I spent the weekend in bed, at least partially because I was sick (and tired), but largely because I pay for cable, and I'll be damned if the Trinity Broadcasting Network (i.e. all church, all the time) is going to cost me $60 a month.
I fell asleep last night to "Zombies: A Living History," and found myself thinking that while romantic comedies, sitcoms, and Freud may observe that our beds are haunted, the truth is not that there's a ghost town in my pants, though I swear I caught sight of a tumbleweed the other day.
No, those aren't ghosts - friendly, translucent phantasms, hovering just outside reality. Those are not spirits of my exes. And those bastards did not, I tell you, have the decency to up and die. No, as I lay in bed - warm and cozy in a house that, my nearly dead octogenarian father's health necessitates I keep at a seasonable 76 degrees - I found myself thinking that it was not the ghosts of my past that cause me grief. It is the rotting, stinking, sad-sack, shambling, withered and dying, festering corpses of my lost love that keep trying to eat my face off.
The 21 year old I was briefly doing during the Old Black Man's hospitalization - a period I affectionately call, "free at last, free at last ... Great G-d almighty, I am free at last ..." - recently sexted me at 5AM. This prompted me to think, both that I am too old for sexting, and also that he must be high, because booty calls take place between 11:30 and 3AM, unless otherwise established (or you're a stripper).
Nevertheless, hoping to rekindle the "free at last ..." magic, by sneaking his skinny ass in through the broken screen on the back door, I responded. We were just getting to the point of making arrangements when Wally told me he was going to charge for our next encounter.
Y'all may not have heard the story, but this is the same boy who, in a foolish fit of ambition and hormones, plunged himself onto my manhood ... and, promptly, yelped, hunched over, and fell off. He left a broken man - talking wistfully about a hot bath, and this is the no-'ccount small child that wants me to pay for another case of blue balls!?!
He was only the second in as many days to ask for a donation.
The 19 year old with whom I passed one lovely, short afternoon, and who subsequently stole my father's pain pills, called me up and asked to meet, with the understanding I'd 'help him out' afterwards.
The architect with whom I had two dates, and with whom I cannot fathom a third, didn't ask for money. He just didn't have any cash and was slow on the draw with his credit card. Real slow.
Of course, he made up for it by being quick with the quips, the chides, the insults, and the comparisons to his dear friend - of whom I reminded him so. The dear friend, when I saw a picture, was nearly 60, fat, and wearing a caftan. Not even ironically.
And then there is that long-time plus one, who is himself pushing 60, and who I dumped - quite ceremoniously - just the other day. Like the undead before him, he won't stay down. I'm supposed to 'save the night' for Thursday, when he gets back into town.
Now, I've never seen "The Walking Dead," but I watched "Zombieland" three times. In the absence of a shotgun, or an Escalade, do you think garden shears will get the job done, or do I need to drop a piano on somebody?
In the battle of the rotting corpses of desire versus my sanity, someone's going down - and they're already halfway there!
Monday, January 30, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
There are some mountains so majestic ...
A dear friend noted, on the drive to a New Year's Eve bash, that all of my stories ... and there are a lot of stories ... start in a bar. She asked me if perhaps that was something in which I might want to work.
I responded that I had enough stories involving church, passing the collection plate for the pastor's sick and dying Cadillac, and my father throwing a poodle at my head. I drink to forget those stories, and - in the process - acquire a few more.
Can I help it if people like to talk to me?
Case in point, last night - while minding my own business at the often mentioned popular hell-hole - a very attractive shrimp hit on me. It started off innocently enough with him asking me if I liked to f@!?, to which I replied, "Sure - why do you ask?"
What ensued from that moment can only be described as a calamity. Paul - like the apostle - proceeded to explain his theories about the universe, his three DWIs, and how he'll take it from pretty much anyone with a penis, as later evidenced by his casual comment that the 350 lbs. man on whose couch he was crashing last night wanted him, and Paul planned to put out. Not for the sake of the couch, or a particular interest in his large host ... but just because.
He called this morning to ask me out.
Meanwhile, in a moment of colossal weakness, mild drunkenness, and because he smelled really good ... I made a date with my ex.
That he is seeing someone else is neither here nor there. That he dumped me - unceremoniously, ignominiously, and tragically - a week before Valentine's Day, and via text message, is what really gets my goat. Frankly, I have half a mind to stand him up.
The other half remembers fondly how incredibly, surprisingly, flexible he is and that he has a prodigious amount of stamina for a man the same age as my mother.
