Bitters with a twist


On occasion {read: every other hour} I surf unknown posts via the “because you liked” algorithm that my INSTA feed provides. Earlier today my research based on non-stop swipes lead me to this conclusion: I hate young, 20-something gays with perfect tousle-haired boyfriends. Or Husbands.

diamdsYes. I know. Please add my name to the legions of tired, bitter old queens with better jewelry because we can afford it. And I suppose “hate” in this context is far too scathing and unmerited. Maybe acid green ‘jealous’ is a better, truer word.

Mother said “Life is not supposed to be fair; you get what you get.” Which in my early thirties made no sense when I shared at a family gathering that I’d been passed over for a promotion that afforded a pay increase. I should have known better to root around for empathy from a narcissistic parent but daresay I was much more open to hope and dreams that my nuclear family would– one day, act like a family. But I digress.

When I INSTA viewed a young gay couple holding hands pulling their wagon filled with a bound Christmas tree with the caption “Corbin’s first Christmas tree at our new apartment” I wanted to vomit. Okay. Okay. Again with the too harsh criticism and judgement. If I were to vaporize into their Kodak moment I would ask them how many goddamn HRC chicken dinner galas and AIDS candlelight marches they’ve engaged for the privilege and right to haul ass through mid-town holding hands in broad daylight spat from the pages of L.L.Bean.

wagonWhen I moved in with my boyfriend 35+ years ago it was indeed a different world. We were first and foremost ‘roommates.’ A term I emphatically voiced to tell my parents that I was moving into a new apartment with a– gasp, man! I was madly, deeply in love; you see– frankly, I would have moved into a cardboard box with him but my young, first love is not what this missive is about.

No. We had everything working against our success as a gay couple. Society. Workplace. Family. We maintained two separate phone lines; when I phoned home I shut the bedroom door for fear that my then partner might make some human noise like a mere sneeze or yell an ill-timed question like “…did you fold the towels?” which would implicate me living in sin. With a man.

In the workplace, at the peak of my career, I placed a 10-second delay on my Monday morning responses to “What’d you do this weekend?” Those inquiring questions were always met with “I did this…” or “I did that…”   Single; never ‘we.’  Because “we” in the eyes of the mass, general public did not exist. In a nutshell: we were the sick and depraved homosexuals who spread disease while preying on young boys; some of us committed suicide for having our dirty secret life of shame exposed. One doesn’t have to dig too far back during the early Reagan era to learn I stand correct on this line of encapsulated thought.


There was no bridal registry for us. There was very little support. Ever. We burrowed into our circle of gay friends– that extended family of choice, to share our joys and sorrows as a partnered couple. And that well spring was a sustaining fresh font of kindred spirits either partnered or looking for Mr. Right. That tribe split up with the demise of my relationship. And their absence in my life today is no one’s fault or even surprising. It’s like carny work; as long as the circus is in town, they have a job.

sadparrotWell. This reads all rather sad as fuck. I don’t know if there is a point of view contained in this mish mash or not. I suppose no generation ever truly understands the sacrifices or thanks the prior generations for making their path in the world somewhat easier. I can’t say I’ve ever thanked a WWII vet for stopping the Nazis from taking over the world so I could enjoy consumerism by shopping Neimans in our modern day democracy.  And to the young, 20-something gays, well — my apologies for a green-eyed monster perspective; you just keep the fires burning for the next generation. Don’t coast on today’s rights; while our President seeks to close borders his larger initiative is to close minds. If I live long enough maybe I’ll see a gay President and ‘first husband’ at 1600 Pennsylvania. Now wouldn’t that be a lavender kick in my light loafers?


Thy rod comfort me

I wouldn’t imply that I’m a night owl but I do love the early morning hours, say, between 3:00 and 5:00am. The world is so quiet; at rest. Peace on earth. Actually maybe this penchant for early rising makes me that proverbial ‘early bird’ one reads about. The one that gets the worm when coined for career aspirations. Meh.

