Trish Is 43 And Hers Is WAY Tighter...

So, I shipped 82 boxes of files today. At first, I thought the guy who worked for the shipping company was the first woof-worthy guy that I thought was a hottie... 6'2", 190lbs of rock hard muscle, cowboy boots, belt buckle, little bit of chest hair poking out of his collar, thick (but trimmed) gotee, and a hat that said "100% Cowboy". Then the nasty bitch started talking...

He thought that because I was signing off these boxes, I must work in shipping and receiving, and while I'm a fan of a kind of "shipping and receiving", I'm no warehouse worker. He decided he'd tell me about the girlfriend he had just broken up with, the nastiness of which follows...

"Well, I just broke up with Jackie..." as if I have a damned clue who that is... "Yeah, she was fuckin' another driver...kicked his ass... Anywho, I went over to my ex-fiance Trish's place and asked if we could get back together. She said 'yup' so I called Jackie and told her I's back with Trish, and besides, her pussy's too big and smells bad."

Okay, yuck. As if I wanted to hear about his girlfriend's nether region, big and stinky or otherwise... He went on...

"So Jackie's like, 'you never told me that before...' and I's like 'well I'm tellin' ya know. Hell, Trish is 43 and hers is WAY tighter!' Yeah, she wanted to have a threesome with her cousin, she was kinky like that..."

Sorry, Gar-Bear and James, but if woof-worthy gay rednecks are like that, I'll stick with smooth and twinky...

I Can't Believe My Mother Just Said That...

So, for those of you who remember this post with a different title, I just couldn't keep it like that, sorry…The content is still the same.... ;-)

The Fauxmophobe and I have a tradition. If we call each other’s cell phone and the other doesn’t answer, we simply leave some vulgar name, object, or obscenity and hang up. He tried to call me yesterday from a van full of my family members (he’s dating my cousin and the family spends every President’s Day weekend at our cabin in the mountains). I didn’t pick up, so he absent-mindedly said “Butt Plug” and hung up. Needless to say, my family was not aware of our tradition, so, unknown to me, he had to explain our whole history of voicemails to justify what he just said.

To prove his point, he didn’t answer my return call, just knowing that he would have some nasty thing to share with my family. Prick. I said “Cum Guzzler” and hung up… I went back to what I was doing and didn’t give it another thought… Prick…

So I call back about 30 minutes later, and Fauxmo doesn’t answer. My mother does. And she doesn’t say “Hello, sweetie, how are you?” No, she says “Hello, Cum Guzzler.” *insert awkward silence here*

Well, as Gary says, “Momma always knows”… perhaps coming out to her will be easier now…

Even The Damned Bobblehead Says I'm Gay...

So, in highschool I was a dancer... I had training in ballet, jazz, hip hop, the whole works...I'd been schooled by the best in our city... I was also a singer...I had six years of formal vocal lessons, had performed in four major touring choirs, bands, and many a church... I was also an actor... I've been Friedrich von Trapp in The Sound of Music, Motel Kamzoil in Fiddler on the Roof, even Arthur in Camelot... So, how could a fully closeted (even to self) high school student use all of these skills other than to form an *N Sync cover group, of course...

Now, if the people around me (and hell, myself) couldn't tell I was queer by the dance belts, tights, make up kits, hair extensions, unitards, costume pieces, and full library of Broadway sheet music for tenors, it certainly wouldn't hurt anything if I was obsessed with Justin Timberlake.

Honestly, though, we were really good. We knew every move to every dance they did, and we didn't pull a drag queen (sorry ladies) and lip synch to the songs. We frickin' sang our asses off... We had body mics and the whole works. We performed at pep assemblies, dances, parties, and various other venues...and the girls loved us...and the gays loved us... I WAS Justin Timberlake, the star... I followed him through the short, bleached hair phase, the white boy afro hair phase, and *gasp*, even got cornrows... wow...

Anyway, I was cleaning out my beard room today and found an old Justin Timberlake bobblehead. Thus began the journey into yet another seemingly unnoticed early sign of my orientation...

Gonna burn this goddamn house right down...

