Wednesday, March 30, 2005

100 Facts I Know About Me...#1-#30

In my efforts to be more forthcoming, I thought I'd follow the example set forth by other great bloggers and do my list of 100 facts that I know about me.

  1. My middle name is Randall.
  2. I had a babysitter when I was just a toddler who liked to take me riding on her motorcycle. Without my parents knowledge. Until I ratted her out.
  3. At about the same age, my older brother convinced me he was a witch doctor and made voodoo dolls out of paper towels in my image.
  4. I once watched my mother threaten to kill herself by holding a butcher knife to her stomach.
  5. I've had glasses since I was two.
  6. I've always lived in Tennessee, except for a six month period after my parents divorced, when I lived in Toledo, Ohio.
  7. We moved to Ohio so my mother could have a baby, my half-sister that was put up for adoption.
  8. When my father remarried the first time, I despised my new step-brother.
  9. That marriage lasted less than a year, but not before I got a kick-ass bicycle for Christmas.
  10. Despite my mother's mistakes and faults, I think she's one of the strongest women to ever walk the face of the earth.
  11. My mother never remarried but she dated a bigoted man for 12 years that I eventually grew to despise too.
  12. My brother is 11 years older than me, and we've never been close.
  13. I never dated anyone in high school, although I had a huge crush on a girl named Sandy.
  14. I had my first sexual experience with a guy, my best friend from high school, before I even kissed a girl.
  15. The guy is still one of my very best friends today. And, no, it isn't HotAss.
  16. HotAss and I have never had sex. Eww.
  17. I've never had full-blown intercourse with a girl.
  18. My first sexual experience with a girl was with a trashy girl named Dana. She attempted to blow me in the backseat of a car but I could never get hard.
  19. In my junior year of high school, I had a role as Hannibal in The Curious Savage. I thought I had found my calling. I was wrong.
  20. I graduated high school in 1990.
  21. I went to the University of Tennessee at Martin, the first person in my family to attend college.
  22. I started as a communications major, and finished as a communications major. Although there were a few brief stints as an English major and a theatre major.
  23. I played Dungeons and Dragons religiously my freshman year. I quit when I found myself wishing I could throw a fireball at my professor.
  24. In October of my freshman year at college, I dated the first of three girls I ever dated in my lifetime. I thought she might have been the one. I was wrong.
  25. She came home with me at Christmas and over spring break. I would have had sex with her over spring break but we didn't have a condom. And it would have been my luck that she would have gotten pregnant.
  26. It ended when she cheated on me a few weeks later. With a fellow I had been playing D&D with.
  27. A week later, I started dating the second girl I thought that might be the one. Again, I was wrong.
  28. The whole time I was dating girls, I was having sex with my roommate. See #14 and #15. Yeah, we went to college together.
  29. I was bisexual for about four hours, and decide I couldn't live the lie anymore.
  30. I started my coming out process when my roommate pinned me on the bed with his knees on my shoulders, and told me that I was gay, and I knew it, and I wouldn't be happy until I admitted it.

To be continued...

Sunday Bloody Sunday


Make it spicy. Posted by Hello

My liver has finally recovered from the alcohol-soaked celebration known as Easter. I know. I know. One does not typically think of Easter as a holiday associated with binge drinking. Perhaps New Year's Eve. Or St. Patrick's Day. As a drinking holiday, Easter falls to the rear of the pack, back there with Mother's Day (unless your mother is like mine - just kidding) or Arbor Day.

But this particular Easter weekend was particularly indulgent. One of my honeys from Nashville visited on Thursday evening. HotAss stopped by. Between the three of us, we drank two bottles of red and a bottle of white.

Friday night, I was safe til HotAss and Tman stopped by. Add another bottle of red to the mix.

Saturday, HotAss and the godfather stopped by. Gin & tonics. Which flowed throughout the afternoon and into the evening.

Easter Sunday, I enjoyed my first bloody mary ever at brunch. It was followed by my second, my third and my fourth. Followed by a second Easter gathering, and a glass of red. Followed by sacking out on the sofa at HotAss's and polishing off two half-bottles of red there. And then going over to my place to finish a half-bottle there. And then we invited the Dynamic Duo over for Desperate Housewives (and reminded them to bring a bottle or two).

I see a pattern with HotAss dropping by.

