Monday, January 29, 2007

Ask Matt

Welcome to the premiere of a new feature here at No Milk Please. Matt a.k.a. MatthewD, of the now-defunct blog Ridin' the 135, has volunteered his wit, humor and knowledge of all things VD to this site.

The success of this feature depends on you!!! Without your questions, I will have to fire Matt and he will have to go back to polishing his knob. Save him from a fate worse than chafing, send us your questions!


I am a straight guy with many gay friends. The other night, as usual, we got wasted from drinking too many cosmos. One thing lead to another and I ended up having one of my friends entering me from behind while the other shot his load into my mouth. Am I gay?

Concerned About My Sexuality


Only faggots drink cosmos.



I posted an ad on Craigslist the other day, and immediately got a response from a guy. He came over and rimmed me. Now my ass won't stop itching. Any suggestions?

Crabby Lou


My first instinct was to send you straight to Walgreens for a jumbo-sized bottle of Nix. After carefully reviewing your question, however, I feel that you may simply be suffering from a serious case of chafing. The chances are slim that the object of your ass’ affection has crabs dwelling in his facial hair. If that were the case, sticking his tongue into your hole would probably not be at the top of his to-do list.

I have a feeling that some three-day stubble, in combination with an overly aggressive tongue fucking has caused the tender flesh surrounding your anus to become dry and irritated. Try smoothing some lotion onto the sensitive area and see if that doesn’t help. Don’t get too involved in the lotion smoothing process though, it sounds like your ass needs a little R&R.

Also, in the future, some butt pics would greatly assist me in making a proper diagnosis.



What's the best way to start a fire in a fireplace?

Log Cabin Amateur


For a first-timer, I would strongly suggest the purchase of a Duraflame log. These should be readily available at your local grocer. Place the Duraflame log under the grate in your fireplace (leave the paper on for god's sake!). Arrange three or four logs in a pyramid fashion above the Duraflame log.

***It’s very important to make sure that the wood that you're using is completely dry. This will require at least one week free from moisture of any kind.

Once you have the dry wood in place, light the Duraflame log in three places and watch your fire grow! This should last you at least a few hours. Needless to say, the more wood you add, the longer your fire will last.

This column is, in no way, sponsored by the Duraflame Corporation.



I was recently dumped by my long-term boyfriend and am having trouble coping with it. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I'm just not sure what to do. I really believe that he was "the one." Help.

Lonely in Lakeview


Having been on the receiving end of many a breakup, they are tough. I know. Particularly in long term situations where feelings are as intense as it seems that yours are.

The most important measure that you can take is to give yourself time to heal. Relationships should be difficult to get over – it shows that you have the capacity to open yourself up and care deeply for another human being. Allow yourself to be upset if that's how you feel. It’s completely natural and as the days, weeks and months elapse, the better you will begin to feel.

In the meantime, focus on recapturing your independence. Reconnect with old friends, pick up a hobby, join a group and meet new people. This city has a lot to offer for single folks like us. Take advantage while you can!

If, in fact he is "the one" then perhaps you two will reconcile at some point in the future. For now though, concentrate on getting to know yourself. And maybe some other men while you're at it. :)

Wishing you the best of luck.



Is it true that African-American men are more well endowed than your average white guy?



The raw patch in the back of my throat says yes.


Matt will answer your questions, no matter how esoteric or mundane. Got a question? Challenge Matt's intellect, wisdom and patience by sending us an e-mail or leaving it in the comments!

Finders Keepers - You've heard of Matt before! Here he was in a near-cat fight!

What Does It Say About Me? - Matt offers No Milk some fashion advice. What can't this guy handle!?!

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Thursday, January 25, 2007

My First Beer

The first time I had beer, I was seven years old.

My dad was sitting on the couch slamming down a few cold ones, watching some wrestling show. He was yelling and screaming at the TV screen. And even though it was not directed at me, it scared me a little.

