Saturday, June 02, 2007

softer, softest.

One of the things that I never thought about as my body hurtles itself into old age and into oblivion is how expensive it is to get old.

For example, I never used to use lotion on my supple, unlined, 26 year-old pink skin. Okokok, I lied, my skin isn't pink, it's yellow--I'm Asian after all. But I'm really really 26, or at least that's what my gay.com profile says. But don't look at my myspace page for my age because I lied there too.

At this point in my life, I lie about my age online because it's the only way people will think that I'm still slutty. Most gay people hardly believe that somebody over 35 is still having any sex at all, which is totally ridiculous. I totally had sex, I think, last month. Besides, after being together with my boyfriend for over 5 years, I’d rather call “sex” by it’s real name, “blackmail.” When I am less cynical, I call it “coercion.”

Of course, I didn’t tell my boyfriend this is what I called sex, the poor dear. My boyfriend had forgotten to take out the garbage yet again so of course I had to punish him by making him have sex with me.

I'm just glad the boyz in the gay bars actually still see me standing there--but i'm not really sure if it's because of me or my pink feathered headress. Sometimes I stand there with my freakishly muscled chest and nobody even looks at me.

Isn't it ironic? Really, you spend all of your gay youth lamenting that all the guyz are too immature and want only sex instead of a relationship. I know, I was one of them. I wouldn't date anybody over 30, absolutely no exceptions. It was really not that wonderful because none of the guys I dated ever had more than $30 in their pocket anyway. And you know what? If i had to live it over again, I'd do it totally different. Totally. I would definitely date people over 30. But nobody over 31--please, I have my standards.

But trust me, we aging queens aren't much better. We spend all this money trying to look young and then, guess what? WE DON'T WANT TO DATE OLDER MEN. I know I don't.

Why waste my Botox money on old, wrinkly men? That's like spending money on a hooker and then asking him to cuddle. If I spend money on a hooker, you can bet that there will be lots of dirty stuff going on, like cleaning my toilet and the scrubbing the soap scum in my bathtub. Cuddling--bah! Besides, a hooker's cheaper than a cleaning lady, especially if you get one that's strung out on crystal meth.

I never used lotion when I was younger because I always thought it was too greasy; it made my skin feel like a fried egg or Sanjaya’s hair. But now, I find that dryness has invaded me: my hands, my lips, the back of my throat. Lubrication is clearly needed if I were to keep my title as Best Blowjob by an Asian in Chicago. By the way, I’m available for ribbon cuttings, inaugurations and grocery store events--just call my publicist at his office/escort service agency.

Now, I have a bottle of lotion sitting on my desk at work. I have a bottle of lotion in my car, just in case I get into an accident. What? I don’t want the doctor to see my ashy knees. I’d rather die with holes in my underwear than that.

It’s strange. Moisture came so easily. My skin was easily softer than a goose’s down or a baby’s bottom. Its softness could rival the softest, limpest dick. Now it’s leather, leather that no coaxing by expensive cremes, lotions or salves can mollify...

-----

Isn't It Ironic? - A challenge to readers on the definition of 'irony.'

Thank U, Alanis - An Alanis concert brings back bad memories.

No comments: