Archeology

I went on a archeological expedition.

I went about digging up my past history armed with a camera and no map; I started with my room, went by way of the kitchen and ended up at my father's den. I wasn't sure what I'd find, but what I did either amused or disgusted me.

It started the day after I arrived at my parents' house, when I went into the bathroom and found a dusty, twenty year-old bottle of shampoo + conditioner in the shower stall.

I think it was a brand that my mother used when she still used to buy all my personal hygiene products--usually the cheapest brands on the shelf, you know, like Tide. I think she figured that since it worked on our grubby, dirty clothes, it should work just as well on our grubby, dirty bodies. It was years later when I found out that my face didn't have to burn every time I washed it.

As I grew older and started to become aware of my burgeoning sexuality, at age seven, I tried to make myself attractive to members of the same sex. Back then, it was hard to find sexy clothing for a seven year-old. These days, you can find a t-shirt for a two year-old that says "Slut."

Boys were easy. At that time, it wasn't too hard to do get their attention. All I had to do was let them play with my toys or video games, or dab a little peanut butter behind my ears. It was later that they became more sophisticated, when they grew up and gained maturity, around the age of 60, that I had to become more sneaky and practice my gay wiles. Dabbing peanut butter won't do anymore, I had to up my game. Cologne is too subtle. I needed something stronger, like a shovel, or a stick, something to bludgeon them with.

Growing up, I shared this bathroom with my twin brother Peter. I looked at all the stuff accumulating dust in the bathroom counter, the artifacts of our juvenilia.

I found an old toothbrush which I used to clean my white sneakers, sitting on the shelf. There was the old hairbrush that I used to carry in my back pocket when I was fourteen; my vintage cologne circa 1989; an old bottle of lube--wait--lube?

That wasn't mine, it must've been Peter's. It's really weird that it was just sitting right next to the sink, out in plain view. I wonder what my mother thinks of it? She must see it when she washes her hands. Maybe she uses it to moisturize?

When I became a teen, I started to become withdrawn, more introspective. I spent most of my time wrestling with my homosexuality; I did this primarily by jerking off.

I tried reading the bible to try to find some answers. I locked myself up in my room. I was afraid--afraid that people would find me with the bible. It was hard being known as "the fag," can you imagine how much worse it would be to be known as a "jesus freak?" I shuddered at the thought.

I had put up a "NO TRESSPASSING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED" sign even though I had no idea then what "prosecuted" really meant. In my mind, it meant I would throw a huge tantrum.

The tape holding up that old sign is older than most of my cousins. Across the hall, my older brother Jon had also put up a sign. I think it worked better keeping people away than my sign. It said "Ewok Village."

I went on with my expedition.

In the kitchen, I found that the old refrigerator had decided to quit its job after thirty years. Instead of sending it off to the junkyard, my mother started to use it as a closet to store her tupperware and take-out containers that she re-uses to pack my brother Jon's lunches. I guess if the oven ever breaks down, it might end up in my parents' bedroom to store my dad's shirts.

Check out the Anchored Nomad's Refrigerator Project, you can find a picture of my fridge there.

The last place I went was my dad's den. His desk was overflowing with odds and ends, jars full of dried-up pens, orphaned keys, five empty eyeglass cases. An abacus and a calculator lay side-by-side on the table, a May-December romance.

I don't think my dad understands the concept of "neat," except maybe in the context of "scotch."

My mother sat behind my dad's desk and I, opposite her. We were chatting, laughing at my dad's disorganization when I found a twenty year-old unopened can of sour balls.

I asked my mother, "Seriously, is this the same can from when I was in high school? Why is this still here?"

My mother shrugged. "That's the one," she said.

The aluminum can let out a small whisper when I pulled the tab that sealed it. I took a whiff, smelling a heavy, thick sweetness.

I pushed the can towards my mother, daring her to eat it. "Eat it, eat it, eat it," I said repeatedly.

She shook her head giggling. I kept at it until she took one and gingerly put it in her mouth.

I held my breath, not knowing whether she was going to start frothing at the mouth or throw up. I wasn't sure what I would do anyway, except that if she started throwing up, I'd take the can and offer some to my dad.

She frowned a bit but kept on sucking, trying to figure out whether it was still good. I wondered if she made the same face when she used to blow my dad. That was gross I know, but I had to go there. I was dying to know what the twenty year-old sour balls tasted like, whether it was anything like the taste of unwashed testicles.

Not able to wait any longer, I took one and put it in my mouth...



On the last day of my trip, as I packed up all my toiletries and my travel kit, I accidentally grabbed that old toothbrush. I realized my mistake and took it out. I was going to throw it into the trash, but I hesitated. I held on to that brittle, worn toothbrush for nearly a minute, debating. It's been here for fifteen years, I should throw it out, all this stuff out, everything here, these relics?

I slowly put it down. It will be here for another fifteen years.



I bid you to go on your own archeological expedition, find an object in your house--not a keepsake or a collectible--the oldest one you can find and tell us some of its history. Good digging!

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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

A Conversation with My Father

My father pointed to the old computer sitting on his desk in the back office of his car repair shop.

"Hey hotshot," he told me, "why don't you use some of those computer skills you have and set-up an accounting system for the store?"

I looked skeptically at the computer. It was under a dusty, translucent plastic cover that was brittle and had small tears in places. The monitor casing looked jaundiced and yellow. The keyboard felt crunchy, clacking heavily as I pressed on it. A few keys stuck briefly before rising back up slowly like dough. The number 5 was unresponsive, like a tired hooker.

I turned it on. It had Windows 98 on it at least. I thought I may have had to work from a DOS prompt.

I wasn't really thinking that I could set-up an accounting system for my father. I was only here in the Philippines for a ten-day vacation. I figured I would putz around the house, do some light housework like replacing lightbulbs or filing my nails.

"Dad," I said, "there is no way I can set-up an accounting system in the few days I have left here."

"Why not?" He asked, "I sent you to college to study computers. You do this for a living for a big American corporation and you can't set this thing up for your old father's shop?"

"It's not that easy," I tried to say calmly, even though I was already losing my cool. "First you have to upgrade your computer, buy an accounting software, configure it and then learn how to use the system. Even if I set it up, you'll have to key in all the transactions."

