Yes. It has been ages since I took up the keyboard and banged out a post. My apologies to all six of you who still bounce here on occasion. Let’s catch up. Christmas sucked. In January I ran into my former Equinox personal trainer who looked at me and said “What’s going on here?” while scanning me up and down. After fat shaming me with calipers, body mass percentages, and that sliding scale generally encountered at live stock auctions,  I jump started my fitness and diet regimen. February was so cold. I received one Valentine. From my ex boyfriend only because he probably will need another check from me soon. And that brings us to March.

March is good. I’ve lost 14lbs since January. And while not fit as fuck my mood and attractiveness are at elevated levels. Also there’s this: I am sort of in a new dating thang with a man 30-years younger. Ahem.

He text me around 11:15pm in mid February. Who texts someone at 11:15pm that isn’t looking for cock or black heroin? But I digress. We set up a cocktail date and the rest is, well, moving somewhat slower than I’d prefer. It’s like hiking the woods and coming upon a doe-eyed fawn. One must approach slowly, on kitten feet, or they’ll dart off into the next daddy’s lap, I mean –woods.

Here’s what you need to know at this juncture. He’s tall; he’s attractive. He’s a kind-hearted man. He dresses well; he smells good. He’s got beautiful brown eyes and a pretty smile. He’s rail thin. He’s smart and has a strong work ethic. I know that bit because he used to work at my present employer. I was smitten with him from our first meeting in the workplace but at that time he was legally partnered. Fast forward: that relationship dissolved and he jumped into a hi-rise condo with someone even younger than his young age. It got nasty. Like ‘move your shit out before I call the police’ gay nasty.

So we’ve cocktailed. We’ve dined. We’ve attended the theater together. I’ve been to his place and had a serious make out session that left us giggling over my tent poled jeans. Nonetheless his words ‘I want to take this slow’ has left very little wiggle room and by “wiggle room” I need you to envision me dry humping my mattress while hugging my pillow because we’ve not done the deed yet.

Too, there’s this: he is making me bat shit crazy. Everything is a text message. Doesn’t anyone call anybody nowadays? Some of my texts are not answered promptly and that causes my insecurities to rage out of control. “He’s found someone younger” is the jumping off point in that regard. He’s still hanging around though. And I’ve forgotten what age 29 is about. The uncertainties of the future sort of become the young mind’s sea kelp that clogs the engine from time to time. My life experience will help him in that regard. I’ve already managed the gay glass ceiling and countless other career barriers. Today I will cut a bitch in the workplace. That’s the only gay agenda I have.

BW_bedThis is not a sugar daddy scenario. He’s the one buying theater tickets so far. I’ve paid for a few dinners just because I felt that I should not because I wanted to flash cash. I don’t think that’s why he’s interested in me anyway. I really don’t know why he’s interested in me actually. What I do know is this: I feel good around him. He makes me laugh. We have French kissed so passionately my underwear had damp spots. In a 25-year relationship with my ex we NEVER French kissed. So this detail is telling. Very telling with regard to the smoldering passion that is ripe for lift off.

Naturally I have anxiety about where all of this is going. Or what kind of future we could possibly carve out together. I’ve expressed my reservations repeatedly to the point that I could easily scare him off with such insecure gibberish. A well-meaning friend states that I’m using his age to create my out — the barrier, to sabotage my own happiness. I see her point; it’s valid. And then there’s this: a business colleague’s spouse committed suicide recently. Out of the blue. It was tragic as those types of situations are but it also flipped a switch in my head: this life is uncertain and can turn on a dime. I don’t want to miss this new moment, this twinkling of happiness on my horizon, by dragging old baggage and bitterness into the equation. I want to desperately enjoy the now. That’s really the only truth any of us really has. This moment. Now.

God I want him in my bed.




Done. Over. Fini. I really need to enclose a letter to myself as I tape the Christmas trim boxes for storage. Something along the lines of “don’t bother.” Christmas 2014 has come. And gone. It was not a ‘white Christmas’ here. Which only adds to my crankiness with the season. I don’t know how folks in warmer climates manage Santa and all the fake pine, red & green shit, and glittery snowflakes when its 90 degrees and sunny outside.

HO-HOI need a white Christmas. Which is making me chuckle a bit right now as I just finished myself off watching some Afro-haired young, rail thin twenty-something pound some chub daddy ass. It was entertaining as I sipped Earl Grey like Lady Mary at Downton Abbey. But I digress.

Christmas sucked. I sort of figured it would as I had last year as a template. And the year before that. Depression sucks the joy out of everything. There is a mindset of ‘why bother’ that is at the core of just about every process. Oh, don’t misunderstand; by outward appearances it was another grand tree and trimmings. I can’t say I plugged it in every night though; I liked punishing the residents across the way that populate a major hi-rise here in the neighborhood. As if “See; yes…I have a gorgeous tree lit tonight for your viewing pleasure” and then leave it dark three nights out of seven. Meh. Who is punishing who?

I ate a filet mignon, shrimp cocktail, and a massive baked potato heaped with sour cream Christmas eve. In bed. Watching a rerun with knowledge of how it would all end.

