Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Too 30 for this Shit, Part 1

During my adolescence and early teen years, I keenly honed my business skills, navigating fiscal pitfalls as a concession stand cashier and private-residence muralist. Money became my impetus, for if I could serve up frozen pickles and pixie sticks in 90-degree weather or paint a lovely riparian scene on a bedroom wall, I could mature into Ross Perot or Thomas Kinkade. Little did I know, Ross, Tommy and I engaged a mutual love for prescription-pill cocktails. Ross, or "Penpal #27," as I called him, will officially divulge his pills of choice in his posthumous memoirs, tentatively titled Ears: An Empire. My burgeoning entrepreneurialism waned as I began to sprout public hair, however. While I roused rip-roaring peach-fuzz parties for my pubes, business savvy succumbed to fear of everything heterosexual and/or of ugly evangelicals. For each new pube-popping, I'd endure my penis popping to gay stimuli. Oh, the shame. I tried to hide it, and for years I managed to sometimes unsuccessfully not allow myself to have the life I needed or wanted, not partying with gay boys, not building a homo network, not modeling for the LGBT quarterlies or participating in NAMBLA. My twenties hit, and I decided to make up for lost time much like my mother has in her empty-nest years.

A couple of weeks ago, Adam, Craig and I decided to put on our high-heels and hit the streets. This night we would toss vodka in a few bars and not prostitute ourselves in search of semen or cash from circumcised penises. We did not actually wear high heels (although when I strut down 8th Avenue in Chelsea to get groceries, I secretly pretend to clack on fiercely), but our wardrobes still breathe slutty significance. Naturally, my uniform, a striped green lady-scoop-neck and dark skinny women's jeans with a cowboy belt for a bit of butch whimsy, flatters all the right tendons and ribs on my body. Oh, a lady-scoop-neck is a tank top or tee shirt that I cut into more revealing, avant-garde blouses. Adam dropped by during my three-hour getting-ready process to chat, start drinking and discuss our plans for the night. Adam is very attractive, with a solid dancer's body, cradling a great, effortless and eclectic style. However, he is delightfully dirt poor. His outfit consisted of once-too-short red bell bottoms from Goodwill cut into shorts and a Burberry plaid button-up he kept from a one-night-stand. By kept I mean stole. His brown, worn leather loafers came from a "classy dumpster" on the Upper East Side.

As I finished blowing out my hair and got a recapitulation of his ensemble, Adam poured the first round of vodka sodas, and we chatted about our itinerary for the night:
Adam: So, what are we doing tonight?
Me: Well, I'm wearing a cowboy belt buckle, so I'd really like show off my twattal area at Flaming Saddles.
Adam: Oh yeah, I love that place! And after let's make Craig pay to cab us down to the Boiler Room.
Me: Oy. I'm afraid if we go there I'll want to sleep with everyone. You know I'm hot for Lower East Side boys, but they could care less about me?
Adam: We can have fun with it. If you get frustrated, we can dick around and slowly swap clothes with each other throughout the night.
Me: Whatever Craig strolls in wearing, I'm not switching with him. I don’t have the strength to look like a gay lumberjack having sex with a frustrated ginger. The last time I did that, I ended up contributing to the Santorum presidential campaign. He can pull it off. Not me.
Flaming Saddles echoes the honky-tonk version of Coyote Ugly, except gay steers prance and line dance on the bar instead of supermodels lip-syncing to Leann Rimes during her chunky days. Two mason jars filled to the brim with well vodka and fifteen minutes later, I seriously began to eye-fuck one of the dancer-barback-waiter combos as the crowd swelled inside the bar. He only smiled because he's paid to flirt. Cuntry-fried whore. Saddles matched its reputation and devolved in to a veritable cattle call. Fag hags stumbled in and outnumbered the vaquero queers. If you replaced the bulls in Pamplona with drunken bridge-and-tunnel heifers, you would appreciate a solid representation of the scene. Once I began to sway amongst the heavy cattle, endeavoring to fist my empty mason jar and sing along to the fifth Billy Ray Cyrus song, Adam wrangled us together and led us out of brokeback bar before I really started acting my age.

We rolled into Boiler Room around midnight, yet we were already two mason-jar-sheets to the wind. In the cab ride, we'd mutually resolved to plan out our actions on arrival in a two-pronged approach. It seemed to make sense at the time. Craig and I would bob and weave through the crowd, assessing the "talent" (talent means the attractiveness of the patrons) on our way to the bar. Adam would immediately position his assault on the juke box and select songs from the Britney Spears and Gloria Gaynor catalogs. We executed the prongs flawlessly…with superior improvisation I may add. Craig identified four boys he'd previously spotted on Grindr, which surprised me because they were not Blacktino; I spotted eleven guys I'd like to fuck, and we nabbed six shots of tequila for the three of us. Adam had a spectacular find in Dusty Springfield on the magical music maker. We celebrated. We sang. We had the impromptu-yet-staged photoshoot. We bought three shots of vodka to "clear the taste of tequila from our palates," as Adam declared. Adam and I also decided to switch into each other's outfit. Again, it seemed to make sense at the time. After a quick twenty-minute wardrobe change in the bathroom, we boldly stepped, duds and dicks, out. "Craig, bring me fresh drink and a stale hipster." I remember little of the bar visit after this.