I was sitting there in the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible, trying not to be noticed, because as soon as I got small enough, I was going to sneak into my little sister's Barbie Dream House and have some tea with Ken and G.I. Joe.

In the back of my mind, I knew that this was really ridiculous, but damn it, Ken and G.I. Joe were sooo hot! If I had dance music, some drugs and I took off Ken and G.I. Joe's shirts, it could totally be a Tea Dance. I even knew where I could score the drugs: the Flintstones vitamins on the dining room table.

During the commercial break, my dad noticed me and almost as if he read my mind about shirtless Ken and shirtless G.I. Joe, he decides that this was going to be a Teaching Moment. He was going to teach his gay son to be a man. And by God, it wasn't by teaching him not to ask for directions when he's lost.

He grabs his beer and shoves it under my nose and tells me to take a swig.

"Come on," he said. "It'll grow hair on your chest."

I hesitated. On one hand, I thought hairy chests were sexy, and on the other, it'll be a bitch to shave off for my cabaret act. Nobody wants a hairy-chested Liza Minelli!

(It was only later in 2002, that I learned that I was wrong, there was someone--David Gest. Mr. Gest probably would prefer Liza to have a hairy chest, and probably a penis too.).

The dark, wheaty smell made me wrinkle my nose. Warily, I took a sip.


It was horrible! It tasted like piss, but without a salt lick and a lime wedge to bite on afterwards.

My dad laughed his ass off.

My mom heard the commotion. She came in and yelled at my dad, turned to me and said, "Let this be a lesson to you. Beer is for grown-ups. Don't drink it!"

I nodded to my mom. I had learned my lesson.

I'm sticking to gin.


Walk Like A Man - My father tried, really really tried to teach me, but I swished too much.
Shame - My father told me not to embarrass my ancestors. Yes, my dead ancestors.

Those Who Help Themselves - Our Lord Father communicates to us via e-mail forwards.
Lucky - I was lucky to survive my tumultous teen years. Bill wasn't.

Monday, January 22, 2007


GO BEARS!!! not work safe!!!

Oooops! I mean...

We're going to the Super Bowl!

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Bears!


SuperBowl of Love - In 2004, it was the Cats and the Pats, and all around me were homos hooking up.

Comfort Zone - My adventures in a gay softball league and afterwards, the locker room...

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Thursday, January 18, 2007

My Commitment

PREVIOUSLY: The Longest Ride. Ever. Even longer than the time when I had hemorrhoids and had to take the SATs.


We were in limbo. The doctor took our cat, our Cordy for x-rays to see if the vomiting was a symptom of something worse. Brian and I were left in the examination room to dwell in our own thoughts.

What could be worse? Intestinal blockage? Feline leukemia? Kidney cancer? What if the doctor said that there was something lodged in her stomach and she needs surgery?

I loved Cordy.

I rescued her from the animal shelter when she was only three months old. She's been in my life for seven years, longer than most of my relationships, including the one I had with the wart on my foot. Surgery could mean a lot of money, do I want to spend thousands to save a cat's life? What would I spend to ease her pain?

I realized now that I never really understood what kind of commitment I had made when I adopted her. What is my commitment? I still didn't understand when the doctor came back in with the x-rays. I felt like I needed to understand right now. If I didn't, I will not be able to make a decision. I will not be able to make the right decision.

The doctor said, "I couldn't find anything that would indicate any serious problems. The x-rays didn't show any blockage. Her liver and other organs look about the normal size. I do see a lot of gas," she pointed to x-ray of her stomach area, "but nothing that concerns me. Blood test results were normal."

We were relieved. She was going to be okay.

The doctor said that Cordy will be given some medication. She wanted to keep Cordy overnight with an IV drip to keep her hydrated and see if Cordy will be able to keep food down. The receptionist came in with the estimate, it was going to be about $500, do we want to admit our cat?

$500 was not that much. This way we can be sure that Cordy will be safe. The surround sound system can wait a few months, it's ok.

