la te f*cking da…

Well. Here I am again. The crossroads of ‘pull the plug’ on this blog or trudge ahead, alone—in the depths of my despair in the hope that some total stranger across the silent miles is gently nodding ‘I get it’ while reading my cray cray shit.

I am just now getting up and about today. Daylight Savings Time has kicked in and I am in no fucking mood to leap forward much less fix myself late lunch. What I have done is wanked three times since the early a.m. hours. I do this because of the two minutes of post-orgasmic bliss I get that—fool heartedly, gives me some bit of fortitude to carry on in this world. I should be buggy whipped for my addiction to internet porn.

ride-the-snake_180x129But it’s so easy isn’t it? It’s just out there, waiting to be discovered and briefly enjoyed like chocolate covered cherries. Oh. So I watched this vid called “half his age/son & daddy” or some such relevant titillating title and my first thought when they both entered the bedroom was ‘look at that little 23-year old whore begging for daddy’s cock’ but had to check that judgement at the front reception desk of “oh mary” when I realized I was THAT 23-year old when I met my now EXbf who was exactly 44-years old at the time. It’s not like he had to hit me over the head with a club; I went willing and quite able.

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Which now makes me think about the daddy role I find myself cast in nowadays. I did not ask to be anyone’s daddy but this salt-n-pepper hair and thick middle doesn’t exactly shout fountain of fucking youth either.

Friday night I sparkled at one of this town’s spring fundraising events. Actually my company hosted it as the premier sponsor so you better believe I was running around with my damn head cut off all the while looking smashing in my silvery gray shark skin suit, blinding white French cuff shirt, and tres expensive TOM FORD silk knit tie. Let’s just say the venue’s late 20-something event director was graciously accommodating and quite friendly. Or did I just imagine that taking place? He seemed a bit flirty. I don’t know; my ‘come fuck me’ meter is rusted. Anyway. Where was I? Oh! So near the end of the evening, around midnight, I flagged him down on the red carpet runner and grabbed our photographer for a quick shot. For some inexplicable reason the photographer’s flash went haywire and began rapid flashing like a disco strobe. It was blinding but, too—for a brief second I felt like Kim Kardashian stepping out of an Escalade minus panties.

“Well I guess our beauty broke his camera” I sort of laughingly joked to my embraced photo companion. “Well, YOUR beauty” was his smiling reply. So I sez’ to myself hours later while stripped and tipsy before my bathroom mirror: “What would a boy handsome enough to be a Ralph Lauren model want with these tits” as I pondered the soft roundness of my man boobs.

I’m wondering if I should follow-up tomorrow with a professional email of thanks post-event. I mean, he gave me his card for that very reason, I think. Naturally I’ve already stalked his Facebook page and have died a thousand deaths over his pics. I wish I had bigger balls to ask him out for a drink or something but with my ongoing despair vortex who would want to fly a rainbow kite of gay love with me in this hail storm?

He’s taller than me. Has an easy laugh, blonde hair, and beautiful blue eyes. German descent, I believe; he seems like someone who wouldn’t be a player. I have this ivory-colored knit afghan that my mother crocheted for me. It’s one of my favorite possessions even though it sprang from the hands of Hell’s gatekeeper. But I envision blonde boy and I cocooned in its familiar warmth post shag. It would be a good color next to his skin.

all that glitters is idiocy

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Sometimes in the workplace I just want to shout: “FUCK this! I got into Studio 54 — TWICE!!. So go fuck off!” That’s right. Marc Benecke, the doorman — the guardian of the velvet rope, chose ME, bitches. But no one cares about a relic like fabulous moi from the Seventies. I daresay only a handful in the office would even begin to grasp the noble reality that über ultra suede fashion king — HALSTON, owned the Seventies. Sigh.

47263-50-dollar-bills-perfect-loop-c-GenF

So we rent office space in a luxe hi-rise tower and share the floor with a WASP-nest financial firm. Many are nice; a few are the ’1 percenter’ pricks one reads so much about. It’s been an US versus THEM scenario since I poured French creamer into my morning coffee that supposedly wasn’t OURS to use. These monogrammed shirt cuff folks make six figure incomes but don’t touch their goddamn $3.49 fake cream for fear you’ll lose a summer share in the Hamptons. Our clueless office manager routed a card today for all of us to sign; we’re moving out at the end of the month. He asked that we express our ‘thanks’ for sharing their space and jot a note about what we’ll all miss most. Say what?

