter descending from the sky with the grooms hanging out of it like a Diana Ross Superbowl. Instead they chose a more dignified walk down the hill to the spot in front of the minister and guests while holding the hands of two adorable little girls. Yes, dear readers, this was a life-affirming moment. The gays do like children! Well, at least cute children. I'm not sure they would have strolled down the hill with Augustus Gloop. The service was blessedly short, although I swear the personalized vows of the groom who is an attorney gave him an out clause, "I promise to be together all of our days". "All of our days", what does that mean?

Hours of open bar later, grooms and guests were all on the dance floor to "I Will Survive", "Dancing Queen" and other traditional wedding favorites that for the first time I didn't feel ironic dancing to. My last open bar experience was at the Queer Eye party. As I mentioned before I'm not great with an unlimited amount of alcohol, but I managed to stay upright on the dance floor. The evening ended abruptly when I was hit on by one of the grooms' friends in a long-term relationship. It wasn't very flattering or sexy. He pulled up my shirt and said, "Do you wanna fuck?" I said, "No." He repeated this line about 8 more times, hoping it would wear down my resistance, but I managed to hold him at bay. I also managed tp have an in-depth conversation with my friend and escort which I managed to blank out the next day. Repeat after me, " Hi. my name is Shirlee. I will never over-indulge at an open bar again." "Hi Shirlee!"

The wedding was painful for more than my brain cells. It made me nostalgic for real love again. Having once tasted the intimate kind of love that is all-consuming, I am willing to throw my hat until the ring again for the right guy. I'm willing to commit. Until then, I've decided to up my desirability. I'm auditioning for "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" in two weeks. Then maybe I can find someone who loves me for my money instead of my looks. That, my friends, is Wuv, Twew Wuv!

Invade my shorts

2005-09-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

Invade my shorts
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

Something invaded Eddie Cibrian's boxers last night on "Invasion", and then they invaded my shorts.

Now that's what I call interactive TV!

The Post-Game Show

2005-09-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

After our first game of the Big Gay Football Fall, Lavurn and I casually made plans with our competitors to meet up at a bar. Lavurn and I are not in the running for a Heisman trophy any time soon. We are really only in the league for the social aspects, so the returning players gave us a knowing smile while the new recruits seemed genuinely pleased by the attempt to create new social networks.

At our chosen drinking hole, one of the league sponsors, Lavurn had to creatively ditch her hanger-on friend who she had mistakenly invited while I navigated the grid iron trying to meet the new recruits. Dear readers, I am happy to report that there are quite a few lookers in the fall league and it will only be a matter of time before I have an embarrassing moment with one of these young lads after six too many happy hour drinks.

This positive turn of events offsets the bad news that my most recent suitor is losing his luster. Even though we are in a committed relationship, i.e. two dates, and the boy has a smokin' body which I have to thank the creepy bartender for exposing, the young webmaster whom I will call Jack has a kissing style that is way off. Meaning off the mark. Have you ever not been able to match lips with someone? I find I am craning my neck to synch up. It's like one of those cell phone chargers that has lost its connectivity with too much use. Very frustrating. Plus he didn't call back to set up our sex date, so I'm back on the market!

I may not know Jack, but I'm not going to need a neck massage any time soon.

Cracking Ashton's Mobile! Real or Punk'd?

2005-09-23T08:26:00.000-07:00

So, in my important daily research of geo-political events which would be of most interest to our readers, I came across a site whose creators have claimed that they hacked into Ashton Kutcher's voicemail. One of the webmasters knew some chick that got Ashton's voicemail, so they decided to try every combination to hack into his voicemail messages. The site is called:

http://www.ashtonhacked.com/

Check it out. There are some messages which are hysterical, like the guy who is clearly on some good drugs. The one with the girl who claims she sucked his cock sounds a little dubious to me, but it's definitely food for thought.

Enjoy!

Your fearless reporter in the field,

Shirl

The Dating Game

2005-09-21T07:42:00.000-07:00

Gals,

Recently I've somehow made myself attractive enough for someone to date. The last "date" I had was so bizarre-o alternate universe that I thought I would detail the date below for your enjoyment. Let's hope that the new date-bait is not as bad, although I'm not sure it's possible....

Once upon a time in a land far, far away called North Chelsea, a circuit queen from Buffalo pulled up his email system to reach out to a simple country boy from Rochester. All they had in common was a love of football shorts and good Buffalo wings, but this circuit queen typed, "Hey, do you want to get dinner some time next week? We could go out in Chelsea/WV!" The country boy sat in his WV apartment and puzzled over many questions posed by the email inquiry including the use of the exclamation mark in his dinner proposal. Did dancing queens because of their worn down ear drums have to resort to exclaiming everything, even when typing?!!!

Anyway, the WV country boy decided that curiosity may have killed the cat, but that this would be a good excuse to stare at the circuit queen's hair pattern, a source of regular gossip between he and his recently relocated teammate. Yes, a meeting would take place. Hmm, where to dine? Well, the CB remembered that he had never seen the CQ in anything other than tanks and t-shirts. Did the dancing queen have evening wear? CB thought it best to stick to simple fare for dinner, for fear that the dinner outfits would be as sorely mismatched as their tastes, interests and hairstyles. A new BBQ restaurant in Chelsea!!! sounded about right.

The day approached, and the country boy realized that he had nothing on his agenda to discuss with the circuit queen. Football season was over and most likely the CQ would not be drinking, so CB decided to "pre-lubricate". Thirty minutes, three beers and half a bottle of wine later, he was ready to go to dinner! Arriving precisely 2 minutes after the prescribed date time, country boy sees circuit queen waiting outside in (drumroll please...) a tank-top and shorts. Well, it was a boiling 71 degrees outside, I suppose covering his shoulders and kneecaps would have been uncomfortable. Still, CB had every hope that the dancing queen would prove him wrong.

"Hey, how are you doing?", CB asks.

"Let's get inside. Hurry!"

"Okay..."

It turns out that this restaurant was tres popular, even though it looked like a spruced up delicatessen, and the CQ had spied one remaining table. He was hungry! Well, that was promising. CB hated it when his dinner companions had nothing more than grilled chicken and cucumbers for dinner.

Food was ordered, as well as CB's "first" drink of the night, along with CQ's lemonade.

"So how did you like the Gay Pride Pier Dance?", CB asks completely uninterested.

"Oh, it was good, but that was a crazy weekend. I probably got six hours of sleep all weekend between the Danny Tenaglia party and the Junior event. Wooh!!"

"Wooh!" [beer gulp] "So, do you like to travel?"

"Oh yeah! Last year I went on the Atlantis cruise. That was crazy. I barely got any sleep. My roommate was in our cabin practically ALL the time unfortunately. I brought a guy there at 3am and had to ask him to take a long walk. You should come next year! It's a lot of fun!!" CQ subtly grazes his leg against CB's jeans. CQ raises one eyebrow and then both eyebrows, and then one eyebrow again.

"It sounds it!" [gulp] "Waitress, can I get a refill?" CB has to keep from staring at the very good hairpiece. He doesn't have his former roommates talent for spotting rugs, so waits to see if CQ touches his hair. He tries to encourage this behavior by running his fingers through his own hair. CQ has a tendency to mumble his words together, which through the alcoholic haze is making it difficult for CB to follow his amusing tales.

"Do you like your job at American Express?" CB asks, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction.

"It's okay. Kind of mindless. The other day I lit a fart and my boss popped her head in and said 'Are you eating tuna'?"

"Oh my god!" overjoyed at the chance to follow corporate intrigue, CB followed up, "So what did you say?"

"I said no."

"Oh" disappointedly answered CB, hoping that there was a good punch line to the story, "You should keep a scented candle in your cubicle at all times and tell your boss that you've adopted a form of Buddhism that requires you keep a flame burning."

"I'm Jewish."

"Yeah, I'm just saying, to get out of..."

"Do you want to go to GYM bar?"

"Do you? I thought you didn't drink."

"I don't normally. I mean, I probably will when I visit my family up in Buffalo this weekend, but normally I stick to good drugs to keep me happy." Wink, raise one eyebrow, then two, then one.

"That's a neat trick with your eyebrows. I'm going to call you Johnny Eyebrows."

"Okay!!" CQ thinks he is making a connection with CB.

Fast forward to one our and two drinks later, CQ is trying the leg trick again. It's clear that he has some expectation, although he didn't offer to pay for dinner or any of his drinks, so CB is holding out on principle. Still no clear indication of where the hairpiece is connected, CB is frustrated.

CB continues, "So you lived in Japan? What was that like? I worked for Sony for a while and thought that the Japanese culture was incredibly stifling."

CQ says, "It was all right. I worked for HP. I used to hook up with the other white gays there. Most of the ex-pats in Japan were gay or would be considered ugly straight men in the States. We all got lucky in Japan."

"Interesssting" CB comments, making a mental note to move Japan up his list of travel destinations. CB thinks his alcohol intake is starting to affect his use of consonants and judgment.

"Well, enough about me." quips CB, "Let's talk about my body." This time I receive two double eyebrow lifts followed by one eyebrow. If only I had taken Sign Language for Parapalegics in college, I would know what that meant.

"Shall we leave?" "Yes, I think it's time."

And thus, boys and girls, ends the tale of Marky Mumble and Scotty Slur on their dinner date.

Orange Skin? My Ass!!!!!

2005-09-20T14:49:00.000-07:00

Hello Shirl, Diane and all of our loyal readers, whom I'll refer to as our Loyal Readers

It is great to be back in New York with all of my friends and family. I was getting lonely in Paris and was starting to do strange things; staring at my nude body in the mirror for hours at a time, rubbing a cat’s back against my bare ass, pondering if I might in fact be retarded and nobody ever mentioned it to me.

Now, don't get me wrong. Being alone is great for self discovery. And I certainly discovered something about myself during one of my, "Nude Stares." I discovered that besides the fact that my abs were like a washboard, my skin was as soft as the underbelly of a Eugoslavian Field Hog, and my arms could have been submitted to a gun show, that my ass had started to develop something that looked like cellulite.

How could this have happened? I’ve always had an ass that inspired movies, fed the middle class and built infrastructures. Oh wait, maybe that was Eva Peron. Regardless, my ass had always been that of a fifteen year old Puerto Rican girl. Firm, plump and somewhat of a citrus taste. But suddenly, it looked like that of forty five year old Swiss, suburban housewife. White, wavy and somewhat of a cottage cheese taste.

I decided that whatever the reason for my new found cellulite friend, I should begin a mission to lose it like an ugly trick I picked up on The Cock on “Pina Coloda Night”.

First, I analyzed what I put in my body on a daily basis: milk, yogurt, cheese, crème fraiche, butter, a young French man named Serge. These all seemed like healthy dairy products but I decided to cut back on all of them and start eating more fruits and vegetables.

The second step I took was to exercise more. I did lunges and back kicks on a daily basis which seemed to work a little but I wanted something more. I wanted those bumps to disappear over night. And then one day, as if Richard Simmons was sending a message to me, I saw a French commercial that offered help.

I couldn’t understand what they are saying, but apparently the story line was about this girl who couldn’t get her skirt on. So she rubbed some kind of roll on thing on her legs and suddenly, she could fit into her shirt. Wow! I know a few tricks I’ve taken home that I’d love roll down with that miracle product. Anyway, after the young lady accomplished getting dressed, a picture of a wrinkled sheet came on screen. Then a woman passed her hand over it and smoothed it out.

The commercial had all the elements of what I thought a cellulite commercial would look like but I never heard the word, “cellulite.” This confused me so I decided I needed the help of a professional: a middle aged woman.

I emailed an American friend of mine who lives in Switzerland and asked her if she’d seen the commercial. She told me, “No,” but that the French don’t always use the word cellulite in France. Sometimes they use the words, “peau d’orange”, which means “orange skin”.

With this new found knowledge, I rushed out and bought this miracle product.

It was a bit odd at first to be rubbing a large roll on deodorant apparatus on my ass. It stung a little, which I took to signify that it was working. I should warn you however, that you should avoid getting the roll on too close to the orifice in that vicinity. Imagine if the lemon juice you put in hair to get highlights leaked into an open cut on your neck.

So I was happy for a couple of weeks because I thought my cellulite would disappear. However, when I compared the daily photographs I took of it, I didn’t notice a difference. Sure, my ass was getting firmer, but the peau d’orange was still present.

I didn’t know what to do and was getting desperate. I thought about never taking off my underwear again in front of another man. I considered surgery. I even considered getting into leather and wearing one of those masks so no one could see my face.

Around the same time, I went to Switzerland to visit my friend. During one of our round table discussions about the G8, The OC and unwanted body hair, I asked her if she could take a look at my ass and give her opinion.

“Lavurn,” she said. “That’s not cellulite. Those are stretch marks.”

“Stretch marks,” I said. “How the hell did I get stretch marks?”

“Did you lose some weight recently?”