So I won't be immersed another world when I pop in an HD DVD; I won't feel the low rumble, the high pitched tire squeals of a high speed car chase; I won't feel like I'm right in the middle of the action in My First Gay Bukkake #3, it's ok.

I gave the receptionist my credit card.

The next day, the vet's office called us and told us that Cordy is alert and keeping her food down. She was being released.

The drive home was more relaxed than the trip to the hospital. We joked around, chatting to Cordy in the back, laughing about how we can put the soy sauce back in the fridge.

At least now, I know the minimum level of my commitment to my pet: it's $500 plus tax and prescriptions. I looked at her fondly.

Cordy meowed, cheerily talkative. She seemed very upbeat.

I studied her prescription and wondered idly if it worked on humans too...

READ THIS: What I wouldn't do for my cat...

Get caught up with the other posts in this series:

Part 1: Confessions of a Broken Cat

Part 2: The Longest Ride

Part 3: My Commitment

Monday, January 15, 2007

The Longest Ride

PREVIOUSLY: Confessions of a Broken Cat. Cordy, my cat had been throwing up, not because of bad Chinese take-out, but of something possibly worse. Brian and I rushed her to the Animal Emergency Hospital...

An acrid smell permeated through my reverie. The smell wafted in from the back seat, bringing me out of my thoughts.

Cat pee.

She's never peed in her carrying cage before. The pee smelled thick, sweaty, earthy, like the cologne of some swarthy lothario/plumber, you know, the kind that thinks you're into him because you're avoiding eye contact, not because your eyes are being irresistably drawn to his ass crack.

The smell added a layer a sense of urgency, of danger to the events. We've taken her to the vet before and she's never peed on the way. I wondered whether she'll survive the trip and how devastated I would be if the pee got into the upholstery.

I welcomed this feeling, it weighed down the air, underlining the gravity of the situation. Up until then I had been making light of the situation, thinking that like the X-man Wolverine, all animals had enormous mutant healing powers. They recovered much faster than humans and all without the aid of any kind of drugs like acetaminophen, penicillin, crystal meth.

Since we got in the car, Cordy had been crying in the back seat of the car almost constantly. Her silence coinciding with the smell worried me. Invisible hands squeezed my heart as I turned around to make sure she was still alive, still breathing in her cage.

In another minute, we were at the hospital. Twenty minutes, said my watch. I wondered if anybody who didn't live within a block of a hospital ever survived something worse than a possible food poisoning, like multiple stab wounds or accidental electrocution? I resolved to check my vibrator for frayed cords.

If this is how long it takes to get to a hospital, how can anything but grief meet you when you get there?

Brian barely turned off the engine when I jumped out of the car and opened the back door, gingerly pulling out the cage. My calves locked in for a sprint.

Inside, the cheery voice from the earlier phone call, now reunited with her brown hair and petite frame told us that the vet will be with us shortly; the vet was attending to another patient.

We settled down to wait on the sofa. Behind the sofa was a bulletin board filled with posters, pictures and greeting cards. Brian stood up to read them to distract himself. But a few seconds later, he stopped and sat back down. He had been reading one of the greeting cards.

"I don't want to read these," Brian said. "These are cards thanking the vet for doing her best to try to save their pets."

Just then, we heard a wail followed by sobbing. The door next to the waiting area opened and a woman, head hunched down, hurried toward the exit. A man with red-rimmed eyes followed a few steps behind, a red leash clutched in his hand.

I didn't want to be them, yet the possibility was there. We could be walking out without our pet. My mind argued with itself: this wasn't going to happen to us, but at the same time--prepare yourself.

Cheery girl took us to an examination room. The doctor, a tall confident woman in blue scrubs, hair in a tight ponytail, came in. I was relieved. She would take care of our Cordy. I was sort of afraid we would get somebody like Pauly Shore in a lab coat. What would I say then, "Uh, sorry, no offense, but could we have your version of Dr. Miranda Bailey?"

