Saturday Night's Alright for Dancin'

Saturday started with a bang - in the form of a gun-toting hairy Mexican straight boy in a pink lace thong. The gun - a .357 Magnum - was hidden under his mattress. The thong hidden in a rolled up sock. Carlos was a dear - a good kisser who demonstrated other outstanding oral abilities. Straight boys, in my experience, often demonstrate such talents - and tend very often to throw their legs in the air.

I passed a lovely afternoon with panties, inter-racial porn, and a Smith & Wesson. And then, as things tend to go with me, hilarity ensued. The phone rang a few times while Carlos and I were engaging in some slap and tickle, and he appropriately ignored it. Of course, when he did answer, it was his best friend - a friend, mind you, whose pregnant girlfriend he is screwing. The guy was outside, in the driveway, and this posed the usual obvious problems, not the least of which was that Carlos had to get me out of the house without being seen.

That whole straight boy thing.

After a few ideas to distract the friend in the driveway failed, the back-up plan involved a window. And a wall. I dropped out of the bathroom window and scaled a small wall in order to bypass the driveway and circle the block to get to my car.

Carlos sent me on my way with a passionate kiss ... and a boost to the window.


Saturday night - fresh from the ego boost that I can comfortably fit through a bathroom window - and into my skinny jeans - I met the City Coucilman for a drink. It was crowded at Pegasus - not unusual for a Saturday night, but running into Mount Gay colored the evening.

I think it was magenta. Or possibly chartreuse. He was there with his new boyfriend, a young Hispanic - one of the Frenemy's many conquests. And seemingly my polar opposite. I would love to say that hte conversation - when I downed a martini and approached him - was witty, urbane ... the stuff of which Hepburn and Cary Grant were made.

But there were no bon mots, and while I did have a lit cigarette, there was by no means a spark or any fire(works); Mount Gay was cool, dismissive, and I wished him a good night ... and a Happy FIESTA.

And then I met someone. He sidled up to the bar ... or was it a drunken meandering? We struck up a conversation too many drinks prevents me from recalling, and then he stuck his hand down my pants. Somewhere between learning his name and recording his number in my phone, he informed me he was a bottom - and set about showing me.

The resulting hard-on somehow found its way out of my pants but was safely in his surprisingly strong, warm hand.

I wandered off - possibly out of fear the rest of my clothes would come off, and partially because I was quite tipsy.

I am optimistic that a drunken hand-job could lead to wedding bells ... or at least drunken sex. He is terribly cute and seems to be smart ... and then there is something intriguing about a man less than five feet tall. He could be my pocket gay.

Mark

Country Music and Castigation

I had a dream involving my mother. I have no idea what it was about ... as it came and went as spirits tend to do. Whether I was comforted or disturbed, I cannot say either; it was a whisper in the midst of noise.

Life is noisy of late - a clamor of depression, frustration, and uploading country music to my computer. In the absence of blues LPs, country fills a void - a boozing, lonely, wife-beating, deer hunting, coon hound having void.

I have been remiss in my reading of late - choosing drunken sex and time with the guy I was THEN seeing over gay murder mysteries. I feel their call. A Habit for Death - about a nun serial killer in a Catholic boys' school suddenly seems more powerful than a dirty martini.

I've got a killer to catch ... Sister Clarissa Darling must be avenged ...

A dream ... again

I fell asleep watching National Geographic; consequently - coupled with drugs, alcohol, and something akin to sexual exhaustion - I had the strangest dream.

It began at an anniversary party - my own. I think it was our 60th, and it was futuristic, in that way that the not-so-distant future is often portrayed, something like "Minority Report" or the flash(ing) forward at the end of the final episode of "Six Feet Under." I was silver and distinguished - slimmer than I expected - in a very expensive suit.

I was married to Apollo Ono, and it was somewhere around that time I realized that that the flash-backs began.

Evan Lycasek figures in somehow - I think as my nemesis, and as a competitor for Ono's affections.

We were well-traveled - Apollo and I; there were scenes in jungles, sweating and running from tribes - with torches. I distinctly recall a ritual - our wedding(?) - wherein heated rods were pushed through our abdomens. If the poker missed your vital organs, and you survive the pain, and the risks of infection, you were bonded for life [politics-schmolitics; that's (gay) marriage]. Someone may have wound up paralyzed ... that part escapes me.

There was abundant ass play, a blood-letting (blessing) in honor of our marriage, and I think robots got involved somehow.

Making out on a mountain-top, at dawn ... felt like being the first men (note: Adam and Steve jokes), and the first to discover love (or, more aptly, LOVE). It was a waking dream, where I saw things happening and could gently shift the course. I mostly shifted the course of things into Apollo's pants ... and once, out of the path of a lion.

I think I also hooked Lycasek up with Johnny Weir ... or Clay Aiken.

I don't recall how the dream ended, save that I rolled over to check the time and fell back into some cute, absurd moment.

I was happy.

It was 6:30AM - and Rough Trade called ... wistful, apologetic, and set some things atwitter ...

Mark