Rain, Art, and a Witch or Two

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Yuck.

Today was the first rains of the rainy season, winter is well and truly on us.  I slogged over to my cafe and was busy staring blankly into space when my reverie was interrupted by the Lady next to me complaining to her friend about Californians who complain about the weather.  I understand a double complaint is sort of like a double negative, but that’s what was going on; I’m just reporting the indignation.

I considered her points (she had several of them.  I can’t remember what they were, but there were lots of them) as she nattered on, and, being a fair minded fellow, I decided “Fuck you bitch.”  I know we live in a dessert and should be grateful for every drop that falls and the weather here is constantly beautiful, but if I want to complain, I will.  I just won’t do it here in this post.  For once.

Instead, let us turn our attention to a very amusing and charming artist I stumbled upon.  He is, of course, Japanese.  His name is Kensuke Koike.  This is one of my favorite of his many little video compositions,  bowling

Sorry, I can’t figure out how to paste in a link to Instagram that includes some kind of thumbnail.  I find Instagram uncooperative in general.  But I like Koike’s work, it’s visually witty.  This is his website

Lastly, for no reason I can think of, I am reminded of a recurring drama I would have with visitors during my time in New Orleans.  Guests would blow into town and often demand to go see the tomb of a famous voodoo priestess/witch named Marie Laveau.  Laveau was a historical person and like most of those in New Orleans, her story is murky, but her status as a souvenir icon is absolutely sterling.  Part of the murky story is that the tomb referred to as hers and which everyone visits is generally discounted by the cemetery historians (because New Orleans has them) as housing the remains of somebody else entirely.  Not that that ever stops tourists from dropping by there.  They apparently leave chicken bones as some kind of offering.  Since Mme. Laveau is not in residence, one wonders what kind of luck they have with that.  Also, is leaving the trash from your lunch at Popeye’s ever a good offering for anything?

So, people would want to see the tomb and I would resolutely refuse.  My logic was twofold: either it was a fake, in which case why would they want to traipse all the way over to the cemeteries to see a fraud?  Or else it wasn’t fake, in which case what the fuck are you doing fucking around with a real witch’s grave?  Moron.

Genuine naked guys,

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Grab a cold one.

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You know how fond I am of short muscley mens.

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Smack that and see if it jiggles.  Report back.

The Big Three Ohhhhh

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Dear little Mikey.   Feel free to insert some tired “birthday candle” joke here.

Today is our dear friend Mikey’s birthday, his 30th to be mathematically exact.  The Chaturbate gang celebrated last night (which was the morning of his birthday; time zones are so confusing) by zapping his prostate with a shower of electronic tips in the old  tip jar.  We laughed and laughed as Mikey bounced around and squealed.  Then he did a handstand to do 31 pushups with a semi-hardon.  He is just that impressive.

I actually remember my own 30th, lost in the mists of time that it is.  I took some acid with my friend and bad influence Robert and we sat around my apartment yukking it up while the acid worked its magic.  Robert decided we needed to go out to the bars.  I never understood why my friends always wanted to go out whilst tripping.  There we were, safe, warm, and loaded, but no, we need to walk over to a loud dark bar and stand around with a bunch of strangers.  Anyway, that’s when it all went to hell.

We got out of my place, walked to the end of the block, 2 doors down, crossed the street and suddenly I had no depth perception and my whole field of vision distorted into some shattered, crazy abstract.  I absolutely couldn’t go any farther, but I couldn’t cross the street because I couldn’t see it.  Would my dear friend Robert help me back to my cozy little retreat?  FUCK NO.  Cause that’s just what druggy friends will do you for.

Somehow I reeled back home collapsed on my bed, possibly crying, and then immediately flipped over into having a fabulous time, tripping and seeing infinity and being convinced I had performed in a porn film.  Why?  LSD, that’s why.

Anyhoo, I certainly hope Mikey had a better time than that, or maybe as good a time as that, without the brief psychotic episode.

Mikey burfday presenz

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Cause Mikey likes veins, but then, who doesn’t?

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I know it’s not real, but it’s a birthday, OK?