I thought about what she said and realized that I had lost weight recently. And then I realized that most of it was probably in my ass.

“Oh thank god, it’s not cellulite,” I told her. “Now how do I get rid of stretch marks?”

“You can’t,” she told me.

I was not about to accept defeat so I consulted my French roommate. As if he’d been waiting for my question, he pulled a tube of Strivectin out of his Burberry clutch and said,

“It’s incredible. You put on your face too for making wrinkles disappear.”

“And how do I gain a little extra weight in my ass?”

“Are you stupid or what? Why would you ask me that? Ask an American.”

So as I type this, ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to say that even though some of my stretch marks are hanging on like men’s Capri pants, most of them have disappeared thanks to a tube of stretch mark lotion at my left and a Big Mac at my right.

I have learned from this experience that I am getting older and so is my body. One day, the creams and McDonalds will stop working to reduce the signs of aging and I will have to live with it. Or move to San Francisco. Until that time comes, my big ass and I will walk proudly through the streets knowing that we won the battle of stretch marks.

Love Lavurn

Fall Preview

2005-09-14T10:05:00.000-07:00

Dear faithless readers,

It's amazing to me that yet another fall season is starting. Back-to-school supply sales are already finished, but the leaves are still green. And fall doesn't really start until the new crappy season of television gets going.

That's where I come in. As an aspiring TV writer and consumer of television programming, I look forward to Premiere Week like Anna Nicole looks forward to her afternoon "diet" pill. The traditional premiere week, however, has become so clogged that many of the networks have straddled their new shows out over the month of September.

Last night the WB gave us a new show with two traditionally-beautiful-without-being-sexy WB stars. This spooky show has the cuties trying to find their father and in the process encounter and kill demons. It's sort of the opposite of the Menendez story where they find their demons and kill pops. No flesh, even though one of the them sleeps with his girlfriend, so I'm giving "Supernatural" a "HOLD" rating. If we get two more episodes without some gratuitous skin, I'm changing that rating to DROP.

Looking at the schedules of the four networks, ABC, CBS and FOX all have at least something good to offer while NBC leaves me cold.

ABC may have the most unintentionally funny show (notwithstanding the new Martha shows on NBC). The Ghost Whisperer, starring Jennifer Loves Penis has already been retitled by Lavurn as "The Ass Whisperer". In the remodeled show, Jennifer finds treasures hidden in her lovers' anal cavities and coaxes them out with Brahmin chants.

Next on CBS, we have a mid-season replacement, which means the network didn't have too much faith in it. "Crumbs" stars "Wonder Years" Fred Savage as the closeted gay son of a psychotic mother played by Jane Curtain. While the show is billed as a comedy, I believe it is going to play out like the story of my life, so I'll have my Tivo cued to every episode which is aired.

Finally there's Fox. The brilliant thing about Fox is that they know to hire talent like director Darrin Star to keep the eyeballs on the beautiful people. Former helmer of Melrose Place has found hottie Bradley Cooper to star in a show about cooking based on the book by Anthony Bourdain. It looks like a winner to me! Be sure to look for the cream sauce to fly when this show launches.

Your roving reporter on the boob tube,

Shirl

In Memoriam

2005-09-11T23:07:00.000-07:00

Ball Boys

2005-09-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Di,

You may know that Lavurn has just flown back from her summer in Paris, so she and I headed to celebrate her return by watching some tennis hotties change their shirts during the breaks at the U.S. Open. Still mouthwatering in the competition is none other than Robby Ginepri, who looks like he is straight out of casting for "One Tree Hill". I was looking forward to the sun beating down oppressively on Robby, while I enjoyed the hospitality tents hospitable Heinekens.

Since I arrived early to Robby's match, I strolled around the U.S. Open grounds. The first thing I noticed was how many hot twinks were around. Some of the corporate sponsors had hired some One Tree Hill casting rejects for their own marketing purposes, including
this adorable ball boy who took great glee in bouncing around this enormous tennis ball with anyone who would bounce it back to him. I forget who the corporate sponsor was because this boy was so good at ball play. He didn't want to stop playing with me and his ball. It was one of those moments where I wished I could figure out how to add video to our blog.

Still with time on my hands and having already imbibed the liver limit of 5 Heinekens before 2pm, I strolled over to the Boys tournament where teenagers 16 and under have abs that I would kill for. On the other side of the court was what I believe could be Bruce Weber's next find, twin tennis players. They were adorable and took to punching each other as a congratulations on a good shot. They won, I took pictures, everyone was happy.

Tonight I have to scout for new recruits for the fall league and hope that I will end up on a good-looking football team. Time to change my balls! We should ask our readers what type of ball is their favorite? Rubber? Felt? Pigskin? Sweaty? Hairy? So many choices, so little field time. I think I have just enough time to stalk that ball boy or pretend that I'm a model scout for those twins...

Daytripping the light fantastic

2005-09-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

Dear faithful readers,

I am not one to hold back about the intimate and often embarrassing details of my life, such as cater-waitering to a former work colleague at an East Hampton event. I've revealed about my foibles in trying to find love and my unique nipplage. But today I admit something that any enterprising gay urban professional wouldn't dream of doing. This once aspiring guppie day tripped to Fire Island.

For those of you unfamiliar with the gay Sense & Sensibility of such a social offense, rich fags pay thousands of dollars to occasionally share a small dank room with another on two twin beds. It can be fun or horrific, but you always always PAY on Fire Island. In the Indian caste system, a Fire Island daytripper would qualify as an untouchable.

If anyone I knew saw me, I was planning on pretending that I had an invite to some fabulous sugar daddy's place WAY OUT on the edge of the Pines where they would not want to visit me. Of course, I sat on the train next to someone who knew all of the island sugar daddies, so I owned up to being a day tripper. He didn't grimace, mostly because he is a midget and wants to sleep with a friend of mine, so we decided to enjoy each others company while we secretly plotted to use each other...

My plot began with "Can I stop by your house later?" His plot involved me helping him prepare his meal for his housemates while he fed me Skyy Vodka drinks and asked intimate details about my hot friend. Actually, if there is one thing I wish I had had my camera for this day, it was the second refrigerator in the midget's summer share which had approximately 45 magnums of vodka in it. Finally, I could say with confidence that, relatively speaking, I wasn't the one with the drinking problem!

Later, well juiced, my small friend and I went to low tea, where I immediately lost him in the crowd and hooked up with my neighbor. It was sloppy, especially since my neighbor looks into my living room from his kitchen all the time, but I was trying to make the most of my few hours in the Pines, and nice people kept buying me drinks. In retrospect, this was probably not the best move for someone schlepping his Apple Titanium with him to tea and trying to make the very last boat home at 8:30pm. Somehow I the wherewithall it on the boat in tact, but while waiting for a cab to the train, I went to the bathroom and missed the only cab. Then after I convinced someone to drive me to the station, my drinks started to catch up with me and I fell asleep on the platform waiting for the train listening to my iPod. I woke up to see the train slowly pulling out of the station and thought, daytripping sucks. I should have slept with my neighbor. At least then I would be one step above daytripper, the slut.

The morale of the story, boys and girls, is put out or shut out.

Musical F#$king

2005-09-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

So, I’ll admit it ladies. I have needs and sometimes I have to fulfill those needs. Which is what I was doing when I found myself naked with a man the other night. And what started out to be one of the most amazing nights in my life, turned rather strange.

Now, this special someone, who we will call Philippe, was about thirty nine years old and gorgeous. So, you have to assume that he’s been around the block once or twice. Most people aren’t as virtuous as I am. Well, I thought that after I sat on his couch and took my first sip of wine, we’d be naked, rolling around in his bed and grabbing for our ankles. But that didn’t happen. He took his time with me. He was soft and tender for about an hour and then all of a sudden, he was animal. But, just as I was about to rip my clothes off, he became tender again. Well, I was confused by his actions, but even more by his choice of music. Then I realized that the two were connected.

You see, he had a compilation of The Commodores, Lionel Ritchie solo, The Jackson Five and Michael Jackson solo. A strange mixed tape for a French Arab, I thought, but hey, I liked it. It was about after the first hour and a half of his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine that I noticed something. I noticed that during The Commodores ballads such as, “Sail On,” “Easy” and “Three Times a Lady”, he was sweet, slow and tender. Then during The Jackson Five’s “ABC”, and Michael’s “Thriller,” he was kinky. When Michael sang that slow song about that rat, Ben, Philippe massaged me. During Lionel Ritchie’s “All Night Long,” he grinded his crutch into me. This is when I realized that he was coordinating his sexual routine to the music. At first, I thought it was strange, but I kind of liked the theatrical part of it. I tried to ignore the music and how it affected him but then, I was giving him a blow job and Michael Jackson’s “Working Day and Night” came on, and he went crazy and now I think I need some dental work. After that, I became aware of the music and during the song changes, I had to make sure I didn’t have anything of his sticking in any holes of mine. It was like I was in kindergarten all over again, playing that game where you had to sit down in a chair when the music stopped. Only this wasn’t musical chairs. It was musical f@#king.

Aside from the MF, I’d have to say that my needs were met and now small children around the world will never go hungry again.

Lavurn

Lost His Mojo

2005-08-31T21:41:00.000-07:00

Vurn and Di,

I'm not sure if you kids keep up with the world of professional tennis, but I am currently in mourning for one of the great players who has lost in the first round of the U.S. Open. The player in question is none other than the porniest name in the business, Andy Roddick.

Clearly, this poor boy, whose shirt rides conveniently up beyond his collar bone every time he swings a big forehand, has had a lot on his plate. He is the boy who American teenage tennis fans and I were hoping would topple Roger Federer, who has no body or personality to speak of, unlike my other tennis infatuation, Rafael Nadal. Nadal has a butt that would make Beyonce proud. But I digress....

During the match between Roddick and his opponent, Amex played a commercial that Andy shot which involves Andy "losing his mojo". You see Andy shirtless going to bed, and then his mojo getting up in a cowboy hat and going on the town. The next day Andy is having trouble hitting a single ball while his mojo is shopping at Barneys and taking his friends to Broadway shows. Hmm, this ad sounds very targeted toward me. Could I have met Andy's mojo earlier this week?

Anyway, clearly the Amex ad had the unfortunate foresight to predict that Andy's mojo had indeed left him cold on the court, meaning I wouldn't get to see a single shirt change this U.S. Open, and I paid good money to watch this in slow-mo on cable TV! But what do they say in Spain, "Que sera, sera!" Today I am watching Nadal's butt sweat through his capri pants and his vein pop through his bicep and all is right with the world.

Now, where do tennis players go who have a lot of time on their hands....

Licking Meryl Streep

2005-08-30T14:21:00.000-07:00

Boys and girls,

Sometimes the stars align and you get to live out your fantasy life. In my rich fantasy world, I am hanging out with celebrities and having Abercrombie models play with my nipples.

Last week a dear friend of mine whom I will call Black Derrick to shield his innocence, invited me to join him at a party being hosted by Angelina Jolie and Meryl Streep to raise money for the Haitian Relief Fund. This was an A+ list party that everyone wanted to come to, and by everyone I mean Lindsay Lohan AND Jon Bon Jovi.

Okay I wasn't actually attending the party as much as I was working it. For $2,000 I could have sat next to Meryl, but I had just spent all that money on Botox for my trip to the Caribbean, so it seemed like giving money to Haitians was just redundant. The one benefit to being on staff at this event, though, was that I had a reason to get up close to Angelina and see if she is really preggers whereas the hangers-on who only paid $1,000 had to wander around the edge of the inner circle.

Anyway the party began, and Angelina arrived and did press sans Brad. The staff heard that he was flying in via helicopter that evening, so we were all fighting over who would get to spill merlot on him first. Angelina wore a wrap which covered her dress, making it all the more tantalizing about whether she was with child. Man, what a hot child that would be!

I was working the celebrity area for Jon Bon Jovi, whose skin is amazing for a rocker. He was a consummate good celebrity, thanking everyone on staff and not drinking too much, but his wife....woo could she put them back! I didn't realize that you could pronounce pinot grigio without vowels until she ordered her 12th glass (which by the way, I had explained to her during her first round was not pinot but some Spanish white wine, but no matter).

Later the party really got kicking when Wyclef Jean performed with Norah Jones. Now, I have to admit that I'm not as hip to the music scene as I would like to be. I had heard of Wyclef and cried to Norah, so I figured I knew as much as I needed to about a Haitian rap artist and the daughter of a famous sitar player.
What I didn't realize was how much I would enjoy Wyclef's performance. I'm sure he modified his playlist for the incredibly white Hamptons crowd that was pretending to be chill with his musical stylings, but I doubt Stand By Me is on his usual performance list. To my great joy, he chewed out the bitchy party producer who had been terrorizing the cater waiter staff and who wanted to keep the stage further away from the celebrities. Wyclef mentioned by name this runt with a capital C and then said that he had moved all the seating closer to the stage himself, which I'm positive made her head pop off.