My father had an idea that 'using a system' meant that all he had to do was turn on the computer and it will do everything for him. My sixty-three year-old father knows nothing about computers. He thinks all computers are like HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Since it's 2006, he's probably thinking a computer can do just about anything short of sucking his cock.

"If you can't do it, then the computer is useless," He said curtly. "You may as well throw it away."

I felt stung. I felt like he was saying that I am useless, he may as well throw me away.

I hated that computer. I felt like my father held on to that old computer long enough just to use it in this conversation. I had an old ThighMaster in my room, couldn't he have used that as a metaphor instead? At least that was really useless.

I slowly burned. If I had some carrots and potatoes, we could have stew in a few hours.

On the TV in the corner of the office, a local newscaster reported that in the southern part of the Philippines, torrential rains caused a landslide to bury an entire village. In minutes, an elementary school filled with 250 children and their teachers were buried under boulder and rock and twenty feet of thick, heavy mud. 1,500 villagers were reported missing. The scene cuts to a couple of emergency rescue workers holding back a grieving woman from running into the muddy field where the village used to be.

All around me, people stared at the TV set, horrified at the tragedy. I was horrified too, I'm sure, but it was buried under an overwhelming numbness.



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My father once taught me to Walk Like a Man

This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Special Dispensation

I can never date Kevin.

Beside the fact that I am already in a committed relationship, I can never date him because he's my friend Matt's ex-boyfriend and you can never, ever date your friends' exes. I could never date Kevin unless I stopped being friends with Matt, which highly unlikely because he's such a dear friend, he's funny and smart and he owes me four hundred dollars from our trip to New York last year. We will be friends until the very end or until closing time, whichever is sooner.

So alas, this must remain a fantasy...until Matt moves to another state, in which I can date Kevin but I would not be able to tell Matt about it. I would have to lie every time I talked to Matt on the phone, which shouldn't be too hard because I lie to mother on the phone all the time about my "roommates." My mother must've thought that I was very picky because I changed "roommates" just about every six months.

The only other way I could date Kevin is if Matt gave me a special dispensation, just like the Catholic Church allowing the devout to have corned beef and cabbage on St Patrick's Day, which sometimes fell during Lent, when eating any meat is prohibited. I often wondered if there was any way around this prohibition, whether I could just lick a pork chop or something. I mean, I am not swallowing it or anything. I hoped this was ok because I plan to keep on sucking my boyfriend's cock during this holy time.

Besides, this rule is pretty murky, like what constitutes friendship? Do they have to be within the core group of a gay man's circle, the friends you go shopping with, have brunch with, the ones who buy you drinks without expecting you to buy the next round? Yeah, I don't have one of those. I tried not buying a round of beers one night and I got bitched up really bad.

If it were just a friend that you air-kissed rather than give an honest-to-goodness hug, is it alright for me to date his exes? I wish it was more straight-forward, you know, like cheating on your boyfriend. At least then there are no rules; you can fuck anybody your boyfriend knows.

I mean, a good circle of friends is really hard to find, so you must understand me. For the longest time, the only circle I had was the one where we all sat around and jerked each other off, which was nice, but it made going to the movies awkward; somebody was going to have to sit at one end and have no one jerking him off.

Ah but Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, you six-foot-five hunk of Irish beef, you make my pulse race, you make the veins pop from my temples. When I see you, my knees get weak and sink to the floor, which is great because it would put me at eye-level to your crotch when the time is right.

The only thing I could think of that wouldn't make me into an asshole is to date my friend Matt and then break-up with him. I would make a clean break of it so that I don't feel obligated to follow this 'no dating ex-boyfriends' rule. Because if Matt were an ex-boyfriend, then I have free range to be a complete jerk to him.

Is it worth it though? Is it worth the price of my friendship with Matt? I guess I'll never find out, unless Matt doesn't pay me my four hundred dollars by next week.


Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Jetlag

I have not taken a shit for four straight days.

The eighteen hour flight crossing the Pacific Ocean must've messed up more than my internal clock. I am not sure how this is possible because I have been eating non-stop ever since I walked off the plane. My father has been cooking up full breakfast, a full lunch and a full guilt trip every night.

I have been trying to come up with a word for this. "Shitlag" seems inadequate, but it's all I can come up with. I need something more sophisticated, something that can travel well, cross cultural boundaries. I want it to be the new catchphrase among the jet set. I want Paris Hilton to have the right word to use when she has this temporary irregularity.

Shitlag is not constipation. It is simply the lack of an urge to take a dump. I have sat on the pot to see if I could get it going, but after fifteen minutes, all I got were dry farts. It is very unnerving. Like, tell me, what was the longest you have gone without taking a dump? It made me question everything, the Meaning of Life; the Existence of Heaven; whether it is BYOB in Hell.

On Day Three, while in a restaurant, I told my mother that the shit was imminent, we had to leave. I cannot possibly use a public toilet; the explosion could be dangerous, people could get caught in the fallout.

But when I got home, nothing came. A false contraction. I felt embarrassed. I wonder if this is what pregnant women feel like when they are sent home?

I wondered if during the flight over here, I had somehow achieved nirvana. My body has ascended to the next plane and is now efficiently converting all I consume directly into energy--I no longer had to do the two. The shit transforms into energy and the energy emanates from my body, bringing to the world peace, goodwill and an otherworldly fashion sense...


Day Five: The shit has landed. There goes world peace...


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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Autopilot

Is this how all marriages end up? Is this how a forty-year marriage looks like? Husband and wife yelling, arguing over the wrong brand dish detergent? As I watched my parents heatedly argue, I wondered how they manage to keep it up for so long. I would've bust a vein.

Even as they traded barbs, they were already preoccupied with something else. My father was sitting on the cracked faux leather couch reading the evening paper, mother at the dinner table eating and peeling shrimp. From the detergent, they moved on to other inconsequential topics: the peeling wallpaper, the stock market, my haircut. The fight was on autopilot.

