Day After Pride

Previously: The Love Parade

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My friend Daniel who has never been to a Gay Pride parade declined to join us in yesterday’s festivities, demurring that while he's gay, he's "not the 'out and proud' type of guy," which is quite sad, because I think that every gay person in the world should be proud of who they are and own at least five pieces of tacky Gay Pride accessories to prove it. Just one piece less is just not proud enough for me.

It is quite understandable really, for someone such as Daniel, who had only recently come out of the closet, with his oversized hockey jerseys which he wears as clubwear still hanging on the rod, to feel that he's not ready to celebrate the person inside. It’s scary to come to such a public event where anybody can see you and assume that just by standing in the throng, you are totally depraved and immoral and you use your anal canal as an alternative habitat for gerbils.

I used to think that way myself. My friends had to encourage me, to cajole me and then to threaten to hold me down and put blue eyeshadow on me before I gave in and went. And even then, I had to wear something that wouldn't scream 'gay' so much in case I ran into some co-workers or something. I had to wear something that guaranteed no one would ever suspect I was gay: I wore black socks with white tennis shoes.

Going to the parade almost felt like the first time I walked into a gay bar. The first time I went to a gay bar, I drove around the bar fifteen times, around the same block, over and over, trying to psych myself into, you know, parallel parking. What? It was downtown Chicago and back then I lived in the burbs.

Before I went in, I had crazy visions of the bar having posts instead of bar stools to sit on; of seven feet tall drag queens with hairy arms; of old men coming up to me and pulling down my pants and sucking on my dick without taking their dentures out first. I was scared shitless. I learned later that scared shitless was actually a good thing, because getting your shit all over somebody's cock is just soo embarrassing. I had yet to learn to douche.

At least only gay people went to gay bars. If I ran into someone I knew there, we could hold each other under mutual blackmail threats to protect our 'straight' identities.

But the Gay Pride parade was a public event. People were armed with cameras like hookers were armed with crabs. Your face could pop up in some lesbian couple's slideshow along with their photos at the Wiccan/Summer Solstice/Monster Truck festival. I was afraid that WGN, the local TV station, would have a film crew there and inadvertently zoom into me with the caption "MEN WHO LICK EACH OTHERS' HAIRY ASSHOLES." I sweated bullets, looking frantically around to make sure there wasn't a film crew or lesbian close by.

But it was hard to stay guarded when it was plain to see that nobody was concerned about me; everybody was truly happy to be there and everybody was having fun. Even the straight guys mugged for the cameras and posed with some of the more flamboyant costumes. They were embraced despite their black socks with white tennis shoes.

Yesterday, my brother Peter, my identical twin--also gay--was on his company's float. His company, a large multi-national conglomerate, with their corporate logo prominently emblazoned, sponsored a float for their gay employees, providing a ton of free swag and samples to the crowds, which meant that every person and their greedy hands were trying to get free shit from somebody who looks exactly like me. Everybody pays attention when there's free shit, right Joe? I wasn't even fazed by the idea. I just wanted to make sure he saved me some swag.

I have come to realize that the Pride parade is a rite of gay passage, like the first gay Circuit Party or that first gay bikini wax, and that even though the thought is daunting, it is something every gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered person must experience at least once. You cannot imagine the sense of freedom, of exhilaration, of total immersion.

It's like, if you're ready to be seen by 500,000 people as who you are, then, I think you're ready to join the world. I think you're ready to be free.

It's no big deal Danny, really, I promise. I hope next year you'll be able to join the rest of us at the parade.

Or I'll hold you down and put blue eyeshadow on you.

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I AM QUEER - and you're a total fag. A Little Less Lonely - Once upon a time, my twin and I lived separate lives.

Mistaken Identity - Switching identities with my twin: a desperate fantasy. I AM The Evil Twin - Okokok, my secret identity is out, now read about why I'm eeeevil.

The Love Parade

"I don't know why you have to have a float with a giant, twelve foot long penis on it with fifteen guys, all in speedos, humping it to the beat of It's Raining Men," said my co-worker Jamie. "It's the Gay Pride Parade isn't it, not the Penis Pride Parade? I know some men are proud of the size of their manhood, but this is ridiculous."