Say what you will about me, but I do have my standards. He's paying for the cheap motel.
I responded that I had enough stories involving church, passing the collection plate for the pastor's sick and dying Cadillac, and my father throwing a poodle at my head. I drink to forget those stories, and - in the process - acquire a few more.
Can I help it if people like to talk to me?
Case in point, last night - while minding my own business at the often mentioned popular hell-hole - a very attractive shrimp hit on me. It started off innocently enough with him asking me if I liked to f@!?, to which I replied, "Sure - why do you ask?"
What ensued from that moment can only be described as a calamity. Paul - like the apostle - proceeded to explain his theories about the universe, his three DWIs, and how he'll take it from pretty much anyone with a penis, as later evidenced by his casual comment that the 350 lbs. man on whose couch he was crashing last night wanted him, and Paul planned to put out. Not for the sake of the couch, or a particular interest in his large host ... but just because.
He called this morning to ask me out.
Meanwhile, in a moment of colossal weakness, mild drunkenness, and because he smelled really good ... I made a date with my ex.
That he is seeing someone else is neither here nor there. That he dumped me - unceremoniously, ignominiously, and tragically - a week before Valentine's Day, and via text message, is what really gets my goat. Frankly, I have half a mind to stand him up.
The other half remembers fondly how incredibly, surprisingly, flexible he is and that he has a prodigious amount of stamina for a man the same age as my mother.
Say what you will about me, but I do have my standards. He's paying for the cheap motel.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Feast, and Famine
Happy Hour is such a complicated process in this town. It's feast or famine, given that bars are either packed to the gills, or empty to the point that it's just you and the bartender.
Admittedly, this has led to free drinks, doing lines off the bar (or the bartender) and some very interesting, if rushed, interludes in back rooms.
This was not the case yesterday, when
I wandered from the dark, wood-paneled 'gay-Rish' pub to the seedy hell-hole next door. The drinks are cheaper, and - despite the hint of vomit - it's the most popular gay bar in town. This would probably explain why I ran into my ex, Mount Gay, his fag hag, and his new beau. And watching Mount Gay and the toad make out might possibly have influenced my third and fourth drinks.
Nevertheless, when I got an eager phone call from a long-lost fling I recently friended on Facebook, I had the sense things were looking up.
That enthusiasm lasted until he showed up, eyes swollen from crying, bouncy through a veil of inebriation, and with a friend in tow who wobbled and said he wanted to throw up.
That I went home with them has more to do with the memory of what my old fling looked like naked, and that I had nothing better to do.
I should learn not to make decisions in this way.
The next two hours were spent fending off an amorous Chihuahua, taking shots from a gallon jug of Absolut, and letting the guy I was picturing upside down and ... well, anyway ... cry, whine, or sob on my shoulder while he quoted Billie Holiday songs.
Shortly after it became clear I was only going to get more of the same, I called a cab. Out of which I fell upon getting home.
Other than a bruise, and a $25 cab ride, to say nothing of blue balls, it was the usual sort of Friday night for me.
And then, in the course of crawling to the kitchen - for orange juice, grits, and aspirin - I got the impression my father was dead. He was still in bed at 2, and hasn't moved in hours. It took about an hour to work up the nerve to make sure he was breathing.
He is, by the way, so I went back to the kitchen and started dinner.
Ain't life grand?
Admittedly, this has led to free drinks, doing lines off the bar (or the bartender) and some very interesting, if rushed, interludes in back rooms.
This was not the case yesterday, when
I wandered from the dark, wood-paneled 'gay-Rish' pub to the seedy hell-hole next door. The drinks are cheaper, and - despite the hint of vomit - it's the most popular gay bar in town. This would probably explain why I ran into my ex, Mount Gay, his fag hag, and his new beau. And watching Mount Gay and the toad make out might possibly have influenced my third and fourth drinks.
Nevertheless, when I got an eager phone call from a long-lost fling I recently friended on Facebook, I had the sense things were looking up.
That enthusiasm lasted until he showed up, eyes swollen from crying, bouncy through a veil of inebriation, and with a friend in tow who wobbled and said he wanted to throw up.
That I went home with them has more to do with the memory of what my old fling looked like naked, and that I had nothing better to do.
I should learn not to make decisions in this way.
The next two hours were spent fending off an amorous Chihuahua, taking shots from a gallon jug of Absolut, and letting the guy I was picturing upside down and ... well, anyway ... cry, whine, or sob on my shoulder while he quoted Billie Holiday songs.