I kept my head down as missiles flew overhead, it's only my second day here and I am back in the warzone like I never left. I steadily ate my dinner in silence, hoping to get out of the way as soon as possible. One word would engage me in the war, I'd have to choose sides; there is no Switzerland here. That would only bring about the wrath of both parents.

My father asked me a direct question. There was no avoiding it, congress can't save me now--except--possibly if I deploy the Nuclear Option: I could fart. However, I didn't think I could muster enough sulphur to summon one, so I belched loudly instead.

That distracted them, thank God.

I am almost positive that my parents didn't always argue like this, but I can't summon those memories. I thought hard, directing all my concentration on it, as if I were trying to pass a kidney stone. But I'm failing. It must be stored in a part of my brain that's been sealed off, blocking traumatic memories of the time when I wore espadrilles.

All I remember is that I hated the dinner table because it was like a prison cell and a clean plate, my only parole. Consequently, I can eat a plate of roast pork, mashed potatoes and a side of green beans in two minutes flat. I leave the dinner table, my mouth still chewing, full and bloated, a puffer fish warding off its enemies.

Comparatively, this tiff was a minor blip on the screen, a pebble on the road--it won't even last the weekend. It's not even close to being in the Top Ten Soap Operatic Moments of my life. There were no knives drawn; just a papercut with a twist of lemon.

I remember that night with the knife.

In a lull in their argument, my mother asked me how the stir-fried noodles were. Fine, I said curtly.

I was sulking, how mature of me. I refuse to have a conversation in the hundred decibel range. I am here for a ten-day vacation, the least my parents can do was pretend to be some other married couple, like Kirsten and Sandy on The O.C. Surely, they can do that for me?

My parents have been doing this so long, they don't realize it's already taken its toll. You’d think that after moving out fifteen years ago, the hard shell I've grown would be enough to withstand these fights. But my armor is useless here; it melts away like tanning butter, leaving carcinoma. Maybe I am just too soft. Maybe I am just a fag.

Maybe I am just a fucking faggot for fucking feeling like this.

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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

My Old Room

This is my old room. It still smells the same: a little moist, the smell of floor wax and soap. The fluorescent light is harsh, harsher than I remember. In my own place, I use only incandescent bulbs; they soften my edges, my large pores, ready for my close-up at any moment and angle.

My old desk still has my high school photographs under its glass top. When I look at those old photographs, I feel a small grief for that young boy who has since lost his innocence and his twenty-six inch waist. They are both lost forever.

On the desk, my old stuff: pens, pencils, dictionaries were pushed to a dusty corner to make way for the tools used in my mother's new hobbies. There seems to be a small cottage industry going on in here: needlepoint, some quilting, a scrapbook of photos of my father and his mistress, taken by a private detective. The scrapbook was top-notch, I thought, artistic even, with very neat handwriting and the words "DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE" written over and over in blood-red ink.

A single twin-size bed is pushed against the wall. It used to be in the middle of the room. The mattress on the bed looks shrunken, like a dried-out starfish under the thin, worn fitted sheet. I sit on the edge. I can feel its crusty, hard edges--a day-old French bread--under my thighs.

The fitted sheet is blue, dotted occasionally by tiny, soft flowers; neutral enough for a boy (to my dismay). The sheets were the same ones from when I left home fifteen years ago. The wallpaper too--still the same green checkered pattern, slightly peeling in some places. It feels sticky to the touch, as if the adhesive under it seeped through.

I can't believe I ever slept in this bed, under these conditions. It's hard to believe there was a time when Egyptian cotton was but a dream; when pillow shams only belonged in fairy tales. How simple and austere, how very Little House on the Prairie.

When I moved to Chicago I didn't have enough room to fit all my personal belongings into the one old suitcase my mother gave me. I left a lot of things behind. I didn't know that it would be nearly a decade before my first trip back, otherwise, I would've been more careful and thrown away that can of Crisco in the nightstand--it got really funky.

I am wired from my long trans-Pacific flight. I am always tense in an airplane. I needed to relax, blank out my mind. I needed a drink. Or a porn movie.

What I wouldn't give for the sweet, tired bliss of a self-induced orgasm. I would be asleep in a minute. Jerking off is so underrated; it deserves an Academy Award or something. Ever notice how Oscar is holding on to long stick? I would often wake up in the morning, both hands on to my stick, just like Oscar.

There is a built-in drawer to one side of the bed. I pulled it open to see what was in there. Odd. It was empty. My mother must've cleaned it out. I tried to remember what was in there. It didn't matter--anything important would've been hidden away: under the loose floorboard, in the secret compartment I cut into the King James Bible.

The dresser is still in the same place though. I wondered. I pulled it forward. It feels heavy, I'm not sure why; no time to investigate.

Ah, it's still there. Taped behind the dresser, a manila envelop. I open it.

Inside was my old copy of Torso magazine. Jon Vincent was on the cover, remember him? Sexymotherfucker with a raunchy mouth?

"How about it," I murmured to my old bed, "what say we do it for old times sake?"

I reach for the Crisco.


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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Bean Pole

Seen at South Korea's Incheon International Airport:

Fake Plastic Food

(continued from Starvation)

I had been on the plane for four hours and sixteen minutes before the food cart finally came.

My tray table has been folded down even before I saw the food cart come out of the galley. You can hear the clacking of the trays coming down, fast and hard. It was like dominoes or the wave in a football field; you hear one person fold down their tray and everybody else starts folding down theirs. Sound travels faster than the aroma of beef, which came several minutes later.

I almost didn't care what the food was going to be. It was going to be fake and processed even in its afterlife, hermetically sealed in tiny white plastic coffins with a see-through lid, like Snow White. Normally, it would be chicken or beef unless you're vegetarian, then they give you a cardboard tray. I hear it's very rich in fiber.

Once, a few years ago, after I bought my tickets online, the screen asked me if I had special dietary restrictions. Most of the time, I can only eat maybe a small portion of what's on my tray. I can't eat the dessert or the side dish because usually it would have some kind of dairy. Sometimes, there is also cheese in the salad or cream in the dressing. I figured, this is great! I would get a tray where I can eat everything! I typed "No Dairy" in the blank space.

On that trip, the flight attendant came by and confirmed that I was the one who ordered the special tray. I was excited; I was the first one to be served. She came back with a tray with a shiny metal cover.