Anyway, after the performance, a friend of mine introduced me to his Haitian PR friend who had had his hands all over my butt throughout the night, trying to get me to drink. It turns out that this PR guy was very comfortable working the stars and managed to get Norah to take
a picture with me and the rest of the staff. Much to my surprise, Norah's hands travelled south to my bum region as well. I made a mental note that I must wear those pants more often and said, CHEESE.

But the most incredible part of the evening for me was about 5 minutes before the headliner celebrities came on stage to plea for even more money from the Richie Riches in the crowd. I was behind the kitchen tent taking care of some dishes. This was most hectic time of the night for the cater waiters to ensure that everything is cleared before dessert. I must admit that sometimes when I'm immersed in a tense task that my tongue can stick out like a dog. Since I was behind the tent, I probably felt safe to let my inner dog pant. Anyway, I turn to put away some cleared dishes when this woman comes whisking by me within 2 inches of my face. If I had leaned forward at all, I would have licked this woman's cheek. It was at that moment that I heard another cater waiter spot said guest and yell, "I LOVE you Meryl!" Oh my God, I almost licked Meryl Streep! Sophie from Sophie's Choice wouldn't have had tears on her cheek because I had licked them off!!

Mortified, I put my tongue back in my mouth for the rest of the evening. Minutes later, Angelina, still sans Brad but looking as demure as I'm sure her PR rep told her to look, took the stage to deliver a "Please give more money" speech. It was fine, but much like her acting in most of her movies, people weren't listening to her as much wondering how much collagen they would need to get lips like hers. Meryl returned from the host's house to deliver an Oscar-caliber plea for money which made me cry and almost empty my bank account for those poor little Haitians. Let me tell you kids, that if you ever need to raise money for anything, you could do no better than getting Meryl to speak.

And if you ever need someone to style the clothing of A&F swimsuit models or someone to work at Brad's birthday party, I'll be there, lickety-split!!

You Might Be a Lesbian

2005-08-30T08:04:00.000-07:00

Ladies! This is Lavurn and I can admit it. There have been times that I’ve seen a pretty girl and I thought to myself, “There’s something sexy about her. Maybe I’m not gay.”

Then I remember that I’d had a dick in my mouth within the last 24 hours and chances were that I was a Judy Garland ticket holding, cake boy.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes. There is a point to this story. So I went to Dublin recently and a lesbian dented my camera with her vagina. She didn’t do it out of spite. I mean she didn’t do it because I’d said something bad about Melissa Ethridge or mullets. She did it because she was trying to prove to herself that she wasn’t a lesbian.

Perhaps I should explain. You see, here I was in the big gay Dublin bar, George, minding my own business and trying to get my hands down the pants of a 20 year old Irish boy named Patrick, when these two lesbians walked up to us. Well, you and I know that when Irish lesbians walk up to you, it can mean nothing but trouble. So I took my beer bottle and hit it on the edge of the counter to break it and make a weapon. Only it didn't break so my lesbian, Claire, took it out my hand, broke it for me and said, "Here you go."

And then she smiled. She introduced herself and told me that my boyfriend looked like that singer, James Blunt. I asked her what boyfriend she was talking about.

"That guy there. You were just licking his nipple."

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

Then she told me that I didn’t look gay. I don't know about you, but if I saw one guy licking another guy's nipple, I'd think he looked pretty gay. Regardless, I put one my left hand on my hip, cocked back my head and said, “Oh honey. I am gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay. I am gayer than the relationship between altar boys and priests.”

“Well, you don’t look it,” she said. All in a cute Irish lesbian accent.

“Would you like to dance?” she asked.

Even though it was a question, she didn’t really leave me much of a choice. She simply grabbed my hand and yanked me to the dance floor. It started off rather tame. A few line dance moves. Some disco arm movements. A twist. A turn. Another twist. But then, Claire decided it would be fun to dirty dance.

“What the hell?” I thought. “I’m in Ireland. Maybe I can put it on a graduate school application under charity work or psychological experiments.”

While we dirty danced, Claire told me that she was a PE teacher and that although she left her boyfriend for a girl, she wasn’t sure she was gay. And then she rubbed her vagina on my leg.

“Do you like that?” she asked me.

What was supposed to say?

"No, now I’ll never get the smell of fish and chips out of my jeans?"

That didn't seem appropriate, and the broken beer bottle was still in Claire's reach. So instead I said, “It’s hot.”

And then she grabbed my dick.

“Your dick seems to like it,” she said.

And so the night went on with her rubbing her vagina on my leg and then grabbing my dick to see if it had any affect.

“I can’t believe you’re gay,” she said as she put her hand in my shirt and rubbed my chest.

And then I realized that this girl was using me to test if she was really a lesbian. I mean come on babe! You’re a PE teacher and you’ve sucked pussy. Of course, you’re a lesbian!

I was about to tell her that I wasn’t going to be her, "lesbian test rat", when she pulled me towards her and then started grinding her vagina with full force on my leg. She hugged me and kissed my neck and started breathing hard. This happened for like ten seconds and then she let me go and grabbed my dick to see if it had any affect.

“Did you like that?”

“Uh huh,” I said. “Listen, it’s been great meeting you. But I have to go to the bathroom and then I think James Blunt and I are leaving. Good luck with that whole lesbian thing.”

Later, when I was in the bathroom, recouping from my rape, I realized that my digital camera was in my pocket. The same pocket that had vagina on it. As I looked at the camera, I noticed a small dent that wasn’t there before. The only explanation was an overactive clitoris.

So there you go. Was I right or was I raped? This women used me in either case. All I have to say to Claire and any other woman who might question her sexuality is:

"Look at the signs. Would you rather play softball or shop for high heels? Do you have your own tool belt? Do you enjoy rubbing your nose in some women’s vagina? If any of these questions are, “yes,” you might be a lesbian.”

Also, if you are in an Irish bar that may have lesbians present, don’t put your digital camera in your pocket.”

Oh, Diane, welcome to our blog. I hope to meet you one day. I've enjoyed your articles and can tell that you go through the same daily struggles as I. It must be the royal blood. I commented on your two articles.

Lavurn

Lights! Camera! Action!

2005-08-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

Hey Di, Lavurn is probably recuperating from some nasty but curable communicable Scandinavian "social" disease. Vurn is more of an expert on skimpy beach attire than I am, but I agree with your disappointment over the lumberjack's jack-in-the-box outfit I have never found anyone more attractive in a thong. Well, that's not true. Margaret Thatcher in her early years had a body to die for. I think if you're going to strut your stuff on the beach, it doesn't make sense to do stick floss between your cheeks. You might as well go commando and save some of the sperm from being crushed in that marble bag, you know? But then I'm the modest type. You'll most likely find me in one of those full-length one piece swimsuits that they wore in the early 1900s.

What I want chat about today concerns my pet project, "Momma's Boy" a TV sitcom pilot based on relationships between mothers and sons. After months of wrangling with script rewrites and meetings with producers, my writing partner and I have taken the next step and begun producing a trailer for the script. It's an exciting process, even though neither of us have ever been behind a camera. In front of a camera, sure, but never behind. It's too much work, you know? I never realized how flighty and tempermental actors can be until you ask them to put on a thong?! I told that mom that it was integral to the restaurant scene, but she wouldn't buy it!

Luckily, I have some exciting news to tell you. Tomorrow, I'm going to work a $1,000/plate dinner in the Hamptons that's being hosted by Angelina Jolie (mother of Colin Farrell in "Alexander") and Meryl Streep (mom to Patrick Wilson in "Angels In America"). I may soon be getting the professional talent I deserve to round out my brilliant sitcom. Our at least I can spill a glass of Merlot on Brad! Wish me luck!!

Beach Blanket Bingo

2005-08-25T17:26:00.000-07:00

Gurls,
Today, I decided to hop into my invisible plane and spend a quiet day at the beach. I needed a little Diana Prince down time. Well, I was all settled in my blanket, listening to the soothing sounds of the high priestess herself, Stevie Nicks, when a big corn fed masculine looking hunk of a man walked by in a pair of cut-off khakis and tee shirt. I thought, my day at the beach just might turn into a tryst in the dunes....
Well, said hunk, sets up camp about two blankets over from me and occassionally steels glances of me. Of course, I had put on my sunglasses so he would not know that i was watching him set up camp like a hungry bear stalking an unsuspecting white family in Yosemite picnicing...
It seems like hours were going by as I watched him and I began thinking, he is really methodical about how is blanket is set up... because this is taking way too long. I mean, how perfect does it have to be? Its the beach..not a dinner party. I thought, there could be trouble in shangri-la with this one...
So my interest was beginning to wain and the flies were starting to bite and my quiet day at the beach was starting to slip away from me. As much as Stevie sung about the Gypsies that remain, diana prince was getting ready to spin away...
And then it happened...
Said hunk, began the disrobing ritual. First the shirt...Very nice chest, naturally smooth, and large nipples.. Of course, they were no way near as nice as Shurls...who by the way needs to learn that she should not be showing her tits to potential new recruits until after we get their checks!
But thats another blog...
So...
Now, hunk was ready to take the shorts off. And a nice speedo was revealed. Personally, I love a speedo, but on a man who looks like a hairless lumberjack?? it was not working.
Then the worst thing happened...Gurls, under the speedo that he began to wiggle and riggle out of, came the thong. A THONG!
Why do men do this? I mean, maybe in Europe where it is more socially acceptable..but in New York?
That was all i needed to see. And I could not turn away because, it was like a big train wreck, or those cheap Jesus and Mary paintings that follow you all around the living room. All i kept seeing was ass with a very thin black piece of fabric running through the crack. I kept thinking, that thread like line of black nylon is the only thing that separates me from his asshole. It just is not right.
Oh gurls, where can a single Super Heroine who believes in truth, justice and fashion find a single masculine, non-thong wearing man these days?

a new season...

2005-08-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

Well girls,
we are on the verge of a new season of playing with balls and getting all sweaty and dirty together. A whole new season of what I like to call male bonding. The question I ask myself is, "Is it about the sport or meeting new men to date?" And can a gay do both?

I love the idea of men on the field and being good sportsman, but how does one play in the game on the field and play the game off the field at a rooftop party or a bar called Gym? (although i have still never found this GYM bar)
Can you be in the game mindset if you have played with a player's penis the night before? Can you rememeber to run a slant when the person on defense got off all over your chest after a wild naked sweaty tryst? Can you block an oncoming rusher who may or may not have called you after you gave him your number? And the worse case, what if you go on a date with someone and it was horrible and you have to see them the next day...?
Since it is well known that both Lavurne and Shurl dated the most men last season, do you have advice for us novices?

There is a party tonite with what I hope will be all new recruits. I plan on taking tee shirt and jock strap measurements in the back corner of the cubby hole. We must have uniform standards for all our boys trying out.

Well, here is to a wonderful new season of fun and frollicking and footballing...
More on the new recruits later girls, right now Diana Prince needs to hop into her mercedes 450sl and spin away.
bye for now..
diana

Days of Wine and Roses

2005-08-23T06:21:00.000-07:00

Lavurn,

Sorry it's been so long since my last post, but I've been traveling quite a bit. Last week I was in Canada, which is an adorable little country just north of ours. Those Canadians always look so well-scrubbed, like they've just come from a shower. I think it's because they are indoors during their winter, which runs from September to April.

Anyway, I arrived in Toronto and looked in my little weekend bag when I discovered that I had completely forgotten to pack my undies! Now, I know what you're going to say Vurn, who cares? But I didn't know what laws Canadians had against going commando, so I jumped on the bike of my Canadian host and sped down to the gay section where they filmed the American version of Queer As Folk (who knew Pittsburgh had a suburb in Toronto? geography is so confusing to me). It was during my bike trip that I noticed that I was the only person in all of Toronto wearing a tank top even though it was a very warm day. I certain had my share of onlookers, probably asking themselves what strange sort of costume the foreigner was wearing.

The darling little salesboy who showed me around to the overpriced underwear section looked like a young Peter Facinelli, who you may remember as Six Fee Under Claire's hot artsy boyfriend or from that bad sci-fi movie he did with Angela Basset called Supernova. Well, here's a picture of Peter to give you an idea of my sales boy.

So, Mike the sales boy wanted me to model the underwear I was selecting, and let me tell you, it was so much fun that I tried on every pair in the store. It was like one of those teengirl movies where I pull back the curtain to reveal the latest style and we'd laugh or he'd look approvingly. Finally I selected two pair, both in large because Mike said that this particular brand shrinks in the wash. They had funky styles, one looked like wood grain and the other had little pigs all over it. When I left, Mike invited me to a bar that evening, and I told him to guess whether I was sporting large wood or piggy bottoms.