"I'm all about sexual freedom," she continued, "I support gay marriage! I have been taking my son Alvin to the Parade every year since he was born. This year, he's four and I'm not sure that after this year, I can still take him to the parade, which is sad because I want him to grow up accepting the community that his beloved aunts Robyn and Dani belong to."

I looked around my cubicle to see if her exasperation carried over to the neighboring cubes. While I am out at work, I don't trumpet my fagginess by starting every meeting with some zingy appetizers and mojitos. My cubicle looks exactly like everybody else's in my department except for the dildo I use as a paperweight.

Everybody seemed to be enslaved by their monitors, which surprised me. I would've been standing next to whoever uttered the word "penis" to see what the fuss was about.

"But Jamie," I soothed, "this is our parade, this is what we want the parade to be. I understand that our straight friends may think that some of the people in the parade are overtly sexual, and maybe even downright disgusting, but it's us. Hey, I was totally appalled by the Smelts last year. God, won't they let men's capri pants go already? It's dead. Let it goooo."

"But a giant penis? That's practically pornographic!" she exclaimed. "If gay people want to be accepted by society, this is not exactly the way to grandma's heart. For the Gay Movement, it's like one step forward, two steps back."

"No, Jamie," I corrected her. "It's one step forward, two steps back, tap-tap-kick, then jazz hands," shaking my hands to illustrate. "Plus, I always thought of the Gay Movement as sort of sashaying, checking out the scenery and eventually getting to the party, rather than marching forward with blinders on."

"But why does it have to be about sex?" Jamie asked, "Why does it have to be the sex parade? Why can't it be the love parade? Alvin just loves his aunts Robyn and Dani dearly and has never known them to be anything other than being together. When I look at my friends, I don't see them having sex, I see their loving relationship."

"Have you looked in the bottom drawer in their bedroom?" I inquired slyly, "maybe that will change your mind about them having sex."

"Look," I said, "the parade is not for kids; It's not for people with narrow views; It's not for people who have strong body odor, although a lot of them manage to go to the parade and stand right next to me."

"The parade is going to have giant penises on floats. It's going to have bare-breasted women on motorcycles. It's going to have the local gay church float. It's going to have PFLAG. And it's going to have that damn fucking two-story Jewel shopping cart!"

"But I want to take Alvin!" She wailed, "I want Alvin to learn! Why can't there be a family-friendly parade during the day and the X-rated stuff at night?"

"Because society can't choose which part of us it likes and what it doesn't," I said. "I'm glad you're going to take Alvin this year, but maybe next year, you won't be able to take him, unless you're ready to answer some pretty hard questions, like why is a giant penis on a float bad? Or better yet, why is sex bad? Why can't we talk about it openly and in public? Why can't it be in a parade in the middle of the day?"

We left it there. I could see her honest consternation as she went back to her cubicle.

Jamie and her husband are taking four year-old Alvin this year to the parade, along with his favorite aunts.

I truly hope that she would bring Alvin again next year, and the next year, and the year after that.



Next: Day After Pride


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We're here! We're queer! Read about it:

Turnabout - Harriet interviews No Milk about Gay Rights and blogging. Why Change? - Tortured homos find their way back to heterosexuality. Pride - A Gay Pride Cartoon.

Catalyst - It's the 2004 Presidential Elections and I feel fine. Lucky - I was lucky to survive my tumultous teen years. Bill wasn't. The Gay Experience - Gay rights are fabulous and hard to contain.

Leftovers

On any given day, you could look into my refrigerator and find a whole slew of leftovers. Like today for instance, there’s egg foo yung and chicken fried rice from the local Ms. Egg Roll #2; spaghetti with marinara sauce that I made a couple of nights ago; a half-eaten chicken leg.

There was also a single piece of futomaki, which I took home from Nohana. The waitress looked at me strangely when I requested to take that futomaki home, but nevertheless put the piece into a huge styrofoam take-home box. It was maybe twenty times the size of the futomaki.

Inside of me, a war waged between feelings of waste from the excess packaging for my single piece of sushi and the knowledge that the same single piece could feed a starving family in Ethiopia or both the Olsen twins for a week. It was worth it; I resolved to re-use the styrofoam packaging somehow. Maybe if I collect enough of them, I could use it to make some kind of Christmas ornament that I could give friends that I no longer want to hang out with.