In my alcohol-induced haze, I decided that I haven't been very forthcoming in my blog. I rattle on about HotAss (he's the best friend a person could have and I'm lucky to know him). I wax poetic about the good ol' days. But I have been very careful not to reveal much of myself, and that really was the point of this blog. As Ethan says, "self-prescribed therapy sessions."

So I'm going to make an effort for this to be a little more insightful. But that's kinda hard. I can't talk about people I know because I've given them all this address... Hmm...

The Definition of a Good Friend

You know what a good friend is?

When you say, "Girl, I had to kill him," he says, "Girl, I got the shovel."

Saturday, March 26, 2005

Jesus Christ! Superstar!


Cheer up, Easter Bunny! Jesus Christ is risen! Posted by Hello

He is Risen. And if He sees his shadow, no chocolate crosses for you.

Back in the day, when HotAss and I lived together, we bought each other Easter baskets. And on Easter morning, I awoke to the HotAss cranking the soundtrack to "Jesus Christ Superstar." You just can't beat an Easter morning like that.

Happy Easter!

Friday, March 25, 2005

What's so Good about this Friday anyway?


I don't get it. Posted by Hello

Yes, I am a heathen, just like HotAss. As a matter of fact, I might be a bigger one. He sings in church and I can barely get my ass out of bed on major holidays to go.

However, I am fascinated by the strange customs of the Christians. Party like hell on Fat Tuesday. Get smeared on Ash Wednesday. Deprive yourself for 40 days and 40 nights. And this Holy Week thing...Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday.

Whatever. I got the day off. Thank you, Jesus.

Again. Securing my place in Hell.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

As Mammy Told Scarlett...


Mammy knows best. Posted by Hello

"You just get in trouble in Atlanta."

A good new friend of mine is taking his first trip to Atlanta and asked for advice. Apparently, he thinks I have stories to tell or wisdom to share.

For those of you who don't know. Atlanta might as well be the San Francisco of the South, for all the queers the city attracts. It was like Mecca the first time I visited. Gay bars for days. Rainbow stickers on cars. Men. HOT men.

The first time I had the chance to visit Atlanta was with HotAss for New Year's Eve. It was only our second excursion as friends. Our first had been to Southern Decadence. We were meeting his god-gay-parents there and they promised to show us a good time. I suspect I had a better time than he did. At the time, I had a major crush on HotAss's god-gay-father, and was hoping that he would leave his partner of 11 years for me. Ummm, not happening. Although, as luck would have it, they liked threesomes.

New Year's Eve came and we were oh-so-festive. We had intentions of hitting every bar in town but we started at Blake's, and after making friends with an elderly Danish woman in a pleated tennis skirt, we stuck around...for MANY gin and tonics. As the evening progressed, I couldn't remember how to sit on my barstool. HotAss needed to shake his groove thing at some point after midnight (go figure...that's why I call him HOTASS). I could barely find my groove thing.

HotAss went off to Backstreet. I went off with the gay-god-parents, hoping for a night of some crazy-freaky-circus sex.

Lesson #1: Never get up from a hot threesome to puke your guts out. It ruins the mood.

Lesson #2: Come up with a damn good excuse for why you're sleeping naked on your best friend's pillow.

Lesson #3: Shower before the four-hour trip home.

Lesson #4: No matter how great you think the music is, 10 years later, it's retarded. (See La Bouche's "Be My Lover" as an example.)

Tinkering with the Togas


Careful. I'll stick you. Posted by Hello

Over the weekend, the Artist of the Dynamic Duo threw his delightful partner, the Chef, a birthday party. Because the Chef's birthday falls on the first day of spring, what could be more appropriate than a Rites of Spring party -- complete with togas and lots of wine.

And let me just say, it's no wonder the Roman Empire fell. They could barely keep their togas on, especially after a few jugs of the vino.

And the ongoing question of the evening... did the Romans wear underwear? One of my favorite activities was to snap pictures UP the togas, just to see what folks were wearing this season. Tighty-whiteys, a jockstrap or two, some hysterectomy panties, and a pair of camo boxer briefs were all digitally captured.

Skip on over to Hotass' site to see a few more pics. Unfortunately, he didn't post any of the UP-THE-TOGA shots.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Silly Rabbit, These Tricks Are NOT for Kids...


Maybe it's also known as cuckoo for Cock-o-Puffs? Posted by Hello

I never hear straight folks talk about "tricks." Well at least, not in the same sense that gay men talk about tricks. To a straight person, a trick might be what a hooker turns. To a gay man, it is the man of the hour, the gentleman caller, the cheap thrill, the hook-up, the one-night stand, but I'm surprised that this term hasn't made its way into the straight mainstream.