I returned home from Canada in time for my 22nd birthday. I was never good at balancing my checkbook or doing the math on my age, so the number may be a little off, but in keeping with the joie de'vivre that I exude. I decided to attend a lovely function hosted by GLAAD in the Hamptons because that's where all the old gays go in the summer. I pretended that everyone had come to the party for my birthday and thanked everyone for their lovely gifts. Mostly I stalked the cute cater waiters and gawked at the male swimsuit models who were all over me until that bitch Reichen appeared on the scene and stole the hot brunette from under me.

Joan Rivers and Vanessa Williams were supposed to make an appearance at this GLAAD event, so I guess in gay celebrity pecking order, Amazing Race-winner Reichen is the next best thing.

Finally, I returned home from my weekend with the Richie Riches and met up with friends for a post-birthday celebration. I've figured out that if you celebrate your birthday with friends individually rather than one big party you're more likely to get more free alcohol out of the deal. In fact, some of my friends have given me special bottles of champagne for that perfect occasion which I will not be having any time soon. The sum total of these bottles are worth more than I have made in the month of August, so I sit here and wonder whether I can eBay off wine and nurse a hangover from two days ago.

How's by you, Vurnie?

Dress Your Age. Not your Penis Size

2005-08-18T13:02:00.000-07:00

Shirl,

I'm sitting in my bedroom now in my nightgown walking MTV France. What is up with Daniel Powter? He sings that song "Had a Bad Day". Well, I like the song and the video but I was thinking he looked kind of stupid in that cotton, knit cap but I thought, "Hey, it's a look." Since I liked the video, I let him get away with it. He's just a little old to pull that look off. And come on, that look is over. Anyway, so I just saw this other video by him called "Jimmy Gets High". He's wearing a white suit with a green shirt and that damn cotton, knit cap. Dude, you're like 65 years old. Stop trying to dress like you're 15 or Enrique Iglacius. Which brings me to another point. Gay Men! What the hell! If I see another 90 year old in a size EXTRA TOO SMALL FOR YOUR FAT ASS Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt, I think I'm going to loose it and punch them so hard they won't be able to shit right for a week. So please spread the word, that after 40, you should not be wearing Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirts. That's all I have to say.

The Female Condom

2005-08-16T10:27:00.000-07:00

Warning:
This article might be offensive to some people. Read with caution.

As a serious journalist, I realized my time would come when I’d have to stand a few feet away from a major war or in the path of an out of control tornado. That time came the other night, when I decided to test out the Female Condom.

It all began when I was at happy hour trying to explain to a young French guy, Florent, that fisting was really nothing more than one finger times five, when some guy came up to us with a box of lube and condoms. He was promoting safe sex and asked if we had any questions about it.

“I’m Christian,” I told him. “I wrote the book on safe sex. However, perhaps you can explain to me what this packet labeled, “Female Condom,” is all about.”

The gentleman, Pierre, not only explained that the female condom was something a woman stuck in her vagina so her partner wouldn’t have to use a regular condom, but he also pulled the plastic apparatus out of the packet and demonstrated how to do it. It looked like a cone shaped Ziploc bag with a plastic ring around the tip and the opening.

“It can also be used in the ass,” Pierre told me. “But you need to remove this plastic ring because a woman’s vagina is different from her ass.”

“Thanks, Pierre. I didn’t realize that.”

“Men can use it too.”

“Go on. You’ve intrigued me.”

Pierre explained that men should still use a condom to be extra careful but that the female condom insured cleanliness and because it was plastic, you could use cooking oil as lubricant.

“Well, thank you Pierre. Do you mind if I take one?”

Florent and I went back to our conversation of fisting, but I couldn’t concentrate because in my back pocket I had a female condom waiting to be used. I was like a kid in a candy store or better yet, an insane, gay man with a female condom in his back pocket. I had to test it. I had to know what it was like to have it inside of me. I had to see the look on a guy’s face when he tried to stick his finger in my ass and found Saran Wrap.

I excused myself from Florent and went to a bathroom stall to insert my female condom. Believe it or not, it’s not easy as it sounds. I of course had to take off my jeans so I could get the proper spread needed for the process. Then I had to relax to loosen up the muscles so they would accept their new visitor. Since my longest finger is only about two and a half inches and the female condom is about four inches long, I wasn’t able to push it all the way to the back. I looked on the bathroom floor for a stick or toilet brush or something but didn’t find anything. I decided to just let the excess bunch up because there was a line forming at the stall and I wanted to get my jeans back on and get another beer before happy hour was over.

So I walked back into the bar area with my female condom inside of me and got another beer and a shot of tequila. Happy hour was about to end, so I needed to find a top in a city of bottoms before drinks became full price again. A man with a moustache was looking at me and although he would never be a contestant on America’s Next Top Model, I figured I could make out with him until he found the condom.

And so I walked up to him and told him hello. I needed to insure that he was in the mood for sex and was a top. I wanted to be charming and not seem too obvious. And then remembered a line a whorish twenty something had used on me the week before.

“So, what do think about us going back to your place so you can fuck the shit out of me?”

This worked and so thirty minutes later, I found myself naked at moustache guy’s apartment. He kissed my stomach and then my thighs. I thought he was going to kiss my butt but he stopped and came back up to kiss my lips.

He rubbed my chest and then my legs and his hand moved to my ass. “This is it,” I thought. “He’s going to stick his finger in there and find the condom and I’m going laugh and laugh and laugh.”

Only he didn’t stick his finger in me. He pulled his hands back up to my face. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more and told him, “Would you just fuck me and get it over with?”

And so moustache man threw my legs over his shoulders and put his hand on my ass. He pushed his lips out and closed his eyes. And then I could feel his hand moving towards the plastic ring of the female condom. But before he touched it, he eyes opened up and he told me that he didn’t want to fuck me. He told me that he really liked me and wanted to see me again and that in his experience, first date fucks don’t make good relationships.

I looked up at him and thought to myself, “Well, finally, a man ready to commit. I don’t know if I like you but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

So I excused myself and walked over to the bathroom, backwards so he couldn’t see what was hanging out of my ass, and removed my female condom and put it in his trash can. We spent a very nice night together and the next morning I felt like I’d made the right decision. However, it has been four days since we met and he hasn’t returned any of my calls, so now I feel like I’ve made the wrong decision. I should have gone with my first journalistic instinct and let him find the female condom. I have let my readers down and I apologize to you. I promise that the next time I find a female condom, I will insert it and follow through on the story.

My First Nonsexual Article

2005-08-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

Well, I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve gone from chasing dick around Paris to chasing pussy around Paris. It's not what you think. Thank God, it's not what you think.

You see, I lost my roommate’s cat. I don’t know how she got out of the apartment, but she did. I suspect it was an alcoholic, who paid for his dinner with food stamps, who I brought home for a game of Chutes and Ladders, who let her out.

Regardless, since I had to find her, I walked around and asked all the people on the street if they’d seen a black cat. This isn’t a French phrase that they teach you at Berlitz so I’m sure I said it wrong. Actually, I know I said it wrong, because every person I asked looked at me like I had just told them that they could no longer smoke 5 packs of cigarettes a day. I was desperate that I just started making a meow sound and saying the word, “perdue,” which means lost.

After that approach failed miserably, I put up signs in the neighborhood. I got a call from a woman who told me she’d found black cat and asked me to describe the one I lost. I told her, “It’s black.”

Well, that wasn’t enough description for her so then she asked when I’d lost it. Turns out she had found her black cat a week before I lost mine. However, she decided she would tell me the story of how she called it Sidney because it was black like Sidney Poitier and she was from a town called Poitier. I told her that was sweet. Racist, but sweet. She kept on talking on my dime, (in France you pay by the minute) and so I just hung up on her. Guess who is not coming to dinner?

Well, today, someone else called and said they were looking at a black cat in a small garden. So I rushed over there without my brain. I brought a backpack to put the cat in but before I could get it in there, it freaked out and scratched me all up. I’m not even sure if it’s the same cat or not. I don’t care at this point to tell you the truth. I just need a black cat before my roommate gets back from vacation. Anyway, I’ve borrowed a cage from the local vet and have just walked over to the garden where the cat was this morning. It is still there but won’t come near me. I left it some food and water and hope that I can regain its trust. I think there is a moral somewhere in this story. Maybe, it is, “Don’t be so excited about finding what you’ve been looking for. You won’t think clearly and will try to put it in a bag and will scare it off.”

I ask of all you people, do you have any other ideas on what the moral might be as well as suggestions on how to get that black cat in the cage? And to any guys that I've messed up relationships with in the past, don't be surprised if you find a bowl of Tender Vittels near your doorstep. It's just me trying to regain your trust.

Room with a view

2005-08-09T19:15:00.000-07:00

So Lavurn,

Here's the question of the day. Have you ever had such smelly diarrhea that no matter how many times you flush the toilet bowl with lemon-scented Mr. Clean, the bathroom still smells lemon-scented elephant dung? Oh wait, that's another post title, "Room With A Pew!" Sorry, my bad.

This past week I have been auditioning people to be my new roommate. I used the gay roommate service "Rainbow Roommates" to advertise my 2nd bedroom. I thought would be like one of those hot porno set-ups, like "Hot Daddy seeking same for love nest", but what I ended up getting was a series of high-strung queens who alternately seemed needy ("I'll take it!" "But you haven't seen the room yet?") or demanding ("What's most important is that you respect ME!" "Oh, I think a mutual respect is an important part of living with someone" "NO, I mean that you respect ME!") One guy came in on what I thought was one of the milder weather days here is the heated month of August and proceeded to sweat so much that I didn't really want him sitting on or near anything that might leave a permanent mark.

People suggested I try posting on Craigslist, which was my next foray into the world of roommate searches. Nothing titillating in my post, just "Gay Man seeks male roommate for small 2nd BR in WV", accompanied by a couple of pictures of the place. Lavurn, I got 50 responses within 2 hours!! I felt like the belle of the ball, but then I started to read some of the responses, and it was clear to me that some of these people were not looking for roommates. I quickly removed the post and started to contact some of the more promising respondents. More bitchiness ("I need room for my shoes!"), shady financing ("How MUCH did you say the utilities are??!") and general weirdness ("Perhaps you would consider Siamese twins for the room?") It was starting to look hopeless for finding the perfect roommate until he walked in the door....

My last respondent was someone who sounded vaguely Latino, or at least his first name sounded Latino. His last name sounded more Italian. When I called him to discuss the room, he was watching a rerun of the Amazing Race, my favorite reality TV show, so there was a good sign. I did a quick phone interview and set up a time to show him the room. Knock, knock, knock, in walks a hunk of burning Argentinean love. I thought, if only I had a glass of merlot to spill on him right now. After the important questions, "So, are you dating? Oh, you just broke up with your boyfriend? I'm so sorry. I'm a good listener if you need a shoulder to cry on...." it was clear that this was going to be my next roomie. I showed him the important parts of the room ("From this angle you get the best view of our hunky neighbor who mostly likes to cook in his underwear.") and the lease was signed.

Oh, Vurnie, I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to my new husband, I mean roommate! Thank you Rainbow Roommates! Thank you, Academy voters! Thank you, Dr. Zismore!

Kooky

2005-08-08T15:17:00.000-07:00

Shirl, I just read your latest article and all I can say is, “Wow!” Now that’s good story. I have a question for you though. You mentioned that you brought a guy up for a drink of water. How did you get rid of him? I had a hell of a time getting rid of one the other day. Whatever happened to the days when you wanted to get someone out of your apartment, all you had to do was take an, “open door crap”? Where are those days, Shirl? Are they buried in the closet with Betamax recorders, Jessica Simpson’s intelligence and Tom Cruise?

You see, yesterday, after a long week with a house guest, I decided that I needed some me time. And by, “me time”, I mean a hot game of Travel Scrabble with a young French lad. So I called up Sebastian, a young man who I’d met in the feminine products section of the Pharmacie the week before. He was nothing special but I loved his haircut which was very Olivier Martinez in “Unfaithful.”

Well, unfortunately, Sebastian decided to get a new haircut which was very Ellen Degeneres. Not a good look. Well, because I’m not prejudice, we played Travel Scrabble. Twice. It wasn’t amazing or anything but since I thought I may be in the mood to play again later that day, I invited Sebastian for a walk to kill some time. During our walk, he described an episode of the Reese Witherspoon, E True Hollywood Story. He was fixated on something that her stylist said about her.

“The lady, she say Reese like, “kooky characters.” What is this word, “kooky”?”

I think this, combined with the bad haircut, made me realize that I’d rather play Travel Scrabble solo that afternoon. I didn’t know how to get rid of him though. I thought about just running away from him, but he knew where I lived and had left his cell phone at my house.

When we got back to my house, I was going to tell him that I had work to do, but then he told me that he had some of Jamaica’s finest. His haircut suddenly got cuter.

So we are sitting there, discussing the effects of The Cold War on today’s society and Reese Witherspoon’s next career move, when my stomach started to feel really weird. Not in a good way like when you think you might see your 17 year old neighbor in his window masturbating. But more in a way when you realize that John Travolta is still acting. So, I ran into the bathroom because I knew that it was serious.