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Mikey is also very fond of hairy beasts

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEEETIE

The Things that I Will Put in My Mouth

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I was pretty much minding my own beeswax, aimlessly wandering about the internet when I ran across a reference to mayonnaise and peanut butter sandwiches, a topic so unlikely and disturbing I felt I had to Google it.  Amazingly, it turns out to be an actual thing, with most hits revolving around some idiotic story which lays on some bullshit about the combination being an old time Southern classic.

I’m always suspicious of anything I have never heard of which suddenly claims a place in Southern food mythology.  I decided to just overlook that and try out the unholy sounding concoction.  I like peanut butter and I regard mayonnaise as a basic food group so how bad could it be?

Spoiler alert: it was exactly as disgusting as it initially sounded.

I should have known; even attempting to get both ingredients on one piece of bread was a struggle, they repelled each other like some physics experiment.  I took the first bite and the same thing happened in my mouth with the flavor of each ingredient registering, but independent of the other.  Simultaneous but separate.  I didn’t even know my tastebuds could work like that possibly because I have never asked anything so impossible of them.  The flavor (or whatever you want to call the sensation) was hard to describe.  One of the stories calls it “like sour peanut butter”  and that’s pretty close.  Sort of tart and fatty and repulsive.  We’ve all been at a a bar and had someone that fits that description determinedly trying to pick us up and this sandwich was precisely that pleasant.

The only redeeming quality was texture.  You know how peanut butter will clog up and stick to the back of your throat?  Not with a big ol gob of mayo tossed in there!

I say “the first bite” as if there were subsequent ones to follow, but we all know that was not happening.  I flushed the gooey rest down the sink with a silent apology to my garbage disposal.  Yet another reminder that just because you read about it on the internet does not make it a good idea.

Attractive youth to remove that taste from our collective palate:

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Mikey ands our friend Annitaiac and I watched the John Wick 3 movie the other night, commenting on it via Whatsapp to each other.  This is my salute to Keanu Reeves’ distractingly greasy hair featured in the show.  Looked like someone had styled it with a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich.

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Mmmmmmmmmeaty.

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Group nudity doesn’t do a lot for me, although I’m very taken with third from right.  So adorably pensive!  But this one raises the question, what is with those weird tanlines?  I know bike shorts and some wetsuits will stop mid-thigh like this, but then the un-sun-kissed parts start up again at the top of the calves.  Do these young men frolic in wetsuits and support stockings?  Are they competitive waders?  I demand to know.

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Speaking of frolicking.

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MARCO….  POLO….

Hallow’s Eve

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Homeless guy striding angrily down 15th Street.  I wonder what happened to his pants.

In the meantime, I went out this evening for some pizza and groceries, just another quiet night in the Castro.  While I hadn’t forgotten Halloween is on the horizon, I certainly hadn’t included it in my plans.  But since this is the closest Saturday night to the sacred celebration of drunk coed bitches dressed up in sexy something or the other costumes, Halloween found me.

My whole neighborhood is one big costume party.  Woo to the hoo!  Normally being true to my grumpy, old fart nature, I would gripe about the cheesy nature of most of the get-ups, the out-of-town straight jerks invading my home turf for the party they seem incapable of creating on their own, or the whole thing about a traditionally children’s celebration turning into some drunken bacchanal, but I won’t.   Although looking back at the previous sentence, I see I just did.

Let us rise above all that.  Let us appreciate instead what a great party out on the sidewalks is roaring along just now.  The last fews days have been unseasonably warm, but this morning, the chilly temps returned.  Did that deter the cute guys whose costumes are primarily glitter and muscles?  It did not, and I congratulate and thank them for their strength of conviction.   Making my way home with a bag of groceries (somebody congratulated me on my costume, which would have been funnier if I was sure he was making a joke,) I was struck by what good timing I had lucked into.  All the revelers have a charmingly giddy air about them, just liquored up enough to be flirtatious and cheery, determined to have a party worth remembering at the office come the sad reality of Monday morning.  In 2 hours they will be sloppy drunk and in 4, tears, tears, tears.  But for right now, baby, let the good times roll.

Samhain humpies:

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Is a bag over your face a costume?  I guess it is if your dick is that much smaller than your friend’s.  I think I would just find another trick or treater.

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Sometimes minimalism is just the way to go.

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I’m not sure why this turned up in my google for “naked guy costume,” but I’m not complaining.  But dude, pick up your laundry before you set up that sexy selfie dick pic.

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It’s all about the fishnets.

