Sometimes life is like a solitary walk deep in thoughts

I AM APPALLED!

Readers of my blog know I post more humorously but sometimes certain in this world are so despicable that need to be pointed out:

I'm so enraged I feel a need to share this with you.To say I am appalled by this would be an understatement. That it happened in a zoo and in such a progressive country fills me with rage. I wish we could drag these people before a court on criminal charges. We need to shame the ones responsible, show the world their faces, & remove them from any animal care office by spreading the word on Facebook, Twitter, or whatever. Killing the giraffe was a horror when I read about it but now this! They need to be stopped. So please share this call for action.

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-26734377


Below are the faces of some of their victims !

Ah those penguins...so much like our Chelsea Boys

Joined friends to see a movie about penguins. It seems the male of the species will walk over seventy miles on ice in below freezing temperatures to meet up with  their females. All this work in order to mate over the course of a few days. Seems even  among animals there is nothing a guy won’t go through to get laid.

Planned that oh so "Perfect Funeral to Die For"

Well I spent a very productive day today with my closest friend planning my gay 

funeral services. No honey you can relax, I’m not planning to ‘shuffle off this mortal 

coil’ anytime soon. By the way does ANYONE know what the hell that often used 

phrase means? I Keep seeing images of bed springs ...but THAT is another post. :)

Anyway, I've spent a lifetime being fabulous. I’ll be damned if I’ll let the 

final beads on my gay life’s necklace end up rolling on the floor of some dreary last get- 

together. Let’s be honest .How many of us have gone to some dull finale for an enemy 

and snidely whispered to others, “Gees if they were alive they NEVER would be caught 

dead here let alone be the guest of honor for it.” So, do you want your enemies whispering 

that at your goodbye to you, especially when you are too...well dead...to retort back with a 

fantastic a verbal bitch slap? Hmm, you get it now huh. 

Don’t plan ahead child & this could happen to you. I can’t speak for others, but I’d 

die of embarrassment at such a ending. So today I took that bull by the horns and worked out my exit festivities. Something simple and dignified, I assure you, in keeping with the overall 

way I lived my life. I swear if I see one smirk I’ll stop here. Okay I won’t but NO smirking. 

That said, I’ve decided to call what my friend and I, or rather mainly I, worked out, “My exit stage  right bon voyage and we miss you” party plan. It goes something like this: 

First our hot dancer friend Darius gives the eulogy at the head of my coffin. Preferably he will be completely overcome by grief and filled with sobs. As I visualize it, Darius will look so cute with his dancer’s body quivering in remorse with his  bluish- green eyes filled with tears.  I’ve left instructions that he is to wear a tight blue Tee shirt since we want to keep the mourners riveted on him as he extols my ...whatever.  Besides, it would be nice gazing directly up from my coffin at his sexy sculpted pectorals before I drift off. Especially quivering ones. Hell I may be dead  but I’ll never be THAT dead! 

This brings me to my coffin. Oh come on let’s not be squeamish here. I mean do you 

want someone else to pick out what you will wear the last time you appear in public? 

Ah a light hits your brain at last I see. Good gay boy. 

I’m going for simplicity myself. It will be a plain bronze affair that will be thrust upward { I so love a good upward thrust} from the ground by nicely carved naked male angels at each corner. Naturally they we ill be bent over {another favorite  term of mine} in inconsolable grief.

 Finally I’ll require just a few well placed pin lights hitting the polished bronze to give off a 

disco-like sparking effect. 

In a side corner of the room a few Speedo clad muscular bartenders will discreetly serve cocktails to the multitude that come to mourn. Lastly, a cute sobbing eighteen year old go-go boy will be draped over the foot of my coffin moaning loudly that sex will  never be as good for him now that I’m gone. Well SOMEONE must speak for all the shattered boys I’ve left behind, right! 

Like I said, very simple and dignified. 

Having "coffee" with a fan

A friend has always strongly discouraged any meeting with any fan of my books. Their point was why ruin their illusions with an actual meeting since I could never live up to what they imagined about me. Fans notoriously think you are the books you write and "do" quite expertly what your characters do in them.

Recently he vigorous  warned me not to take up a 'coffee" invite made by a much younger stunner who was pretty smoking. Said fan had continually fantasized about reenacting certain scenes with their author. Ah literary types huh :). This friend quoted me that Rita Hayworth line on meeting with any fans for…coffee.... and the resultant  "next morning" disillusionments of the fan: “They took Gilda to bed but they woke up with me”.

Yes good advice which I ignored for....

All I can say is that seems to be looking at it from the wrong angle. In the end honey who cares who THEY woke up too. I woke up to a buff thirty-two year old!

Sometimes certain events are like a dank fog in winter

Its freezing touch hits every bare branch of your existence with a chilling cold. Yet, you continue to reach outward cause not too is unthinkable.

"Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown."

There are days when its never just a simple choice. Life gets up into your face demanding you call it. If life is a series of old movie scenes then:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IBZocFkXGY

On a certain West Side club in Chelsea

I was dragged…as in forced to go honey not as in wearing drag okay. Please 

don’t read into things dearie that is my job. Anyway I was hauled off by a friend to 

visit a sex club. you know the type of place. you arrive at a sleazy entry and pay for 

a temporary ‘membership. Then you go through a door where some guy hands 

you a white towel. You are then directed off to a side area where there is a locker 

room and shower. You leave your clothes in the locker and, draped in said towel, 

you cruise through dark hallways searching for...need we go on. Let us say a tour 

through the room’s occupants and their activities are a veritable sexual classroom in 

understanding the true meaning of  the term ‘alternative lifestyles’. 