As I was trying to figure out a good excuse for my quick exit, I realized that maybe I shouldn’t try to come up with an excuse. Maybe I had found a solution to get rid of this guy. I mean, I had played Travel Scrabble, twice, eaten and met a little girl named Mary Jane, so I really didn’t have a need for Olivier anymore. So I sat there longer than I needed to, opened the door a little and flushed the toilet twice and then sprayed air freshner (there was no need to be rude.)

But he didn’t leave after that Shirl. He stayed around like he enjoyed it or something. Well, I did not know what to do. Especially when he started using the word, “kooky”.

“What is that kooky smell? You have a kooky look on your face. Do you have any milk and kooky’s?”

I was beginning to get kooky. So I suggested we take a run around the cannabis tree, over and over and over again.

It was when I was lying on the floor, that I finally got an idea on how to get rid of the guy. You see, I had a flash back of when I was a child at the beach. I was walking near the ocean in a string bikini, when I noticed someone eating a bologna sandwich on their porch. In their front yard there was a sign that said, “Go away. Don’t go away mad. Just go away.”

I said it out loud for no reason whatsoever and Sebastian put on his underwear and said, “Quoi?”

I was about to tell him that it was nothing, but then I thought it might be a good way to get rid of him. So I repeated myself. Well, he didn’t like that at all and so a couple of minutes later I was back to my dreams of me at the beach.

I would also think that a push in the face and a plastic cup of lukewarm boxed wine (I love the stuff but for some reason a lot of other people don’t) would also be effective.

A new leash on life

2005-08-06T08:21:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday morning, Lavurn, and I'm trying to sober up enough to go to 9 am yoga class. It's been a crazy couple of days and I'm still trying to sort out what happened, but let me see if you or our faithful readers can help me analyze it.

Thursday evening I went to a GLAAD party with British Derrick. The party was fun. BD and I frightened one of the cater waiters. This boy's enormous arms and nipples were poking through his t-shirt enough that he should have been more comfortable with attention he was getting from scary old gay men like us. The poor buff twinkie was so scared that he couldn't even look me in the eye when he described the hors d'eouvres. "It's a black bean cake with salsa, and..." "Hello? Why are you talking to my shoes?" It's enough to make a girl feel like the Elephant Man! Also at the GLAAD party was a former lover of mine who is still with his faithful Latino lover, Rodrigo or Alberto, I forget. Anyway, Diego whom I've only met one other time was so friendly that he started unbuttoning his shirt to prove he had a 28-inch waist and chiseled pecs right there at the party. You see, hostess twinkie boy? This is how you treat a party guest!

The main raffle door prize at the party was a 3-day lease on a Land Rover Sport, a smaller version of the car that O.J. made famous in that slow-speed chase in L.A. and Lizzie Grubman mowed down people in the Hamptons with. Clearly that car company needs an image makeover, so I think it's smart that they're courting the gays. I didn't know you could lease anything for 3 days? It takes longer than that to get rid of crabs for goodness sake! But who cares because when they pulled the winning number out of the fish bowl guess who was holding the Golden ticket? None other than yours truly! Lavurn, I can't tell you what a 12-yr-old girl I became, squealing with delight. I've never won anything in my life, unless you count that electric blanket I won while living in Puerto Rico. Now this gay can tool around the Hamptons mowing people down or escape a murder rap or whatever I want for three whole days in the comfort of a sport utility vehicle.

After getting GLAAD-handled, I met another friend at this music venue that looked more like someone's basement to see this guy named Jay Brannan perform. Jay is a FOJCM, friend of John Cameron Mitchell (aka Hedwig), and JCM said go see Jay PDQ, so off we went. Jay is one of those angelic slender musician-looking twinks with a Carol Brady haircut who is much more attractive when he sings. Isn't funny how some guys are moderately attractive become hotter than hotpants in August when they're playing their guitars? Speaking of which, Lavurn, how's guitar practice coming along? I recommend you listen to Jay's song "Half-Boyfriend" which I will post a link to here. It's a bit WB/Tori Amos-ish, but really sweet. Jay put me in such an amorous mood that I started thinking that maybe I should be looking for a half-boyfriend...

http://jaybrannan.com/half-boyfriend.mp3

In other news, last night was the wacky Queer Eye party unveiling of straight gay Jeff's new look. Normally I like the end result of the Fab 5's makeovers, but they pushed poor Jeff from a Kinsey 4 to a 60, all decked out in a Miami Vice white blazer, key lime t-shirt and Prada lip gloss. I thought he was going to sound just like the Hank Azaria as the maid in "The Birdcage" when he spoke, but underneath all that blush and nail polish was the same dorky cute straight gay guy. The producers were filming the party, but unfortunately I got little camera time except some quips with the surprise drag queens (because REAL gay people always have drag queens at their parties?) As I worked the room, I thought Jeff's high school friend was hot, but then I realized that he only used to hang out with straight people, so I chatted up some of the other gays who were on the cooking segment of Jeff's makeover. One was adorable and gave me his number because he was interested in playing football, but instead of pursuing him I sought out the open bar. Free alcohol and my Irish heritage do not mix well, my friend, and I ended the night being assisted home by the nipple tweaker and voyeur of one of my earlier postings. I think that at least one of them may have been disappointed that when I invited them up for a glass of water, that's exactly what they got. But I had to pour myself into bed so I could be ready to do downward dog this morning.

Speaking of dogs, I am now waiting for the mutt of a friend of mine, who I will be dog-sitting for while he is travelling to Philadelphia. I plan on showing off my loaner dog at the Christopher St. dog run and looking for a responsible half-boyfriend to chat about doggie play toys with. It's enough to make me think I'm in that new Diane Lane movie, "Must Love Doggie Style". I have to go find matching collars for us to wear.

Bark back, Lavurn. I miss your intercontinental witticisms.

Shirl

Queer Guy With the Queer Eye

2005-08-03T16:32:00.000-07:00

Team Players
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

So Lavurn,

While you were out getting your fancy tickled, I have been busy getting dirty with the Fab 5. That's right, the cast of Queer Eye decided to make me straight! Actually, this season they have been branching out from the traditional straight guy makeovers. For the fall they will be making over anything that doesn't move too quickly, which rules out you, Lavurn, when Fleet Week is in town or your ex- calls for booty.

Anywho, the target for those quintuplet uber-makeover artists this episode was a gay guy who was "too straight", meaning he only liked playing sports and hanging out with straight guys. Which is fine until the sun goes down, but a girl's gotta have a little fun now and then, right? With no gay friends or social outlets with us, this guy clearly needed some help, although I'm not sure if he needed a make-over or just a mentor. While we were playing, I met straight gay Jeff and he seemed a little dorky but completely comfortable hanging with the guys who know when to liberally apply Kiehl's lip balm.

My goal for this film shoot was to get in a little witty repartee with Carson or Kyan, enough to secure my national TV debut. As you already know, dahling, I have worked in feature films with Ricki Lake and had a starring role in one of the most popular music videos in Chinatown, but I had yet to work for the small screen. Carson, Thom, Jai, Kyan, and Ted were all-too obliging in spending camera time with me and the teammates ("Gay footballers? Oh, are you a wide receiver?" wahahahammm, yes). I had a couple of zingers, but I wasn't sure if any of them would get me noticed by the editors.

Then we played a scrimmage game with straight gay Jeff. I sat out the first few plays because, well, my talents are often best put to use on the sidelines ("go team!"). Then I was called in to play the last set of plays, only they wanted me to switch the color of my t-shirt with another player. So, I obliged begrudgingly (I had a really nice cut-off to show off my guns for the camera), at which point Carson screamed, "Shirtless men!" and ran over to me and the other guy with the camera crew and poured water all over us. It was, in a word, pornographic, and I fear that my cable debut will look like it should have been on a public access show.

Anyway, as Shakespeare once said, all's well that ends well. Jeff has sworn never to wear plaid except when visiting someone in Seattle, and I have a party date with the Fab 5 tomorrow night. "HIKE!"

Moist lippedly yours,

Shirlee

Sancerre-ly Yours

2005-08-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

Hey Lavurn,

On Saturday I put my Ivy League education to good use. That's right, I cater-waitered in the Hamptons. And not just any Hamptons, we were going to a party in East Hampton, which our cater-waiter captain describes as new money gone wrong. East of Eden meets East of Hamptons.

Our trip began at 1:30pm on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Hours and hours later, after sitting in the worst traffic I have ever seen (and I've been around a lot of blocks!) we arrived at the well-appointed home of a couple who were celebrating both of their 40th birthdays. The place was nicely unassuming from the front, but the backyard with the Ian Schrager-esque pool and the tented Japanese-style seating for 100 with a band told me that this might be a good place to find a sugar daddy. I told my mom my plan to find a rich Hamptons hubby, and she suggested that I marry Elton John! I'm not sure what she was thinking, except she thought that it would be fun if he played at family birthdays, etc.

As we set up the party, there were no other cute cater waiters to flirt with, and I had already snooped around the house, so I hopped to work. 250 luminaries on the driveway, easy. Setting up a couple of bars and memorizing the hors d'oeuvre menu, this was going to be a snap! Then the guests arrived. And the drama unfurled. "Where's my backpack? Who stole my backpack?" "Is this the best scotch in the house?" "I didn't want that crap the first time you offered it to me!" "Do I have to sit on a pillow for dinner?" And the schleping to and fro. What seemed at the beginning of the evening like a short distance from the backyard dining area to the garage clean up area at first seemed like a short lovely walk across the pool, by the end of the night was miles. I never had a big toe cramp before. They're not pleasant. The discomfort was somewhere between a charlie horse and a gerbil who has lost its way.

I chose to ignore the bitchy guests since there was this lovely pink-shirted silver-haired Stanley Tucci daddy, who I could swear was admiring the back of my chinos. I kept trying to catch his gaze, offer him a drink, accidentally spill a glass of pinot noir on him, but he was at glued to the hip of a female friend all night. I couldn't tell! Was he or wasn't he my next set of embroidered his-and-his towels? I asked a female cater waiter and a couple of the gays who I was working with, but none of them seemed to care or know the mystery of my pink shirt fascination. I unbuttoned another button on my short-sleeve polo with no reaction, then I unbuttoned another button on my chinos. Still nothing but I did feel a lot cooler. My plan for a sugar daddy was failing and I was not looking forward to Crocodile Rock at Christmas!

Finally, I did what any cater waiter with any sense of decency would do in my situation, I found my own bottle of sancerre to make the evening go a little more festively. That's right, Vurn, "one for you, one for me". I don't think that I should have been chosen to hold the six tiered birthday cake for the hosts to blow, but I think they enjoyed my Marilyn Monroe version of "Happy Birthday". Or was it Marilyn Manson?

Anyway, 1:30am and the party is over and it was time for our trip back. Now, I thought this was going to be a pleasant ride even though we would be 12 bitchy queens crammed into a van, because I had had the foresight of drinking before driving, but nooo! I wasn't the only one who had had found an open bottle. Some bitches should just be allowed to drink. We had to stop the friggin' minivan 6 times for pee breaks, even though our Jamaican driver did 85+ mph the whole way home.

Sunday at 4;30am, I'm home and the life force is completely drained. "As God is my witness, I will never do food service again!"

In Triplicate

2005-07-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

In Triplicate
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

Last night at a bar while two guys played with my nipples and a third watched, I got to thinking about the phrase "bad luck comes in threes". Three is not such a bad number, is it?

I mean think about it. The Holy Trinity? Triple decker sandwiches? 3-ways? What is bad about those things?

I think it's time our readers know the truth about me, Lavurn. I am tri-nippled. There, I said it. And I'm proud to be in the company of other hunky 3 nippled actors such as Mark Whalberg and Ethan Hawke. You know, in some cultures the third nipple is considered a symbol of potency.

Just something to think about as your having your nipples tweaked.

Tri-umphantly yours,

Shirlee

Crocheting on a Web Cam

2005-07-29T04:27:00.000-07:00

Shirl, do you ever find yourself in one of those situations that your mother told you to avoid because you’d surely burn in the fire pits of hell for it? Well, I found myself in one such situation this morning when I was on a chat line with two different Swedish boys, Mike and Chris.

I was hoping to exchange recipes with them because I remember those delicious Swedish goodies you had at one of those darling little tea parties you threw. But they didn’t want to exchange recipes Shirl. They wanted to see the yarn I used to crochet on my web cam.

Well, at first I thought about just showing one of them while I chatted with the other. But then, I just felt so guilty about leaving one of them out. It’s that Catholic guilt you know. Also, I figured if I was going to crochet anyway that I might as well kill two birds with one stone.

So I put them both on web cam at the same time and showed them my yarn.

Mike said:
Nice!

Chris said:
I’m getting hard

Well I told Chris that yes, this yarn was hard to crochet with but the end results were amazing.