Wouldn't it be cool to hear college girls whining about the trick they picked up last night at the SAE house, the one who ripped her new pair of Vickie's Secretion panties? Or the total straight guy in the sports bar talking about the trick with the huge rack he banged til four this morning?

Actually I'm kinda glad they haven't picked up on this lingo yet.

Tricking is as integral to gay culture as Cher and flower arranging. We have movies devoted to it. We even have software dedicated to tracking your tricks, complete with fields for dick size, kissing ratings, classifications (top, bottom, etc.), their photos, and where you met an what you did. I downloaded the software for "research" purposes. (An interesting side note -- HotAss, another friend and I came up with this concept -- the TrickTracker 2000 -- YEARS ago except we lacked the expertise to develop and market it.)

No one denies that the gays are a sexual bunch. And many live from one trick to the next, notching their bedposts down to toothpicks. But I suspect that most of us hope that the next trick will be the one that turns into THE ONE. Tricks turn into fuck buddies or boy friends or friends and even long-term relationships. But most of the time, they're just tricks, an object to relieve a little sexual tension, a playground for recreational fucking.

In the days when we used to be persecuted and prosecuted for being gay (oh, wait, we still are!), tricks could be found in parks, rest areas, bathrooms, and bars. Now with the advent of the Internet, a trick is a just a mouse-click away.

For me, I don't like to trick as much as I used to. I admit that I do, and most gay men who say they don't, well, check to see if their pants are on fire. Tricking has lost a lot of its mystery for me. Aside from the obvious danger, it lacks an emotional connection. And sometimes that's fine when masturbation has lost it's fun, the batteries have died in the vibrating eggs or I let my subscription to TitanMen.com run out. But at this point in my life, I'd rather have a relationship, or even a good fuckbuddy, instead of 100 meaningless tricks. Well that's how I feel today anyway.

And for the record, my iTrick only has one entry.

Out of curiosity, I'd like to ask my readers approximately how many "tricks" they've had in their lifetime. Comment anonymously if you'd like, and by "tricks" I mean anyone -- relationship, fb, bf, or one-timers -- you've had sex with (and the operative word in "oral sex" is sex).

--A special shout-out to Steveshairdo, who sent the link for iTrick, and got this whole thing rolling.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Isn't She Lovely?


The face and grace of Miss Stephanie Wells Posted by Hello

Okay, so it's confession time. Once upon a time, when I was a little gay boy growing up, I wanted to be a drag queen. Shocking, huh? [This is the part where you say "Yes!"]

Yes, there was a time when I was young and dumb and living in Nashville, I couldn't wait for Friday night to come around so I could pay my $5 cover and watch La Boy Le Femme, the cast of most glamorous drag queens ever to grace the spotlight. Ah, they were beautiful. And they were inspiring a young man to strap on some pumps, tuck his business inside himself, beat a wig, and lip-synch his way to stardom.

Now, back then the showgirls at the now-defunct Connection were simply amazing. Not campy, these girls were creme de la creme, style and glamour.

There was the pantomime rage of Miss Bianca Paige, the space-age beauty Judy Jetson, the legend Rita Ross, and the face and grace of Miss Stephanie Wells. Every gay man worth his hair gel knew the introductions by heart.

Well, I also had a roommate who secured a plush part-time job as the stage manager for the show, spending lots of time backstage and listening for beauty tips from the stars, such as "Cover Girl does not cover boy" and how to paint a face for the 99th balcony. And like Cinderella's mice, he picked up drag droppings and leftovers and brought them home for his protege.

There were many nights that we'd dive face-first into mascara, lipstick and Aqua Net. He'd set up the music and I would prance (well, in most cases, stumble like a linebacker) down our runway/hallway. We got sophisticated a couple of times, adding strobe lights and spotlights, and filmed our own videos. My alter-egos, Savannah Montgomery, Nikki Chablis, and the farmyard fantasy of Miss Laura Ingalls, were coming to life. My cover of "You're So Vain" was absolutely fucking fierce. My rendition of "Jolene" was heart-wrenching. My version of Tracy Chapman's "Mountains o' Things" was pure dramatic genius (even if it did err more on the side of tragic).