Before I realized the rapid change in scenery due to an alleged blackout, we exited Boiler Room and taxied back to my neighborhood to hit up a diner. I figured after eating ice cubes and lettuce for a week, I should eat some French fries covered in chili with a side of French dressing and a strudel for something sweet. The three of us piled out of the taxi and crossed 23rd Street as a middle-aged man, reminiscent of a younger, gayer Ernest Borgnine passed the other way. The details remain fuzzy and spotty, but someone ran into someone, Craig apologized, and then Ernest invaded my personal space and began to berate me, three-inches from my face. Mutherfucker wanted throw down with me in Chelsea. Meanwhile, I just craved some carbs. Craig took on his protective honey badger stance, pushed me to the side and stood in gay Ernest's face, politely informing him to back the hell up off us or he'd go Kentucky on his ass. Craig is so chivalrous. Ernest backed down, and the confrontation thankfully dissipated, but I thought a nice closing remark was needed: "You have pleated fucking pants! Leave me alone! I don’t talk to your kind of people! Where in sin are my fries?"

The next twelve hours excruciatingly devolved from there…

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Grinding to Gay Jihad and Crying about North Carolina

At last, after a too-long sojourn of laziness, inspiration-slackness and Vanderbilt-rednecks in North Carolina redefining marriage, I've hazily fallen back to my love, my safe place, faking everything with my words, here with this blog. I thought this, too, after a passionate affair with Mitt Romney's obviously and/or allegedly queer son Craig, my other secure sanctuary, the closeted, sometimes-bespectacled Republican with a security detail. Craig messaged me on Grindr several weeks ago (Grindr, for those not in the know, essentially geo-targets homos in one’s vicinity, displaying a picture and a brief profile, where said homos can chat, send cock shots or schedule a play date on 8th Avenue), which is not so odd given my popularity in the gay hook-up scene. The amount of forty-two year old men that shoot "Hey," "Hey sexy" or "Hey cutie, looking?" conversation starters to me astounds. Craig (not forty-two), with an angled, oily torso shot as his profile and a Republican elephant emblazoned above the right nipple, introduced himself to me in a similar capacity:

REPpedStud: Hey, what's up?
Me: Not much, you?
REPpedStud: Horny. Looking?
Me: Always, but I need to see your face and a doctor's note before I can commit to anything.
REPpedStud sends over two pictures of his face…I believe he looks familiar and douchey.

Me: Cute.
REPpedStud: Thx. What are you into?
Me: Depends, but right now I really want to get married and then have bareback sex.
REPpedStud: Oh wow.
Me: Right? This is the best place to look for both scenarios. Are you a Republican?
REPpedStud: Yes. I have a wife too.
Me: I'm practically wet. Where's your hotel?
I ponder the sacred institution of heterosexing matrimony quite often while on Grindr, constantly blocking app-ugly people and refreshing the screen to see if a new crop of studs has risen. Most of the bumping-and-grinding guys would say they want marriage legalized (I've physically polled 76% of them) while finessing the iPhone flash to properly highlight pictures of their taints to send to MuscTop4Bttm et al.

As I write, I've been reading Facebook posts, NYTimes articles and CNN blogs about the North Carolina amendment passing, denying gay marriage more succinctly and causing harm to domestic violence protections. Fuck the residents of that state that supported it. Fuck you all for breaking the heart of someone that rarely gets emotional or upset about these things. Fuck you for instigating me to eat an entire gallon of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream while penning in this "safe haven" of mine. Fuck you for putting those hundreds and thousands of gay teens in your state at risk, burdening their already hunched shoulders with heavy disapproval and hatred. Fuck you.

Deep into the cookie dough, the vanilla coating my tongue and my eyes inflamed with hidden tears, I sit idle, at a loss as to what can be done to shift this paradigm in thinking. I've no clue. However, I do believe it will take generations for the "thinking" to change for these amendment-passing majorities, but in the interim, I propose homosexual warfare on a micro and macro scale. On a micro scale, you and I have to keep speaking about this fight, posting videos, statuses, blogs and tweets about us. Our humanity. Our hurt. Our second-class citizenry. Our voice. Our suicidal teenaged population.

On a macro level, I can only offer lofty/illogical/impossible suggestions:

President Obama should shove his testicles into descended order and make a stance against the blasphemy, bigotry and errant state amendments like North Carolina's. All un-closeted gay residents in NC should refuse to pay their state income taxes. An LGBT-friendly corporation, like Starbucks, should threaten to shut down all locations and services in the state until the amendment is revoked. The LGBT community and its supporters to never step foot in or deal with business in the state again. Everyone against the amendment moves to the state and infiltrates everything.

Ever in self-protection mode, I invariably believe the bottom line is all about money and power. If you damage economies and menace profit margins and shut down service providers, people will take heed and buckle to your demands. We have to get the power. Power will never change thinking, but it will change laws. Again, I'm pondering ridiculous suppositions, but I truly believe, amongst ourselves and our government and those we want to yell "fuck you," we need to stretch those lines of communication wider than a power bottom's anus after an all-black gang bang.

REPpedStud's hotel suite west of Times Square proffered tremendous views of the city, a city that can now house leather-themed gay weddings helmed by a man dressed as a Hasidic Jew and anti-gay Republican fundraisers officiated by Mitt Romney or Donald Trump. At both events, a ball gag sits somewhere. Laying in bed with Craig, I commented on how much I hate men, for they don't know what they want (on the micro level) and build walls of ignorant defense and distraction (on the macro level). They are singularly, gay and straight, responsible for my unhappiness, the United States' shitty welfare and Michael Jackson's still-decaying face. Men constantly let me down.