 

The Land that Something Forgot

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The scene: the nut house ward of the old folks home where my father resides.  Wait, wait, that is so incorrect, inappropriate, insensitive and probably several other unfortunate words beginning with “in.”  Let me phrase this more delicately, the scene was the “Memory Care Unit” of the “Senior Living Community” wherein my father resides.  There, don’t we all feel better now?

In the past decade, my 94 year old father has steadily lost his memory to the point where he lives completely in the moment, a Zen-like existence with no past to bother him.  I walked in and greeted him with “Hi daddy, I’m Gary.  Your son.”  A concise, inarguable statement, but one which he greeted with some confusion and not a little suspicion.  His son?  Mmmmmmmmaybe.  But which one?  Anyway, that cleared up almost immediately and he was genuinely glad to see me.

He is untroubled by this state of affairs.  “My memory is so bad,” he said airily, in a conversation where he asked me 3 times about my brother Mike, who died 4 years ago.  He’s cheerful, comfortable, and, most importantly, safe, barricaded from a hostile world by a battery of very sweet, very competent nurses and a pair of locked doors.

His ongoing memory lapse does have a bright spot: he has ever been very talkative and trying to chat with him has been an uphill slog for me for years, but now I can just circle back to an earlier conversational gambit and it is as fresh and new as it was the first time we went through it.

We sat in the common area nattering along when another forgetful fellow ambled up and stood directly next to my seat.  I started to ask if I needed to get up when he bent down and grasped the hoodie I was holding in my lap.  By the time I had gathered enough wits to protest, he took off back down the corridor, this time towing me along by my hoodie, blithely ignoring my efforts to untangle us.  My father immediately erupted into belligerence, ready to throw hands with another member of The Greatest Generation.

I knew from my sainted brother Ed, who has to deal with the care and upkeep of our father, that there have been a couple of “incidents” where daddy has been in fights, so I was really interested in dialing down this whole dog and pony show.  My method was mostly restricted to hissing “No, no, let go. Let go. No. Let go. No” and “Hush daddy. Stop.  It’s fine. I got it. Stop. Hush. Stop.” firmly enough to get through the mental mists of the old farts but not loudly enough to draw the attention of the nurses.

I was not prepared for that much drama.

I finally just pried the old pirate’s mitts off my hoodie (it’s my favorite one.  I wasn’t about to let it disappear into gaga-land.) and settled back down for the rest of my visit.  I was saying goodbye when I suddenly wondered if they were going to let me leave.  It’s a harsh realization to understand the staff would have difficulty telling if you’re a visitor or a customer here at the “Senior Living Community.”  Harsh.

Guys who will not be needing the old folks home any time soon.  Unless it’s to park their sugar daddies there.

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Charmingly meaty.  How tragic that he thinks that is a clothes dryer.

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The always estimable Doug Perry.  Also meaty.

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Sometimes cropping errors are absolutely criminal.

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And thus, we bid adieu to Texas, land of delicious barbecue and crazy old mens.

Accomplishing Things: Admirable Trait or Overrated Habit?

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Considering what a lazy slug I am, devoting my life to sleeping and eating cookies, the last three weeks have been a disturbing whirlwind of activity.  A bee, baby, a busy little bee, that’s me.  And I have hated most of it.  Never has my bedroom seemed so appealingly cozy yet so far away.

I managed to get all my rugs washed, host that adorable miscreant Diane von Austinburg, get the apartment painted, and take down and then put back up my massive aluminum plate collection.

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Before

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After.  And after crippling me putting them all back up.

A collection which my brother thinks resembles hubcaps on the wall.  I know this because we had dinner last night and he said so.   Yes, I am back in the old country, Houston, Texas.   As is my right as a native,  albeit misplaced,  Texan, I have spent my time here putting away large plates of the holy trinity of Texian foods: barbecue, fried seafood, and Mexican food.

I also have chatted at length with my dear brother about our odd family and he caught me up on the gossip which I would already know about, apparently, if I just would get sucked into the FaceBook vortex.   I refuse, I prefer to get my gossip as god planned it, second hand from a biased family member.

Naked guys for Mikey and the gang at Chaturbate:

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Special for Mikey

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Young, dumb and ful of cum.  At least, until I get through with him.

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And just because I’m in a Texas state of mind.

