What Does It Say About Me?

"What do you think my beret says about me," I asked my good friend Matt.

He studied my beret and said, "I think it says that you are trying to look younger than you are."

"Really?" I asked, crestfallen. "You don't think it says that I'm creative, hip and will give you a blowjob if you follow me into the restroom at Borders?"

"No," he said firmly.

"What do you think about hockey jerseys?" I ventured. I had just bought one recently at one crazed shopping spree at the mall. What? They were 60% off!!!

"I think it says 'I have completely given up on life and I am just waiting for Heidi to tell me auf weidersehen,'" said Matt.

"I see," I managed to say. I still had the receipt for the hockey jersey but I have been seen around town in my beret. What was I thinking? Why couldn't I just be like every decent gay guy over thirty-five and post a picture on BigMuscle.com of my big, gaping asshole? But noooo, I had to be different, I had to wear a goddamn beret.

What is it that I am trying to say anyway? All I want is to be noticed, you know, so that I wouldn't be that guy who is left out, the guy in the corner jacking himself off in an orgy.

"Anyway, if you want to say something about yourself," Matt said, oblivious to my internal struggle, "I think you should get something more subtle, you know, like a t-shirt or better yet--get a tattoo."

"To hell with subtlety. I want a t-shirt that says 'I'm a bottom'."

"Well then, let's go find a t-shirt that has big block letters that spell A-B-E-R-C-R-O-M-B-I-E."

"Ok," I said excitedly. I could have a picture of myself wearing it on my new BigMuscle.com profile by tonight.

Right next to the picture of my asshole.





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Kiss of Life

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Show Some Skin

Continued from: Warmth
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When I travel, I try to avoid acting or looking like a tourist because I think it's so bourgeois. I prefer to act dignified and respectful when I am in a different country, like Tara Reid.

My idea of a vacation is to immerse myself in the local culture, as if it were a hot tub. To that end, I looked up where all the happenin' bathhouses were in Montreal. I packed my most stylish and fashionable thongs, you know, the ones that left nothing to the imagination. I was able to pack six of them in an old plastic toothbrush case. Did I call them thongs? I meant colored dental floss.

Montreal of course, is known for their very casual attitude towards male stripping, which is the real reason why we chose it for a weekend vacation. There were at least four male strip clubs in The Village, where our hotel was located, all prominently advertising their handsome, muscular performers.

Here, "showing some skin" doesn't mean stripping down to a thong or showing the outline of a hardon through a wet jock. It meant down to the hard, turgid flesh and wrinkly, tight sacs. I've never seen so many men sporting hoodies and I don't mean sweatshirts. Being circumcised myself, I wondered if this would make their penis extra sweaty in warm weather, or in my mouth.

When we first arrived, whenever I saw any good-looking or well-built men, I wondered whether they moonlighted as strippers. I looked closely at them to see if I could discern their profession from their eyes, from the way they walked or from their breakaway Velcro seams. Whenever I saw poles of any kind, a scaffolding or a lamp post, I stopped to see if anybody was going to walk up, grab it with both hands and start swinging around on it, legs up in the air.

Maybe I could learn some tips from them. Once in a rare while, I would do some stripper moves in the bedroom, just to get my boyfriend going. I find that it's a highly effective way of getting him do things that he normally doesn't do like, the laundry.

Do you think strippers are jaded? I think sometimes, that I would like to date a stripper. Who wouldn't want to date a stripper? Okokok, maybe not Ann Coulter, because strippers aren't virtuous enough for her--she only dates politicians. But besides her.

What would it be like to date a stripper? They've seen it all. What turns on a stripper? Do you think it would need to be something totally crazy, like turning on the TV and ignoring him? I could wear an old pair of tightie-whities with the worn elastic waistband and droopy, wide leg holes, or maybe an old t-shirt with armpit stains to seduce him...

Who am I kidding. I could never date a stripper. They're too complicated for me. I only date guys who have their act at together, you know, at the local drag show. If they can lipsynch to Christina Aguilera, they can sink their lips on my dick.

The hot strippers at Stock Bar, our concierge's recommendation, didn't disappoint. The drinks were stiff, but the men were stiffer. The men were nicely built, very boy-next-door--totally approachable, so I hope they don't mind if I approach them with a wet tongue.

Their sets were only about five minutes long each, so if you weren't into the particular dancer, you can let your eyes wander for a bit and another will be up shortly.

The best part was that at the end of each sexed-out performance, after the slow gyrations and explicit manhandling of their privates, each of the men did a shy little bow, a sheepish grin or a bashful little wave before they went back behind the curtain, as if they weren't really strippers at all, but guys who were maybe, you know, just walking past the club and were talked into getting on stage. They were so charming and polite!

It made me think: Have I misjudged strippers completely? What about Circus Clowns? And Gay Republicans? And the Catholic priest who gave me chlamydia...



PREVIOUSLY: Warmth




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Warmth

Even though my friend Bobby reassured me that Brian and I didn’t have to learn French for our trip to Montreal, it worried me a little not to come prepared.

Normally, I would arm myself with some essential phrases when visiting a foreign country: "is there cheese in this?" or "where is the restroom?" or "you can't do this to me, I'm an American!" I would also try to learn the words for a few niceties like "please," "thank you," and "don't worry, it's only a cold sore." I'm very polite.

But it is a bit strange, that the entire Quebec province in Canada speaks a totally foreign language from the rest of the country. I guess in the U.S., it's a bit like going to Arkansas where they speak Barnyard. Not everybody of course; the genteel, well-educated folk there speak Pig Latin.

Until I planned our trip to Montreal, I've never thought of Canada as a foreign country. I've always thought of Canada, you know, like it was as a very large suburb of America. It was gonna be like going outlet mall shopping on a weekend.

I mean, I already love their music: Alanis Morrissette, Sarah McLachlan, Tegan and Sara. Like a well-chosen concealer, I would blend right in. Canadians are probably not that different. They probably raise the toilet seat with the tip of their shoe in a public restroom just like we do in America.

However, if there was anything that worried me more than having to speak French, it was the metric system.

I could probably muster "how do I get to the Biodome" in French, but the reply "turn left and walk 1.5 kilometres" would mean absolutely nothing to me. I am terrified that I may be in situation where my life would depend on buying orange juice in the right size container. How many litres is in a gallon or a quart? The thought of memorizing the conversion factors was daunting. I feel myself slipping into despair.

Our cab driver gave us our first taste of the local color, when an inattentive bike rider cut in front of us. Incensed, our driver suddenly stepped on the gas, driving like a madman. He soon caught up with the biker. He rolled down his window and let loose a barrage of curses. It sounded like this:

"%&$?!!' ' ' ' ' ' ' @% ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ! ' ' ' ' ' ' &%& ' ' ' ' '?!?!"

I felt like I was in a Peanuts cartoon and the adults were talking.

Realizing that we were still in the cab, our driver embarrassedly turned around said what sounded like an apology in French. How can we be angry when the swearing sounded so glamorous, even if I peed a little in my pants because of his crazy driving?

We were excited when we got to our hotel in The Village, which is the gay neighborhood in Montreal. We decided to take a stroll.

As we walked past the locals, we caught snippets of French which made us feel like worldly travelers. We found ourselves adding a nasal sound to our conversation, affecting a fake French accent. We randomly read signs out loud just to hear ourselves speaking French: "Le Chateau du Pantalon," "L'Adonis," "Ben & Jer-ree's." I was way ahead of Brian as I had a great advantage over him: my lisp.

The Quebecois were friendly people, we found. They switched effortlessly to English if you respond "Good Morning" to their "Bonjour!" or if you say something like, "where's my coffee, bitch?"

We looked forward to basking in the warmth of the locals much like a penis looks forward to the warmth of a well-lubricated hole...


NEXT: Strippers!


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Posts about my trip to that other gay city, San Francisco:

Part 1: Wedding Party Part 2: Boystown USA

Part 3: A Haunting Part 4: Detour

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Cherish The Day

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Can We Take It Home?

(c) 2004 The New Yorker Magazine

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Other cartoons that have appeared in NMP.