Me: You look very familiar. Are you a log-cabin Republican with a capriciously bigoted father?
REPpedStud: No, I'm Mitt Romney's son.
Me: So that's a yes? And let's talk a little bit about your use of Grindr…and my penis for that matter.
REPpedStud: Can you please sign this non-disclosure agreement?
It hits me. I'll probably never get married.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The High Seas with High Homos: Part 2

Like a luscious Botticelli painting, Cleopatra basked in the sun with Venetian girls and studly man-boys fanning her, incense infusing the air to cover the stench of slaves rowing her boat as she sailed from Alexandria to Rome. It must have been lovely. Vivid violet sails billowed in the stout ocean breeze, as the bronze-gilded bow penetrated the currents. My Atlantis cruise may have been just as gay as Cleo's, but my painting would appear less Botticelli and more like Burt Reynolds's Playgirl spread. Furthermore, I did not so much bask under lightly bronzing UV rays as I did sweat off the glitter from the previous night's Glitter Gala, yet there was a gay with a fan. Specifically, a thirty-year-old Honduran queen that looked oddly Thai, snapping open a fucking Chinese fan every time he rounded a corner, downed a piping-hot pot sticker or enviously leered at Popeye the Power Bottom. He adorned his greasy pompadour hairstyle with pink extensions and tweezed his eyebrows so thinly that I asked him to let them heal for a week or two. Needless to say, this sailing was my seamen's wet dream.

On the third day of the Reynoldsian voyage, my ears heeded a rumor of a mythological land at sea: a nude deck. In a desperate effort to reduce the appearance of my tan lines and evade the Honduran hot mess, I braced myself to sunbathe on the nude deck. Historically, nude beaches never piqued my proclivities. I have never been conscious, sober and nude at the same time in a public setting, so this decision proved momentous, or at the very least supremely narcissistic. I grabbed my towel and sunscreen and took a frenzied walk from the Lido Deck to the nude deck, perched at the highest level of the boat at the bow of the ship, beneath the place where they keep the steering wheel. My friends knew not of my whereabouts, my solo adventure into open-air nakedness. As I entered, I marveled at the sea beyond the open space of the wood-planked expanse, peppered here and there with clusters of unfriendly, unyielding aqua blue sun chairs made of vinyl and rattan mocking. The deck was almost deserted. Yet, as I trekked further I lurched across the first nudist, a morbidly obese homosexual with about seventy years behind him. He lay prostrate, however, his body overflowed atop the chair. As he shifted to look at this tall, emaciated-looking newcomer, his pannus jostled, and I glimpsed at his previously hidden penis and ball sack. At the base of said penis and ball sack circled a cock ring. HE WORE A COCK RING WHILE TANNING IN THE NUDE.

I became suddenly flabbergasted and stood still for a moment, five feet away from the member-cinched hippo. After a quick shudder and a thought as to how hot his metal contraption felt in the heat, I discerned the rest of the demographics. There were about ten to fifteen other gentlemen, most of whom would remember the Hindenburg disaster, and several of them sported phallic entrapment bands as well. I quickened my pace to the farthest plastic cluster, faced it toward the sea away from the bare-assed octogenarians and slumped onto the chaise. It was then time. I ceded a large heave and shimmied out of my green Andrew Christian speedo and tucked it beneath my back for quick retrieval. I'd barley stripped down and placed my penis toward the sun when an ungodly short man walked up, stared at me for a second too long and asked if the seat next to me was taken. This nudist decision of mine had quickly devolved into disaster territory. I gawked at my own crotch and whispered that the seat was, in fact, available, for I could not look him in the face. Once he plopped down and let his little pecker air out, the four-foot-eleven-inch-waif-of-a-white-man, who incarnated a middle-aged hippie on the verge of late-breaking pubescence, immediately attempted to strike up a conversation. Due to his disability, his face lined up with my pelvis.

4'11": You have the most interesting tattoos. What do they mean?
Me: Oh, this one on my torso? It says "Faking the real me…"
4'11": What does that mean?
Me: Exactly what it says.
4'11": But why'd you get it?
Me: Okay, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm about two feet taller than you. I'm finding it rather difficult watching you speak directly to my penis, especially without the requisite cock ring.
4'11": You know, this is where the dick deck is at night?
Me: I've been wondering where the public sex section was. Wait, they stack up and clear out these deck chairs before nightfall, right?
4'11": Ummm, I don't think so. I laid on one last night and…
Me: Do they fucking hose these down with Lysol?

Later that night, Tommy, Chuck and I prepped for the White Party. I decided to dress in all black so that I would not blend in to the crowd like I tend to do. By this time, I'd plastered on and scrubbed off so much makeup and body glitter (which I would be picking out of a few orifices for the next week) that I feared my face would echo a cross between Beef Carpaccio and an Egyptian slave's back after a lashing.

I remember very little about the White Party itself, for my combination of starvation, vodka and a complete stranger's "Tylenol" impaired the data recall section of my brain. I do, though, harbor vague hazes of three things: I looked fantastic, as I did at every themed party and/or photo shoot on the cruise (pictures for proof below). A man with white wings or a white swan tried to pluck at my crotch all throughout the night against my repeated rebuffs. And, at the party's conclusion, we connived to covertly spy the goings-on at the dick deck. No sooner had we arrived than the tattoo-adoring-midget with peach fuzz for pubes from the nude deck walked up to me, winked and pointed to the same chair I'd lounged on earlier.