But I will say this: I will take home food from a restaurant no matter how small the morsel.

This is probably because I inherited my sense of frugality from my father; who believed that nothing should be wasted; that every cent should be considered. Thus, I can never throw anything away. And sometimes, when I walk past a dumpster, I have an urge to look in there and see if there's something I can rescue: an old lamp, second-hand romance novels, some newly married guy’s discarded porn collection.

I also believe that my fridge has magickal qualities in that anything I put in there can last through the next Ice Age--which I hear is currently in production at DreamWorks. Barring an unforeseen power outage, my leftovers are safe. I put my faith in this the way a televangelist puts his faith in the almighty dollar.

Unfortunately, my boyfriend is one of those people who refuses to eat leftovers because he doesn't believe in it, which makes me have to be sneaky.

Easy enough, I suppose, if you take the leftovers and make it into an omelet, a frittata or a casserole. Sometimes a dish could be separated into parts, and the parts stir-fried in with vegetables, noodles or rice. I'm sure each of you have your own recycling techniques. If I knew how to make futomaki, believe me, the leftover halibut would find itself cut up and folded into a roll.

When I eat leftovers, I know I am my father's son. It takes me back to the days when he would cook dinner, in huge vats. Whatever it was, we would chow down, stuff ourselves and eat it with relish. It's strange I know, but relish goes with everything, not just hotdogs. Usually, there would still be enough for a couple more days. I don't know if Dad cooked because he wanted to show off his culinary skill or because he just loved cooking for us.

I'd like to believe that it was the latter.

I know that as I sit down to eat my single futomaki, my cold egg foo yung, my half-eaten chicken leg, my father is also eating something from his fridge, maybe a lone, orphaned meatball, or something leftover from another meal, another time.

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Shame - My father told me not to embarrass my ancestors. Yes, my dead ancestors. They Found Nemo! - Finally.

My First Beer - My father told me that this was the only way I could grow hair on my chest. Rock Bottom - When you've fished food out of the trash, then you know you've hit rock bottom.

An Open Letter To My Boyfriend

My Dearest,

When I farted in the middle of your political discussion of the War in Iraq, it wasn’t because I was belittling your opinions. It was because I was bending over the sink to spit out toothpaste. That happens sometimes when one bends over.

This is you trying to make a point: you follow me around the house, telling me what you think, turning the topic this way and that until something sticks. You follow me into the bathroom where you stand outside the shower stall while I take a shower, then you keep at it as I brush my teeth, which incidentally is not very pretty.

As you know, when I brush my teeth, my mouth gets extremely frothy and the toothpaste/saliva mixture starts flowing out the side of my mouth in rivulets and goes down the toothbrush, down my wrist, my forearm. It flows towards my elbow but drips down to the sink before reaching it. I can't help it that my mouth overproduces saliva. I wish I were one of those people on TV who can brush their teeth without making a mess.

You of course are quite appreciative of this trait of mine because it benefits you. My wet mouth comes in handy when I have to lick stuff, you know, like envelops during the holidays--you have an awful lot of relatives. It also only comes in handy for blowjobs, but you knew that.

Here's another thing: I know that when we have sex, you think about somebody else. I can tell by the way you look over my shoulder to watch porn. It's soo obvious. But I guess, I have to count my blessings because it's just porn. But if you have to think about an actual person when we're having sex, please please please think of someone with six-pack abs, because I can't bear it if you think of a dumpy guy in my place--it would just kill my self-esteem.

I also wish you would stop calling me "snookums" because I am no one's "snookums." I feel like it's not respectful of my masculinity, my personhood, my humanity. It's offensive to me, degrading even, and I don't know why you can't call me something appropriate, you know, like "you fucking chink." Coz that totally turns me on.

And finally, it's not a criticism of your dancing technique if I move away from you when you start your cowboy-lassoing-a-calf routine, especially when you throw your lasso in the air towards the cute shirtless guy across the dancefloor. I just don't want to get trampled by your invisible horse.

I hope you understand.

Your fucking chink,
P.

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I'm Going To Tell You A Secret - My definition of True Love. Plus: Madonna's cameltoe.