Deveined

I confess that I’ve always been afraid of touching my belly button. When I wash my belly button, I only give it a cursory wash, trying not to delve deep into it. I avoid looking at it because it scares me; it might tell me something I didn't want to know about myself, like my BELLY BUTTON IS DIRTY.

I have an semi-outie which means that it doesn't stick out like an Asian in Martha's Vineyard, but is not deep enough to hold a tequila shot. It is barely a thimble-full. If I shot my wad on myself, it wouldn't be enough to keep all of it in there, unless it's my third wad of the morning.

When I was younger, my great-aunt told me that if I played with my belly button too much, I could give myself a stomachache or worse--it could burst, my entrails spilling out of my gut. It's one of the many things that adults tell you as a kid not to do to yourself: pick your nose, bite your nails or stick your finger in your ass because awful things are going to happen. Of course, I have learned since then that nothing awful is going to happen if you pick your nose, although if you stick a finger up your ass, you turn gay.

It seems to me that since God never provided humans with an instruction manual to our bodies, we decided to write our own, many times to illogical or comical results. Masturbation will cause you to go blind; spitting on a new baseball bat will make it lucky; going to sleep with your hair wet can cause a bad hair day. Some of these are blatantly ridiculous. But really, don't sleep with your hair wet or your day will be totally ruined. Bad hair has been known to wreck lives and careers, remember Justin Guarini? Exactly.

These are the things I think about when I wash my semi-outie belly button, which right now, looks like an opened shrimp with the black vein still in place. I am afraid to pick at the black, dried crusts stuck in there because my belly button might unravel, the crusts being the only thing keeping it together.

I am not really sure why this happens anyway. I bathe regularly and as a rule, I don't roll around in unsterilized mud. It's gotta be pure, clean, unadulterated mud and then I spray Lysol all over it before I dip even a little toe into it.

In the shower, I steeled myself, preparing to clean the area. I gird my loins as I soap my fingers. I hope my stomach doesn't burst.

Wait, should I find a cork just in case?



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Letter From Home

This is a letter from my mother from three years ago. I found it last week while I was cleaning out our second bedroom. Brian and I had moved to this new place last November and we still have stuff left unpacked and in boxes.

In the rush of moving, I had stuck the letter in my miscellaneous junk box because I had already taped up the box with all my other mementos from home:

October 13, 2003

Dear Paul,

Last night, I dreamed that I was having a meal with Lucy and Rita, you and your brother Peter's godmothers. Then, I suddenly saw you and Peter eating at another table near us. I was so surprised and walked to you and asked you why you didn't tell me you were coming home.

Then I woke up.

Is it because the two of you have left us for so long that even in dreams, I can't help but miss you?

Take care.

Love you always,
Mom

I moved to Chicago from the country of my birth, the Philippines. I left my home at the age of 21 because even though I loved my family, I couldn't live my life in the closet; I couldn't live a lie. I wanted to be the real me, you know, a bright, young gay man with a head full of useless, celebrity trivia. The future awaited me, filled with love, laughter and a colossal credit card debt.

At the time, fifteen years ago, I didn't even think about what this meant to my family, those I had left behind. All I could think of was myself, my survival and my despair of ever, ever finding a real pair of Prada shoes instead of the counterfeit shit they sell in the sidewalks of Manila, the ink on the label running from the sweat in my heels.

Reading the letter again made me remember how hard this journey had been, not just for me, but for the people I loved.

Today is my mother's birthday.

I miss you mom.

-----

All About My Mother - a tragicomedy in three parts
The Long Way Home - yes, before the Dixie Chicks!

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Let's Get [a] Physical

Today I am supposed to get my annual physical exam.

The physical is at 11am. I had planned to work from home so I can get some stuff done before going to my appointment. Instead, I spent the hours before my appointment jacking off. Three times.

I just thought you wanted to know that.


It's been a year since I last saw my doctor, who is gay and has a predominantly gay practice. I stuck with him all these years because much like women prefer female doctors, I prefer a gay doctor because he understands all the medical issues that gay men face like STDs, compulsive sex and acute problems with not calling after a date.


"Strip," my doctor commanded, handing me what I thought was a wad of paper towels. "Put it on," he said.