I have no career aspiration at this age. And what with the recent takeover, ahem, acquisition, of my former business by a behemoth corporation I’m lucky to have retained my position as chief glamstress. (think ‘seamstress’ and see what I did there…)

No, at this age I’m all about hanging on to my insurance and some crumb of mindful work. If my recent staycation was any indicator of the ghost of Christmas future, we are in deep shit. And by ‘we’ I mean the royal we. I enjoyed having no purpose for a couple of days but mid-vacation I was stir crazy; I found myself walking around the apartment with a level to cross check hanging artwork. (I’m that rare individual who levels wonky pictures in hotel rooms.) I cannot rest if something looks off kilter. I suppose I just enjoy the social interaction that my workplace brings; my circle of friends is not much of a circle nowadays. Oh, don’t get me wrong– I have a vast pool of air kiss acquaintances but not so much in the friend category.

I suppose I’m cautious in that regard; it becomes a matter of trust, in my reality. “The dildo box is in the Harrods bag next to my GUCCI shoes…” One just can’t lob that directive to a fake social acquaintance. No ma’am; you do not get the keys to the Lalique cabinet minus the friendship glue that is required. And by ‘required’ I mean I hold and guard some really tragic bit of personal information that could destroy you socially should we ever fall apart. I mean, far be it from me to judge with rolling eyes your attempt at triple penetration with two Mexicans and a tequila bottle in Playa Del Carmen but that news, dearie– will be relished with abject horror when I spill it at my next gala committee meeting. Ooopsie! My bad! Also, now you know why my pet name for you is “Holland Tunnel.” But I digress.

Christmas is fucking here. My original plan was to forgo holiday decorating as a family medical emergency manifest in early November. It was dire; the situation found me embracing my lapsed Catholic religion big time. I prayed; I talked to my deceased father asking for his intervention and if he could speak to God about the earth bound, tragic matter. It was somewhere around YouTubing Mother Angelica’s stations of the cross vid that it dawned on me to celebrate the, ahem, reason for the season: I dragged out my nativity. And then naturally the gay gene kicked in as I dressed it with tiny straw, miniature palms, battery operated ‘seed’ lights to emulate a star-filled sky, and red glass votives as a final nod to holy family sanctuary. It all looks rather Vatican~ish; I am just one life-size statue of Joseph from having the place look like a convent.

The family emergency is better. Far better. Enough to allow my Christmas spirit to flourish further; I hung frosted garland. I carefully ironed that fabric from hell, tissue lame, –the lightweight metallic fabric that will crinkle and melt like a bitch if one’s iron is the tiniest bit too hot, to top off my dining room table. I even sprang for a new slim Christmas tree. On that mark, I score a miss: the decorations are fab but it looks like I decorated a standing missile in my living room and I worry enough about North Korea. It’s a tad too slim for my tastes. This may be a one and done type Christmas tree.

I also think that with the purchase of a standing 3-panel mirrored floor screen/room divider I could create quite the fetch, jewel-box type presentation NEXT holiday season. The illusion being a much fuller Christmas tree. Did I note that its white flocked? It’s a virtual winter wonderland up in here. Like, on a rocket, though. Let’s get through this holiday season first. Today I have low impact plans.

My sole focus today is to score two fabulous glittering evening bags–cocktail clutches, for two gal pal acquaintances. This will be the second and third purchase of bling bling cocktail bags; they’re really the perfect gift for that fashionista friend who is out on the town every night and in the social pages every Sunday morning.  In the spirit of the season, one needs a bit of sparkle. God knows I live for that.


Blackish Friday


Well another Thanksgiving is on the books. I did manage to shower, shave, and coordinate a stylish ensemble (black with black; PRADA sunwear) to go to market yesterday. The supermarket was virtually empty with the exception of two old, Croc-wearing lesbians with mannish haircuts from Central Casting discussing a cabbage and an Asian family of eight who were all clustered together sing songing through a very long list of grocery items. Obvi they were prepping Thanksgiving dinner; one of the teenage girls carried a boxed cherry pie, ahem–vertically, and an elderly woman was clutching at a large bag of cubed bread like it was a lifejacket on the Titanic. I wanted to insert myself into their business but kept it moving in the pickle aisle like Cindy Crawford working Versace in the 90s.