"Professional Photoshoot"

Beach Party

The Disco Ball

 The Glitter Gala

The Eighties Party

The Wild Things Party

The White Party

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

The High Seas with High Homos: Part 1

Cleopatra was the ultimate drag queen. As I often quote, gay men play the role of powerful enchantress, regal beauty. Her "queen of all queens" attractiveness, however, remains not on the Elizabeth Taylor level but more roundly on the Ernest Borgnine level. I recognize these things because I like to reside abreast of current events, and I also happen to be reading Cleopatra, A Life. So far, two tidbits have mesmerized me: catty historians deem her a mild butter-face, and the deified diva knew how to travel. Her cruising along the Mediterranean evokes quite the scene, as "she herself reclined beneath a gold-spangled canopy, dressed as Venus in a painting, while beautiful young boys, like painted Cupids, stood at her sides and fanned her. Her fairest maids were likewise dressed as sea nymphs and graces, some steering the rudder, some working the ropes. Wondrous odors from countless incense-offerings diffused themselves along the banks." Fuck me silly running sideways with a tiara, but this excerpt screams "gay cruise" in a muted, nasal soprano. One could surmise my experience on the MS Oosterdam in October as an exact repeat of Egyptian-Ptolemaic nautical history, except with Boy Butter lube gently frothing about the ship decks, spreading a sheen so splendid that queers walked on the sun at dusk.

Before the sojourn on my big gay cruise, I harbored a sneaking suspicion that the usual homosexual debauchery and livery would ensue amongst the guests, bringing to mind a Fire Island meets Poseidon Adventure aura. Who would play Shelley Winters bore the fatter question. Shockingly, I initially said "no" when asked to go by my usual cohorts, Tommy and Chuck. The nay-saying lasted about thirty-seven seconds before I became all gung-ho and rah-rah-let's-raise-some-stiff-sails-and-or-masts.

Atlantis Events, a gay vacation promoter and purveyor, sponsored this particular cruise (ironically on the sister ship of my sailing last spring in the Mediterranean…the one where I stumbled down a flight of stairs in Cannes with gelato in my hand and French teenagers doing absolutely nothing to help a walking-impaired American and my friend, Lauren, laughing hysterically). Atlantis basically rents out boats and resorts, gays up the joints, and forces the already in-debt GT population to pay to stay, but not the LBs. Glossy advertisements with picture-perfect men in festive banana hammocks sporting a stunning array of neon colors with the backdrop of the Caribbean sparkling slightly less than those men's teeth completely entice people to buy this shit. Men are stupid. Even the bottoms. Most guests arrive, strutting across the gangplank with their latest bronzer, Victoria Secret Angel wings and boxes of Fleet enemas expecting to get some sort of attractive, Atlantis Shangri-La experience hosted by Ryan Gosling. Most guests leave with rug burn summoned by an aggressive, aging bear and a half-eaten Ecstasy pill attached to a newly sprouted hemorrhoid.

Once we reserved our tiny, interior stateroom on the Oosterdam, Atlantis mailed us the party itinerary. While I thought skimpy bathing suits would be the uniforms of choice for brunch, sunbathing and oceanic circuit parties, I was baffled by the costumes necessitated for The White Party, The Disco Ball, The Wild Things Party, The Into the Blue Dance, The Glitter Gala and The Eighties Party, among others. First, where would I find the stamina to attend these events and would they demand an RSVP? Second, I had to pack body glitter, loincloths and a mermaid tail into my suitcase? I also needed to ensure I packed my hazmat suit, for I'd heard that Atlantis cruises possess a slutty reputation – sex in rooms with open-door policies, saunas, pools and public toilets. God forbid I saunter past a doorway or jacuzzi jet and get squirted in the face.

With the inside of my luggage mocking the stylistic virtues of a Labelle concert, I ventured out to conquer high-sea homosexuality. Once onboard Holland America's finest, we did a quick survey of the vessel before dinner, scouting places to be seen, decks to circumnavigate, dicks to circumvent and ranking men based on BMI and how butchered their eyebrows were from over-grooming, ranging from Joey Lawrence, circa Blossom, to Joey Lawrence, circa obscurity.

Tommy, Chuck and I decided to partake in the Vista Dining Lounge's "open seating," meaning the Filipino maître d' would place us at a larger table with random strangers. As it so happened, midway through my first bite of buttered bread, Tommy nudged me excitedly. "You're sitting next to (some guy's name I cannot recall presently)!" he insisted. "Who?" I muffled, my mouth full of yeast and carbs. "He's a porn star, a huge power bottom!" Tommy answered. I'm not an avid watcher of porn and maintain terrible insight into the industry's stars, and I can say my collection goes as deep as my collection of lesbian friends. "Then why the hell does he look like Popeye?" I pondered briefly what I would look like dressed as Olive Oyl, quivered and then engaged Popeye the Power Bottom in a side conversation.
Me: So, how do gay men eat on an Atlantis cruise with such vast quantities of 2-Star delectables? I mean, where do the bottoms put it?
Popeye: Oh, well I’m sure some go to the gym, and others really stick to portion control.
Me: So bulimia is out of the question? And what about onboard douching? Does Puerto Vallarta have a CVS?
Popeye: Ummm…
Silence. I could discern at this point Popeye had the personality of a calculator button and that a piece of toast could outmaneuver him verbally, but on I tried.
Me: So, I've been thinking about getting into porn. I've actually uploaded a few videos to xxxxxxgaytube.com/skinnywhiteboys, or something like that. Do you have any suggestions? I’m dying to get into the brown-eyed business.
Popeye: Oh, well I guess it's not too hard. It depends on how you want to use the industry. Amateur videos are always a way to make a following, but that's a long road to any kind of livable wage. But, if you really want to get into the business, even the gay business nowadays, it's getting tougher and tougher. I'd recommend…
My apathy and annoyance increased, as I started to chew my bread louder to drown out the noise. Really, like I'm going to make a business case for porn? After I swallowed, I interrupted him to change the subject.
Me: Did you hear about Muammar Gaddafi? CNN just announced that he was killed.
Popeye: Oh no. He was so good in his Men of Israel scenes.
To be continued…