Seriously. I’m not making this shit up. When the dirty folder hit my desk I grumbled something like “…Hold on. Let me put down ‘My Little Pony’ and Lite-Brite so I can sign this damn card!! WHAT ARE WE? FIFTH GRADE…” My curmudgeoness was not appreciated.

So fuck them. I signed the goddamn card though. Team player, and shit, rah-rah; “let’s go out on a high note” they said. But here’s the thing: in my head I’m still Diane von FUCKIN’ Furstenburg waiting for my town car to Studio. So blow me. And then go slow fuck yourself with that shiny greeting card scribbled with dull sentiments.

Now go dance in your Maud Frizons.

on the relevancy of blogging

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Oh hai. Is this thing on? With the advent of even shorter attention spans, Instagram, Tumblr, and Vine seem to be more popular with all the cool kids. When I began blogging in 2004 I found the medium immensely freeing. It was a world of anonymity that allowed morsels of truth to bubble up. I discovered a vehicle to rant about my witch of a mother, my decaying relationship, my sinking career, and my second chances to begin again. All supported by anonymous commentors. Well, some of them weren’t anonymous as they had their picture posted on their blogs but I was — and remain, a paranoid blogger, posting from the shadows. Just who is reading this blog stew? And why should I care?

But we were all so new to the medium back in the day. And now, today, quite a few of my FACEBOOK friends originate from reading my old blog. I like that. It’s odd that some total strangers know more about my inner thoughts than friends just two blocks away. Too, I’ve received more emotional support when needed by these very blog buddies than folks who reside in this town. Go figure that one.

Anyway. I still like blogging even though it’s an older social medium. I like the creative aspect and the immediacy of it all. I can publish stuff here and within minutes some dude in Germany or Australia can be reading my thoughts. That’s still cool.

BW_fkmeWhat is not cool is the fact that I’ve lazily wanked three times since 4:00am. Seriously. What is my problem that I can’t keep my hands off my dick? I’m attributing it to the high testosterone levels my doctor spoke of.

But then why can’t I apply that to the damn gym? If I worked out as much as I jerked off I would have quit my day job long ago just because I’d be WeHo buff like a 2Xist tank top wearing hawt bitch and would be too busy sucking cock and walking red carpets as arm candy to work a legit job. Just once I’d like to have a hot body. But that bus already left the terminal and I’m curbside with a lot of old baggage.

Today I am really going to try to pull my shit together — shower and shave, to hop a subway downtown. I need a new vacuum cleaner. The old EUREKA died post Christmas trim take down. Anyway. That’s what I want to do today but we’ll see if I can manage it. It’s also too damn cold. I might just stay put with tea and TCM network.

blog, blog! my darling!

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I’m a bit behind in my blogging. I’ve been away for an extended period and I know that all ten of you are worried sick and losing precious sleep as to my whereabouts. Truth be told, I’ve been away with my new boyfriend; his condo in Abu Dhabi is the bomb. We’ve been planning our spring nuptials wherein 10,000 white French tulips will air freight to Majorca for our dawn beachfront wedding.

I lie. But wasn’t that a marvelous bit of queenie escapism for a dull winter’s night? Or morning. I have no idea when you crack heads are reading this shit.

Sigh. Nothing is new here or there. My Xmas decor is down; half of it is shoved unceremoniously in my small ‘butler’s pantry’ style kitchen because that is a room I rarely frequent other than to count bottles of Clos du Bois. Nor do I mind tripping over a beribboned wreath and a vase filled with red berry stems to reheat my morning cup of coffee. This is how white trash lives.

diamdsOh. So I’m on this gala planning committee now for a spring fund raiser that benefits a major charitable foundation. No it is not boring cancer and, no — it is not cray cray Alzheimers. I will not say what it is but just know that the gala attracts a well-heeled crowd of this town’s old guard, face lift ladies-who-lunch, and an equally youngish group of botoxed, slut social-climbing wannabes who pay a lessor amount ticket cuz, well, they’re in the “young professionals” slot for gala ticket prices. So. What matters here is that I’ve been invited to sit on the committee. Needless to say the invitation thrills me no end as it should negate the constant chatter in my head that — in reality, I am no better than special agent Clarice Starling (Hannibal Lector’s friend) from some hill jack town in West Virginia with cheap shoes and bad fragrance. True, dat. Yes, I do own a $250+ TOM FORD silk knit tie but it does not improve my station in life one bit. And frankly — for that price, I think I should at least garner a FULL NAME IN CAPS mention in the social column and a hand job from a top chef on restaurant row. Fuck.