BW_basicI managed to pull off a reasonable facsimile of Thanksgiving dinner; I made that notorious white trash green bean casserole with the crunchy, canned onion topper, a skillet full of sweet potatoes carmelized in heavy butter, brown sugar and Kahlúa, and a pan of basic, but moist, stuffing. I skipped the WHOLE turkey bullshit by ordering two extra thick slices of white breast at the deli section. Meh. It all worked. I also bought a brand of frozen pumpkin pie that I’ve enjoyed before but sort of fucked up by setting my oven to the wrong temp. Essentially I baked a pie for nearly 3 hours as I set the oven too low. I still ate it though with a major dollop of Cool Whip which is about as American Thanksgiving tradition as you can get.

A4Rm_f-maxage-0_s-200x150Chatted with mother for 45-minutes and it was the same litany of narcissistic neediness and selfishness that I’ve heard since father passed. She’s quite capable of opening her home to family but chooses not to. You cannot state “i’ve cooked enough goddamn holiday dinners” while simultaneously lamenting that you’re alone at the holidays. There’s a disconnect there that could become the thread of a one act Tennessee Williams-like play staged in a 70s Italian Provencal dining room. Think gold leaf like a Persian. And then add more gold shit with biggish cherub chandeliers, dangling crystals, and a brooding portrait of dead Nonna printed on canvas to look real painting-like.


The telly was a virtual wasteland of crap yesterday; so many cowboy Westerns and not one faggy musical to sing along with. I seem to recall, back in the day, the TV would telecast something big like “The Sound of Music” or “Auntie Mame” on holidays. But the holidays aren’t what they used to be as Black Friday now begins on Thanksgiving at 2pm with several national retailers opening their doors. Can’t those poor $9 buck an hour sales associates have a damn day off to argue why they’re still single with grandma?

I’m off work today. I don’t think I’ll venture out to any major retailer for Black Friday deals; I don’t need a thing and my holiday shopping list is slim to begin with. I may take a run through a trendy lil’ boutique I recently visited as they have the most divoon ‘diamond’ festooned evening bag clutch that is the PERFECT Xmas gift for a society butterfly of mine. I may spring for that today; I believe one should always create a bit of Christmas ‘surprise & delight’ for a good friend or family member. It keeps them believing in the magic of the season.

Happy Spanxgiving

Honestly today is going to go one of two ways: I’ll muster the gumption to go buy sweet potatoes, prepackaged bread cubes, green beans, blah, blah, etc., or just sip chardonnay and microwave a Weight Watchers frozen dinner. Don’t misunderstand. I know it’s a big holiday but I don’t have the energy {insert the “why bother” haze of depression} to pull it off like I used to back in the days of coupledom. Why, I’ve been known to graciously and effortlessly serve 10 at our table. And by ‘our table’ I reference a partnered life from long ago. Le sigh.

I always wanted to own special Thanksgiving dinnerware but never quite got around to justifying that purchase. Oh, I have gorgeous, stunning china already but the turkey emblazoned dinner plates have always been on my ‘must own’ list of shit. That ship, like the pilgrims, has sailed.

I have no need for turkey dinnerware nowadays. And my for reals good china (READ: Rosenthal, betch) remains in a box from moving day 10+ years ago. Each plate is individually boxed, too. Part of me relishes that it hasn’t been unearthed for some time. There’s a bit of thrill with the knowledge that should I wake up dead my family will peel back the yellowing packing tape and ponder “Who is ver-sayse?” Well-meaning acquaintances joke that all my crap will end up in a yard sale: “Uh, this here stuff with a medusa head on it…we’re askin’ a dollar.”  And that will be the moment Hell freezes with fabulous moi skating the river Styx.

I used the word “acquaintances” as ‘friend’ is harder to come by at this age. And by this age I mean somewhere between knowing the significance of Dallas, November 22nd and a corner room with a nice view in some assisted living complex out by the lake. While I can count innumerable acquaintances in my life, valued/trusted friends are limited and harder to grow. I royally fucked up the last true friendship about 5-years ago. And while some suggest I merely pick up the phone to make amends please reference that “Hell freezes” footnote. Oh, don’t hate on me: I did write a note of apology. I did. Yes. But that’s as far as I’ll venture. I’m very much like mother in this regard. She will sit home today, too, minus any table laden with her cooking surrounded by raucous laughter of family and friends. And by her choosing, I might add. So I have no guilt in this area of alone at the holiday. None.