I realized he meant the wad of paper towels. Apparently, it was a gown. It was basically a long, seamless rectangular paper towel with armholes and a scalloped edge for a collar. I mean, I've always wanted to be brawny, but this is ridiculous.


The doctor made me feel at ease by sharing juicy celebrity gossip while he examined me. Then suddenly, he jabbed his gloved finger into my asshole!

He was checking my prostate. I was so distracted I didn't even notice that he had been slathering his finger with lube.

Normal, he pronounced, raising the finger in front of me. I caught a whiff of the antiseptic smell of latex and the thick, heavy scent of my ass. The smell reminded me of my first love, Harry. That's what I called my 12" rubber dildo.

The doctor thoughtfully gave me a paper towel to wipe myself back there. I felt an overwhelming need to cuddle.


Having your blood drawn has got to be the most unnerving thing. Waiting for the poke is nerve-wracking. Am I the only one who thinks that instead of drawing your blood, the smiling, insane medical technician is going to pump an air bubble into your plumped vein, killing you instantly?


I rattled off a bunch of different symptoms that could be the first signs of any number of serious illnesses. My doctor dutifully listened and then gently reassured me that my mother-in-law was not a serious illness.


My doctor called me a neurotic. I can't wait to tell all my friends that I was just as fucked up as they are. Surely, they'll let me hang out with them now?


I left the doctor's office with a lighter step and an extra swish in my walk. I don't know if this was because of my clean bill of health or because of the lube in my ass.

Less friction, you know.



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Famous

"On the Web, everyone will be famous to fifteen people."

- David Weinberger, The New Yorker, 08/2006

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Join the mailing list and be famous to me!


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Rock Bottom

I'll know that I've hit rock bottom if I pull those cookies out of the trash can. At least, that's what I tell myself. Right now, my only form of self-control over snack food is to throw the uneaten portion into the trash. In my mind, the second something’s in the trash can, it's garbage, even though in reality, the cookies themselves are still clean, protected by the mylar bag, untouched by whatever else is around it.

Sometimes, I would throw out unopened packages of candy or snacks that were given as gifts to prevent myself from gorging on them. I try not to think of the wastefulness of it all, thinking only of the benefits to my health, my body and my lungs as I try to squeeze into my suffocatingly tight wardrobe.

I am at work. It is 3pm. I am starving.

I go to the lunchroom and stare at the vending machine for what seemed like an hour. I become one of those people who stand in front of this machine, hypnotized, like it's an oracle telling my future, one where I have to have a great personality instead of being shallow and goodlooking. The thought of having any sort of intelligence or wit in my skull depressed me, but I fear that I am already a lost cause.

As I feed the machine my dollar bill, the irony is not lost on me. I tentatively pressed the "E" button. My index finger hovered at the number "3" for what seemed like another hour before stabbing it, taking the plunge. The vending machine whirs to life, dropping a sinful package of Oreo cookies. My change--a lone, sad nickel--falls into the slot with barely a jangle.

There are four cookies in the package. I take it back to my desk. I rip open the package, quickly savoring thick sweetness of the first cookie.

I take my time with the second one, taking only little bites, hoping that this would fool my stomach into thinking it was having more than it is. However, I knew this wouldn't work, just like I knew that it wouldn't work when my high school boyfriend begged to let him in 'just an inch.'

As I licked the crumbs off my fingers, I eyed the two other cookies, commanding myself to throw it in the trash. The guy in the next cubicle looked at me quizzically. I realized that I said that out loud.

I throw the cookies in the trash.

The cookies sat in the garbage staring back at me, lying there dejectedly, like unwanted newborn babies in a dumpster. I so want to rescue it, cradle it in my arms and then cram all of it in my mouth. I kick the trash can further under my desk so I can't see it.

Babies. Baby Ruth. Sugar Babies. God, this makes me feel disgusting, like a choco-pedophile. I try to think about other things, things that won't make me take that little bag of cookies out of the trash.

Babies make me think of umbilical cords. Some people say it's thick and cutting through it is like cutting through a finger. Or a Slim Jim. I wonder if it tastes like one too? Sorry, hunger is making me a little light-headed.

The cookies are calling me, like my ex-boyfriend who I've given crabs: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here...