Now do not get me wrong I am not condemning these places. I’m quite frisky 

myself and always willing to give anything a try within limits, as any bathroom wall review will attest.

(BTW: what have you  heard about me?). 

In fact ogling such activities is really quite innocent fun provided one has a broadly vague definition of said word ‘fun’. Think of looking into each room like window-shopping . You see what the newest trend is for when you do your own serious shopping later. After all it is always about the accessorizing isn’t it? As long as you don’t bump into anyone you know voyeurism can be a lark. 

But soon the magic fades for there is just so much one can  visually process no 

matter how good the performances being seen. At that point it is advisable leave the 

scenes and simply taking with you the knowledge that you are somewhat wiser and, probably a bit overheated as well, by the experiences you witnessed. 

Before you inquire &, since I brought up ‘overheated’, no I did not use their shower. You 

don’t use a shower at these places to actually shower for God’s sake! That is NOT their 

purpose. Dear you are naive if you thought that! May I suggest that you check out more adult DVD’s in the future to understand the proper use for a shower in such locales. 

As I left, I met the owner on the way out who tried to interest me in acquiring a 

permanent membership. I handed him my towel and told him that quite frankly I’d 

never join a social gathering where the only article of wear permitted on the premises 

was a white towel. I mean darling, wearing white after Labor Day...as if!

A view on conducting "foreign affairs" *wink*

I had lunch with Russell Chatsworth Davenport Tradehorn III or, as I referred to 

him when we were a couple, my Rusty Trade. Quite a mouthful huh.  

He’s British of course.  The name gives it away? I often wondered if British names 

got longer as their empire got shorter. Interesting topic for an intellectual discussion 

on the theoretical overcompensation of former colonial powers in relation to naming 

their male citizens. But again why digress on such weighty matters. I mean if you 

want intelligence why are you here reading this? 

Now where was I. Oh yes Rusty. If one had any doubt of his Englishness one need 

only listen as he waxed lyrical on British food especially a dish called “Chip Butte”(no 

I won’t use a  wisecrack here for some things just speak for themselves don’t you think). 

Now we, as in everyone who is NOT English, are all aware of the horrors of their home 

cooking. 

(Hello the Crusaders brought spices back with them in1100A. D. So let’s try using 

some honey!) 

But Rusty loved his Butte and I loved his cute...er...well why use the same 

sounding word thrice in a sentence right. Anyway, so off I’d go with him to explore 

the culinary worlds of down home English style fare. Ah the English; ah my poor taste 

buds! But we are not conducting a special on food so onto my point. 

Foreign affairs: 

Everyone should have at least one. There are some that insist a smoldering Latin 

American man is sex personified though frankly my experience with a Brazilian left 

me cool. Those boys are, to put it succinctly, somewhat oversold on campus. The one 

I met kept insisting he had a girlfriend and was shocked when I didn’t claim likewise. 

In the end however let us say that  “smoldering” was the only thing he could do. No 

flair or imagination. It must be in the blood because my friends who’ve tried the same 

nationality report similar results. 

Scandinavians are, sorry guys, a one trick pony. I chalk it up to this being probably 

due to the cold climate up there. After all, it’s freezing in those countries so you have 

only scant time to enjoy being nude. Their national motto must be: it is best to get 

in and out fast! 

As for the French let us be honest. Even when it is just the two of you in bed their 

inflated egos make it  a constant ménage à trois.  Italians, well being one myself it 

would be too much like incest to date one. Besides half the fun of being of  Italian 

descent is tossing guilt around to get your way. No fun getting it tossed back. A true 

recipe for stalemate.  

Germans I will admit have a certain flair for uniforms and leather but how many 

times  can one play Poland  for them! If they are Russian they insist you be every Baltic 

state! 

My point is:

The British my dear are the great hidden secret of the gay world. That cool look. 

A genetic pool in its final flower. All pale skin and liquid eyes.  Orlando Bloom and 

Hugh Jackman (a gay fantasy porno name if ever I heard one) come to mind. yes the 

later is Australian & not technically a Brit but come on genetically he is really just a 

Brit who lives elsewhere. 

Lastly, that  English accent! Ah sex with an accented lover that  you can not only  

understand but also create fantasies around. Picture “Masterpiece Theater” with you 

in an ever-changing role-play of ingénue scenes from those old movies. 

Show me a gay boy who doesn’t love role-playing, old movies or, creating 

dramatic diva  ‘scenes’ and I’ll show you boy in need of enrollment in a class on remedial 

homosexuality. 

So, as I just said, think of the roles you can assume in sex play with that British 

buck:  the vile lord of the manner with you as the heroic serf defending your honor 

in vain( I always lost my honor*wink*) or   the young traveler waylaid ( see how hot 

English words are!!) by the crazed  highwayman who performs on you a variety of 

unspeakable acts(we’ll speak of them later in private I promise)! Ah the  fantasy joys 

which only hearing a British accent can stimulate! 

So, next time you feel a bit frisky go for that Cockney. Imagine a country that 

christens a dish after a man named Chip’s rear or labels one of its accents for a part of 

male anatomy (see the first line in this paragraph honey if you didn’t get that reference 

by now). Enough said.