So I go to the meeting this week and I style DIESEL dark denim, classic lace ups, a gorge shirt with the mismatched collar and cuff fabric thang, SEAN JOHN gray sport coat, (yes, I know, but it was ON SALE) a divine floppy silk pocket square, and a very unkempt mug of fuzz ala Hugh Jackman. I thought I rocked my silver fox pussy hard but within five minutes of being surrounded by the REAL movers & shakers I withered into a leather club chair with “you do not belong” thoughts and that other sentiment about ‘any club that would have me as a member is not a club I want to belong to’ quote from, I think, Groucho Marx.

Anyway. I just nodded mostly and kept my mouth shut until a full glass of half good chardonnay oiled me enough to toss a media maven I know under the proverbial bus.  It was an okay meeting as those types of things go. There was some real work accomplished and we’re off to a good start in gathering silent auction items but I just wish my low self-esteem banter would shut the fuck up long enough for me to enjoy the rarefied company I’m in. Just once. Also I have nothing to wear to the spring gala. Fuck. me. hard.

beat it, kid

TheWankers

I don’t know what my problem is. Well. No, that’s a lie: I do know what my problem is. Instead of addressing the myriad of ‘things to do’ on a cold Saturday I’ve essentially been a masturbating sloth. Three times since four a.m. WHAT is my problem, people?

CozyBut I had my annual physical last May; my doctor phoned in the test results and noted “…your testosterone level is above 500; for a man your age that is beyond good news. Go have sex and workout at the gym all you want…”   Ahem. He’s a gay doctor so the personal comment transcends a typical doctor/patient relationship. I mean, frankly, he’s the only man with a finger in my ass for, say, a good seven years now.

So that IS my problem. Oh. So I was watching nasty pig fuck porn: why is it that all Latino whore bottoms, tatted up like Los Angeles freeway underpass graffiti — always sport a big chain with a crucifix? I find it distracting. And I have enough post wank Catholic guilt to manage. I don’t need a reminder while reaching for THE TOWEL that Jesus died for my sinful ways. If I could just find the self-discipline to redirect my idle hands into a meaningful, productive craft project, say like, needlepoint, I bet I could whip out dining room chair covers in practically no time.

the mary widow

I trust your new year countdown was a divine evening filled with sordid, spirit-soaked revelry shared with family and friends. I had none of that. Which was sort of okay and sort of pathetically sad simultaneously.

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We had to work new year’s eve; I cannot begin to express how depressing that notion was. Gazing from my midtown skyscraper window I could view surrounding offices’ mirrored windows nearly reflecting my gaze as they sat darkened by workers enjoying another holiday break. Meh. Lucky white collar fuckers. Our little office posse trudged through the blustery wintry day fueled by leftover tins of stale holiday popcorn, Christmas cookies, coffee and MORE coffee. Depending on who asked and my degree of investment in a fake office friendship, I told various fibs, er, blatant lies when asked what my plans for new year’s eve were:

“…just a small intimate gathering, really; close friends. My gawd look at the time: I don’t know when I’m going to find time to pan roast those baby quail…”

or

“…I’m having a special new year’s toast with a very special someone…”

and

“…It’s all so troubling; I’ve been invited to two house parties and I’ve got to figure out how to attend both!…”

When in reality I just sat home alone. Too, an annoying wench in my workplace suggested I go “…see Tim at his bar; go hang with him…”  We have another gay guy in the office who part-time bar tends; this woman naively suggested that I go ring in the new year at Tim’s tavern. Her notion steered near some degree of ignorance that parallels how White people think that all Black folks know one another. Her simple formula was “you’re gay/he’s gay” go have jolly gay fun, you gay guys! Which annoys my shit something fierce. Don’t get me wrong: Tim is a stout, good chap. But as far as taking two buses and a train to drink cheap champagne, well, I’m not having it. Too, our families have not met socially at supper club. I kid. Sort of. ahem.

Animated-Birthsigns-GeminiBut I WAS hopeful cuz my horoscope stated that new year’s eve I would meet someone who would enter my life and perhaps, you know, blah, blah/woof, woof…be the next big love of my life thang. So I was surfing on zodiac’s sage advice while surfing the champagne aisle at my neighborhood mini mart hours later. I decided on a mid-priced bottle, grabbed an aged cheese of some nature, and pricey imported crackers only because I liked the box label. Moments later I showered and surgically scrubbed my bung hole for the countdown.  I spritzed a bit of TOM FORD ‘Noir’ down there just for good luck because honestly, if I was chomping on someone’s butt hole it had better smell like the main floor at Bergdorf’s.