Shortly after it became clear I was only going to get more of the same, I called a cab. Out of which I fell upon getting home.
Other than a bruise, and a $25 cab ride, to say nothing of blue balls, it was the usual sort of Friday night for me.
And then, in the course of crawling to the kitchen - for orange juice, grits, and aspirin - I got the impression my father was dead. He was still in bed at 2, and hasn't moved in hours. It took about an hour to work up the nerve to make sure he was breathing.
He is, by the way, so I went back to the kitchen and started dinner.
Ain't life grand?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Happy New Year, (and thanks for coming)!
When I woke up on the first day of this bright, shiny, still had the gift-wrap and the price tag day, the first day of 2012, I felt like a kid again. Actually, I felt like a 13 year old.
I had a wet dream. I woke up wet and sticky, my just purchased the day before Calvin Klein underpants clinging, and dripping, in all the wrong places.
I tried to remember the last time I actually had sex - because, when a 32 year old has a wet dream, it is surely time for some kind of accounting, and drew a blank.
It was some time when my father was in the nursing home, and my 21 year old pot-head paramour, with the oddly sexy BO came over and injured himself on my penis. Since he fell off of it do quickly, I clearly didn't get off that night - but I'd certainly come since then. While alone, and listening to Thelonius Monk, with a glass of wine and a burned copy of "Bad Boys on Duty," or in the quick, hurried, beneath the sheets, fevered style of the 13 year old lying alone in the dark.
Nevertheless, there I was at 5AM, January 1st, creeping out of bed at a Hilton Garden Inn and trying to shower and change into boxers without waking my sleeping, snoring, female dear friend. This was both out of courtesy and a hint of shame and/or confusion
So, my accounting came up short, and I wondered what it said about me that I spent the previous evening - New Year's Eve - at a sedate, suburban party, with pink champagne and kisses on the cheek at midnight.
I rang in 2011 by jumping on the bed in rehab, while my fellow inmates clanged lockers and blared gangsta rap. I'd say fireworks on the 9th hole of a golf course while smooth jazz, and children, played in the background is a definite step up.
Between the high-end suburbs New Year's Eve, and the drinks by the pool at the hotel bar where we started our weekend, between the crab and spinach dinner, and the smoked salmon breakfast, I found myself feeling luxe. I think 2012 will be a very good year, for shopping and eating, working, and travel. Houston taught me more about myself than I would expect to learn in two days.
Like most lessons, I get the feeling it's going to be bittersweet - money, yes ... sex, no. To paraphrase Robin Leach, I anticipate champagne wishes ... and wet dreams.
I had a wet dream. I woke up wet and sticky, my just purchased the day before Calvin Klein underpants clinging, and dripping, in all the wrong places.
I tried to remember the last time I actually had sex - because, when a 32 year old has a wet dream, it is surely time for some kind of accounting, and drew a blank.
It was some time when my father was in the nursing home, and my 21 year old pot-head paramour, with the oddly sexy BO came over and injured himself on my penis. Since he fell off of it do quickly, I clearly didn't get off that night - but I'd certainly come since then. While alone, and listening to Thelonius Monk, with a glass of wine and a burned copy of "Bad Boys on Duty," or in the quick, hurried, beneath the sheets, fevered style of the 13 year old lying alone in the dark.
Nevertheless, there I was at 5AM, January 1st, creeping out of bed at a Hilton Garden Inn and trying to shower and change into boxers without waking my sleeping, snoring, female dear friend. This was both out of courtesy and a hint of shame and/or confusion
So, my accounting came up short, and I wondered what it said about me that I spent the previous evening - New Year's Eve - at a sedate, suburban party, with pink champagne and kisses on the cheek at midnight.
I rang in 2011 by jumping on the bed in rehab, while my fellow inmates clanged lockers and blared gangsta rap. I'd say fireworks on the 9th hole of a golf course while smooth jazz, and children, played in the background is a definite step up.
Between the high-end suburbs New Year's Eve, and the drinks by the pool at the hotel bar where we started our weekend, between the crab and spinach dinner, and the smoked salmon breakfast, I found myself feeling luxe. I think 2012 will be a very good year, for shopping and eating, working, and travel. Houston taught me more about myself than I would expect to learn in two days.
Like most lessons, I get the feeling it's going to be bittersweet - money, yes ... sex, no. To paraphrase Robin Leach, I anticipate champagne wishes ... and wet dreams.
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