Monday, November 7, 2011

Behind Every Great Woman…

Faking it has never not been an option. Ever since the Anno Domini years took over and Jesus amalgamated his group of merry disciples in dresses with capes, man has faked it. The BC years proved a hairy, training-wheeled mess with unfocused ideas on sexuality and gender roles, so let's…not. To be Crystal-Carrington-clear, by "faking it," I imply owning the characteristics of a woman, for dressing in drag and walking on water naturally fall into place. That place is homosexuality. Gay men simply play women better than women do themselves. Ask Shakespeare. William Shakespeare refused to cast women in his plays not because they dallied in subordinate Elizabethan statuses as historians would lie to you; he cast gay men as women because they exude melodrama, harbor the male dominance gene to control the world and possess an uncanny knack for mixing beauty and bawdy, and screwing a male co-star behind the velvet curtain beats doing it with a woman any time. You know, I'm convinced Queen Elizabeth was a gingered tranny herself. No children, no husband: no uterus. Behind every great woman is a great (homosexual) man, and behind that man is a top.

I absolutely am not professing that I yearn to be a woman. Womanship lingers as hardship, a completely tedious lifestyle, and I simply covet silly escapism and a wider range of couture options, which is precisely what I told Mrs. Roman, my Kindergarten teacher, the first week of my elementary education. "Mrs. Roman, you seem like a fairly open-minded gal (perhaps a little naïve), so I have no hesitation being frank with you about my Kindergarten objectives: learn how to spell my name, monopolize the sandbox, and control the playhouse in the corner of the classroom," I relented. This proclamation befuddled her. While she said she completely understood my desire to spell and retain control over the newly budgeted in-doors sandbox, she asserted that the playhouse was a communal effort to explore household living with my peers and learn how to work together in a sustainable manner. A fear that Mrs. Roman wore dim-wittedness on her shoulder-padded sleeve arose, as I explained: "Okay, let's break this down into simpler constructs for you. This is not The Oregon Trail. Do you see that pink dress with ruffles hanging in the playhouse? The one that obviously belongs to the matron, or boss if you will, of the area? Well, that's going to be my dress. No one else is allowed to wear it during playtime."

The playhouse shined in the corner of the classroom, a beacon of home economics pouring over a quarter of the space. I marveled at the sheen of sweat stains from the overweight fathers who spent the week before school dumbly nailing by numbers, and the resulting patchwork of plywood, cake-battered caulk, façade-puncturing screws and a spray-painted attempt at brick trompe l'oeil would invite even the most distinguished homeless family. "Reaganomics at his best," I beamed.

My delight dwindled as Ashley Leigh walked out of the playhouse. We'd met several hours before in the cafeteriauditorium and immediately had our own Dirty Harry moment. We loathed each other instantly. Much like the playhouse, she resembled a ramshackled sack filled with caulk, extremely-gingered, kinky-curly hair and appeared covered in her father's sweat. She asked me if I was a boy or a girl. I asked if those were freckles on her pug-face or the dried smatterings of her mother's blood from a blow by her father.

After post-nap snacks, Mrs. Roman allowed groups of students to play where they wished. Kelly, Taylor and Donna huddled over their desks to color between the lines; Andrea, Brandon and Dylan hurtled to the sandbox so that Andrea could overwhelm them with her digging expertise; and Ashley, I and a few others darted to the play shed to set up house. Now, I was not so sure what Ashley's intentions were prior to playtime, but I sensed both a strong odor of Swedish fish and pink-ruffled desires pulsing through her cavernous, speckled pores. When Mrs. Roman said "go," we shot into the air. I kicked Andrea in the shin and slammed her head into the sand. Ashley pistol-whipped a kid named Marcellus with her belt buckle before landing inside the domestic microcosm and snagging the pink dress off the brass hook. The rest of the inventory included a blue polka-dotted dress, a clip-on tie, Osk-Kosh overalls, an assortment of wilted, too-large baseball hats, and brown corduroy slacks. Every flame within me wanted to bash her head against a protruding wall screw, but I had to act quickly and secure the polka-dot duds before another little whore stole the remaining women's-wear look.

"You are so transparent and desperate, taking off your belt before we even get to play. Did your mother do the same thing with your mailman? Is that why your father beats her?" I demanded. As I pondered the "kids are cruel" statements from Vacation Bible School and Mr. Roger's neighbors, Ashley retorted: "You may look and act like a girl, but you are a boy. Your name is Chad. You are blue, and I am pink. You should be playing with boy things. What's wrong with you? This dress is mine to wear…no freaks of nature are allowed in it."