The time came to make my entrance into society at the annual Pride Ball. We spent literally weeks preparing, practicing, anticipating. My crafty roommate sewed my dress, a strapless silver lame number with a wine sheer wrap. We teased and beat a Reba McEntire wig to death, jacking it to Jesus. I poured entire paychecks into purchasing tights and pantyhose. We sculpted foam rubber to achieve a perfect hourglass shape around my ass, hips and boobs. I shaved my chest.

The night arrived, and we set foot into the Parthenon, and it was magical. Gracefully gliding across the marble floors beneath a 42-foot statue of Athena. And all was right with the world for a few hours, until I had pee.

I turned to fellow drag princess, and asked which one I should use, the men's room or the ladies'. He said, without pause, "Tonight, you are a lady, so use the ladies' room."

Oh so much easier said than done. I wasn't sure how that was accomplished. I hiked up my dress and pushed down seven pairs of tights and four pairs of pantyhose (all to smooth out the foam rubber on my hips and disguise the hair on my legs). And I sat on the toilet and peed like a girl.

After I had re-adjusted everything and it was no easy feat in the tiny stall, after four or five cocktails, I returned to my party. Only to realize as I was climbing the stairs that I still had several waistbands of my leggings wrapped around my knees. As I walked one more time across the marble floor, midnight must have arrived for Cinderella. The illusion started to fall apart. My right tit was falling out of my bra. My feet hurt in those damn heels. I had pantyhose binding my knees. The wig was hotter than nine shades of hell. I grabbed my roommate and we slipped away to the pumpkin. Before I even got to the car, my wig was off and I was out of those torturous heels. I was ready to burp, scratch, drink beer and free my penis from the confines of nylon.

That was 1997, and I haven't put on a dress since.

*I want to thank my friend Dradels for the great pic of Stephanie Wells. See, I did blog about you!

Wednesday, March 9, 2005

MTV, Pimp My Office Furniture!

Over the weekend, HotAss and I indulged in a little project. I found this old metal credenza in the basement at work, and it needed a makeover before I carted it into my apartment.

Now you know how on Trading Spaces, they redesign two rooms in 48 hours on $1,000 each. It's that 48 hours thing that I think is bullshit. Repainting, installing rope lights, and adding frosted plexiglass doors took eight hours - from picking up the credenza at the office to putting it in place. One piece of furniture. Eight hours. There's no way those folks on TS remodel two rooms in 48 hours...

Anyway, I love it. I have a total of $50 bucks invested in it (and that includes sodas for me and Hotass). And the red is smashing in my apartment. The perfect energy on that wall.

Now...everyone is invited to the stock-the-bar party...


The reveal Posted by Hello

Sunday, March 6, 2005

This Month's Cosmo Quiz Brought to You By Gay Porn Stars

Thanks to Gay Sex Blog for this enlightening personality assessment. Actually I'm rather flattered.

Which Gay Porn Star Are You?


Woof! Posted by Hello

Dick Wolf! You're a fuzzy hunk of beef, and your stare is like x-ray vision. You know how to make people go weak in the knees with a sly grin or a flash of your formidable ass-ets. You've gained a bit of extra beef lately but no matter what you do, you only get hotter!

Friday, March 4, 2005

I Got a Brand New Pair of Roller Skates


Sex, drugs and techno music Posted by Hello

Now you have to understand that HotAss and I have known each other for a very long time. We're celebrating our 10 year anniversary this year as friends. And because we met each other when we were so young, we had the opportunity to share a lot of "firsts" together -- the first time we dressed in drag, the first time we saw Opryland at Christmas, our first wild New Year's Party, and the first time we dropped ecstasy.

Now, in true Laverne and Shirley fashion, in retrospect, we were complete girls about it. Picture it. Memphis. 2002. Fourth of July weekend. I made a little visit to Memphis for the holiday, and we had made the decision weeks ahead of time that we would roll together. I spent a good part of the day researching MDMA and trying to ascertain exactly what the outcome would be. The evening of the Fourth "rolled" around, and we had been in heavy preparation for hours. Limiting our intake of food, limiting our intake of alcohol (because we were told that we wouldn't want to mix), stopping at the Tigermart for bottles of water and lots of gum.

We stood with some friends in a vacant lot in downtown and watched the fireworks burst in the sky above us. We had our evening planned to the minute. We wanted to arrive at the bar at 11, and we wanted our groove on just in time to walk in the door. Given a 30 minute "feeling it yet?" window, we hunkered together like a couple of schoolgirls smoking a cigarette in the restroom, and threw back the tiny tablets. I had a pink one with a hot air balloon. HotAss took the alligator.