We told her of the symptoms, giving her painstaking details, yet second-guessing ourselves trying to make sure we weren't exaggerating.

"She was vomiting constantly--well not constantly--but three times in the last two hours. Was it two hours? Could've been three. No blood though, or at least none that we saw. That's good right, doctor? We don't think she's eaten in two days, but can't tell for sure, we have another cat who is a pig..."

The doctor listened patiently while she examined our cat. She said, "Cordy doesn't seem to be in immediate danger, but this could be the symptom of something else." She paused here, looking steadily at us, giving it time to sink in. "I need x-rays to know for sure."

Something else. What else could there be? This was just vomiting--bulimia--we joked earlier.

She took our Cordy away, leaving us alone in the room.

NEXT: My Commitment

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Confessions of a Broken Cat

Cordy cried during the whole trip.

She was in the back seat of the car, in our kitty carry-all. We were driving her to the Animal Emergency Room. If you've never heard a cat cry, it sounds eerily human, like sobbing, but without the overdramatic gasping they do in telenovelas.

The drive to the Animal Emergency Room was only about 20 minutes, but it seemed like hours. Brian drove steadily, while I sat silently trying to calm myself down, trying to ignore the cat's mewling. My mind raced ahead, envisioning various scenarios, each getting more horrific as time passed by. I tried to distract myself by thinking of other things...

When I first moved to Chicago, I didn't know a soul.

"Get a cat," my mom said, "Cats are clean and it'll keep you company."

Actually, that's not what she said. She said, "Cats are clean and if you ever get trapped in one of those terrible Chicago snowstorms, you'll have dinner in a pinch. Just sauté with a little soy sauce and ginger," but I didn't want you to think she was a barbarian. She really isn't, despite the chainmail and battle axe.

But just in case I was snowed in, I followed mom's advice and got a cat. And some soy sauce.

Cordy, my calico, is a bit dim, I'm afraid. She's doesn't sit on a window ledge and contemplate the world outside, she prefers to sit on the couch and stare at the TV all day--while it's off. She's also quite vocal, but most of the time, you can't understand a thing she says. And when you do, it's always meow meow meow meow meow. Sometimes I wish she would just shut up. It's quite annoying really. Pick another topic already.

She likes to make her opinion of my taste in décor known by grabbing knick-knacks with her mouth from around the house and leaving it outside my bedroom door. She can also be quite belligerent, like a drunk Lindsay Lohan. Cordy's much like gay men that way: when we are threatened, our manicured claws come out, nail bling and all.

Cordy is a celebrity in her own mind. She parties all night and runs around like crazy and it's not unusual to find her passed out in the morning, a pile of vomit nearby.

Cordy vomits a lot. I think it's because she eats too fast, but sometimes, I think it's because she's bulimic. She'll scarf down her food and a few minutes later, you'll hear the gah-gah-gah, the beginnings of another purging session. Then, a chunky pile in the middle of the floor. I wondered why she couldn't throw up in the toilet like other bulimics. No mess to clean up.

She does have a teensy bit of a weight problem, and no matter how much she denies it, her hips don't lie. But you know what cats don't have to worry about? Cellulite. The fur covers up the ripples.

The last couple of days however, there were more piles of vomit than normal. I noticed because I stepped into a couple of them while I was getting ready for work. Let me tell ya, suede and vomit don't go together, unless vomit comes in mauve.

There would be three chunky piles in a row, in varying degrees of dryness. I thought, well, it is a stressful time for her, she had not been able to get anyone interested in her tell-all book, probably because it has been recently discovered that the tom she's been dating had been neutered. Even that bottom feeder Perez Hilton wouldn't give her the time of day, even after Cordy e-mailed him photoshopped pics of herself with coke smears on her snout.

Then last night, the vomit piles were just frothy, like a latte--no chunks. It worried me because as far I remembered, we didn't have a barista living in our home. She must not have eaten at all. Why is she still throwing up?

It's a cry for help. I thought, I did what anybody does when confronted with cries for help--I ignored her.

