Fabric8ed

I dedicate this to all of the little douche bags that hate my face. Without you, well, there wouldn’t be anything to write about.

Lately, things have been a bit of a hate fest. The Animator is talking to me after weeks of silence. Still not sure what I did to piss him off. He has a few excuses, but long story short; I obviously did something I’m not aware of. Oh well, not my issue. Love his face, but I can’t fix what he won’t explain.

Now to the fun drama times that are my life. NYU finally read my blogs about him. Actually, I think he only read the one with his name as the title; one of my personal favorites. To be honest I wasn’t going to write about this until I found out he was bad mouthing me. Call me a douche, see what happens. Love you, but never talk to someone’s friend about them. 

So, NYU was upset that I posted he pestered me to have sex and then when I was bored I told him to finish himself because I was done. What’s so wrong with that? Yes, he has a big penis, but if I’m bored, what’s the point of sitting on it? I mean, really? I found out he was upset when he sent me an instant message on Facebook, of all places.

It was probably a ten-minute conversation. I did save it for posting, but it’s easier to sum up than to force you to read through the entire thing. NYU felt I should have talked to him if I had an issue. I didn’t think there was anything to talk about.  Plus, he isn’t my boyfriend. However, he thought me posting it for the world to read was an invasion of privacy. This blog is just my life. It’s personal narration, nothing more. If you don’t like it, don’t read the shit. It’s as simple as that. There is a reason I use nicknames, so why the hell does he care?

Blah, blah, he thought I should have talked to him and he was disappointed. He thought I was a nice person. My response, everyone should note this, I’m not a nice human being. I have never once claimed to be nice. Candy Mountain can back me up when I say that I walk around telling people I’m a nasty little cunt. If I’m nice to you, it’s because you’re my friend or I’m being paid to. Otherwise, you can really just fuck off. I’m not trying to make friends, I have enough as it is. 

Poor little NYU thinks that I’m a douchee Mr. Hyde. His mistake was assuming he knew me. All guys think they know me, not sure why. The smartest thing would be to listen to the words that come out of my mouth. When I say I’m a bitch, believe it. When I laugh because you fell and hurt yourself, ask yourself why. Would a nice person laugh at you? Probably not, but that’s funny shit. Just sayin’.

Straight Nights

             What is a wingman? In the gay world there really isn’t a need for such a thing. Guys are pretty good at going in for the kill without having an airbag.

It was a warm Friday night in Baltimore (remember I work down there), and my boss suggested we all go out for dinner. It was early evening and I was the only one that voted to stay at the office and order in. Long story short, we ended up at a restaurant. We all know that I like to get my drink on. Though I should come with the following warning:

**STOP** If more than 2 drinks inserted; do not provoke with fun!

My co-worker suggested we go dancing because I was practically dancing my ass out of the seat I was in. There was music coming from a dive across the street and I was ready to play. I’m very good about keeping my composure until I get that third drink in me. Once it hits me, all bets are off. We hit two bars and finally stopped at the third. It was a bar/dance club and a mix of straight kids in their 20’s.

Now, my boss said my co-worker needed a wingman. This was as I pounded drink number 5. I didn’t know what that meant, but I sure as hell was going to do it. So, I hit on girls, drank, danced, and flirted my way around the dance floor. Then I wanted shots! I forced a round on everyone and slammed another beer. I came to that special moment when you know you have to stop drinking. I ran to the bar and pushed right past the little voice in my head that was trying to inhibit my fun. A few more hours, and several beers, left me feeling pretty good. On the walk back to the car I was charged and ready to go back for more; at one point approaching a very large straight man to ask him if he crushed baby skulls to get his massive biceps. He wasn’t as amused as you would think, but come on, that’s funny shit. 

Then the car ride, oh the car ride of doom. I-95 is a windy expressway that left my stomach in knots. I made it almost home before I yelled, “STOP!” I jumped from the car, leaving my dinner all over the side of the road. Feeling better I made it back to the house, again running for the toilet. I blacked out, somehow managing to get myself into bed. Waking halfway through the night I had to puke. It was coming so fast I only had time to turn my head, vomiting all over the floor. I passed out, waking in the morning with the headache from hell. Taking four aspirin and a sip of coke I made one final run for the toilet. I think that finally cleared the beer out of me.

Even though I felt like hell all day, it was so worth it. There’s nothing more fun than a night of harmless flirting with girls I won’t have to go home with, and guys that don’t want anything to do with me.

Bedpost

There’s a fine line between a slut and a whore. Sometimes it can be as simple as a number. The number of sexual partners (quiver with me) is either very good, or terribly bad.

I’ve been spending a lot of time with Newbie as of late. I do have to give the boy points: Over the past week I’ve been raging like a pregnant woman that was just told she looked fat. Why? It’s either that time of the month, or I’m at my boiling point. Long work hours, no sleep, little play, and stress are pushing me over the edge. Through it all, Newbie, has managed to survive.