But that is where today’s struggle comes in. I can go get the groceries and prep a meal for one or sit and stare out the window, streaming tunes, with a better chardonnay. Well. Hmmm. This post is beginning to veer maudlin and no one needs a sad serving of that today. Imma take a break. Maybe I’ll be back once I’ve showered and killed a pot of coffee over at PornHub.

The lard is my shepherd


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Oh hai hai! I’m back. Let’s not review details of my absence for, what…well over a fuckin’ year?! It was all very Patty Hearst minus the family money and machine guns. But I digress. I fell backwards on a dildo the other day (ouch, right?) and thought “…i’ve not posted anything to the blog. remember? you have a blog, dude. people are waiting to hear from you…”

And for a brief moment I felt a wet tear of compassion that I, perhaps in this space –have been shamelessly missed. Why, I bet there are 10’s of you out there in the dark surfing this blog every week just waiting for the light to return to your moderately exciting life. So let’s see how long I do this; maybe the lost muse has returned. Maybe I feel the creative need for self-expression beyond slathering La Mer on my penis. Yes, I was hated in high school, but are THEY slathering $200 buck moisture on their cock stubs? I think not.

BW_rainbowLet’s not play catch up. I know you are fine, blah, blah, woof, woof. I am still, very much –famous in my own head. The voices tell me this and if one can’t rely on the inner voices there’s really not much left to believe in while we all return to making Amerika great again. Ahem. Don’t even get me started on THAT horse shit. But let me say this: I’m up a full 20-pounds since election day. I scurry home from my glamorous job in marketing/PR and park in front of the telly nightly to soak in MSNBC and soak up better chardonnay. And I’m still battling depression. Always have; always will. Some days are brighter than others. I heard a rather apt description of depression while listening to some Irish guy on NPR drone on about the subject. He stated that depression was like an ever-faithful companion, a black dog, who is always by your side. Imma paraphrase his on point thought but shit was real enough for me to remember it and share it here. I know what I need and it doesn’t come from a pharmacy.

So. What else. What else. Since I last checked in I’ve chaired a couple charity galas and appeared in any number of society page party pics. And that has become it’s own special hell when one gains weight. I know those stick thin, A-list gays are now doing split screen image searches to note that I’ve moved into the fat side of my copious closet. And for that I hate them. I’ve always hated them. Except when they have comp tickets to the Carousel Cure for Sciatica Miracle Bal Masque. One of my mindless hobbies beyond wanking is Googling my image; I must say– I’ve built quite a bank of smiling, best-dressed, photo-ops. READ: ‘hated in high school.’  It’s all about validation. And, let’s face it: if one sees it on the internet it must be real, this very glamorous life I lead. {insert lilting sarcasm}

Well, I won’t take up more of your time today. Just know that I’ve missed you terribly, like, in the Norma Desmond “we’ll make great movies again”-way that didn’t pan out for her second go ’round but maybe it will work for me. The holidays are now upon us. I’m battling my desire to skip the tree and all that busy, glittering bullshit. But if I don’t put the tree up I have turned into my mother who –well before age 40, began the litany of “it’s all the same day” with regard to the special celebration of any holiday. Meh. I may drag out the Xmas shit just to perpetuate the illusion that I care. Besides, nothing makes those stick thin, A-list gays angrier than a beautifully decorated Christmas tree dripping in 20-years of Radko and 9-miles of French-wired ribbon bought at Fortnum. Suck on it.




Screen Shot 2016-08-10 at 5.21.48 PMDarlings, I know it has been ages since I shared shit in this space. Here’s the deal: I believe my home desktop has some kind of tracker bug on it. Recently I was perusing some naturalistic, how do you say — arty photos, when said “arty photos” launched a bunch of pop ups and then I scrambled to close down the window that stated something like “MAC detects blah, blah…virus…blah, woof, woof…etc…”

So I don’t know what the hell I downloaded but whatever it was closed down all my social media sites. When I relaunched, everything required my password again. Oh, hells no, sugar. I may be blonde this summer but I’m not dumb enough to manage online banking at home now.