Well, soon my yarn wasn’t enough for those boys and they wanted to see my needle. Well, Shirl, I was raised Catholic and I was not about to show them my needle for at least five more minutes, so I tried to engage the two boys in conversation.

Me:
What type of crocheting do you like to do?

Chris:
I want you to top me!

Mike:
I like to receive.

Well, I told Chris that yes, I could teach him a top stitch but that it was very difficult. And to Mike I said, “We’ll I’m a giver and I’m going to give you the gift of a good cross stitch. But you have to promise that once you learn, you share it with others.”

Well, all three of us became bored with just my yarn, so even though it had only been four minutes, (I’ll go to confession later. I can use the bread.) I decided to show them my needle.

Chris:
Oh yes! Stroke it for me.

Mike:
I wish I was there with you.

Well, I had never heard the term stroke it when referring to crocheting but I thought it was one of those strange Swedish words. So I began crocheting for the both of them.

Chris:
I’m grinding my crouch against my desk.

I told Chris that that would wear out his pants but if he insisted on doing that, I could teach him a nice reinforcement stitch.

Mike:
My cock is in my hand.

Me:
O.K. Mike. If you want to crochet with me, go ahead. But we don’t call it a cock. It’s called a needle.

Chris:
Are you into kink?

Me:
I’m somewhat familiar with that stick but have had a difficult time getting used to it.

Mike:
You are touching all the right spots in me.

Me:
Thanks. I’ve been doing this a long time.

Chris:
Hit me!

Me:
What?

Chris:
Hit me and then tell me to shut up and stop complaining.

Me:
O.K. I’m hitting you. (As I swung my fist in the air.) Now Shut up and stop complaining.

Mike:
I’m rock hard.

Me:
Mike. You don’t say it’s rock hard. You say it’s difficult.

Chris:
Go faster!

Mike:
Do it harder!

Well, I got so caught up in their demands and tried to appease their every request, that before I knew it, I had made a cardigan sweater similar to the ones they sell at Gap for $89.

So I showed the two boys the cardigan and told them that it was a pleasure meeting both of them but that I had to get going because they had exhausted me.

So Shirl, how did you spend your morning?

Comfy Casting Couch

2005-07-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Lavurn,

I am heartened to hear that you think you are old fashioned. You are at least half right. By the way, I reset our user settings so that our readers don't have to sign up to comment on our blogs.

So last night I was talking with a friend over at the ass contest at Urge. These were some of the worst asses I have ever seen, and if I hadn't just been humiliated at the go-go boy contest at Boys Room the other week, I would have jumped up on that stage and easily walked away with the $100 prize money. I haven't been blessed with much in this world--a keen intellect and a sharp wit shirlee, I mean surely--but what the boys seem to like is my bubblicious butt.

Anyway, my ass-viewing friend, who to protect his privacy I'll call British Derrick, and I were talking about casting the promo for my new TV pilot, by reaching out to actors at a local acting school. I got this idea because BD had done a similar casting for his PR company for some superhero spokesperson gig. All the SUPER candidates were so eager to get the gig that they took off their shirts without being asked before they even began their auditions. This got BD to thinking about how easy it would be to "audition" men at a local studio rental place for a new "Off-Off Broadway" show called something like "Hot Guys Who Don't Wear Anything". I think it's an Edward Albee play. Kind of a brilliant little way to have BD see some BVDs don't you think?

In other casting news, my NY gay football league is auditioning for the cast of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy next week. They want to make over a gay guy who is into football. If you thought gay bootball was oxymoronic, try gay football makeovers. I really hope the Fab 5 don't pick me, because I don't think I want Kyan to exfoliate me while Carson goes through my porn collection. Anyway, there are others in the league who are in more desperate need of a makeover, so hopefully I'll just get some screen time (note to QB, don't throw to me!) We are also putting together a NYGFL football calendar to raise $$. I'm thinking of submitting this photo. What do you think?

Or maybe this one. For my calendar work I like to go by the name Jeff Conger.

Anyway Vurn, if I can leave our readers with one thought, it's this: Don't cast your hunky male lead in the sweltering July heat on a leather couch. Especially if Kyan's going to be exfoliating you soon. Ouch! I need an Old-Fashioned.

The Lost of Intimacy and Bad Blow Jobs

2005-07-27T06:38:00.000-07:00

Hey Shirl,

I got something to tell you. I went to this gay German movie the other day called, “Summer Storm.” Despite what the title and the billboard of young German shirtless men with boat paddles might suggest, it not about golden showers and S&M and was really nothing more than a racy episode of the WB’s Seventh Heaven during sweeps week. As you can understand, I was a bit upset and felt like I’d been conned, so I went to that ticket office to demand my money back. But just as I was trying to translate, “Give me back my money, you George Bush,(Which has become the most vulgar word in the French language), I saw two young boys walking hand in hand. It was kind of sweet. Well, except for the fact that they were both ugly. Anyway, this made me think of a scene in the movie that triggered something in my heart. At least I think that’s what it was. Maybe it was the mixture of Viagra and poppers. Whatever the reason, I thought it was sweet and it made me write this editorial.

You see, in the scene, one boy starts innocently rubbing suntan lotion on the other one. At first I sat up in my seat because I thought I was finally going to get my money’s worth and there would be some hard core boom chicka wow wow, but all the guys did was kiss and give each other hand jobs.

It was kind of refreshing to see such intimacy between two men. I realized that I missed the intimacy and mystery in my sex life. This makes me want to ask: Can’t we know each other’s names before we start biting off each others’ nipples? Can’t we sober up before we stick our tongues in each others’ asses? Can’t we see each other in fluorescent light before we put each others’ balls in our mouths?

You see, I guess I’m kind of old fashion. I like to know a guy’s name before he demands that I stick my big toe ¾ of an inch into his ass while lip synching Madonna’s "Pappa Don't Preach." Seriously, what is up with the demands from all these guys.

I recently set up a date with a guy who asked me to answer the door in a wet t-shirt so he could claw it off of me. That’s like $10. If you add in the cost of condoms, lube, Viagra, poppers, dance music, a Cambodian slave boy, a billy goat, handcuffs and a mouth gag, that’s like $173.59. What am I made of money? Where is the romance, Shirlee? Why when you meet a guy, the first thing he wants to know is what you like to do? Remember when we were in our 20’s and the first few times we had sex it was so innocent. There was actually kissing. The blowjobs were bad because we didn’t know how to open our mouths and often skinned the guy with our teeth, but there was something special about that.

So Shirl, I ask you to stand by me and demand the romance of the 1950’s when people “went steady,” and waitresses wore roller skates. From now on, I will not lift my poodle skirt to anyone until they’ve bought me dinner or at least 8 drinks. Pass that on in case anyone is interested. Stephen 27

Prison Break

2005-07-17T22:55:00.000-07:00

Raoul in Prison
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

Having spent some time recently in a Turkish prison myself, Lavurn, I took some photographs of fellow inmates. Which do you think looks most unhappy? This guy?

More Prisoners of Azkaban

2005-07-17T22:54:00.000-07:00

Marky Moans
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

Or does this guy look more unhappy?

Peddlephilia

2005-07-11T16:40:00.000-07:00

Vurn,

This weekend I learned what it is to be a pseudo-parent. My 5 and 6-yr-old nieces came into town in a whirlwind of training wheels and crayon boxes and took Manhattan by storm. Of course, being from my gene pool, they charmed all the boys they met, or at least they thought they did.

My older niece had just graduated from training wheel to big girl bike, so she wanted to work Hudson Park and show off her technique. Directly to Christopher St. Pier we travelled, where she observed, "There are a lot of guys here." "Yes there are, dear", as I discreetly adjusted myself while smiling at one of the more comely sunbathers.

The next day we took in "The Lion King", as I was eager to indoctrinate my nieces into the wonderful world of Broadway. Luckily, there was something on stage for everyone. My nieces thrilled at the sight of giraffe men on stilts and I enjoyed the actor playing the teenage Simba who was clearly not a teenager. Oy, what pecs on that lion! More discreet adjustments. At one point my older niece looked over at me what was in my pants. "A banana dear, I'm saving it for later. You're missing the show!"

Finally, I wanted to show my brother and his wife my recent travels to Peru (and that Turkish prison which I took pictures of). Of course, my niece's intellectual curiosity had her helping me boot up my computer and opening iPhoto, which unfortunately defaults to showing all of my pictures. She said, "Is that a picture of a naked man?" "No dear, here let's look at Machu Pichu."

Lavurn, is it possible that I am too disgusting to be around young children? Inquiring minds want to know.

Oh, yeah, one of our readers wanted us to post his name and a two-digit number which I assume he thinks will pass for his age "Stephen Velleca, 27". So here goes, dear reader if you're reading this, Stephen Velleca, 27 babies want their baby Gap T-shirts back.

Peanut Butter, Bologna and Bisexuals

2005-07-07T00:58:00.000-07:00

Cou Cou

Well, Shirl, it depends on what Matt Bergman your definition of "Bisexual" is. You see I recently had an experience with a bisexual when I was on the internet reading an article about crocheting and the effect it has on today's youth.

I was just finishing up a self stimulating Matt Bergman paragraph about the correlation of the cross stitch and the number of girls who wear lip liner and dance to Jennifer Lopez songs, when I received an instant message from a "bisexual".

I assumed that he read my profile on Women Eating Tacos (WET.com) website and was intrigued by my hobbies which include Matt Bergman preparing bologna sandwiches, waxing (not floors, if you know what I mean) to the oldies and teaching animals to lick peanut butter off of specific body parts.

"Hi," his message said.

"Well, hello yourself," I said back.

"I bet you could make me a mean bologna sandwich," he said.

"Oh, I bet you love mayonaise."

This friendly, witty, PG 13 banter went on for a few minutes. He was gorgeous, Shirl. Simply gorgeous and I felt like the prettiest cousin at a Southern family reunion. I read Matt Bergman in his profile that he was "bisexual" and I thought to myself, "I m in love." Finally, a man who enjoys bologna sandwiches and has experience with a wet box. I thought to myself that the old expression, "Bisexuals have more fun," might have been correct.

So anyway, I proposed that he bring his cocker spaniel and a jar of peanut butter over to my place so we could get better acquainted Matt Bergman and this is when I found out his definition of "bisexual". You see, he informed me that he was a prostitute and that it would cost me to meet up with him. So yes, Shirl, I do believe there are "bisexuals" in the world because I met one. In his case however, he wasn't the bisexual who "has sex with men and women", he was a man who "you had to buy sex and all," from.

Oh, and I once had a bisectional sofa. It wasn't as comfortable as it sounds, believe it or not.

kisses,
Lavurn

Bi Now, Gay Later

2005-07-05T17:43:00.000-07:00

Bi Now, Gay Later
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

A recent study shows that most men who claim their orientation to be bisexual test to be tittilated only by male erotic images, thus giving further proof to the old adage.

What do you say, Lavurn? Is there such a thing as a bisexual man?

Shirlee

2005-07-04T10:26:00.000-07:00

Shirlee
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

All cleaned up for Independence Day festivities...

Lavurn In Spandex

2005-07-04T09:14:00.000-07:00

Lavurn In Spandex
Originally uploaded by lavurn_shirlee.

Lavurn prepares for a dip in a Parisian pool.

Before The Parade Passes By....

2005-07-01T07:39:00.000-07:00

Summer goes so quickly, doesn't it Lavurn?

Why it seems like it was just last week that I had resolved to not eat any more of the cranberry stuffing so I could fit into my own spandex onesey for the summer and suddenly it's July 1st!

Anyway, I'm so glad you're back in Paris after your pilgrimage to Mecca, aka anal-leakage-inducing India. You don't need to lose an ounce, my dear, but clearly your bout with illness has done you well in terms of fitting into the slim Parisian swimwear. I find a little cholera is so much more effective than Atkins when it comes to shaving off those pesky pounds around the hips.

It's the Friday after the Gay Pride in New York City. This year I marched proudly with my hunky gay football teammates. We all wore our t-shirts with the league logo "Football is for Flags" with the 2nd "l" crossed out. We handed out fliers with the same tag line. One of the marchers, who shall remain nameless, was slutty enough to realize that putting his name and phone number on select fliers would be a good way to meet people along the parade route. Many of us took his lead and scribbled our name and number on our fliers, only we forgot to separate the personalized fliers from the rest and inadvertently handed out our numbers to less than stellar candidates. Anyway, the parade and subsequent parties were ultimately successful in identifying some Summer Lovers (happened so fast).

In case you were wondering, I've realized that my last diplomatic dalliance with the Swiss boy was completely ill-advised. He was so annoying during our second meeting that I immediately took it upon myself to delete him from my cell phone as we were speaking. "What are you doing?" he says to me sounding like a combination of Arnold Schwarzennager and Amy Sedaris. "Oh, just taking care of some trash [delete]". This was also maybe not the best idea, because now when he calls I don't know that it is him calling to ignore his calls. Besides now with Canada and Spain recognizing same-sex marriage, I have new destinations to choose from for my honeymoon. Toronto or Madrid? I guess the choice is obvious. Que bueno!