But within the hour, she threw up a couple more times, all frothy messes. Brian and I began to worry. We weren't heartless. We weren't going to wait for Cordy to make a music video like LiLo in "Confessions of a Broken Heart" before we took notice.

It was 10 p.m., the vet's office was closed. We called anyway, in case the vet was in the shithouse with his wife and had to sleep in his office. No answer, but the message gave the phone number of the local animal emergency hospital.

We called.

A cheery voice answered, much cheerier than I expected from an emergency room. Either they are really good vets or the receptionist had gone crazy from all the harrowing things she's witnessed. We assumed the former. I copied down the directions to the hospital and went to find the kitty carry-all.

I found Cordy lying on her side, her head down on the floor, as if she didn't have the strength to hold it up. I could no longer make light of this. Horrible images of what might happen at the emergency room went through my head.

What if what seemed like a small digestive problem turned out to be much worse? What if they had to open her up? What if they found something horrible inside? Tears threatened, burning embers in the back of my eyes. I couldn't help imagining scenes of doctors rushing, clipboards in hand, the theme song of E.R. playing in the background...

NEXT: The Longest Ride


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Saturday, January 06, 2007

Finders Keepers

"Matt, that guy's been staring at you since we walked into the diner," I whispered.

It was Saturday morning. Matt, Brian and I were having the traditional gay satanic ritual called Brunch where we gossip, bitch and talk about celebrities. Sometimes, we also pray. Today, we were worshipping at the Melrose Church and Café located on Broadway Ave.

Matt discreetly looked over at the guy, who was with three of his best gays. You can tell they were close friends because they were free and easy with each other, which only comes from years of stabbing each other in the back. I mean, if you spend all your time with people who despise you even though you buy them drinks, they must be your friends, right?

"Oh, him. We hooked up about a year ago," Matt said in a low voice.

"You must've made an impression. He's been looking over here," I said.

"You know what? I don't think that's the case. I think he's looking at my hat," replied Matt.

Matt was wearing a frayed and worn Cubs baseball cap which was once the official Cubs blue but is now sort of a grayish indigo.

"Oh, why is that?" asked Brian.

"He left this hat over at my place," said Matt.

"Do you think he wants it back?" I asked, "It's a pretty cool hat. I'd want it back if it were mine. It's stylishly faded and worn."

"I don't care. If you leave something at a trick's place, I don't think you can't expect to get it back. Finder's keepers! Besides, it's my favorite hat now. I'll scratch the eyes out of anybody who tries to take it." Matt narrowed his eyes in the guy's direction.

"Besides, if you left something at a trick's, how would you get it back?" asked Brian. "You don't have his phone number or last name."

"Hey, I did that once. I waited at this guy's place until he came out and I made him give me my stuff back," exclaimed Matt.

"That was with Rob, your ex. You lived together for over a year," said Brian.

I chimed in, "Once, a guy left his wristwatch--a Rolex--at my friend Jose's. Jose kept the Rolex. I thought Jose was entitled to it, especially since the guy had left it in Jose's ass after fisting him."

Everybody nodded in agreement. We've all seen that Rolex.

"Look, they're leaving!" whispered Brian. "Do you think he's gonna walk by and snatch the hat off your head?"

"Bitch better not," said Matt, readying himself for a confrontation.

We all held our breaths as they walked by, but as they came closer, it was clear nothing was going to happen.

They were arguing about a popular gay brunch topic: if they were in Sex and The City, which of them would be which castmember. They were quibbling about prim and proper Charlotte, even though everyone knows that all gay men are Samantha, the slut.

A gay catfight was averted again by television. Don't believe me? Next time there's tension among gays, just throw in, "I think Kate is better off with Sawyer than with Jack" and watch them bond.


TAKE THE QUIZ: Which SaTC girl are you?

How Does It Work? - Another brunch conversation, this time about those mysterious artifacts called 'tampons.'
The B-List - Once you become involved in a long-term relationship, that's it, you're relegated to your friends' B-List.