I do nothing on my home computer except surf porn. Which, in the larger picture, placed me in this scenario. I’ve reached out to a tech geek/smartie pants and we’re to schedule a time for him to comb through my network, etc., to clean up my mistake.

I’m writing this from my workplace. And that’s not kosher. So hang in there. I’ll be back soon with tales from the front lines of desperate social climbing and one man’s search for a boyfriend with equity and a big wiener.



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Film legend, Hollywood royalty…JOAN CRAWFORD, passed away on this date in 1977. Meh. Though I do understand the rigors of maintaining an image. I’m no star in this town; I’m a D list socialite. I can own that. Still, even to fetch a six-pack of Stella I’ll glide a bronzer brush across both cheeks. While I’m not prone to open casket notions, I do worry if I should leave a color palette regarding my face for the funeral home face fixer upper. As one does.

So that magazine I appeared in had the issue release party a week ago. Nice turn out but it rained ass end out of a bull. Which I have no idea what that sentiment implies but I heard it as a kid growing up so there’s that. I, naturally, owned the fucking room in a completely coordinated ensemble that will be relegated to my growing ‘worn once/never to be seen again’ closet. It was seriously big fun; there was a 1-minute window wherein the mag’s editor called us all on stage, announced our names, and presented us as the “2016 dudes with flair” recipients. That’s not what the feature title is but you know how I sweat Google search for my FOR REALS NAME. Ahem.

graphics-camera-816047Standing there; feeling cock of the block. And with so many camera flashes signaling captured moments. It felt wonderful. Truly wonderful. I thought to myself: “this is what Beyonce gets every time she steps out her front door…” and I now hate her for that.

The feature’s 30-something photographer was there. Naturally we struck up a convo; he really captured a beautiful image of fabulous moi. We agreed to meet up and review the rest of shots from the photo shoot. Which we did last Wednesday. And now I am in love. No. Not love. Maybe lust? He’s so friendly, handsome, and charming. His knee braced against my leg as we sat side-by-side previewing shots. There was an ease to our conversation. And, per usual, post-second glass of chardonnay, I talked too much about personal things. But he shared, too. So it felt okay. The right thing; in the moment –that bit of flickering tea light intimacy between two men sharing real tales of the heart in the big city. 

“My girlfriend has been a bit of a….”

But I couldn’t tell you what the hell followed because I was bitch slapped back to reality. “GIRLFRIEND”? I thought the dude was gay. So now what? He seems to dig me though. And I’ve had a week to chew on all the nuances of body language, eye contact, and his warm, bear hug embrace on the sidewalk in front of the sick-as-fuck hipster hotel we met at. We’ve since exchanged a few emails. He’s sent me some YOUTUBE music links. We were talking about music and, well, since I’m old as fuck there’s a lot I don’t know anymore. So he sent some tunes. That’s just being friendly, right? I mean, I can totes go all “..I made a mix tape and put it in the mail/did you get it yet…” circa late 80’s teen crush. But I think not. I think I will keep thoughts of our big gay wedding on the back burner. Shamelessly I’ve already doodled our initials; the cursive font ascenders will create stylish flair on our ecru cocktail napkins. The Knot will def want to photograph our simple gay wedding with the imaginative personal flair that captures our personal style points so beautifully. Ahem.

DUOThere was moment, actually, two moments the other night where I caught the shadowed rise of his cheek bone and marveled at the silkiness of his complexion. I wanted to grab his face in my two warm hands and smell that space above his ear, followed by a quick dive to a full-on, lip lock kiss. I’ve already wanked to his imagined spent body slut-twisted in my 600 thread count sheets; I would nuzzle that damp space, and tongue the faint strawberry blonde hairs, between his butt hole and cock for round two. Sigh. I need therapy.

It’s all really conjecture at this point. I mean, really — do I think for one minute a man half my age is remotely interested in my moobs and gray hair? I won’t allow myself to give the notion too much serious thought beyond my desire to call Make A Wish Foundation and fake cancer for his undivided attentions. I know one thing: I’m skipping any talk about ‘back in my day’ and ‘when I was your age’ when we meet again. I learned that lesson the hard way last spring with that other 30-something that vanished like summer fog. Dating a man half my age? There’s an attraction; I feel it. Once in awhile the moth becomes the flame. And that feels very Joan Crawford.