Speaking of Amy Sedaris, and who isn't?!, I finally achieved my life dream of dancing with her at the Nantucket Film Festival. Well, I danced near her, but she smiled comfortingly in that "Strangers With Candy" smirk to my friend and I. We were fish out of water at this fabulous party at the Johnson & Johnson estate. I don't know if you've ever been to Nantucket, L, but it is the Whitest, Straightest place on earth. Billy Graham would look ethnic on the streets of Nantucket. Anyway, my Jewish friend was starting to feel the weight of being different after a few days. At the party, we were dancing next to Amy S. and talking about the whole Stepford look of the people over the loud dance music, when for no good reason the DJ stops the music at the exact moment my friend yells, "I haven't seen a fucking Oriental for 3 days!" The crowd gasped, Amy giggled and I stripped off my shirt and yelled "Play Dancing Queen!" All in all, I think we made a lot of new friends at our new vacation destination. Oh yeah, I also forgot to tell you that I accidentally stalked Macauly Culkin's girlfriend, but I'll have to save that story for another day because I must begin preparing for Independence Day festivities. I'm go-go dancing in an Uncle Sam outfit to "You're A Grande Old Fag".

March on, L! March on.

Where to Go for Gay Sex and A Bologna Sandwich

2005-06-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life hands us little treasures that we weren’t looking for but end up falling in love with. Like cocaine, bestiality and Cuba Gooding Jr. Life handed me one of this treasures recently and I’d like to share that experience with you.

You see, one early morning at 2:30 am when I was taking a leisurely walk looking for a bologna sandwich, I came across a young lad on the sidewalk who kept staring at me. I wondered if he knew where I could find a bologna sandwich so I walked up to him and introduced myself. After some light conversation, we mutually agreed that it would be fun to go back to my place and play Travel Scrabble.

Well, at one point, the game got really heated and it was so hot in the room, the young lad had to take his shirt off. His body was amazing to say the least. He wasn’t huge but he was cut in all the right places. So I asked, “Young lad. Where did you get that body? Is it from eating bologna sandwiches?”

“A la piscine.”

“Swimming pool. You’re telling me you got that body at the swimming pool?”

“Oui.”

Well, I was impressed and decided that I should check it out.

So the next day I went to Go Sport, Paris’ version of Modells, and searched for swimming trunks that didn’t make me look like I’d just given birth to conjoined twins. Well, I couldn’t find any bathing suits to save my life and so I had to ask the sales clerk for assistance. She brought me to an area with what appeared to be spandex underwear. I looked at her, then back at the underwear, then back at her and in my best French I spurted out, “Uh huh, girl. There is no way I’m putting my child bearing hips in something like that. Fo shizzel!”

At least I think that’s what I told her. Maybe I asked her for a bologna sandwich. Anyway, she picked out a suit and gave it to me and pushed me into a fitting room.

I had time to kill before I had to get back to the apartment and watch The Dukes of Hazzard dubbed in French, so I went ahead and tried on the suit she gave me. After I slipped on the suit, an amazing thing happened. My hips disappeared. I stared at myself in the three way mirror in awe. I felt sexy and like that Gold Medal Olympic swimmer, Michael Cunningham. The suit was a box cut and so I was eager to try on the brief style just for kicks and to have an excuse to walk out in the middle of the store with my shirt off. The brief cut also looked nice but I figured I was more likely to be able to get away with the box cut at family gatherings and corporate outings. Sometimes you just have to be practical.

So I headed to the pool that afternoon with my new suit and was eager to walk out in front of all the trunk wearing boys and have them stare at me and be jealous. But the thing was, everyone at the pool was wearing these spandex suits. Turns out, you’re not allowed to swim in the public pools in regular trunks. The city is afraid that people will walk off the street in dirty shorts they’d been wearing all day. Between you and me, I think it’s just to increase the sale of spandex. You’re also required to wear a swim cap. Which gave me a glimpse of what I’d look like if I shaved my head and discovered that I was really black. Not a good look for me.

So anyway, I noticed that the men in the shower area were very friendly. Most of them smiled and many stared at me. I figured they were either jealous of how good I looked in my suit or that they were wondering if I could tell them where to get a bologna sandwich. One of them even walked up to me and asked, “Ca va?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I told him.

He looked towards one of the bathroom stalls and smiled. I figured he was telling me that he had to take a shit, so I left him alone and went to the pool. Later on, when I was showering, more men stared at me. I became self conscious and wondered if maybe I didn’t look as good as I’d thought in my new bathing suit. I wanted to start crying. I quickly grabbed my things and ran out of that swimming pool as fast as I could. I decided I would start swimming in the Seine in a regular bathing suit before I subjected myself that being taunted by French men in Speedos.

That evening, after a few bottles of wine and masturbation, I retold my story to my roommate. He sat in his Queen Victoria leopard skin arm chair and took a puff on his cigarette.

“Are you stupid or what?” he asked.

The French love any excuse to call people stupid.

“What? Now you’re going to taunt me?”

“They were staring at you because they wanted to have sex with you.”

“Really?”

“Mais yes. The swimming pool is the best gay bar in Paris.”

“Wow. That makes me feel a lot better. Hey, do you know where I can get a bologna sandwich?”

I have since revisited the pool and realized that my roommate was right. The swimming pool is the best gay bar in Paris. If anything, it is entertaining. Straight men checking out other men, French people trying to keep their cigarettes lit while doing the back stroke and spandex as far as the eye can see. I must say, I like this spandex rule. It hides nothing. I think more people should consider wearing it and not just aerobic instructors and people from Florida. So won’t you people join me in this fight to get more people to wear spandex bathing suits? Thank you. I’m done.

Blame It On The Cheese

2005-06-29T02:37:00.000-07:00

Shirl,

Concerning the funky smell of your Swiss boy’s pubs, all I can say is, “Blame it on the cheese”.

You see, Shirl, I too have slept with a Swiss boy and had a strange experience. It was breezy night a couple of years ago in Switzerland, when I found myself in the apartment of Sebastian, sipping a glass of Orangina.

Just as I’d finished my last sip, Seb lit some candles and said, “C’est romantique.” I agreed and then we started kissing. The moment was perfect. Soft candle light. Dance music playing in the background. The taste of orange soda in my mouth. But then Seb ruined it by taking off his clothes.

You see, he had man tits. Double D, size 34, saggy, man tits. And he was wearing skimpy briefs, a la that famous baseball player, Robert Palmer. On someone with a nice body, those might look good. On a man with man tits, not so much.

It was really unbearable and I couldn’t stand to look at him. Rather than behave like a normal person and simply close my eyes and pretend I was a baby being breast fed by my mother, I did something else. I blew out the candles he’d lit and proceeded to kiss his fleshy body in complete darkness and pretend I was fifteen years old again kissing my pillow while thinking of my Uncle Ted.

“Pour quoi?” he asked.

“Because you have man tits?” I wanted to say. Fortunately I couldn’t translate it. Instead, I chose a safer response which was that I was a fireman and candles were a fire hazard.

I later told an American friend of mine living in Switzerland, about my experience and she told me, “It’s the cheese. You’re going to see a lot of man tits here.”

So there you go, Shirl. I imagine the smell you experienced was also from the cheese. I’m off to Switzerland next week. I will do research and see if I can experience this weird smell you’re talking about. My only advice to you is, if you can identify what kind of cheese smell it is, maybe you can make the most of it by drinking a nice bottle of wine while going down on him. A good chardonnay is always a safe bet.

On another note, we now have email: gabbygays@hotmail.com. If you'd like to send us comments to be posted or be updated when we post new articles, please send me an email.

The Bachelorette

2005-06-08T08:19:00.000-07:00

Props from the Bachelorette Party I hosted...

A popular sucking device

Harry

Diplomatic Relations

2005-06-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

Lavurn,

There is so much going on in the world, it's hard to know where to begin. Starting with your "hard" issue, the trick is to keep several video cameras filming around the house. Sooner or later you're bound to be able to freeze frame your manhood for whomever inquires. You may want to consider using a photo publishing site rather than email those BIG files just in case your long-distance youngster wants to ruin that burgeoning political career of yours.

I was quelle busy this weekend. The finals of the French Open were on TV herem, and as you will see from my last post, Rafael Nadal was very happy to hear that you kept yourself hard enough to digitize it for posterity. Or is that fronterity? Anyway, he was busy himself beating the pants off of the Argentinian player who was busted for testing positive for controlled substances only 9 months ago. If it was steroids, the Argentinian had no problem maintaining his physique because you could see those nipples bursting through his nicely built torso. Both players gave their acceptance speech in Spanish, which was translated to the French Open crowd in francais, which was then butchered by the American TV commentators into English. I almost felt like Nicole Kidman in "The Interpreter" only I didn't have to be out-acted by Sean Penn. Anyway, that was an exciting way to end the weekend. But I digress from my own efforts of diplomacy.

This weekend was a "seminal" event in the country of Switzerland, which narrowly passed new rights for same-sex couples, joining other civilized countries in the world like Belgium, The Netherlands, Canada, the U.S.A., oh strike that last one. While gay couple's rights may not be as extensive as getting married in Amsterdam (who can remember what one does after those delicious cakes they serve you there?), it does make me feel better about eating Toblerone. I decided to thank the often-neutral country by sleeping with one of their citizens here in New York City. Let's see, where to go on a Saturday night, ah yes, the Boys Room! Between the hours of free booze, the hotter than Nadal go-go boys, and the instructional videos playing, it is difficult not to find the man you are looking for in a place like that.

And mon dieu, there he was, little Fabian, dancing away on the dance floor. Our eyes met, our hands met, our butts met. Well, they were playing the Charleston, so we had to follow the crowd. Not long after that I invited my new friend home to save him the long, long subway ride back to Queens (I refuse to make a cheap joke about this borough just because we're on a gay blog). Fabian hails from the French part of Switzerland, so he had as much attitude as a sales rep. at Saks can have. He was sweet, though, and I have now eliminated the disgrace of having never slept with a blonde. The strange thing was that, even though he had just showered (with my St. Ives Swiss body soap) his pubes smelled funny. Is that common? You must know, Lavurn, do blondes have more funk?

Fabian enjoyed role playing, although his idea of this involved pretending to be a German gymnast, and that just brought up too many weird images of the Holocaust combined with the circus, so I asked him to just play himself. After hours of positions and lubricant, we settled down for a rest. But the next morning, that boy did NOT want to leave. I mean, sure, we had had a late night and my bed is awfully comfortable, but come on! First I suggested a diplomatic, "Would you like a cup of coffee or juice?" and then moved up to "Would you like to take a shower before you leave?" Finally I gave up and starting making calls and text messages. Sunday is a very busy day for me. Plus I wanted to see my Nadal roll around in the mud on live TV one more time. Maybe it wasn't going to work out with my new husband after all. He just doesn't understand my needs. Anyway, he wants me to come to Saks to see him at work. Perhaps I'll work the boy for a store discount or maybe steal a picture to post on our site.

So here we are, my dear, at the end of another boudoir story, and I'm feeling like an international spy. Tell us what you have uncovered in your local reporter mode about the French flipping the bird to the rest of the EU. I imagine there was Olde Worlde rejoicing with accordian players in berets with big curly moustaches. And what do we make of this vote in light of France being so determined to host the very international game known as the Olympics? Personally, they can have it for all I care. Too many people already in New York to bother building a stadium and dedicated lanes on our crowded streets for German gymnasts only. I think North Korea should hold the next Olympics. Now THAT would be thrilling! Imagine the single North Korean athlete having to perform the Opening Ceremony all by himself while fireworks come from the nuclear power plants that we're not supposed to be looking at.

Your empathic emissary,

Shirlee

Pumped!

2005-06-06T18:35:00.000-07:00

Photos, Erections and Cameron Diaz. Oh My!

2005-06-05T16:44:00.000-07:00

Shirlee,

I agree with you that the "capri pant wearing tennis player" is a hot little number. My question is, "Why does he keep falling down in the mud?" Do you think he's a dirty pig bottm?

Regardless, I have decided to make a political statement because I think our country is going to crap. So here's controversial essay about dic pics.

When a 23 year old gentleman, who you’re chatting with online, asks you to send him pictures of your man tool, you do it. It’s just something that my mother taught me as good common sense.

“Don’t take candy from strangers.”

“Look both ways before you cross the street.”

“Send pictures of your man tool to a 23 year old gentleman when he asks.”

So taking my mother’s advice, I proceeded to take photos for the 23 year old. Now, I’m in my mid-thirties, although you’d never guess I was a day over twenty-five, and it’s not always easy to get the little dog to stand on its hind legs without offering it a Scooby snack. Sometimes even with a snack, the little dog isn’t ready to jump through hoops of fire. Combine my age with the fact that I have a huge dick, and you can have a problem when asked to get hard for photographs for a 23 year old. I mean, with all the blood that’s needed to fill a capsule of such a large size, one can become rather light headed.