I'm reaching in.

Please look away.

Please look away...


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It's All Up Here...

"How does it feel to be 29?" I asked my boyfriend Brian. "Do you feel any older?"

"Nope," he said confidently. "Besides," he continued, tapping his temple, "it's all up here."

"Yeah, it's all up there alright," I laughed. "But once 'up there' starts thinning, it's hard to tell yourself you're not getting older." I pointed to my own receding hairline.

"Then you notice that your knees groan when you walk up the stairs, your lungs protest at running after the bus and your eardrums balk at the relentless booming bass at dancefloor."

I gave him a kiss. "Happy birthday, babes. Next year, we'll start saving for hair plugs, just in case..."


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Last year, I gave my boyfriend a birthday nookie

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God Surfs the Web

"And if you believe that we really have free will, then you know that God really can't control us. And if God can't control us, all God does is watch [us] and change channels when he gets bored. Somewhere in heaven, you're LIVE on a video website for God to surf."

"All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring."

- Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

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King of Sorrow

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King of Sorrow
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International Porn Film Festival

Here at No Milk Please, we are hosting the International Porn Film Festival, which occurs whenever my boyfriend Brian goes out of town for any amount of time.

Whenever Brian tells me that he has a trip planned, a seminar or whatever, I go through a jumble of emotions. On one hand, having your mate go away throws life askew. We have been together long enough that we have fallen into familiar patterns. The household chores have been unofficially divided. I cook, he does dishes; He picks up the mail, I throw out the garbage; He does the laundry, I watch Project Runway.

I can't wait to have kids so I can foist these chores on them. Of course, I would only assign age-appropriate chores. Surely a two year-old would be tall enough to clean the toilet? By three, they could be mowing the lawn.

But inevitably, when Brian is away, some things end up being neglected. I only remember to feed my cats when they start to gnaw on my little toe.

On the other hand is my cock. No, really, my hand is on my cock. Who's going to take care of it when Brian's away? An anonymous hook-up is out of the question; I'm too scared of catching a gay disease, like, Cher-impression-itis, you know, that horsey bray, that whhhhhoooooooahhoh at the end of each sentence. You gays know what I'm talking about. I spent thirty minutes thinking about how to spell that sound. If you can actually transcribe this, let me know.

So porn is my only recourse. I go to Specialty Video on Broadway with a bounce in my step. I am giddy about getting some new porn. I rarely get a chance to get to watch any new ones.

It's like being single all over again. I remember all those Friday nights I spent cruising all the porn. I eye beefy Carl on the shelf before Kurt, with the toothy smile, catches the corner of my eye. Carl looks mean, but promises to be a pussycat in bed. Kurt is just plain adorable. I take both videos along with three others. The International Porn Film Festival is about quantity, not quality. There will be time enough to go through the bad dialogue, the limp scenes.

The next few days were a blur. I don't remember very much except that my dick was starting to get sore. I make a mental note to buy more lube--my VCR was making squeaky noises. I thought about upgrading to a DVD player, but shopping would just cut into my masturbation time.

One night, while I was lying in bed, in a sweet, hazy post-orgasmic stupor, my idle thoughts went to Brian and whether he's having as much fun in Puerto Rico as I am. I missed him. By now he'd be snoring on my shoulder, the lube getting cold on our skin. He'll be back soon enough, I thought.

Fast forward to the day of Brian's arrival. A couple of hours before I have to go to pick him up, I hustle and put the videos back in their cases, taking care to rewind. The bitches at the video store won't hesitate to charge me a rewind fee. I'll drop them off on my way to the airport.

Standing in front of the video store's dropbox, I said a silent goodbye to my new friends Carl and Kurt before slipping their plastic cases through the slot.

At the airport, I was happy to see Brian, but I was also a little sad that my little festival had ended.

Brian groused about the delay and a rude passenger on the flight. I nodded sympathetically.

"Thanks for picking me up," he said.

"That's cool babes, it's no trouble," I replied.

"You're going to have to do this again in a few weeks. I have to go to Vegas for the conference, remember?"

"Oh yeah," I said, my eyes lighting up. I give him another hug as my thoughts went to planning another festival.