So, had an enjoyable wednesday with Hotass and Skipper. Judging from his account of the evening, I'd say Skipper had fun, too... Drank some vodka, ate some cheese, visited my first Woof Bar.

The only thing missing was my boy. He's away on business, and though I completely understand the reasoning behind it, I'm still pouting a bit. Oh well, he'll be home tonight and his homophobe redneck cousin is IN town on business and staying with us. So we'll hide the liquor, this month's Out Magazine (is the Rock woof worthy?), and all of the Queer As Folks that we've got recorded on our TV, and hang with the redneck. He's nice enough, but scared to death of the mo's...

In another interesting and potentially uncomfortable situation, the redneck works for the same small company as Hotass' Ranger... I won't tell if Ranger won't...

Liquid Bitch…

So, from my first post, I’ve wanted this blog to be an honest and transparent place for me to vomit the goings-on of my day-to-day. So far, I think I’ve done that…but now its time to embarrass myself.

I hate Nair.

I’ve said before that I’m right in the middle of my yearly narcissistic self-improvement phase. As a part of this, and in my never ending journey to find out what the correct amount of body hair is for me, I bought a bottle of Nair for Men.

Now, for all you ladies out there, you probably could have warned me, but when I went to Walgreen’s with the V, she just giggled and said, “Oh hell yeah…Go for it…” I must not have noticed her evil grin…

I read the back of the bottle. I had my warm washcloth ready to go… I had even done test area of about 2” on my abs. I covered my chest and abdomen with the Liquid Bitch and set my timer for four minutes…

I left that shit on for seven minutes in total, and wiped off about 45% of the hair on my chest. It looks very circus-freakish. Like, my carnie name is Queericus, The Amazing Sparse Haired Butt Pirate, or something freaky like that.

At least it was only my chest. Liquid bitch…

Do Queers Like Tits?

So, the V lives with a gay couple. We'll call one of the guys PB (for powerbottom, of course). He loves to play with her hoo-haws... Is this normal? I mean, I'll admit, tits are kinda fun to play with, but I'm not at all turned on by them. The PowerBottom totally gets steamy from those things. Explain to me how he can grab her jubblies and get so turned on that he grabs his BOYFRIEND and disappears into the bedroom for the rest of the night... So confusing...

PB loves the V's hooties, Jack loves Karen's bazoingas....do queers like tits? I may be relatively new in this culture, but I kinda thought that gays like guys...hm...any thoughts from the faithful readers?

Lipstick Lesbians and Ugly Bisexuals

So, my homo honey came into town this weekend, and Roomy and I decided to take her to Nashvegas for a little TRIBE action. Hm…I need a name for her….how about the V (for vagina, of course). Tasteless and accurate…

Can I just say, that parking at that bitch is…a bitch? I’m pretty sure they do ambulance repair across the street, as there are like, six ambulances in a garage that people park in front of. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do that. I’ve had too many tickets and too many cars towed.

After we finally found a place to park, we walked by the creepy redneck gay basher complete with rebel flag tshirt and Carharts, through a group of manly looking women (also in Carharts), and into the bar. The place was packed (snicker).

When we got into the restaurant area, we were amazed to see a table of 20 hot lesbians. I mean HOT. So hot that I almost got turned on. There must have been a porn convention, or at least a lesbian church in LA was in town doing mission work…interesting concept… A straight man’s dream right in front of us… We took a picture with the V’s cell phone to send to her boyfriend…

As we’re eating, we notice a very odd looking guy across the restaurant who keeps looking our direction. The V thinks he’s checking her out. I think he’s checking me out. Roomy is amused.

After dinner, and a few martinis, we head over to the bar to get our groove on a little bit. Cue odd looking guy…after first approaching me, odd looking guy notices that Roomy and I are clearly there together, so his drunk ass approaches the V. After ten minutes of breathing down her neck with breath that can only be described as a garlic, Jaager, and halitosis cocktail, I decided to help her out. So I touched his arm and said “Hi, hon, what’s your name? Yeah this one has really bad warts and two kids, you might want to walk on…"

She couldn’t decide whether to slap me or kiss me, but odd looking guy walked on….

A Gay Cop is a Better Cop....for me, anyway...