“we have been eating our little brains out,” said Diane von Austinburg

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A direct quote and quite a correct one. Diane von Austinburg visited us last week and we had a lovely time eating our way through San Francisco.  One of the great things about living in a really rich city is all the great restaurants here.  Rich guys just love to shovel in the fancy grub.  We even cooked one night, and by “cooked”  I mean we boiled water for ravioli and microwaved red sauce from the farmers’ market.

Also, most of the rug bonanza I had set off earlier came home to roost as they pretty much all got delivered right before Diane got here.  I had the brilliant idea of waiting until she was settled in before I unrolled them so she could thrill in the reveal.  Lots of ta-dahs going on, because they were gorgeous beyond my wildest fantasy.  Diane was quite taken by them and once again agreed that I was a genius.  So perceptive, don’t you think?

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Our new, formerly dusty, bedroom rug

And it was brilliant, right up to the point where I fucked up my back by moving furniture and carpets around.  Ouch.  So I spent most of the first few days of her visit crippled in bed.  Plus the fabulous fuschia rug in my room was so dusty, it choked me and I had to remove my bed to the living room where Diane tiptoed around me.  So very fabulous for your visiting guest.  Anyway, my insane rug cleaner brought back a bunch of rugs I had had washed before Diane got here and took off the new dirty ones and then gave me a fabulous great big one.  One of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.  Obvisouly it pays to be a good customer.

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And our new living room rug, gifted to us by the insane rug guy.

Poor Diane, she loves the cool, foggy we are so famous for, but she so often winds up here during our rare hot spells.  Sure enough. the whole time she was with me, the weather looked like some kind of commercial for California tourism: brilliant, clear blue skies and hot, hot sun.  I tired hard to assume some kind of Zen lizard state of mind and bask in it, but it wasn’t working.  Diane, who had left Texas to get away from that very thing, was not happy.  Poor Diane.

Of course today, two days after she left, we are socked in with dense fog and the temperature has plummeted lower than the sturdiest Texas air conditioner could pump out.  Irony, it’s what’s for dinner.

Fat dicks for Mikey:

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And some butt chops

Mod Squad

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So our friend Mikey, the sweetest, I cutest naked guy in the world sends this to remind us all to come visit him soon over at Chaturbate

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Who could say no?

I’ve been meaning to discuss the evolution of the family I’ve become part of over on Mikey’s Chaturbate room.  In the four years I’ve been drooling around there, I wound up becoming friends with the other moderators (as the performer, Mikey gets to anoint various fans as mods.  I’m not sure what all we can do except that we have the power to eject other fans who are offensive or whom we just don’t like.  Do not cross a mod, bitch.) It is very much like the friendships I have with my blog buddies here.

While many are called but few are chosen, there is a core group of us who can be depended upon to show up pretty regularly.  They include:

Annita, the Instigator

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Whenever we get too chatty ( and that happens A LOT.  Somebody the other night asked what we were doing talking about recipes while Mikey was choking his big ol chicken.  Point taken.) Annita steps in to remind us that we need to zap his hot pussy.  Chastened, we all turn to.  Annita is the boss and we all recognize that.   When she says to tip, we have no choice but to turn Mikey’s pussy hole into smoking ruins.

Brain, the Comic Relief

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Brain and I share a sense of humor (or “humor”) that lurks around the edges of the comment section with both of us making jokes only the other one seems to understand.  We had a long back-and-forth about Irene Cara just the other night.  It’s come to the point where we comment identically and then yell JINX pretty much every time we’re there at the same time.  Brain resides in a very white trash part of Florida (which implies there are parts that aren’t, but never mind) so he and I also get to chat about the South.   My, the laffs, the tears.

Chris, the Sneaky One

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While the rest of us noodle along sending tips of various sizes to Mikey and making his dildo zap his pussy with electricity, Chris specializes in waiting until after the money shot, when Mikey is lying there with jizz splattered about, trying to catch his breath and then BAMMO, he lets fly with a flurry of zaps, usually including one great big one, that has Mikey squealing and bouncing and the rest of us laughing and clapping our hands like gay little girls.