We loaded into the car, and took off for the first stop for a wild evening - the ATM. I got out of the car, picked up my yuppie food stamps, and HotAss swears I skipped back to the car. In that short amount of time, the streetlights exploded into another fireworks show. It was beautiful!

As we were driving, we were fucking nuts, rapidly asking each other "are you ok? Yeah, are you ok?" And for the most part, we were ok except when HotAss calmly requested that we pull over so that he could wretch into a parking lot. After one quick heave, he shut the car door and said "I'm ok. I'm ok."

We were never more beautiful than we were when we entered the bar. We smiled. We chatted. We laughed. We flitted from corner to corner like the magnificent social butterflies we were. And like cracked-out moths to a flame, we were drawn to the dance floor. My feet moved uncontrollably to the beat. I was giving the chewing gum hell and sweat was pouring out of my body. I looked over and HotAss was dancing on the speaker. A lithe beautiful young boy danced over to me and we danced together, grinding together, caressing each other for the next four hours. I never left the floor. HotAss kept me hydrated with bottles of water.

Four hours later, my legs felt like spaghetti, and my partner and I slipped off to the back patio. And as quickly as it began, the roll ended. And I realized my lithe beautiful boy was a skinny, gangly, pimply-faced something. I grabbed HotAss and we disappeared into the early morning hours.

We had such a great time, we dropped again two nights later. The results were less than spectacular. Although I discovered I could feel like I was wearing roller skates, and HotAss swears it was like French doors opening up. At one point during the evening, I roller skated up to HotAss who was sitting on a bench, legs wide, head down, staring intently at the floor.

"Hey, you ok?"

"Yeah. It's like a door. It's like a door. Just opening up. It's like a door."

There were only one or two other weekends like that, maybe drug-induced, maybe not. But they became known as "rock star weekends," a lost 72 hours engaged in dancing and drinking, flirting and flitting.

And now spring has started to spring in Memphis. Daffodils are budding and trees are showing their leaves again, and it makes me want another rock star weekend.

I miss my youth.

Wednesday, March 2, 2005

Woof-Worthy #3


The Homo-Dudes of Hazzard Posted by Hello

"You want me to do what?"

"C'mon Luke, it won't hurt."

"Bullshit, Bo! When Cooter did it, it hurt like a mother-fucker!"

"Look, I got some of Daisy's KY Jelly in the General Lee, and I promise to go real easy."

"All right, but I'm not queer or anything."

"Me neither, Luke. We're just two cousins helping each other out."

Not to mention that they were providing lots of good feelings "down South" for gays-in-training like me.

Mis-reading the Signals

I never professed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to reading the "interested" signals from other guys. In fact, I can be rather oblivious. I get pretty focused on something, and I can ignore the five-alarm fire happening around me. Or quite the opposite. I'll play the role of schoolgirl thinking the guy is in love with me when he's just being nice.

For example, once upon a time Virginia and I had a night out. We went downtown for dinner and then out to shoot pool. We chose an Italian place in Nashville that wasn't necessarily known for great food, but it was cheap, and the atmosphere was mostly French bordello. Imagine Moulin Rouge meets Olive Garden. And there was a manager there, Tyler, that I had had a brief encounter a couple of years earlier. He was always super-nice and friendly to me and Virginia.

Virginia and I ordered dinner, and Tyler stopped by periodically to chat and being friendly. When he walked away, Virginia and I schemed and debated if he was interested in me. Of course when the server drops the check off, I think the decision has been made. It's rather loud in the restaurant and I hear "taken care of."

I checked with Virginia and she heard the same thing. Well, how nice of Tyler, we decided. I sought out Tyler to thank hm for his generosity, and of course, to ask if he might be interested in dinner on me sometime. Our conversation went something like this.

"Tyler, I want to thank you for picking that up for us. You really didn't have to do that. We really really really appreciate it."

"Oh please, it was nothing."

"Oh Tyler that's not true." Can you hear me turning on the charm? "It was very generous of you."

"Please, it was just cheese bread, so think nothing of it."

Cheese bread? Just the cheese bread? I returned to the table, and Virginia was waiting to hear with bated breath.

"Well...??"

"I was terribly effusive for cheese bread."

I didn't ask him out, by the way.