So, I got another speeding ticket. I swear. 7mph over the limit and I get a bloody ticket. I talked to a female coworker when I got back to the office, and it's totally true. Good looking women can get out of any ticket. She told me about a time when she was driving her mom's new Infinity and got pulled over for running a stop sign in a residential zone while speeding. The cop asked her what PERFUME SHE WAS WEARING! Damn. And if the cop was a chick, she'd either be a lesbian who also asked about the perfume or a feminazi who wouldn't dream of penalizing a woman in a man's world!

Meanwhile, I get a ticket for 7mph.

Okay, so I've never pretended to be the hottest piece of ass in the world, but I'm pretty sure if I got pulled over by a gay cop, I look good enough that I could get out of the ticket. Honestly, bat the eyes, flick the wrist, giggle a little bit...done. I think we should campaign for more gays on the force. More guys in uniform and a better chance the gays could avoid dings to their driving record. Where's Vince when you need him...

Thumpa thumpa thumpa...

So, nothing all that clever to say today. I sang my ass of in church. I'm totally exhausted from a weekend of work and not too excited to go to the office tomorrow. I'm doing laundry and dancing to Darren Hayes techno remixes. Thanks Gary ;-)...

Fauxmophobes and Gay Bars...

So, I have this friend in my home town. He's a homophobe. Okay, so he's not a REAL homophobe...he's a faux homophobe. I say that because in reality, he's just a queer stuck in the deepest darkest corner of a really big closet, and he's overcompensating. Lets call him Fauxmophobe. Fauxmophobe flew to Tennessee a couple of months ago to visit for the first time. Since its cheaper to fly from my hometown to Nashville then Memphis, he flew into BNA and I drove over to pick him up.

Fauxmo had to fly out of Nashville at the end of the week. For a little Nashville fun, Roomy and I decided to head over after work the night before he flew. We would go to some Nashville club and drop Fauxmo's ass off in the morning. Here's where it gets fun.

Not knowing so much about Nashville, I asked my buddy and former Nashvillite Gary where I should take Fauxmo to eat. At this point in time, Gary only had suspicions of my closetedness, so he thought he would test the waters by suggesting I check out this video bar called Tribe. He asked if I knew where Church Street is, which I didn't (do now), and asked if I'd heard of it, which I hadn't (have now). He said there is a bit of a metropolitan kind of vibe, and there might be a few gay folks around. I pretended to not be gay, but totally accepting, and was like "cool."

Immediately, I scoured the web in search of this Tribe, and after confirming its gayness, decided it would be fun to tell Fauxmo about this cool little restaurant we were going to. I guess I neglected to tell him it was a gay bar.

So, the first thing we noticed while walking up to Tribe is the phallic "i" in the logo. Fauxmo said "Uh...interesting logo." Then we entered the bar. Fauxmo said "Not alot of chicks here, strange." We went into the restaurant (Red). Covering the walls were monochrome photos of barechested hairy firemen and construction workers. Roomy and I looked around with an expression on our face I now know to be "Woof." Fauxmo looked at me and whispered "Um...I think this might be a gay bar..." Gee...

It was the best pasta dish I've ever had...

Just another manic...Wednesday?

So, they say the groundhog saw his shadow and returned to his hole. I've got a couple of comments on that. First, there is no hole. They bring a groundhog that lives in captivity in front of the 40,000 people who come to see what happens, place him on a pedestal, and then some fat white guy tells everyone the outcome. Second, in the traditional ceremony (the timing of which was pretty unpredictable), there are only two reasons that the groundhog would actually go back into his hole: 1) He's hungry and 2) He's horny. Now, I can think of quite a few scenarios where all three of those words (hole, hungry, and horny) go together, but not one has jack sh!t to do with this little rodent's shadow.

Anyway, it's raining today, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. A little bit bitchy, a little bit melancholy, relatively randy myself...

One thing's for sure, I'm totally nurturing a sunburned ass right now. Every year, about this time, I enter a completely narcissistic self-improvement phase in an effort to not look like a completely skinny cracker the first time I put on a bathing suit. So, to the Bowflex and tanning bed I go...and I burned my butt last night. Except for that two or three inch area right above the crack, you know? The part that will never tan in a bed? Grrr...