But nothing happened. My neighbor, who just a few days earlier — during our shared chance meeting in the building’s laundry room, stated he had no NYE plans…was absent from my message texts. I had envisioned our nude, pretzel-twisting bodies humping against my imported silk velvet sofa, breaking only for sips of champagne, as we mutually climaxed into the new year. I was expecting sex toys. I was expecting a star sign, an astral nod — that THIS man, would set my life back on track post pearl necklace. But nothing happened. The snow fell hard and blustery; I was glad not to be out in the winter storm. Shortly after midnight I sent him a text wishing him well in the new year as one does. I received no response until the next day. At 12:20am I slid my naked self between the old sheets, reached for my water glass, and downed half a Xanax. My new year’s day dawned in the soft furry fog of what was real and what would never be.

fog

christmas balls

Image

It’s two days past reality Christmas. I’ve been back at work two full days as the business I work for does not permit any vacation time between Christmas and New Years. Which sucks; in my past job I always took this week off. Historically I would dash to Neiman Marcus the 26 December and buy myself whatever I didn’t get Christmas morning. To recap: (1) fantastical baroque era Gianni Versace fringed silk neck scarf {when he was still alive; so that should date that item properly} and (2) two William Yeoward chased crystal martini glasses in the most divoon shade of Aegean blue you’ve ever laid eyes on. These two scores come to mind as I decidedly recall they were, like, I dunno…70% OFF the original retail and STILL a small fortune.

Oh. Christmas Eve I decided to go all boughetto and fix myself a shrimp cocktail for one. So I reached for the William Yeoward martini glass as one does and clinked some hard ice chips into the center and placed the six jumbo shrimp around a generous dollop of hot sauce. Later — much, while rinsing the glass I noted the faintest, tiniest chip on the rim and depressingly relegated that glass to bad karma come back to roost. Like, why can’t I just enjoy a simple goddamn shrimp cocktail in a fucking crystal martini glass {$220 per} and enjoy three minutes of luxury without getting a damn chipped rim? I’m certain I did it when plunking that hard ice. Fuck. me.

Where was I? Oh. So it’s Friday night. Christmas is gone. Done. It all looks tired to me now. If I had my druther {by the way: what the fuck is a ‘druther’?} I’d take the damn tree down tomorrow. But I’ll wait. I’ve been thinking I’d receive another text from neighbor dude but that hasn’t happened so I’m again left to my rampant negative thoughts. Too, I feel like I’m on standby for a full body cavity sex search. In that regard I have scrubbed and manscaped down there and at the back door as if an enhanced photo of my asshole was being projected via Powerpoint at a United Nations general assembly. I mean, I want to be ready when called into active duty. I was never a Boyscout but I am most definitely prepared for at least a solid hour of finger banging. ahem.

So. On Christmas I got some nice stuff. Nothing I’ll share here as it could all be traceable via Google keyword search and then someone could possibly, maybe, bust my cover and I’ll be someone’s Facebook status update like “…that effin’ bitch is blogging over at blah, blah, woof, woof…”  And that’s just not going to happen. I want to type here what is actually running through my brain without hesitation. Or filter. If possible. Speaking of FACEBOOK, I have been away from my page since mid December. That’s when all the “Our table set for our party guests…” and “My partner will die when he gets this Louis Vuitton…” pics started popping up in my feed. I just wanted to throw myself against a curling iron. So I went dark. As I did last year. Maybe that sends a message. I’m not a Grinch by any means but don’t flaunt your lucky relationship until I get one to match your inane posts with my own: “Have you ever seen so much luggage? We leave for St. Barths tomorrow for Christmas, bitches!!!!…”

BW_blissAnyway. This weekend will be low-key. I still feel an itch to buy myself an unnecessary Christmas gift. I got everything I need but still have a desire to buy something that will bring on a good dose of buyer’s remorse like PRADA flip-flops or some other label whore item that would imply good taste when — in reality, a few more sequins around here could land me on somebody’s lap with an accordion. Sigh.

Basically I just want to get crazy laid this weekend. That feeling of soft beard scruff against my balls is a distant memory. Just like Christmas.

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