The Freedom to Fart - I once dated a guy who forbade me to fart. Then he broke my heart.

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...

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

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

Paradigm Shift

I don’t know how else to say this, but there has been a major paradigm shift in my life. If this were your blog and you were talking about me, the title to your post would be "No Milk Please Trumpets Paradigm Shift!" There would be fanfare; there would be confetti; there would be high-class prostitutes.

"Paradigm Shift" is a term we IT-folk like to throw around because using it makes it sounds like it justifies our inflated compensation. Unfortunately, I myself don't understand what "paradigm" means because I was too busy picking out donuts at that meeting and then getting lost in the sugar high. An IT-person probably invented the word as it has a "g" come up unexpectedly in the middle, slowing you down, like a speed bump or woman with a nice pair of tits. What? Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that tits don’t interest me. A nice pair of tits are a thing of beauty; they make you look at their owner and then make you want to scratch their eyes out. You ladies know what I mean.

Paradigm is not pronounced as "pa-ra-dig-mmm" as you might expect but like "pa-ra-dime." Wikipedia defines "paradigm shift" as a "a radical change in personal beliefs" or "replacing the former way of thinking." And that’s exactly describes what’s happened to me--there has been a radical, radical change in the way I wipe my ass.

That’s right. I used to wipe my ass with plain two-ply, quilted toilet paper, but I’ve found something new: the personal moist wipes. I’ve flirted with it in the past, but now I’m ready to extol its virtues and champion its cause; I’m ready to go full-on with it, with no installments or benchmarks set by congress. The only thing I need is a tasteful container, maybe ceramic or pewter or jewel-encrusted crystal, instead of the plastic one it comes in and I’ll be content.

It’s like, wiping my ass with toilet paper is now akin to using newspaper, paper bags or green leafy vegetables to wipe my ass. Just the idea now makes my ass cringe and tighten. But then, I think about it for a few more minutes, hoping the idea will help tighten my loose, slutty asshole. I wish there were something like Kegel exercises for slutty gay Asian bottoms because nobody likes to fuck a loose bag of rice.

The soft, moist material is like a kiss the lips of my ass. If my ass had a tongue, it would french those moist wipes.

I also think that this is more economical, as it is pretty efficient in its cleansing. The moisture I think cleans thoroughly with less swipes; its thickness and size (a little smaller than two sheets of your normal toilet paper square) allows you to fold it over and use the other side to wipe again safely. If you were as cheap as me, you would fold it over a third time and wipe again, all without soiling your hands. I think even Sheryl Crow would find that barring an unfortunate Mexican take-out, you could use a single sheet. I myself am proof of that.

And bonus: guess what else it's good for? Wiping off spooge. I only wish it also had a built-in moisturizer for when my boyfriend comes on my face.

So hallelujah personal moist wipes! I sing your body electric! I have to praise you like I should...

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Other related posts:

Dropping The Kids Off At The Pool - Part 1 of 2. Ruminations and other deep thoughts about poo. A Fastidious Bird - Part 2 of 2. The stress of taking a shit at work.

Getting Shit Done - Not about shit at all but about workplace productivity, or my lack of. This Is How It Happens - A four-part story about my stay in the hospital when I had bowel obstruction. Painful.

Excerpts from a Diary

Found this on the "Interweb" (as Tracy Jordan from 30 Rock would say):

EXCERPTS FROM A DOG'S DIARY

DAY 180

8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

DAY 181

8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

DAY 182

8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
1:30 pm - ooooooo. bath. bummer.
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

EXCERPTS FROM A CAT'S DIARY

DAY 752 - My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 761 - Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded, must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favourite chair...must try this on their bed.

DAY 765 - Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was... Hmmm. Not working according to plan.

DAY 768 - I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time however it included a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a liquid. My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.

DAY 771 - There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the foul odour of the glass tubes they call "beer.." More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 774 - I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an informant, and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room his safety is assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time...

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Other pet posts:

Morning Routine - A surprise greets me at lunch for my haste getting ready for work. Confessions of a Broken Cat - A feline emergency in 3 parts. Drama guaranteed.

Meeting The Family - It was an inauspicious beginning: Rusty knocks me down when I first meet my BF's family. Bite Your Tongue - Mythbusting. Do dogs bite their tongues? Find out.