We were talking a few days back about sexual partners and I asked his number. He wasn’t quick to give it up, not that anyone ever is. I figured he as either adding, or subtracting, to sound better. 15 was his magic number. To be honest I was shocked by how low the number was. I haven’t met a gay in New York that had been with less than half of Chelsea. I mean, even The Devil admitted his number was in the hundreds. 

To no surprise, Newbie, wanted to know my number. I managed to change the subject in such a way that we wouldn’t come back around to me. Now, I have thought long and hard about the number of people I’ve been with. I say people because, though you may not believe, there is at least one girl in the mix. Which just goes to show I may be a lesbian after all. I can name, or nickname, everyone I’ve been with. (Sometimes I use the nicknames for so long that the real names fade away) From one-nighters, to the guys I’ve dated, I can remember (to a certain degree) everyone who’s been in my manties. 

You’re probably wondering if I’ll actually reveal my number. Not yet. I don’t think that I have so many notches in my bedpost that I need to get a new one, but I’ve had my fair share of bone. When you consider the average number of partners a gay guy in NYC has in a year, I’m practically the Virgin Harry.

So, when I say that I’ve managed to climb under the sheets with 50 guys, I don’t feel it’s that many. Well, not just under the sheets. There’s also the back seat of cars, taxis, couches, showers, the floor, a park, and a few other less interesting places. From the time I first gave it up, until Newbie, averages me out to about ten guys a year. Which puts me at just less than one a month. Saying it like that makes it sound as if I have no sex life compared to most of the guys around me. Candy Mountain told me that he could beat off twice a day and still have sex every night. If I’m only trying to get it every five weeks, isn’t that on the low end?

Back to Newbie. If I’m at 50 and he’s at 15, does that make me a tramp? It certainly does mathematically. Originally, I was thinking he would be near 100. We met in a bar, I know now, but at the time I didn’t know if that was common for him. Most gays that hit the bars are hooking up 4+ times a week; just ask some of the guys I’ve gone home with. To add insult to injury, I’m so worn out that I’m not even slightly interested in bumping bits with Newbie. He’s cute and I like him, but work has overpowered my penis. I’m sure at some point he’ll see this, leaving us both to ask: Why at 50 guys, am I stuck in a sexual stump?  Or am I stuck in a slump because I’m at 50 guys?

One part of my brain says I’m tired, while the other side is worried that I may actually be a whore. When people mistake you for a hooker when you’re out, or tell you that ‘you just have a slut look’ it’s hard to not think you might be a little slutty. Do I want my potential boyfriend to think I’m a slut that’s had 3x as many penis waved at me? Not so much. We’ll see if Newbie still views this Wanted as being a potential Loved after finding out about my whittled bedpost.

Rewind

Moving makes you crazy. It also makes you forgetful. That’s not a stretch for me, considering I can’t always remember what happened ten minutes ago.

If you read my post ‘Lesbianism’ you may remember, The Illustrator. His actual name is Candy Mountain. Long story short: “Candy Mountain, Charlie, it’s Candy Mountain!” We met on St. Patty’s Day while my roomie was tryin’ to get her freak on, love her lil ‘facts of life face’ (she’s going to kill me for that). It wasn’t long after we made plans to hang out.

Meeting at the bar we had met seemed the easiest way to go about things. I dragged my roomie along, I just don’t think she drinks enough. We chatted and hung in the corner. I was the only one really drinking; I do so like a sailor on leave. My roomie only had one and Candy Mountain couldn’t drink because of an upcoming surgery. Getting his tonsils out meant no beer for a few weeks, but for better blowjobs in the future. That’s the saying, right?

I was glad I brought my roomie along until I realized that Candy Mountain wanted into my pants, which were ready to drop before we left the bar. Had we taken a cab and not the train it would have been a repeat of months before. Note: Giving rode head in a cab is tacky, but an effective form of entertainment. Eventually making it back to his apartment, which is incredibly close to my new apartment, we chatted for a bit.

I’m wary of guys that get my sense of humor. Remember, The Devil? I liked him because of the jokes and lowbrow banter. Learning from the past, I’m going less for personality and more for the shallow side of things: appearance! We started fooling around and something happened that’s never happened before. Even though there were no underwear present we were still joking around and having a good time. Typically I find the guys that are like; pants down, bite the pillow, and don’t squeal. This was the first surprise.

“Do you take a long time?” Candy Mountain asked me.

This was the second surprise. I was afraid to answer. I take a medium to long amount of time to finish my sexy business. In general, if I don’t focus on what’s in my hand or other places, I can take a month to arrive. Candy Mountain is the exact opposite. Too much excitement and he’s done. This will sound like a lie, but I’m totally attracted to that. I like knowing that he can get in and get right out. I’m a busy boy, I don’t have all day to be riding his candy cane. Now, when I say he’s fast, I mean he’s fast. A pinch of the nipple and a stroke of the pole and he’s done. I had to rush myself a little, but overall I’d give the entire experience a 9 out of 10 on the penis play scale.

We haven’t been able to hang out since our rendezvous due to his surgery, but I did see him at the gym recently. Had I not been in a dirty skank top and sweating like a pig I would have said hi. I’m looking forward to getting a beer with Candy Mountain, and I’m sure my roomie is looking forward to his lesbian friend’s next visit. I’m not sure if I’ve gotten her to the breaking point, but I figure between me and Candy Mountain we can break her lesbian cherry. Stay tuned!

Date. Toss. Repeat?

It’s been said that it takes 28 days to break a habit. So, if I am in the habit of throwing away the good guys I meet, does that mean I’ll throw away 27 before I finally keep number 28?

Roughly a week ago I ventured out with PETA and The Animator.  We had a drink at Barrage and then moved onto HK. The place was crowded and I was thrilled when I saw that they were projecting a John Waters’ movie on the wall. If you haven’t seen Pink Flamingos I highly recommend it. That is, if you have a strong stomach and are a little twisted. Once inside HK this guy caught my eye. He held the gaze and then faded into the sea of gays.

The evening progressed with trannies, pigs, and homos galore! It wasn’t until The Animator told me he was ready to leave that the gaze guy reappeared. We talked for a minute, traded numbers and I was out the door. The Animator and I spent the next two hours walking around the city, intoxicated and being deep. Oh how I love drunk-deep moments. I’m just so much more insightful, then there’s the part where I trip on my own shoes and ruin it.

The guy I traded numbers with sent me a text the next day. I invited him to come hangout while my roomie and I packed the remainder of our belongings for the big move we were about to embark on. Newbie did just that. He spent the night with us in my bed. It’s always good to get someone new into bed with you and your roomie, even if it’s more about the laughter than it is the sex.

Moving right along; after a week of hanging out with Newbie I can say that I like him. The problem is that I think he likes me too much. Newbie is very affectionate and wants to be “intimate”. I on the other hand think of intimacy as you remembering to grab my beer from the corner store on your way from the train. I also think of affection as you being kind enough to open that bottle of beer for me. Some guys like kisses, I like booze.

I’m not ready to toss Newbie, but I’m worried that’s already the road we’re traveling down. I generally lose interest in guys that don’t treat me like a cum dumpster. For some reason my brain tells me to run from the good guys. It could be a defense mechanism to prevent anyone from getting too close. You never really get close to the assholes of the world. They might be inside you, but that doesn’t mean they love you. However, the guys that love you generally aren’t worried about getting inside you (in that regard).

Hello Again

There’s something about my roomie and I that causes a cosmic reaction. Everything that surrounds us is marred with difficulty in one form or another.

Our first apartment together was amazing. Once you forgot about the robberies, the unfinished wiring, no power, no water, and of course the mold, it was amazing. For seven months we toughed it out because we loved the apartment so much. Finally, the mold got the best of us. Itchy red spots would pop up on us within an hour of being home and vanish if we left for a day or two. Itching is not an option.

We started our apartment hunt, with the intention of being out of our place in 30 days. The time limit was cemented when our lawyer sent a letter to our Jews informing them that we would be vacating on April 1st. Much to my surprise we were able to find a great room share in Queens, of all places. We told the guy we would hand him a grand right there. He paused. Telling us that he had to show the place to everyone first, I knew we were screwed. His excuse when we called the next day:

“I can’t rent to more than one person.”

Then why are you renting three bedrooms? That’s a lot of space for one person to fill.

A friend I work with mentioned a place in Brooklyn (YAY!) that was in his friend’s building. I would like to note that the girl (my friend’s friend) showed us the apartment and I love her. She doesn’t know we’re friends yet, but her name is going to be Katy Pants, love it! The apartment was very old New York. Everything about it was from a different time, including all the crap that was sitting inside. Apparently, the current tenant wasn’t out until the last day of March, giving him six days from the day we viewed the place to get out.

MOVING DAY! Roomie’s dad hired a company to move us, thank J! All of the moving went smoothly, until we got to the new apartment. The former renter had left almost everything behind. Massive furniture that was too large for us to get rid of. We played phone tag for a few hours before we got the guy to come take his stuff. In the end he left most of it, which we tossed out on the curb. Interesting note: Our neighbors downstairs are dumpster divers and adopted most of what we put in the trash.

Even though the kitchen and bathroom are disgusting and awaiting repair and installation, we love our new place. We painted the walls first thing and really made it our own. I think that we could potentially be here for a long time. I have no doubt that day two will ensure a fresh coat of drama to accent out already primed and painted first day.