The flight attendant pulled up cover to reveal a succulent, head of lettuce. Ok, I am exaggerating. It wasn't a head of lettuce, but there was definitely a lot of lettuce there, sprinkled with lots of carrots. I hate carrots.

Back to my current flight, the Korean Airlines flight attendant was slowly pushing the cart forward. As she served you your tray, she bowed down low, eyes smiling, politely honoring you with her wares. My mouth watered with anticipation.

When she came to me, there was a look of dismay in her eyes.

"Please, sir," she whispered agitatedly, "so, so sorry, but we are out of beef. Will our honored guest accept Bibimbop instead?"

Clearly, this was just politeness. If I had declined, she has no recourse but to perform seppuku, the ancient ritual of self-immolation. Since there are no metal cutlery onboard, she would have to do it with the plastic butter knife. That would be messy. Plus, I didn't want her to bleed all over my suede shoes so I accepted.

Bibimbop. I am not sure whether I should expect some kind of meat, fish or the severed heads of Hanson.

I was relieved to see it was a small bowl of rice topped with minced chicken, vegetables and sliced eggs. For authenticity, it came some seaweed broth and a small sachet of sesame seed oil to drizzle on top. There was also a tube of what looked like a small, travel-sized toothpaste on the tray. How convenient, I thought. It could be handy if the dish is bad breath-inducing or something.

It was surprisingly good. I hummed mmmBibimbop under my breath as I ate it.

Later, in the lavatory (lavatory, it was one of those words that begged to be pronounced in a fake British accent, you know like, bloke or Bono), I found out that the tube was a paste of hot chili pepper. When I squeezed the paste out of the tube, I thought it was weird that it was the color of ketchup. The flakes were a little strange too. Luckily, I smelled and licked it with the tip of my tongue before using it. Apparently, the Koreans liked their food spicy.

I don't know what the dessert was. It was wrapped in a forbidding package that I was afraid to open. The picture on it showed something that could've been a moist, dark green brownie. Right next to the picture of the soylent brownie was a cute little manga-style cartoon boy with dashes for eyes, happily exclaiming something in Korean. There were only a few English words on it--"100% Natural," "Healthy" and three words that should never be on any dessert package ever: "Good For You!!!"

You could put twenty exclamation points after these words but it won't sway my opinion. If you really want to sell a dessert, you should put the words "Stroke-inducing!" in a bubbly yellow font on it. I'd buy it in a flash.

One exclamation point will do.



Fake Plastic Food at South Korea's Incheon International Airport:



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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Starvation

The hunger is starting to gnaw inside of me.

I am writing this on the plane. It has been three hours into the first leg of my trip to the Philippines. There is still another thirteen hours before the plane lands in Seoul, Korea for the second leg of the trip, and then another four hours.

So far, they have given me a small packet of Planters Honey Roasted Peanuts along with a paper napkin and a small glass of Diet Coke. The Diet Coke is gone; I have yet to touch the peanuts. I am hoarding them, like a squirrel, for the coming famine. I am not sure when the food cart will be rolled out and even then, I would be one of the last ones to be served as I am in the front half of the plane.

We boarded the plane at 11 a.m. There are maybe a hundred people on this flight. They all looked hungry, rabid, ready to pounce on any morsel of food.

If they were smart like me, they ate a huge lunch an hour before. Mine was a quarter pounder, a six-piece, fries and a Diet Coke.

I debated whether I should get a regular Coke because the calories could be stored as body fat and can nourish my body and keep me warm during the long flight. But I decided against it; I have recently converted to diet drinks in an effort to stave off the inevitable paunchiness that signals the approach of the gay middle age of 35. I did not want a relapse. It was hard to get over the slightly metallic aftertaste of diet soda, but I think I am over the worse. The cravings only come when I am depressed or after watching The View, then I crave the full, heavy, thick taste of high fructose corn syrup.

I had noticed that I've had to work out harder to keep my abs tight and hard. I was never one to diet, my fast-burning Asian metabolism had served me well through the years, a faithful companion, like a dog or genital herpes. It was only last year that I found out my metabolism was in fact powered by a tapeworm which I had acquired one summer in camp in my twelfth year. I begged the doctor not to kill it, but to no avail. He was merciless. I think he hates Asians, but I can't prove it.

Another hour has passed, I have now opened the packet of peanuts. I poured out the contents on top of the napkin they gave me. There were thirty-six whole peanuts, I counted them. I wanted to figure out how long I could make them last, what interval I should eat them before the food cart arrives. There were also another three halves and probably enough crumbs to form another half. I factored that in too. Every two minutes, perhaps, surely the cart would come by then?

The plan failed. As soon as I started eating the first peanut, the hunger overcame me, beating me senseless like Kevin Federline's rap song. In a moment, the peanuts were gone, crumbs and all. I was still hungry.

I looked at the paper napkin. Would I be able to eat it without any Diet Coke to wash it down? I cursed my weakness, my poor planning. Oh when will the food come?



Continued: Fake Plastic Food


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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

The Long Way Home

I worried about my trip.

In the weeks leading up to it, my co-workers would come by my office and inquire about my ten-day vacation to the Philippines to visit my family. They all seemed giddy and excited for me. I can't help but be suspicious about all this goodwill. Why are they so happy? It's not like there is a temp to cover for me. A couple of them will have to take on my duties while I am away. If I were them, I think I would give me the finger.

I felt weird about charging this time to "Vacation," although technically, that's what it is; it is time off from work. I wish Human Resources had a category called "Self-Inflicted Torture."

The ideal vacation for me is staying at home, with a stack of books, DVDs and porn. And take-out Chinese. Ok ok ok, if pushed, I would probably say that I'd like to go to France--with my stack of books, DVD and porn. I'll learn to say "Moo Goo Gai Pan" in French.

I am worried about what to expect. It's been a very long time since my last visit. The occasional photo I receive from home show only glimpses. Everybody seems to be a little greyer, a little heavier. Nothing too radical. Yet, I am afraid that I may find my aging parents, who are picking me up at the airport, shrunken to little garden gnomes. I am afraid that my Louis Vuitton luggage won't fit in the wheelbarrow they now travel in.