Most of the Christmas trim is packed; that was this weekend’s project. Though the tree is still up. While Christmas has come and gone there’s something optimistic about the bare tree skirt waiting for gifts that won’t come. The waiting; the glittering branches of winged birds; jeweled ornaments, and all that shine. Such delicious sadness.



I phoned mother, as a good son does, on Thanksgiving. And per usual I got the same, boo-fuckin’-hoo litany, that –if I had more creative talent, I could turn into a one-man stage show titled “All My Friends Are Dead.” Mother loves to play martyr most of the year but she really amps her game come holiday season.

“Everyone I knew is dead.” Which is somewhat true. But she’s 83 and I’m, well…over the big five zero and can somewhat say the same. I have many acquaintances but in the trusted friend category I am lacking of late. My bad. Still it did sort of sting when mother asked what I was doing for Thanksgiving and I said ‘no plans; just doing laundry’ which was met with “well, you and me are in the same boat…alone on a holiday.” Wow. Way harsh Cher. (I’m quoting the film CLUELESS with that line, btw) She also told me to skip sending her the annual Christmas poinsettia because “I can go buy one for $5.99 up at the WAL•MART…” She says that every year and I’ve always ignored it and sent the big, glittery bowed plant from my hometown florist. But this year she’s getting her wish. Fuck it. Let’s both sit and be miserable on Christmas day.

smokin_jesusThanksgiving was indeed sad. And when I sit down to examine the ‘why’ it really circles back to my inability to make it not sad. It’s the depression thing. Nothing stopped me from reaching out to a couple orphan coworkers to share a turkey dinner but I spiraled into that ‘why bother/been there/done that’ mindset that rules my days out of the office. I’m fine Monday thru Friday because I have a routine and a pattern; it’s like a stage show and I know my cues and entrances. It’s the weekends where my wheels fall off and I careen out of control and sometimes out of my mind with stupid suicide thoughts and lost time spent rehashing shit from all the shoulda/woulda/coulda years of my life.

BW_PARTAYMy 30-something neighbor (not the Greek God one) whose living room shares my bedroom wall had a Christmas party last night. He plays keyboard; from time to time I can hear him practicing. I don’t mind because he’s pretty good and, too, he’s got some sort of Hispanic/Asian ethnicity vibe going on that makes me want to see him naked on all fours erotically grinding for my man pole of jizz joy.

Where was I? Oh. So he had a party last night and I could hear them all singing “White Christmas” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It sounded so uninhibited joyful, so holiday fun; I imagined Tupperware bowls of chip & dip, iced imported beer in tubs, and endless smiling selfies. Then I thought ‘fuck this’ and moved to the living room sofa and quiet solitude as Mr. Grinch tip-toed into my apartment on soft green feet.




All I want for Christmas is world peace and a hand job. Is that asking for too much? It’s not like I’m asking for matching Louis Vuitton luggage and shit. Sigh. Ever notice how many ‘jobs’ there are in sex parlance? Hand job, rim job, blow job; so many jobs and not enough skilled laborers, I say. But I digress.

I’ve spent the early a.m. hours combing through a society page photo album of a charity fund-raising gala at such-and-such museum for their costume wing. I did not attend but note several acquaintances who have their gay mugs beaming above tux bow ties and I’m wondering how the hell they all came up with the $850 gala ticket price. Wondering if their tickets were comped and who I would have to blow to get on THAT list. Social climbing is hard work and one misstep will have it all come tumbling down like those ‘pick up sticks’ that my mother swore I would lose an eye to.

I recently attended a black tie gala and found myself in a small circle of guests being introduced to the gala’s host committee. Those bitches rocked, from left to right, a  Versace fishtail gown, a Roberto Cavalli body hugging gown, and some other A-list designer frock whose name escapes me at this early hour. Needless to say I had literally just met one of these women three nights prior at a magazine cover launch party and yet within seconds of ‘yes, nice to see you; thank you for coming’ I was effortlessly and elegantly dismissed from any further conversation engagement. It happened so quickly I didn’t see it coming; I was anticipating some polite conversation. In the space of a nano second I was sized up with regard to my social standing and relegated to gala road kill. A photo-op with me would not improve the group’s social cred so the bitches herd moved on to graze better A-listers leaving me solo and swirling a buttery chardonnay in my Ralph Lauren BLACK LABEL.

BW_JBKThere’s a black & white archival film clip of Jackie Kennedy standing gowned and gloved in some diplomatic receiving line as folks greet the President and First Lady. There’s one bit that intrigues me. Jackie, in true 60s form, carries a small envelope-style, evening clutch and while reaching to shake a guest’s extended hand her purse holding arm smoothly sails backward and a military corps man in full dress uniform relieves her of the bag. She never looks back; there is no sideways glance for assurance. She didn’t have to. It befit her status that someone was nearby, waiting in the shadows, to anticipate her every move. I’ve always pondered how that must have felt to know someone was always there.





