Hello and holiday greetings from my chardonnay haze and tuna sandwich breath. You see, kind reader, I am off work this week. On holiday at the holidays as it was; a staycation! And this much I can share: day drinking is highly underrated. I can’t wait for my pending retirement years to start my days with sparkling mimosa and burnt sausages; I’ll segue into a lunchtime spicy Bloody Mary that will carry me through to cocktail hour promptly at 4:00pm. No wonder old people go to bed early. If they’re doing ‘old’ right they should be properly hammered and pissed in their big drawers by 6:00pm. But I digress.
Christmas 2017 is over. I had zero expectations and those zero expectations were met. There were no OMG gift highlights this year. And while well-meaning coworkers afforded the awkward “…thinking of you at Christmas” notecards I’d rather some spent their money on better dentistry.
Sweetie, I don’t need ‘fun socks’ at this age. But that snaggle tooth is going to ruin some dude’s uncut manhood in the coat room at your next ‘STAR WARS PRINCESS’ Quinceañera. Just saying.
People collectively agree that I’m that picky individual on their gift list that is ‘hard to buy for.’ That is, to be gentle– a fucking cop-out. Walk through Neiman’s. I’m certain one can find a suitable gift that I’d enjoy on the very first floor. But, no, they would rather fear my arched brow when I sense that their ‘designer candle’ gift is from Dollar General. Do not regift me that shit, Shirley. I wrote the book on regifting and a goddamn candle is the very first regift item on the top ten mutha’fuckin’ things that folks regift. So there’s that.
Let’s tarry forth. I have zero New Year’s Eve plans. I did not have NYE plans last year. Or the year before that. And, I believe– maybe the past five New Year’s Eves I have had no plans; I was home–very much alone. The last few years I broiled a filet mignon, smothered a baked potato in sour cream and chives, sipped some champagne and sailed off on a kitten soft cloud of champagne infused Xanax chill well before 10:00pm. Those pot lid banging fools out on their high-rise balconies are wasting their fool efforts to get a peep out of me come midnight; I will be nowhere near any ball drop.
Which makes me a bit nostalgic for the one-balled dude that I
dated let fuck me in my early 20s. I mean, in retrospect, the topic of his solo testicle didn’t enter our casual morning banter as we punched in at ye olde time clock back in my retail maven days. Yes, I used to be a ribbon clerk and was quite good at it because I was a superior salesperson an easy fuck. Where was I? Oh, so one-ball-dude really had the heavy hots for me in a grand way; he was an artist and viewed me as his next muse, you see; he lived in a wacky sprawling apartment on the city’s north side. I recall it was mostly painted a hunter green color as was the early 80’s rage with a nod to emerging Ralph Lauren style. But that’s where the nod to Upper East Side stopped. The rest of his apartment was filled with Mexican folk art, feathery wind catchers, painted tribal masks, and the odd ball taxidermist furry animal. There were layered, frayed carpets that suggested exotic, distant Morocco and crawling, vine clinging houseplants; a heady scent of YSL’s ‘OPIUM,’ oven baked muffins, and used sex poppers hung thick. In a word: DIVINE.
dated fucked for about a couple of months until he found someone even younger and more beautiful. And I feel no shame in being boldly narcissistic in my self assessment commentary: I WAS young AND beautiful; how the fuck do you think I got into Studio 54? And the half-dozen or so men who finger banged my hot hairy hole back in the day are still dreaming about it. But I am sooo digressing. There is no thread of consistency here as I’m deep into cocktails early today and rambling along my keyboard. I can see this clearly. Just like I can see my hazy memory tip toe back to Reed’s shit show artist’s apartment and the shared showers post-sheet biting sex where I’d let him rub Tiger Balm on my tight Italian asshole and wait for the ball to drop.