Carl and Kurt, we shall meet again.


See Jack do Cher. Think you can transcribe that sound? Put it in the comments!



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Remembered Something

(c) copyright 2006 The New Yorker

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UPDATE: I added a link in the ALL ABOUT ME section in the sidebar that will contain all the cartoons that have appeared in this site.

Author Stalker

This is what it feels like to be a stalker: nerves fire from every part of your body; your muscles quiver randomly like dandelions; your tired, blinkless eyes are like marathoners in the final mile, surging forward. There's a dry, brassy taste in my mouth, like deodorant or metal polish. I make a mental note to remind my boyfriend Brian to buy a different brand of metal polish--there must be one that has a more pleasing scent--strawberry, perhaps.

I'm at the Book Cellar, a genteel little bookstore in Lincoln Square, hiding behind the greeting card rack like a lion stalking a gazelle or a vulture circling a carcass, or a gay Bear pouncing on a donut. My prey is the famous recluse, author John McNally who was scheduled to do a reading and book signing. I scan the racks, hoping to find John an appropriate card for the occasion, one that says 'congratulations!' or 'good luck' or 'til death do us part.'

"Hey Paul," a man's voice behind me said.

I turned around and it's John himself. He's tall, taller than I've imagined him to be from the picture in the back flap of his books. I imagined that he would be at most 6 inches tall, with his lower body uncropped. But here he was, normal-sized and talking to me.

It was a couple of seconds before I was able to respond with a weak "Hi!" I was amazed that he even recognized me. The only explanation was that he must've read my blog and seen my pictures. But even that is surprising since I only post pictures of myself that are unrealistically attractive. They bear no resemblance to me in real life. In real life, I cannot hope to show only my 'good side' like Barbra Streisand. In real life, no cosmetic can cover up blemishes like photoshop can.

We spoke awkwardly for a few minutes. Our conversation was like a fish flopping about on dry land, gasping for a topic. I thanked him for sending me a copy of his book and he thanked me for posting my interview of him in my blog.

"Brian, my boyfriend, was saying that we should take a trip out to Duke's Italian Beef which you mentioned in your novel, out in Bridgeview," I said. "Is it like a Portillo's?" Portillo's is like the McDonald's of Italian Beef sandwiches in the Chicago area.

"Nah," John said, "Duke's is more like a hole-in-the-wall."

"I love hole-in-the-walls," I said excitedly, "in more ways than one!"

He raised an eyebrow and said, "Ba-dum-bum."

Ouch. But I didn't feel too bad because he grinned.

The bookstore was filling up, everybody was looking for a seat. John excused himself politely. I found a seat for myself. My friend Annie, who came with me to the bookstore, sat next to me.

I felt out of sorts. When I am in an audience, I am the guy who hoots and hollers, the one who initiates the clapping, the standing ovation. I looked around, scanning the small audience. People are seated, murmuring quietly. I wondered whether I should take my lighter out and raise it above my head, swaying.

While John read from his new book America's Report Card, I studied the people around me.

I wasn't listening; I had already read the book. I finished it quickly, in two late nights. My guess is that everybody in the audience had too. I was more interested in who I had wrestle with to get in front of the line for the signing later. An older woman, about sixty and with grey hair, sat a few seats away. She had a walker beside her. When I looked at her, she looked back, narrowing her eyes as she did. She had a stack of books on her lap. I was sure I could take her down. Or at least trip her.

Later, John graciously signed all our books. As he rose to leave, a bald man who was sitting in the audience stood up. He was immensely tall. It was Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting and Porno. They chatted for bit. I tried to casually eavesdrop but I couldn't understand Irvine with his thick Scottish burr.

In my mind, they were going to a nearby pub and were going to invite me and Annie along to discuss literature and booze and sex. It was perfect, I knew all about booze and sex. I stood right by the door for my invitation.

Unfortunately, a night of literate debauchery was not to be, an invitation was not forthcoming. Annie and I leave the bookstore only a little disappointed. We had our signed books and we shook John McNally's hand. I was even able to lightly touch Irvine Welsh with the back of my hand as I walked pass him.

That's enough for this stalker for one night.