I have prepared no agenda. I am arriving in the Philippines with absolutely no plans.

When I de-plane, I will let my body go limp and be swept away by the tide that is my family: my father, my mother, my brother, my sister and her brood. At the end of ten days, all that's left will be bits of me clinging to a coral reef: a shoelace, a button, a false eyelash. A thin, oily sheen of bronzer will be floating on the sea water where my body would've been.

I have lived in Chicago for fifteen years. I have built a life here. This is where my heart lives.

This other home is 10,000 miles, eighteen hours and thirty-four minutes away. It is in a concrete house my father built up from raw determination, from long hours driving cabs; where my mother founded four children and lost a marriage. This other home--this is where my soul lives. This is my pilgrimage; my trip to Mecca. I am doing this as a dutiful son.

It is a very long way home.



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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Tug of War

My boyfriend and I are currently embroiled in a silent clash of wills, an intense battle on the position of the two vases in our bathroom window. I move the vases, he moves them back. This has been happening for the past two weeks, neither of us mentioning a word to each other.

We had just bought the vases from Pier One, on a fabulous after-Christmas sale. I almost creamed in my pants then, but I thought if I waited, I could do it in my boyfriend's face instead. I ran through the store grabbing everything that was marked down 40% or more.



I mean, decorating is what defines gay people. I once broke up with a guy because I couldn't stand his apartment. The guy was pounding me from behind. I should be enjoying myself but all I could think about was how bad the sponge-painting was, especially right where my face was pressed against the wall; the sponging was too far apart. If one were planning to skimp on paint, I suggest that one shouldn't attempt any of the faux finish techniques. The results are just too pathetic and cruel.

I am a slave to decorating. I so enslaved, the Thirteenth Amendment couldn't set me free.

Once, in a fit of self-loathing, I decided to check out the Ex-Gay ministry, which is a group of people who claim that they have successfully de-gayed themselves and are now living "normal" lives. I went through a month of intense prayer. As I knelt down and bowed my head, it made me think. This feels strange, to be in this position and not have a gloryhole in front of me.

I became introspective. What I found when I was looking inside myself was not pretty: there was a ball of lint inside my belly button. How long has that been in there? The introspection made me really think about life. I found that I was vain and incredibly self-absorbed. I made a promise to myself that when I got out, I would change my life. I would start by getting plastic surgery on my belly button. I never realized how ugly my semi-outie was.

A month later, I was out. I felt changed, free.

However, that night, as I was preparing the garnish on my coq au vin, I realized--waitaminute--I'm still gay! That was garnish in my hands! Watercress! There were scented candles burning! Even if I didn't have sex with another man ever, I'M STILL GAY. I realized then, if Jesus wanted them to be straight, he would have taken away my power to carve a carrot into a flower; remove my ability to artfully arrange fruit in a bowl; suppress my desire to redecorate when I walk into a room.

Yep, decorating's in our blood. Our lesbian sisters are probably content to put up a movie poster of Bound or Ani DiFranco records or frame the license plate of their first pick-up truck and be done with it. I am jealous of their ability to use a kitty condo to decorate any space.

And we know who's in charge in married couples. When they move in together, women keep their men in thrall using sex. It is quite awhile before the men realize half of their shit's gone. The men wake up one day and ask their wives, "where's that little [atrocious piece of furniture] that I used to have?" "Oh, it's in storage." What she really means is that it's permanently stored in a landfill.

But for gay couples, decorating is a constant tug-of-war, especially if you have different tastes. There are just so many possibilities, so many aesthetic directions and only one living room to express it in. One must bend to the other's will or there will be a hissy fit of incredible magnitude.

And those gays in three-way leather relationships, or as I call it, Two Men and a Free Housekeeper--they're doomed. I'd like to be a fly in the wall when the houseboy/love slave/bootlicker, decides that he's sick of just dusting and paints the dungeon a nice, sunny bright yellow. There will be massive hair-pulling.

It's no different with me and my boyfriend. Every time I go into the bathroom, I notice that the two vases sitting on the window sill have moved. The change is very subtle, you wouldn't notice it unless you've been scrutinizing them for the past week. These vases have no practical purpose, there's no reason for them to move. It's not like we're talking about my penis pump.

My boyfriend likes the vases side-by-side, symmetrically placed. I prefer them to be slightly overlapping each other, like valentine hearts, chopsticks or Siamese twins.

Yesterday, when I walked into the bathroom, I noticed that the vases have moved yet again. Fine, I thought, you win. Even though I'm not happy with it, I left the vases unmoved. I figured, I'm in a relationship. I really should pick my battles.

As I sat there taking a shit, I noticed the three blue jars lined up in a row on top of the linen closet. I thought it would look better if I moved the two of them closer together and the third slightly apart, like a guy cruising a gay couple for a three-way. Even though I wasn't finished shitting yet, I stood up and moved the jars.

Game on, I thought. Game on.

Dearly Departed

The Top Bunk

My friend Scott spent the past weekend bitching about how there were so few "quality tops" in town for a ravenous bottom such as he. I am not really sure how he defines "quality." Since he’s already fucked everybody in town, I think all he’s looking for is a cock to stuff his ass--personality or personal hygiene be damned.

I made a comment that maybe he should consider a change and be the top for awhile. His panties got all in a bunch; he said that he was a bottom through-and-through and he was damn proud of it. If anybody needs to change, it was me and my scornful attitude towards bottoms. He commented that my attitude towards bottoms was thinly veiled misogyny because bottoms are commonly viewed as the "feminine" partner.

Some of you, as Scott did, may point out that my 'panties in a bunch' comment is proof of this, since it is disparaging of women. But I defended my position by saying I have nothing against women, just those who wear underwear. Panties are so uncivilized and unsanitary, next thing you'll be telling me is that women are still having periods (although probably not Terri Schiavo because she was in a coma*).

However, it did make me consider my position on this issue, philosophically and literally.