Lonely In The Crowd - You could be in a bar, surrounded by lots of people and still feel very very alone.
Relief - When you're unemployed, boredom becomes your friend and constant companion.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Merry War (Christmas is Over)

The presents have been opened and returned; the holiday cheer from the prescription medication has faded; the deep resentments have been put back in storage, nestled among the fragile Christmas ornaments, ready to be unearthed at the next holiday gathering.

Another year over; a new one's just begun.

I guess it's safe for me to come out say it: I hate Christmas. I never used to hate Christmas though, probably because I never used to have to shop for anyone. That's because until I was about 23, my family and I never used to exchange gifts. My parents, in their infinite wisdom and stinginess, decreed that nobody got gifts. Ok my parents weren't really stingy, they were just very very cheap.

It's really quite an amazing thing really, because the gifts that I do receive from my family are totally unexpected and require no reciprocation. I remember a few years ago when my brother Peter who had just gotten a TiVo, enjoyed it so much that he bought me one too. He presented it to me unwrapped and unadorned one cool September.

Nobody got Game Boys, but nobody got ugly ties, macaroni art or yet another coffee mug either. Because of this, my family never gave or got gifts to each other for any holiday, birthday or graduation from modeling school/diploma mill, a situation that continues to this day, thirty-odd years later.

I should say, this situation continues to this day back home.

Here in Chicago, I am swept into this tsunami we call Christmas. I never realized how good I got it until I was standing in the middle of the Mall of Destruction. The only thing that kept me sane this past season was my mantra, which I repeated over and over as I fought through the crowds and waited in line: "Prepare to die, you motherfucker."

If you asked me what is the biggest threat facing the world today, I would say it is the Gift Exchange. That and knee-length tube socks, but I digress. Gift exchanges are tearing down the fabric of our family and our friends--the ones that we still speak to after the holidays.

Oh, don't try to defend it. For every gift you got that you begged Santa for, there is a landfill of stuff with your name on the gift tags--in a landfill.

I have spent the last two weeks before Christmas running around trying to buy the perfect gift for my friends; the gift that is the symbol of our friendship, my understanding of their spirit, my wish for their future happiness. There is only one caveat: you cannot give them the only gift that could possibly fit the bill: warm, soft money.

That would be crass. Ironic that it's inappropriate for all this crass commercialism.

And after all that, people judge you. They judge you for the gifts you give them. They think about how much they spent in relation to what they received and they judge you for not reading their minds. Even worse, they judge you for your excessive use of tape to wrap the gifts.

Can you imagine the First Christmas? Remember when the Three Kings bore gifts to the Child in the manger? Can you imagine what the guy who brought the myrrh must've thought when Mary opened the other guys' presents and it was silver and gold? Can you imagine him pulling the other two aside, hissing angrily, "I thought we agreed on a 20 chicken limit! That must've cost at least a goat and a dairy cow!"

Imagine his embarrassment when Mary said, "Myrrh... and oh, frankincense? That's... nice." and surreptitiously looked for a gift receipt? Can you imagine the hassle of traveling by donkey 200 miles to the bazaar and only managing a bazaar credit?

Christmas has come and gone. Saddam is dead. The world is still the same.

The war is still the same.

This past Christmas, I watched WWE's Tribute to The Troops: Christmas in Baghdad. John Cena, The Undertaker and CM Punk pummeled each other, bounced around the ropes and pumped their fists in the air. The troops cheered for them.

I cheered too.

I cheered for these combatants in tights, prancing in the ring, these fighters in a false war.


The Long Way Home - Twelve posts about my incredibly interesting family and my remarkably sane relationship with them.
Mistaken Identity - Switching identities with my twin brother Peter: a desperate fantasy.

...and a happy new year - A phone call to my father where we grunt, hem and haw.

Catalyst - When Al Gore lost to Dubya, all I was worried about was Gay Marriage. Little did I know.