So, anyway, I began my project by gathering all the appropriate materials needed for the task at hand: Digital camera, lubricant, wet towel.

I started the project by thinking of sexy stuff like:

Russell Crowe sucking off Sting
Russell Crowe sucking off George Clooney
The new leather attaché case by Hermes.

Even though I tried to conger up these images, all I could think about was Cameron Diaz.

Cameron Diaz in a rain forest.
Cameron Diaz in Something About Mary.
Cameron Diaz shopping for shoes.

I decided that my mind was playing hard ball so I would play hard ball back. I started thinking of Cameron Diaz in different scenarios.

Cameron Diaz sucking off Justin Timberlake.
Cameron Diaz sucking off Russell Crowe.
Cameron Diaz wearing the new leather attaché case by Hermes.

Low and behold, the little dog started to stand on its hind legs. I quickly reached for the digital camera to snap some photos. I could feel my hard on going down, so I became nervous. My heart was pounding as I tried to turn on the camera. I got it on and held it out in front of me and snapped. I somehow missed a few inches. I should have known that I needed to hold the camera further back to get something so big in range. So I took another picture. But as I turned the camera to look at the results, it slipped out of my hands. Undoubtedly, I hadn’t read the warning label on the camera that said, “Do Not Attempt to Use When Hands are Full of Lubricant.”

The camera flew threw the air. My erection shriveled up as I opened my hands, closed my eyes and relied on blind faith. Thankfully, God and Cameron Diaz had me in their prayers, and the camera landed in my underwear, which were hanging around my calves.

After several more attempts, I was able to snap some photos. I sent them to the 23 year old, who was waiting online, while watching The Real World marathon. I imagined him telling me how impressed he was and hot I was and how he had never seen such a fine specimen since Michael Angelo’s David. This is not the response I received however. Instead, he said, “Thanks dude. I gotta go play basketball now.”

What the f#@$k is that about. I almost broke my digital camera while trying to get hard, while thinking of Cameron Diaz, and this guy shows his appreciation by telling me that he has to go play some sport that’s not even that sexy.

Well let me send a message to this guy and to all guys that request dic pics. If you’re going to demand pictures, you need to know just how complicated the task is. You need to appreciate it and value its worth. From now on, no dic pics unless you send the same. Otherwise, those of us who have been so accommodating in the past will just start downloading pictures of other people’s dicks and sending them to you. I bid you adieu.

La Vern

2005-06-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

Shirlee's Semen

Bring back capri pants!

2005-06-03T08:59:00.000-07:00

Lavurn,

I know that you loathe the cropped pants on men, but if you were watching how well tennis player Rafael Nadal's butt shows up in his version of these pantalones (he's Spanish), you'd agree that I think it's time we reconsider this fad. I'm not sure if our blog allows for posting URL links, but for our uninformed readers, you might want to check out the vamosrafael.com site for pictures. Here goes my attempt to link to it:

http://vamosrafael.smugmug.com/gallery/543072/11/23665560

In other news, New York City is awash in celebrities. I think they are doing a lot of filming right now, because in the last few days I've seen Topher Grace, Victor Garber, Famke Jansen and Sandra Bernhard. Okay the last three live near me, but they are around a lot more now. I have been thinking about trying to seduce my way onto the Alias set by fooling around with Victor. Stay tuned for Celebrity Stalker Sundays for more on that....

I've also learned of a fascinating game which our readers may be interested in participating in on our forum comments. The game is called "Want To Fuck, Have To Fuck." The concept is what ugly celebrity would you be willing to sleep with (Have To Fuck) in order sleep with the celebrity you desperately want. I'll start the game rolling....

Want To Fuck: Jake Gylenhall
Have To Fuck: Harvey Keitel

Ooh, coverage of the French Open is back on, so I'm going to be busy keeping my eyes glued on Rafael's posterior. Ay, yay, yay!!

Adieu, mon ami! Hola, mi amigo!!

Shirl

No to Moustache Mania, Yes to Gay Kama Sutra

2005-06-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

Well today has definitely been very exciting for me, Shirl. For starters, I found a copy of the Gay Kama Sutra in my roommate’s bookcase. I didn’t know the boy had it in him. The book was written in French so I had to look at the pictures. They were all cartoons of men in different sexual positions. They were really hot. Is it wrong that I was turned on by a cartoon? Does that make me a cartoon o phile? Anyway, for all I know, the caption on the side said something like, “Billy doesn’t know it yet kids, but he’s about to get chocolate all over his dick because Tommy didn’t douche. Always douche boys and girls. Always douche!”

On another note, I’ve decided to make a video of this really hot pharmacist. I taped him with my digital camera once by going in and asking him for some sleeping pills. Since I didn’t want to make it obvious, I just carried the camera in and moved it around casually. Unfortunately I didn’t get his best side. He did give me some great sleeping pills though. After you take one, you wake up two days later with a ring of Vaseline around your ass. They sell them in the U.S. in case anyone’s interested. They’re called The Date Rape Drug.

I got some more footage of the pharmacist by accident. I was walking by his place and caught him walking outside to mail something. Again, I didn’t get great shots of his face but some really nice scenes with his white lab coat.

Don’t worry though. I plan to go back and tape him again because I need some dandruff shampoo. Oh, I don’t have dandruff. I just like the way it makes my hair shiny and bouncy. Anyway, I plan to tie the camera to my backpack at eye level. I hope this experiment works. I think he’s starting to get suspicious. Regardless, I can promise you I will have some footage set to music by the end of the summer for your viewing pleasure.

On another note, I headed over to Le Club Moustache for Moustache Mania. The night is for people with moustaches and those who like them. As I peddled my bike over there, I wondered if they would ask at the door if I was there because I had a moustache or if I was one of the people who liked them. Since I had shaved mine, I figured I’d have to register as a man who liked them. Well, they didn’t ask at the door, but if they would have, 99.9 of the 7 people there would have registered as people who liked moustaches or people who had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night. It was huge disappointment boys and girls. The seven of us sat around and watched some French gay porn. It was a pretty good flick, I have to admit. It was about these French prisoners who gang banged a policeman. At least I think that’s what it was. The gang bangers were wearing prison striped berets. It reminded me of the movie Papillon. Only Dustin Hoffman wasn’t gang banging anyone. Thank God for that. Anyway, the one guy with a moustache was not the kind of man you dream about. He had oiled up the tips of his moustache and twisted them up so he looked like the strong man in the Circus. Only without the muscles or lace up boots. Needless to say, I left after the prisoners in the porn came all over the policeman. They do have a sling in case anyone’s interested.

So the lesson for today is, “Just say no to Moustache Mania but yes to the Gay Kama Sutra French edition.”

Fleet Week in the Sexy City

2005-06-01T09:41:00.000-07:00

Lavurn, honey.

While you were out searching in vain for French facial hair, I was looking for clean shaven sailors in NYC. That's right, it was Fleet Week and the seamen were spilling out all over Manhattan! My mom came into town for a visit this past weekend with her gal pals, just so they could reenact that Sex And The City episode when Carrie and her friends pick up sailors. Normally you might not want your mother cramping your style during such an important holiday as Fleet Week, but my mom took me to my first gay bar, a hardcore leather bar, years before I was out to her, so I knew she would know where to find the action if there was any to be had.

On Saturday night, we spotted swarms of hunky sailors looking around Times Square for the strip clubs. Little did they know that Mayor Bloomberg had anything slightly pornographic removed to Staten Island. Now it's all Disney's Lion King and Toys 'R Us. While we could tell that the roaming Broadway sailors were cute, lost and horny, we didn't manage to snare any of them. It's amazing how well padded the derrières of most of these sailors are. I think they must do a lot of up and down periscope exercises.

On Sunday, we met and chatted with a French sailor. The French seamen have the silliest outfits, with the little red pom-pom on top of their caps. I now understand why the French don't want to go to war. They are afraid that people will laugh at their Gilbert & Sullivan uniforms. Pierre, the French blonde sailor was adorable, and if I can figure out how to post a picture I will show you, but I wasn't sure if had reached puberty yet, so we pressed on.

On Sunday night, I took my visitors to The Park, where we watched my favorite go-go boy strip his sailor outfit off. He smiled at me and squeezed my butt, which made it worth the $60 I stuffed down his ample crotch. Anchors Away!

Finally, all the visitors left and I was too tired to try to pick up any of the remaining seamen, who all looked a little worse for wear. When shore leave is a week, I think they should pace themselves a little more. Anyway, to any of our readers who are sailors, stay safe in the Gulf and come back again next year, when I will be refreshed and ready to report for duty.

Bon Voyage!

Shirlee

Fridays are not Moustache Mania Nights at Le Club Moustache!

2005-05-29T05:49:00.000-07:00

I started out my first Friday evening in Paris listening to French Gay Radio and drinking a glass of Perrier. You know some guy on my plane ride to France told me that he thought gassed water was bad for you. I wonder what he’d think if I told him that I let people put things up my ass.

Anyway, I headed up to a club called Le Café Moustache. I won’t give you details of what the place looked like right now because I plan on going back. You see, the place was kind of empty except for about 10 people. I noticed that I was the only one with a moustache. Well, except for some overweight fag hag. Anyway, some guy told me that moustache night was only on Tuesdays. I felt a little stupid. You’d think that every night would be moustache night at a place called Le Café Moustache. So I jumped in a cab and went home, shaved and headed back out again.

I found myself at a place called The Duplex. It’s kind of like an East Village bar but the people there aren’t as cool. They’re just unshaven and smell a little like day old dick. The Duplex is supposedly the friendliest bar in Paris. Nobody talked to me except the bartender and all he told me was that they don’t have cranberry juice in France and that I’d have to drink my vodka with orange juice

So I headed to Open Café which is kind of like Queer as Folk. Even though you know it’s going to end badly, you still put yourself through another episode. It was once again filled with American flight attendants. Not that I have a problem with Americans or flight attendants, but I’m in Paris and would prefer to meet a rail thin French man who is an artist or musician or investment banker. A doctor with an all access prescription pad would also be acceptable.

I walked home hoping to meet someone on the street. This is where I always scored when I lived here before. Sure enough, I made eye contact with a young boy who could be a poster child for a “This is what will happen to you if you DON’T do drugs or drink,” campaign. He was about 25 and was wearing a suit and glasses. He barely spoke English but managed to get out that he’s not sure if he’s gay or not because he thinks he likes women and wants a family. He told me he watched Basic Instinct last night and realized that Sharon Stone is a woman he could love. Then he told me he’s afraid of women because they’re so different. He hasn’t had sex with one in three years because he’s afraid of rejection. I told him that a guy could reject him as well. This was when I was about to reject him but before I could, he told me good bye. Ain’t that a kick in the ass.

Two more guys made eye contact with me on my walk home. One was wearing a crop top, circa Flashdance. I spoke to him but only with the intention of having an interesting conversation. He immediately grabbed my crouch and since we weren’t at the back room of The Cock or a corner at The Depot, I was highly offended. I gave him a kiss on his cheek and then told him that if he insisted on dressing like Jennifer Beals, she was wearing some very smart things on The L Word these days. In my broken French I think it came out like this. “If you want to wear the clothes of Jennifer Beals, she is wearing the clothes very intelligent this day on the word of L”

The other guy who gave me a look was a teenager at McDonalds at 2 in the morning. He was waiting for his fries while I stood in line for a chocolate shake. I was told they had no chocolate shakes, so I smiled at the teenager and headed home. He was cute but I wasn’t sure I wanted my first fling to be with someone who ate carbs so late in the evening.

So here I sit at 2:30 in the morning drinking Perrier and eating an ice cream from Picards (the best place to buy frozen foods), typing away at my computer to let the world know about my exciting adventures. Sorry it was so boring but I’ve got some great news. Besides saving a bunch of money on my car insurance, I’m getting together with the X tonight. I need to go vomit now so I look thin for him. Au revoir.

2005-05-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

At Home

Wilkommen Bienvenue Hola

2005-05-17T17:08:00.000-07:00

So Lavurn, here we begin our first attempt to teach the masses on the gift of the gab.

When you say "gift of gab" Shirlee, you don't mean that rash you've been passing around, do you?

Lavurn, I just learned about the destructive consequences of STDs while watching a Felicity marathon on Women's Entertainment. By the way, I'm so proud of you for clearing up those unsightly cold sores. Anyway, we're not here to bitch at each other, our readers need to understand what it means to be truly gabby. So I propose we use this column as a forum for instructing our readers in the finer points of girl talk.

Agreed, Shirl... So how about we start off with what I hope to be one of the hottest features of our website, "Boudior Stories". This is where we share saucy stories about one night stands.

Let the games begin....