Hello. As you can clearly observe I’ve gussied up the blog space with a holiday theme. It was something to do while I waited for the coffee to brew. I am in full-tilt Christmas mode; the tree is up. The mantel is trimmed. It all looks pretty gorgeous as you know it would. I really don’t think anyone will see all of this effort other than my EXbf who will come over Christmas day for our annual ‘here’s what you asked for’ gift exchange.

santa-chimneyAs much as I love Christmas (and what good catholic gay boy doesn’t) it’s challenging. The season, I mean. I’m surrounded by happy families shopping, smiling, hand-holding couples peppered my recent trip through a holiday flower show. Every year I try my level best not to punch Christmas in its vagina.

I’ll be back. I got shit to do.



Now that Halloween is done its full speed ahead into the holiday season. In my TV cable surfing I note that both home shopping networks already have their host stage sets trimmed with twinkling trees, ornament dripping wreaths, and frosted fake window panes. That all sort of annoys me as it creates a false urgency to trim one’s own home. Or at least in my head because my mother is the queen of ‘beat the neighbors’ game.

What I mean is this: whatever the holiday mother must be the first to have the wreath on the door, the flapping porch pennant, or garlanded lamp post before any of her neighbors. I don’t know why she needs to do this or how or when it exactly became a race. One year, when I still lived at home, our neighbor Dorothy came into view assembling her Christmas tree. Mother barked orders and within an hour we too were in the living room bay windows rapidly putting up our tree. My dad was always amused with her quest to be first. Mother is the neighbor decorating her mail box at 4:00am minus a flashlight. You’d think with all that competitive spirit in the house I’d be better at sports but no, not so much at all.

CLARII was, in retrospect, one of the three boys chosen last for any gym class team sport. Dead last. They would rather have the science geek, skinny kid who played clarinet or the fat kid who smelled like PONDS cold cream and wet dog fur rather than pick fey, doe-eyed moi. The curly-haired fat kid was retarded. You could use that term back in the day and not have a picket line on school property. Nowadays he’d be developmentally challenged or gifted but in my era he was simply the class retard. Life is cruel.

No. Actually kids are cruel. I’ve never been back for a high school reunion. Not one. Why would I go back? I don’t need their judgements or validation at this late stage. On the other hand it would be awesome to stroll in all semi fit and trim in my best Hugo Boss and PRADA belts and shoes. I think we all harbor revenge type scenarios when it comes to memories of high school. Like I said, kids are so cruel. I learned very early in life how to become invisible and how to build tall walls to shut out the hurt. Meh. Let’s not pick at scabs today. I got a tree to trim.



Alas the cloud of disdain and displeasure has shifted a bit; the sun peeps forth and warms my countenance with hope eternal.

Jesus Christ. I sound like Barbara Cartland. Needless to say, my mood improved. I did exactly what I said I would do yesterday. I cleaned house, I bought groceries, and I skipped the gym. I couldn’t tear myself away from internet porn (3 wanks); the thought of getting cleaned up to run a treadmill seemed too overwhelming and a smidge too physical so early in my day.

But I eventually pulled myself together and managed to hop a bus downtown to a nail salon I favor. Yes, I’m THAT gay guy with the no-chip manicure and pale pink toenail polish. And I do mean ‘pale;’ actually it’s a whisper of pink. I suppose if I was poolside Palm Springs someone with astute observation skills would note the tidiness of my toes. My hands look like those of an altar statue. The Vietnamese nail tech said I should be a hand model. Actually she said “hend modder” but I don’t want to read as bitchy and judge-y.

TROLLOh Hell; I am bitchy. So here goes: later, much, I was cutting through my building’s parking garage to shop the adjoining convenience mart. While the prices are highway robbery the sheer convenience of it trumps any thought of putting on better footwear to trek further for coffee creamer and peanut butter. Halfway through the garage a car door slammed and someone shouted “Hey, what’s your hurry, honey?” And I instantly knew, minus any turnabout, what nuisance neighbor lobbed that question.

How can I state this minus any trace of gay witchery? He’s a troll. And I mean that in the most kindest and caring fashion as, you see –if Hollywood Central Casting was actually looking for someone who lives under a bridge with a raggedy, mean-spirited goat he would be the bell ringer. He’s got yellowing teeth, a triple chin, a wonky eye, and those bothersome skin-tags flicking his eyelids that would have me at my dermatologist’s office manning a cryo surgical blow torch in no time flat.

I allowed him to catch up because I’m a saint. We chatted polite conversation, as neighbors do, for the remainder of my walk. I slowed my pace as he is one to sort of shuffle along. Midway through ‘the weather turned better’ and noting his pending dinner plans, he lobbed “what floor do you live on? do you live alone?”

It sort of irritated my shit, his point-blank questioning of my living status. And, in genteel circles, isn’t the kinder inquiry ‘are you partnered?’ But I answered his question in the affirmative while lobbing my apartment floor number. I didn’t give him the unit number for fear his cold knocking for a cup of sugar. Yes, I live alone. I walk alone. I do most of what I do alone. I never really considered it to be a bad thing or a sad thing. Still, his question nagged me into the late evening. “Alone.” I chose this. I want (wanted) this. And while he obviously doesn’t live with a goat he had surely gotten mine.



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