But before that, for those of you who are unfamiliar with these terms I will briefly explain them here:

Top – the insertive partner, the "fucker"
Bottom – the receptive partner, the "fuckee"

There are also some claims about the existence of the all-powerful Versatile Ones, where they can be tops or bottoms at will--although mostly it seems to be like myth or legend or rumors of Anna Nicole Smith's career.

To add some more confusion here, in sadomasochistic circles, a top is defined to be the dominant one and the bottom, the submissive, regardless of insertion. I think we can safely say that Dubya is Cheney’s bitch and I mean that in a totally un-ironic way.

Some tops seem to think that being a top is some sort of career. Let me tell ya, sticking an appendage into a hole is not a career. Besides, the closest job was already taken by a little Dutch boy who stuck his finger into the dike and saved his village (although I hear he grew up near the Warmoesstraat). Hell, I didn't see any tops come forward when Katrina hit Louisiana. Maybe New Orleans wouldn't have been flooded.

Bottoms aren't any better, especially the ones who call themselves "aggressive bottoms." They are so demanding. It's "fuck me harder, fuck me hard, FUCK. ME. HARD. DER." all the time. All the screaming and moaning seriously makes me go limp. I'd like for you to shut up when I am fucking you. And if you could shut up when I am watching TV and eating dinner too, that would be just peachy.

People also argue about whether it’s the guy on the top bunk or the bottom bunk who is in charge in sex. Tops feel that they're in charge, well, quite simple-mindedly, because they're on top. Bottoms think they're in charge because they have to give the "permission." Plus, they can bitch a lot longer. I happen to think it's the one whose name is on the lease.

Me? I’ve been a top and I've been a bottom. Once, a guy asked me which position I preferred. "What business is it of yours, motherfucker?" I replied. "This is a $25 blowjob. If you want conversation, that will be another $50."

If I were honest, I would say that I liked the position where I am not paying the rent, whichever position that would be.

But I think we all agree that top or bottom, there are benefits to being either. I mean, it's a good thing anal sex feels sooo good because, you know man: shit? It's disgusting.

In matters of love and lust, what does it matter which position you play? You do the dishes; he walks the dog. You're in charge of all things plumbing; he supervises the gardening. You cook him dinner; he cleans out your bank account, kidnaps your dog and runs off with the gardener. Of all the daily battles you have with your beloved, being the fucker vs the fuckee soon fade into insignificance.

In either position, we have our crosses to bear, even though we may not like them. A close friend once complained to me about how his partner was a big ole nag, and I said to him, "well that's what you get for being in a relationship with a horse." He was into bestiality.

You do what it takes to make the relationship work. And it's hard, man. They don't tell you this stuff in gay Charm School; all they teach you is how to color-coordinate your outfits. You have to learn this the hard way, just like the way you learned how to give a proper blowjob: through experience, and the pain of knowing what it feels like to have teeth scraping on your cock.

You learn that you make compromises. You learn new roles, new ways to make it work. Even if that means you have to take it in the ass once in a while.

Just don't forget to douche.


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*Comma, get it? :P

The Freedom to Fart

I once dated a guy who forbade me to fart. I had to hold my fart and go to what he deemed to be an authorized farting location, you know, like a bathroom or downwind from any human being or 15 feet from the state line.

I felt like how smokers must feel nowadays: shunned, frowned upon, a second class citizen. I imagine what it's like to be a second class citizen; it must be hard. They must suffer from low self-esteem. I make a mental note to myself that the smoking section would be a good place to try to pick up guys, if I ever became single.

True Love isn't the flowers, the diamond ring or a generous pre-nup agreement. You know you've got True Love when you have the ability to freely expel intestinal gas through the anus. You know you've found the right guy when you can fart freely and often.

I think most straight guys don't even think about this in a relationship. They watched their fathers fart loudy in front of their mothers; guffawing as their wives futilely admonish them. They grew up, walking around, kings of their castle, a dark, smelly cloud trailing behind them, the peasants--I mean, their families--choking in their wake.

And women, I don't know how they can hold it in. Women are not allowed to fart EVER. I feel like we need to tie a string around their ankles, because eventually, they would float around like a balloon from holding in all those gases. Or better yet, use the string hanging from their tampons.

Can you imagine if a woman was allowed to fart? It would change the world. Of course women complain that their husbands or boyfriends don't understand them! How can they? Maybe if the women put a cork in their men's asses for one day, maybe men can begin to understand women.

I think the reason why Muslim women are happy to wear a full burqua, a garment which covers them from head to toe because underneath it, they can fart freely. Think of it, a burqua muffles the sound of a fart and the odor doesn't escape. Underneath those veils, those women must be smiling.

But gay men, we're in that middle zone where you're not a straight man nor a woman. It this middle ground, we are trapped by society, by prejudice, by the heavy weight of our accessories. When we fart, we must do so artistically. Our farts have to play a tune, from a hit Broadway musical, an opera or maybe a little jaunty ringtone. In fact, I knew a guy who told me he could fart in a pitch-perfect E. You could tune a guitar to it. Or a skin flute.

Having the freedom to fart is a wonderful thing. Suddenly, the world is your oyster--and the world can smell the oysters you had for dinner.

Of course, there are unfortunate (or fortunate) side-effects of having the freedom to fart: it becomes harder to remember when it is impolite to fart. You begin to forget your manners.

I remember when my boyfriend and I were first allowing ourselves to fart in front of each other, we would apologetically say "oops, sorry!" when a fart escapes. Now it's more like "Thaaar she bloooows!"

It becomes even more difficult in public. The fart is out of the bag, so to speak, how does one stuff it back in? You find yourself unconsciously farting and trying to escape the stench even as it follows you around as if it was a begging dog and you had a treat in your pocket. A real dog though, would die within seconds from even a small whiff.

Why is that? Why can't we leave farts behind? Why do they follow us? No matter how fast I try to run away from a fart, it usually follows me for at least until somebody is within whiffing distance.

I pray I don't ever have to be single again. The pain of having to hold in a fart could be more painful than that of a broken heart...

My Fiscal Year

Hails of 'happy new years' are being casually thrown about this week like George Bush and his claims of victory over terrorism. I've even tossed out a few myself.