Admittedly, I struggled to regain my composure and flick of the tongue after that one. I was hurt.

Mrs. Roman hurried over to assess the commotion, interrogating each pupil. As if it was not obvious, some little twat cock-blocked Chad Dooley's right to don a pink, frilly dress and serve as master of ceremonies to the playhouse, his stage. When our fair teacher circled around to me, I answered as succinctly as any five-year-old boy in my situation would. "She tucks her sweater into her jeans!" How on earth could a creature that tragic appreciate, no, work the significance of a fuchsia frock? Mrs. Roman ultimately sympathized but asserted that the clothes did not belong to any one student. We must all share, and the first to grab the outfit would be the first to wear it that day, and if her students failed to act with some modicum of decorum, she would confiscate the sartorial sundries. She later pulled me aside to stress that she supported my wearing of the garment before declaring that "the urge" to wear girl's clothes would eventually dissipate and activities like football and masturbation would seize precedence. Football never came, but for the rest of the year, I fought every day for the right to wear what I wanted.

About a week after that initial clothing kerfuffle and subsequent détente, Mrs. Roman's husband visited our classroom for whatever reason. I really did not care. He walked in, looking like an extra from a Boy George video, and I knew. Behind every great woman…

And behind this fluted, pink uniform was me: a deserving, healthy boy turning into a great, blooming bottom.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Ring of Fire Island: Part Two

I often cogitate about high-powered women. The slender pout of legs accentuated by taloned heels, a cinched waste drawn tighter by the pull of polyester draped over shoulder padding and lips stained so darkly red they would make the color black shudder all personify the personality beneath the facade: a raging bitch. I fancy myself a high-powered-shoulder-padded-bitch-LITE, constantly attempting to evoke the melodrama, nuances and fisticuffs of Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Joan Collins, Julia Sugarbaker and Kanye West. Dwelling in such delusions of grandeur certainly makes for an interesting life. I'd survived Johnny Cash and the Ice Palace Underwear Party and dreamt that night of Joan Collins. In my dream, she sat on a large mushroom and proceeded to primp, applying her CVS-brand cosmetics and wearing Halston shoulder pads with wingspans rivaling an albatross's. Leona Helmsley and Jennifer Lopez were chained underneath her and making out furiously. Alexis Carrington hopped off the overgrown fungus, and I awoke from my Fire Island slumber. In my groggy, hungover state, I conceived that by the end of the night I'd either be sleeping on a mushroom or over-acting in my own saga, Dynasty: The Pines, The Pains, The Penis.

Once we dismounted our IKEA beds at the crack of gay dawn, 1:00pm, the next day, we took to the Hotel Ciel pool. The pool scene severely lacked appropriate talent, so I ordered a frozen martini from the Blacktino, speedo-laden pool boy, literally ushered him away with the flick of my wrist and encased my ears with the lovely melodies of the 80s on my iPod. Twenty minutes later, loud shouting prodded me out of my reverie within "Bette Davis Eyes." I lowered my sun reflector from the George Hamilton collection to identify the ruckus and berate Dax* with a "What the fuck. How could you let my frozen martini melt? And, what the hell is with this goddamn…"

The source of the overpowering noise emanated from a white drag queen about the age and stature of Michael Douglas post-cancer. She painted her face like the worst kind of groupie slut for Mötley Crüe with heavy black liner etched over antacid-pink eye shadow, while her disheveled, rusty blonde wig was I'm sure taken straight out of the filter in a vacuum. Her legs also housed more hair than a Russian woman's upper lip. I couldn't quite focus on the dress, for I'd noticed that she was performing in her own drag show, reenacting the scene from Precious where Mo'Nique verbally assaults her daughter before throwing shit at her:

You're a dummy, bitch! You will never know shit! Don't nobody want you, don't nobody need you! You done fucked around and fucked my mothafuckin' man? And had two mothafuckin' children? And one of 'ems a goddamn animal, runnin' 'round lookin' crazy as a mothafucka? [ . . .] I think you tryin' to fuck with me. You fuckin' with my money... and you gon' stand up there and look at me like you a mothafuckin' woman? I'mma show you what real women do, bitch...

Midway through the diatribe, Miss Take, for this was her name, waded into the pool in a shredded mesh dress and a cigarette dangling from smudged, post-oral-copulation lips, and splashed around with herself, struggling with an imaginary, large black woman. I beheld, aghast and in awe, this Sybil-ized tranny version of Alexis and Krystle's epic girl-fight scene in the fountain, except on meth and much poorer. After the performance, I introduced myself to Miss Take, offering congratulations for her bravura rendition, but told her she should really wear water-proof makeup in the future as to not cause further chlorine pollution or drain-clogging. "What nerve and balls you have," I snapped.