Machinations of My Mother-in-Law

My birthday was nearly 4 weeks ago, yet my devious mother-in-law had decided to throw me a party, ostensibly to celebrate my holy birth, but in reality, to create yet another reason to gather her brood around her and tug on those apron strings.

In the five years that Brian and I have been together, I had kept my birthday a closely guarded secret, primarily because I hate being reminded that every year is another year closer to the gay retirement home, the place where we shunt off the elderly: the ones who are infirm, we poor homos over 25. Because I am Asian, I am able to disguise my real age with a bit o’ concealer. But I truly fear the day that I am found out, then my fellow gays will toss me aside, like a crouton from a low-carb salad.

But my mother-in-law, that sneaky woman, managed to get a hold of this classified information from an unsuspecting Brian. Of course, Brian was thrilled, because to him, this indicated that I was finally being “accepted,” being brought into the familial fold--I was being integrated into the Borg.

That’s what so sweet about Brian--his heart is pure and innocent. He can’t imagine that there was an ulterior motive here: this was a ploy to add another date to his mother’s calendar of tortuous womandatory family events.

All holidays and Pulaski Day must be spent at my mother-in-law's house. Her children, though grown in their 20s and 30s, must be nestled at her bosom, a size 50, triple-D. Never mind that the children's spouses had families of their own--she called dibs on those holidays while the children were in utero.

But she must’ve felt her influence waning as the children had started negotiating these dates. There were requests to split the holidays, leaving early or arriving late. These requests were ultimately abandoned by the requestor as their mother’s tears fell. Such powerful ammunition. If we could somehow control Barbara Bush’s tear ducts, the war in Iraq would certainly be over.

Now, my birthday, while not a holiday, was seized upon as another excuse. “I’m throwing a party for Paul’s birthday,” mom exclaimed, “how’s next week?”

I protested of course, but how do you refuse your mother-in-law’s largesse without turning your spouse against you? Do you think that you have bound your spouse to you with your vows, your wedding rings, your blowjob technique? But remember, your wedding ring is but of soft gold; those apron strings are of steel cable.

Then the woman asks how many candles she will need for the cake. Mother wins again. The cake might as will be my tombstone; the candles, the nails in my coffin. The entire family will be summoned to watch me age before their eyes, candle by candle, withering to nothing, despite Kiehl's Cryste Marine Firming Serum, Oil of Olay and the battery acid I use to keep my skin beautiful.

So today, in a few hours, we will be headed towards my mother-in-law’s house, Brian still oblivious to his mother’s machinations. My only consolation is that one day, maybe, I will be able to exact revenge on my daughter- or son-in-law.

I relish the thought.


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Birthday Nookie - On the morning of Brian's birthday, I gave him the gift of nookie.

Something's Gotta Give - Yeah, especially your knees, your ankles. Ruminations on aging and a movie review.

Ask Matt

Matt's notorious column returns.

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Matt--

How many holes do girls have...um...down there?

Brian

Brian--

Good question. First off, I would suggest you forward me your age and location. This will aid me in determining whether you were failed by an antiquated Southern Baptist public sex education curriculum or if you are just an idiot.

Girls, in fact, have three holes “down there.” One for pooping, one for peeing and one for the purpose of procreation. Personally, I like to refer to this phenomenon as "the three P's." From back to front, they are arranged in the following order:

1. Poop
2. Procreate
3. Pee

So, if you and your lady friend are on the verge of becoming intimate, the one that you want to aim for is in the front. Unless your paramour is of the sexually liberated variety, at which point you may suggest an entry from the rear. Believe what you hear, it really is tighter.

Good luck and happy humping!

Matt

PS - Please don’t ask me where the clitoris is. I really have no idea.


Matt--

Do girls have hairy assholes?

No Milk Please

No Milk--

My tongue says "yes."

Matt



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Matt will answer any stupid question. Ask yours by sending us an e-mail or putting it in the comments.

Ask Matt - His previous column. Dare to ask our illustrious Matt a question? Check here.

How Does It Work? - Matt can answer any question, including Annie's about those mysterious things called 'tampons.'