But sometimes I feel like my year isn't over. There are many things I've planned to get accomplished this year that I haven’t gone around to yet. Cleaning the oven, throwing out old condiment packets from ten years ago, telling my boyfriend that I'm really nine years older than he is rather than the two I said I was.

Lying about your age is easy when you're Asian like me because my delicate features easily camouflage any signs of aging. I just have to stay away from any direct sunlight.

We Asians age very, very gracefully. Did you know that Lucy Liu is 37, BD Wong is 43 and Pat Morita is dead? I didn't think so. However, I think my boyfriend may be starting to suspect something. He's made comments about my chronic deafness, driving in the middle of the lane, and my insistence on wearing my ratty pajamas and slippers out to get Starbucks.

I mean, why does the year have to be over? I'm pissed.

I don't like it when people tell me, it's over, that's it, times up, another year wasted on spinning on my wheels. It's like the time when my ex Jim told me that our relationship was over after he caught me fucking his roommate. I was indignant. I told him it wasn't over until I fucked his other roommate too. I was just waiting for the other roommate's cold sore to clear up before I went for him.

Where was fame? Where was fortune? Where's my fucking blog award? I thought I'd be the most famous gay, Asian, dairy-phobic person on earth by now. Instead Sulu from Star Trek has all the glory. If I had a phaser right now it wouldn’t be set on "stun." He'd be burned to a crisp like peking duck and I'd be eating him rolled up in mandarin crepes, scallions and just a tiny little bit of duck sauce.

Sometimes, I wish that we can all live in our own little fiscal year, like the company I work for. Our fiscal calendar started last June and ends in May of next year. Living in a fiscal year could mean the difference between a good year and a fucking great year, especially if there was lots of fucking.

There are still so many things I should've done this year.

I've lied to you all. When I said I was 'out' to my family, I meant that I have said everything but "I am gay" to my mother, my father and my sister. I thought that telling them I could name all the Best Musical Tony Award winners since 1968 was exactly same thing.

When I told my mom that I was gay during that trip to Florence, Italy four years ago, I should have said that in English. I thought that since we were in Italy, saying "Sono frocio" would be more glamorous than plain ole "I am a big fag." She smiled and patted my arm as we sailed on the gondola.

I thought, years ago, when my mother asked when I was going to settle down and getting married and I replied, "Mom, I am never getting married, I will never have any children without adopting them, and I am settled down..." my voice trailing away, that I was telling them I was gay. I thought that by saying Brian and I were living together made it clear.

My mother, who would try to cram all the gossip about each cousin and high school acquaintances without taking a breath during our long distance phone calls, was silent for nearly three minutes before she continued talking. I thought that meant she understood.

I thought it meant she accepted me.

But in a phone call I had with her last Christmas, she casually asked if there were any girls I was interested in. I said no, there are no girls. Again, she was silent, but only for a few seconds before moving on to a story about my darling nephew, who is now in third grade.

Maybe next year I’ll definitely tell her, in no uncertain terms.

Maybe next year.


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Check out these posts:

Coming To Terms - nate, a visitor, mongers hate and flings curses. All About My Mother - Mom schemes and plots and becomes a Master Spy.

...and a happy new year - A phone call to my father where we grunt, hem and haw. Machinations of My Mother-in-Law - My evil MIL uses her powers to control her children.

Brokeback Mountain

When it comes to male-to-male sex in movies, I am completely jaded. The problem is that when filmmakers make these movies to cater to gay audiences, they think that all we want to see is the nudity. I think they really totally missed the point. We want to see ourselves portrayed just like real people. We want to see homos to meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after with as little clothing as possible.

Brokeback Mountain is not that movie. First of all, they wear plaid. Second of all, the movie is set in Wyoming. Everybody knows that any gay kid over eighteen moves to a city where they have at least one gay bar that plays Madonna remixes. Third of all--did I already say they wore plaid? I mean, I don't think it would have bothered me so much if it was at least accessorized with Irony. A little ironing might have helped too.

But for what it is, Brokeback Mountain is an excellent movie. I am not going to extol its virtues here because frankly, I'm sick of reading about this movie in blogs. There's so much gushing about this movie, it could sweep away an entire village. If this happened in Asia, it would trigger a tsunami. The Red Cross would have to provide relief by killing the victims. Besides, the last time I heard so much gushing was at a Beverly Hills colonic spa.

However, I do have to say that the best thing about the movie is Heath Ledger and all the mumbling he does in it. I can't wait for him to be nominated for an Oscar for Best Performance by a Mumbler. He totally made me cry even though I couldn't understand a word he said. Now, that's acting. I can't wait for the inevitable gay porno version of the movie (Bareback Mountain--what else) where the bottom mumbles his way through an orgasm. It would be a welcome change from all the excessive moaning and groaning they do in porn.

I do remember getting a boner during the movie. But you don't really want to hear about that, do you? Yeah, I'd rather you see it. It's a beaut.

At some point during the movie, Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) tells Ennis (Heath Ledger) that after 20 years of being together, having sex three times a year wasn't enough for him. Then he cries like a leeettle guurl. He's lucky he even has sex. After being with my boyfriend Brian for four years, the only thing we do in bed now is fight over who's in charge of the TV remote.

What did Jack expect? That gay sex is eternal, a continuous neverending chocolate fondue fountain? Gay sex is just like straight sex, except without the designer bedsheets, the twelve pillow shams and the stubborn lube stains.

But this movie isn't about sex. This movie is about True Love. And True Love can't be about sex can it? Because all this time, we've been telling ourselves it's the relationship that matters. And if it wasn't about sex, well, then we're totally fucked.

I don't think this movie is gonna change anybody's mind about gay people. It may change people's mind about Anne Hathaway though. Lovely, innocent, pristine Anne Hathaway, the star of the Disney movie The Princess Diaries blinds us with ten seconds of her smooth, milky white boobs. I think if I were I a straight guy, I would sit through two hours of True Gay Love just for a glimpse of those boobs. God knows, I sat through two hours of A Home at the End of the World for two blurred seconds of Colin Farrell's balls.

What will change the minds of people is if this movie makes money. Because that's all people really care about. That's all politicians and businesses care about. It doesn't matter what the fucking right wing conservatives think. They don't matter.