The night failed to improve. Timmy* and I left the other homos in our posse and traipsed along the boardwalk to a house party hosted by the friend of a friend of a cousin of friend of a hermaphrodite. We arrived, and I delved into misery, a personal hell of unknown gays pretending to be frat guys playing Flip Cup with tequila. Timmy found himself in heaven, joining the frat-tastic game. Five rounds into the game, as Timmy's eyes started to glaze over, a handsome fellow initiated a conversation with me. I quickly became annoyed at Timmy, my Asian version of Krystle (yes, people…I am and always will be Alexis), for devolving into a raging disaster of a pork dumpling dipped in tequila. Seven shots in, I pulled Timmy away from the game and apologized to the handsome fellow, for "Koreans cannot hold their liquor…or is he Vietcong?" I physically smacked Timmy down into a chair in the corner of the kitchen and informed him he was in timeout. Timmy eventually escaped my clutches and staggered back into flip-cupping for three more rounds before asking half of the party attendees if they wanted to have sex, lamenting over and over: "I am so horny. I just want to have sex." Finding those requests unsuccessful, he barreled through the screen door, ripping it from the frame, and collapsed onto the patio.

Mortified, I exchanged numbers with the handsome fellow and began to haul Timmy out of the house. However, the little shit refused to cooperate. I had to wield my frail arms around his compact, yet solid body and lug him out and down the boardwalk to our hotel. We fell several times…one time almost into the harbor. Timmy eventually found the use of his legs and started to skip down the boardwalk, singing his alma mater or something. In between the phi betas and rah-rah-rahs, the drunken dumpling also managed to yank down bamboo trees, bash address posts and play the congo on private residence fences. In between fits of property destruction, I managed the wherewithal to ask Timmy a series of questions to keep his mind focused and his legs moving. We covered: number of sexual partners, fiscal irresponsibility with Republicans, ball-sack shaving, and being a top or a bottom. He's a huge bottom but refuses to admit it. Like any good diva of the twenty-fourth century, I whipped out my iPhone and recorded this fifteen-minute trek back to the hotel, strictly for future blackmail purposes and/or pure viewing enjoyment. As soon as I figure out how to post to YouTube…

Three near-death experiences later, we scrambled up the stairs to our room. I kicked myself for not bringing my Baby Jane Bjorn, so I opted instead to grab his Polo shirt collar and drag him up, stair by stair, like a Jersey Shore reject. I threatened and cursed him every inch. As we reached the third-floor landing, Timmy went balls-out crazy and thrashed about like the cheekbones beneath Marc Anthony's skin trying to escape his skull. One swing of his arm knocked me into the balcony railing and almost made my fall over. The other arm lunged for the door to our room and smashed against the window, shattering one of the panes.

"You almost killed me, you mothafuckin' dummy," I screeched. I slapped Tony across the face, giving my best Joan Collins snarl. As my strike reverberated on his eye socket, he looked for a moment like Margaret Cho when she imitates her mother’s state of shock.

Lex woke up and ushered us in, thinking someone was breaking in to ass rape him. I threw Timmy onto the floor, picked up an open water bottle and doused his head in it. His eyes rolled back, immediately passing out, and Lex crashed back into his bed, causing the IKEA slats to collapse and the mattress to fall through the fake beech wood bed frame. "You two bitches need Jesus," I lamented before turning on my heel to head back outside.

Eight minutes later, Lex called me at the most inopportune time:

Lex: Timmy's throwing up blood. I don't know what to do. Should I call a doctor?
Me: It’s not blood. It's just the red punch mixed with tequila.
Lex: Timmy! Timmy! Ohmigod, ohmigod. Not the floor...Click.

I busted back into the room, which resembled one of Miss Take's abortions, shrewdly announcing "fasten your rectums…it's going to be a bumpy night."

*Again, names changed…

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Ring of Fire Island: Part One

Summer coiled around the city this year like an ill-fitting bra found in a dumpster outside of a Vietnamese nail shop – too high, too tight and covered in pumiced skin, all the while cleaving the populace into two overheated sections. Luckily, one people-boob was fortunate enough to escape the hottest days, basking in the solace of beaches and oceans. The other boob lactated inside subway stops. I immediately whipped out my tank top collection, affectionately coined "Lady Scoop Necks," and began the summer's diet of starvation, spray tanning and misery. People incessantly inquire to my personal assistant, Big Glitter, about my weight: "How is Chad so skinny? If I was his size, I’d eat everything in sight." Well, obviously, you feebleminded bitches, I maintain this size because I DO NOT eat like Precious on a daily basis, stealing buckets of fried chicken and bolting down 8th Avenue with enough friction between my legs to jumpstart a car. However, I deign a slight confession, for I do have my Precious moments every so often, sans the rape. Keeping Precious at bay with my tank tops, I readied alongside the boob of people leaving Manhattan and starved myself into a skimpy bathing suit. Hours of anorexia later, I finally ambled to my benchmark, licking my goal weight within tenths of pounds. It was time…my body was equipped for Fire Island.

Fire Island, nestled on a skinny sliver of sand dunes spitting distance from Long Island, promulgates its iconic reputation with two indisputable objects of nature: gays and geography. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Northeastern queers congregate on the island after a train, bus and ferry ride from their respective locales and separate themselves into one of two enclaves: The Pines and Cherry Grove. The Pines attracts the glossy gays, toned, buff, roided, starved, grossly handsome, cunty, "gougie" (gay bougie), emaciated, bronzed and/or shellacked, in addition to the audacious wannabes and the aging daddies (daddies whose sixty-year-old skin resembles loosened leather flapped over muscular bodies). Cherry Grove beckons the lesbians and the older, hippie gays with micropenises. Floating between The Pines and Cherry Grove, "The Meat Rack" extends about a mile, adorned with sand, swamps, and woodsy areas to separate the two areas. More on the Meat Rack in a mere moment…

My friends, Dax*, Timmy*, Chuck* and Lex*, and I purchased two nights in the only hotel in The Pines, Hotel Ciel. We opted not to buy a share because I can barely make that kind of commitment to my apartment, much less a house on the beach for a week each month. Ciel is a cinder-block hotel that reeks of a 70s-era mental institution dropped in the ghetto part of South Beach's Deco District. Perfect for gays on a raunchy vacation. Our top floor suite consisted of a king bed and two twin beds, and everything, from the furniture to the lamps, hailed from IKEA. My favorite feature of the room engaged the bathroom sink, with its back end fastened loosely to the wall and the front end supported by a broomstick and metal crutch serving as legs. Gynecologist exam rooms also enjoy more privacy than this bed chamber, so we knew in an instant a fornication schedule proved essential.

After we settled into our psycho ward IKEA digs, we prepped for an underwear party in Cherry Grove. The process to get ready (for me, at least) differs very little from a normal, clothing-required event. I showered and completed my hair routine, and Dax sprayed my ass cheeks with Neutrogena tan mist to match the darker shades I'd naturally acquired on the beach earlier in the day. Because I'm a flirt or a slut, depending on my menstruation, I kept the doors of our room open so that passersby could take a gander at me in my cute new underwear as I blow-dried my hair. We also needed to fumigate the room from the spray tan cloud slowly enveloping the space. My open-door policy worked, and a gaggle of gays in the room behind us introduced themselves and poured us a shot of whiskey, to which we all toasted the pious life.

Our walk to the Grove galvanized me even more than the whiskey, 5 Hour Energy and Ecstasy pills I downed, for it necessitated a trek through the Meat Rack. Before the trip, at least fourteen people regaled me with personal or rumored stories about this plot of trees and sand, where underneath the moon and stars, hungry men of all shapes and sizes would approach or stalk willing participants to fellate, fondle, masturbate or penetrate. I suppose these gentlemen become more willing to participate because it's too dark to see the face around the mouth engulfing their penises. Seriously, the faded moonlight speckled beneath the trees remains the only source of natural light at night, aside from iPhone displays standing in for flash lights. The Meat Rack is like Laundromats after hours for straight people; they serve as hotbeds for heterosexing with fabric softener lube with dryer rumblings providing the melodic soundtrack, akin to waves crashing on the beach.

I harbored absolutely no interest whatsoever in wielding strange, un-introduced penises in the dark, for I enact an exhaustive cock courting phase followed by a mole inspection…five minutes later and the risk of catching melanoma averted, I'm ready to begin service. Nevertheless, I was dying to venture through the place and listen for grunting or catch a glimpse of nude ass gyrations in the moonlight. No such charity visibly or audibly presented itself. Instead, Timmy treated us to frights by jumping out from behind trees to scare us. I blew my rape whistle in his ear.

We arrived in Cherry Grove as Meat Rack virgins, but I was determined to have a ball or two at the Ice Palace Underwear Party. I strutted into the club, arching my back and discreetly fluffing my package to signal that I would own this place. We shot three celebratory vodkas, grabbed some Mardi Gras beads and joined the near-naked gays jumping up and down on the dance floor to Rhianna. Twenty pop songs, three vodka tonics and five pounds of water weight lost from massive sweating later, I noticed that a significant amount of homos had disappeared from the scene. They crowded around a door leading to a room in the back, and I had to know why. After we cut through those surrounding the doorway, I adjusted my underwear, as it previously failed to hide my pubic hair, and we saw two groups of ten or so guys huddled on opposite corners in the darkened room. I asked Chuck what they were doing. "Are they watching a movie?" I inquired. "I don't think so," answered Chuck as he guided me to one of the corner pits. My eyes adjusted, and my naiveté quivered. I discerned blowjobs, handjobs and bears, oh my.

I am a simple girl from the South, so my natural instinct pushed me to gasp and cover my mouth, muffling an "OMG this is a sex party" under my breath. After thirty seconds, I quickly overcame the shock of it and greedily wanted to see more. Chuck and I weaved in and out of hands, reddened knees and musky ball sacks to obtain the full scope of the scene. Several hands attempted to grope me, inviting me to participate, but I held my ground and my penis while swatting them away. I was merely watching. After five minutes of the status quo, I'd gotten rather bored and exasperated as an old man in white briefs with neon green darting, personifying Johnny Cash on the verge of being a tranny, kept trying to molest me.

Me: Chuck, this is monotonously gay. I want to see penetration. Do you see any?
Chuck: Not yet, but it’ll happen soon I'm sure.
Me: Fine, I'm going back out to dance because I don't want anything accidentally squirted onto any part of my body or face. Come get me when you see insertion…

Chuck found me five minutes later and gleefully announced penetration had commenced. He was not lying. Unfortunately, my time comically watching a large black man having sex with a tiny white twink abruptly ended because Johnny Cash tried to put his hand down my underwear again.

Me: No thank you.
Johnny: How long are you going to hold out?
Me: Jesus fucking Christ, Johnny. You aren't going to have much success in this ring of rapid semen fire, let alone with me. You can sure as shit kiss my ass goodbye with a come-on like that.

I turned on my heel and walked outside, marveling at how much I sounded like Reese Witherspoon's June Carter Cash and craving some KFC.

*Fake names as to protect the innocent. Though, they are far from innocent, and if you've been of my Facebook page, you could probably determine their identities.