Deep Relaxation Techniques

I have an effective relaxation technique that works really well in extremely stressful situations like when I have to get a root canal, or have my blood drawn, or whenever I have to visit my mother-in-law.

A few days ago, I went to see visit my dentist to get my teeth cleaned and get some dental work done. I had noticed that in the past month or so, I woke up grinding my teeth and I am at a loss to explain why. Very likely, my previous dental work have shifted, or at least I hoped so, because I’d hate to think that I was grinding my teeth because of the window treatments my boyfriend installed without asking me. We agreed that for major life decisions like this we would always consult each other.

But until I developed this relaxation technique, I always dreaded going to the dentist.

When I was growing up, my mother took us to Chinatown to see Dr. Wong, who is this old, grizzly dentist with yellow teeth, sparse eyelashes and a mole on his chin that had a few thick long black hairs that grew out of it. His office was very dusty and grey. Old Chinese newspapers were stacked in the corner and white rings were permanently etched on the worn and faded coffee table, no coasters in sight.

That waiting room was definitely not designed to be conducive for relaxation. I mean, how can you when there aren’t any fashion or entertainment magazines to read in sight? Couldn't he have at least put in an old Mirabella, that mainstay of dental offices, in there? Plus, in his office, along with his dental implements, he had a pair of long-nosed pliers and a mallet. That didn’t really inspire ease in a patient, especially since he didn’t seem the type to play croquet. And I kept thinking of those rings on the coffee table. If he didn’t care about his coffee table, my teeth were doomed.

I told myself then and there, that when I grew up, I would find a modern dentist who used the latest techniques, the latest equipment and had the latest magazines in his waiting room. No more freakin Mirabella.

My current dentist, Dr. Murray, had a tasteful waiting room in the fashionable Lincoln Square neighborhood in Chicago, had flat screen TVs installed and used dental implements sealed in plastic to insure sanitation. Dr. Murray inspired confidence in his professional appearance, his carefully swept hair and his wolfish grin.

However, until I was able to choose my own dentist, until Dr. Murray, I had to perfect my deep relaxation technique which I used in stressful situations. It involved clearing your mind of all thought, regulating your breathing and then imagining having sex with the person inflicting the stress.

Perfecting this deep relaxation technique takes time. You would think that it was easy imagining having sex with a stranger--ok it is, he is a dentist after all, and if he was also single, my mother would have already married me off to him. And if he wasn't single, then let's just say that my mom knows which setting to use on a chainsaw that inflicts the most damage on his wife.

But, I am old school in the sense that I can't really imagine having sex with someone until I have taken the time to at least get to know them a little bit by possibly calling their house a few times and then abruptly hanging up. But trust me when I say that this gets easier. It does, even when you do get served with a restraining order.

But you know how almost intimate it feels when a dentist is working on your teeth, their hands on your face, in your mouth, their face dangerously close to you that if you even just pucker your lips, your lips could accidentally touch? How if you peer into your dentist's eyes, you could almost see a reflection of yourself? It's easy enough to imagine him without the rubber gloves, the protective eyewear, or his white dentist shirt with his name Dr. Murray, DDS, sewn in italics, over one pocket. Easy enough to imagine him naked, on his knees, offering you a 2-carat engagement ring. What? I won’t be a cheap slut, even in my imagination, unless you pay me $50 first.

When your faces are that close, it's easier to ignore the actual physical realities of your dentist. You could focus on their eyes, the bridge of their nose and imagine the rest of him to your desires.

For me, I have even perfected this technique such that it works even on the petite, blond, female dental hygienist that works for Dr. Murray. I focus on her pretty blue eyes and imagine her thick beercan cock rubbing against me as she polishes my teeth, and then I am relaxed as can be.

I just wish I had perfected this skill when I was younger so that I could've avoided all that dread and fear that I had at old Dr. Wong's dusty office. I would've been relaxed, calm, even as the long black hairs on Dr. Wong's mole brushed against my face as he worked on my young, innocent teeth...

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Let's Get [a] Physical - My once a year hypochondria and addiction to a poke in the rear.

The Model Minority - Old Chinese dentists aside, Asians are the Next Top Model Minority.

Shalom!

(c) 2005 The New Yorker

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Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

The Deep South - My comic strip blog that rips off works of art. Now on haitus coz I'm lazy.