The good news is that this is a really good movie, maybe even a Great Movie, so you don't have to suffer through it or anything. I'm sure you've suffered through a really, really bad two-hour dinner just because you wanted to fuck the brains out of some really hot dish and I'm not talking about a warm apple pie. So go watch the movie already. Merry Christmas, you big homo.

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Washer and Dryer in Unit

When I saw the listing a couple of months ago for our apartment, there was a long list of upscale features and amenities, but I couldn't read past the words "washer and dryer in unit." It was like the words were a roar in my ear: washeranddryerinunit, jumbling all over themselves in tumble dry low.

Up until now, I had to take our laundry out to the local laundromat where Brian and I would meet up with a group of other non-washeranddryerinunits. We are the Laundry Gang, as if making a name for ourselves makes us more cool and exclusive. We would drink coffee and lament our washless, dryless station in life as we looked enviously at other individuals who were obviously doing shopping, laughing, enjoying life and definitely not doing laundry.

These are people who put their dirty, soiled clothes directly into units in their homes when they are otherwise unoccupied: watching tv, washing dishes, crank-calling their grandmothers. They probably have so much time, they are the people that chat with those pesky telemarketers. I mean, somebody must talking to them otherwise, there would be no money to be made in telemarketing.

They probably have no use for a gigantic laundry hamper, needed to store a weeklong pile of soiled clothes. We have three. They are blue, cylindrical and made of a tough vinyl cloth. If you tip all three of them on their side, it makes our place look like a hamster habitrail.

But ever since I moved in with the washer and dryer, I no longer had to hang out with the Laundry Gang, those pathetic, deprived individuals. But I will anyway; I like to feel smug.

I felt like I was the United States and they were the Third World, their mouths hanging and their eyes round as if our new appliances were hot, buttered loaves of bread. I want to tell them about all the advanced features just to be cruel. I'm just human.

The first week, I did laundry every night. I separated the cold wash from the hot wash, the delicates from the perma-press. I got excited at the sorting possibilities, I no longer have to throw everything in the same load to save money at the laundromat. I grew creative with my sorting: work clothes, formal attire, casual sex clothes. I sorted whites, colors, my glow-in-the-darks (which are perfect for the backroom at The Ram).

I remember once, I had thrown in a single pair of white briefs with the colors because I had already started the load of whites. I could make a joke about white loads here, but that's why the briefs needed to be washed.

Anyway, the briefs must have decided to elope with my red sweatshirt while it was in there because when it came out, it was pink.

I still wear that pair of now-pink briefs as a reminder of my folly, my ineptitude, and because it was quite lovely. You could never buy pink briefs because they don’t make 'em that way. And even if they did, I wouldn't have the nerve to buy them.

I wish I could 'accidentally' drop my red sweatshirt along with a white silk handkerchief and a doily into the washer and it would magically come out as a pair of lacy, pink silk panties. I would be so giddy with joy.

But even if I don't need to go to the laundromat ever again, I don't think I could stop going. These poor washeranddryerinunit-less people who I hang out with have become my good friends. Our weekly laundry sessions are just a reason for us to get together, enjoy each other's company and to be friends.

For that, I would gladly trek across town to do laundry, have coffee and pretend to not have washer and dryer in our unit.

Bubbling

You know, an automatic seat warmer in a car is a wonderful thing--except if you have bubbling super-explosive diarrhea.

I mean, I love my trusty Jetta. It has all sorts of handy dandy little features like the seat warmers; power windows and doors; the automatic gay announcer. It’s peppy, it’s cute and so convenient for carting a bunch of fags around town.

Today is Casual Friday and it is always a dilemma for me. This is the one day I get to express my individuality. So, this morning I was running late because it took half an hour for me to decide whether a thong was too dressy for Casual Friday.

As I was putting the final touches to my outfit, I felt a little twinge in my stomach that by experience I know is a precursor to SCB--Super Colon Blow, the deadliest of diarrhea. It must be the tacos I had from that neighborhood Mexican restaurant last night.

But I was running late and it was just a twinge. Maybe it'll go away. I'm always optimistic in the morning. It is only after I wake up that my whole world turns to crap. I just hoped that today it wouldn't be literal. I forgot to bring any reading material.

Freezing today, I turn on the seat warmers. Big mistake. Eight minutes after I drive away, the warmth emanating from the seat traveled from my ass to my stomach, like the flame under a wok, a wok which I’d like to use to brain the guy at the gym who keeps cruising my boyfriend. I clench my butt together in an effort to staunch the impending eruption and exercise my glutes at the same time. If I could hold on for another twelve minutes, I would be at work and relief. A little later, you could probably bounce a quarter on my ass from the exercise.

It was the longest twelve minutes in my life, bar none. It reminded me of the shortest twelve minutes of my life when I met the love of my life whom I had met online and was feverishly exchanging gooey instant messages. It ended when he sent me his picture.

I could also tell you about the longest eleven minutes of my life, except it doesn’t really count because it was more like a series of 20-second intervals of holding my breath while giving a blowjob to a one-night stand who had serious body odor. I’m sure the guy had put on deodorant, but after hours of dancing and sweating, it wore off. It was BAD, but I bravely blew on--I had to be true to myself and my reputation as a slut.

You know how when you’re trying to hold off the inevitable, how excruciating it is, just like that time when I had to tell a guy I wasn't going to bed with him after he bought a $200 lobster dinner? I didn't know how to tell him I already had crabs...

When I finally got to work and dumped my load, it was like salvation or an enema, I don’t know which. Either way, I was 0.73 lbs lighter.

All I can say is thank God for butt-wipes, you know, those "personal moist wipes." I’m glad we figured out that not only babies needed those wipes. They came in handy today. I felt fresh as Daisy Fuentes afterwards.

I think that the Mexican restaurant I went to should really provide single-use butt wipes along with their take-out food, like wet-naps, you know, as a service to their customers.

I know I would’ve appreciated it.

You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart

Check out my new remix:



You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart
(DJ Evil Twin's Celtic Magic Remix)
Sinead O'Connor
DL @ bestsharing*
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*If you are using Firefox, the song downloads, but may need to be renamed to a .mp3 extension.



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