Lifty, the Trouble Maker

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I wouldn’t have classed Lifty as slinging mischief until earlier this week when he showed his true colors.  He ever so casually mentioned he was involved in a tournament in a game app called WordScapes.  Somehow, I had previously missed the addictive past time of the Word, but now I have been sucked into the vortex and I am stuck on it.  I play it at the cafe, riding in Uber, in bed when I should be sleeping; there is no escape.  My other mods have also been exposed, but are resisting, so thanks Lifty.  Thanks a fat lot.

Lifty:

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All renderings are the editor’s conceptions (and wishful thinking) and are not intended to be a depiction of any actual troublemaker.

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Artist’s impression of Mikey’s Chaturbate room, mods included.

I have to admit the nattering nabob I mentioned earlier who took exception to our chatting in the comments had a valid point, even if he was an annoying little shit.  Mikey is a sweet, sweet boy and also a hot, cute, muscley piece of heaven that we should be glad to simply stare at.  Instead, we wander off into various discussion on our own all the while Mikey is there like sex on legs.

Frequent topics include

  • How’s your mother?
  • How’s your liver?
  • How’d your potsickers turn out?

Annita is the primary caregiver to her mother with Alzheimer’s, Chris’s liver is severely problematic and sent him to the hospital this summer, Brain fights the good fight of home maintenance on the Gulf Coast and has wood rot to prove it, and I live with a psychotic cat.  We all have our burdens and Mikey’s Whack Off Chamber is a good place to help us deal with them.  Sort of group therapy without the annoying therapy part.

Plus we regularly provide the Mikey Chaturbate Action News Weather Center with live reports from San Francisco, Hawaii, Phoenix and Florida!  You don’t get that anywhere else, bitches.

Actually, some visitors have mentioned they enjoy the ambiance our chatter provides, that it makes the place much friendlier than most of the rooms where all the discussion centers around something along the lines of “You are a god, cum on my face”.  I think that’s charming.  Other viewers who are not so entranced can simply suck it.

Visitors to the room get to pick screen names by which they are identified in the comment section.  For reasons unclear to me, many of them pick celebrity names, including Julia Roberts.  I was struck by the ludicrous image of the real Ms Roberts sitting in front of her computer, watching Mikey have at it so I started carrying on as if I believed it really was the genuine article, aways referring to her as MISS JULIA ROBERTS, Famous Movie Star Person.  I appreciate the patience my fellow moderators have shown with this fantasy.

Ruggedly Handsome

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I know, he is, isn’t he?

And while we’re discussing rugs (yes we are.  Aren’t you paying attention?) I’m so glad to announce I have bought 2 more of the Chinese Art Deco rugs I’m so fond of and which I now find myself slightly over supplied with.

Did I need 2 more rugs?  “Need” is such a slippery term, don’t you think?  In the sense that every floor of every room in this apartment is already covered with them, no I probably didn’t need any more, but in the sense of an aching, unfulfilled longing for the sassy beauty of them, then, yes, yes I definitely needed them.

My theory is that you bring together an old gay man, the internet, and a credit card and one of two things will magically happen: porn or shopping for decorating items.  I had already watched all the porn so that only left decorating.  Obviously, it’s not my fault.

Last week, during a lull in porn, I remembered my love of Art Deco carpets, as I so often do, and I went noodling around on Google to see what they had to say about them.  I do this everyso often, not really shopping so much as allowing myself to feel horrified and superior about how much the cost of these beauties has skyrocketed of late.  I look at rugs that are smaller and uglier than any of mine and that are fetching thousands of dollars and I think “I am walking on a motherfucking goldmine.  Hoo hoo.”  And then I brood about how it’s a good thing I don’t have room for any more because I certainly couldn’t afford them.

But then this sweet little rug that had been flirting with me for a while popped up in an ad that the evil algorithms that haunt my every waking moment aimed in my direction.  Hot pink and orange with a frilly little design of pagodas and grapes, its ridiculous vulgarity is irresistible.

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Oh.  Baby.

My past refusal to play along did not deter the algorithms, they knew I wanted this rug bad; my occasional clicking on the link “just to look” only confirmed my vulnerability.

Once again I had a voyeuristic thrill of visiting her and then went wandering off (which is code for “more porn”) but when I went back a while later, the rug had disappeared from the site.  Oh, the wailing, the gnashing of teeth.  I had lost this week’s only love of my life.

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This is also one of the Only Loves of My Life.

Anyone who has spent any time hacking away at thrift stores knows this pain.  When you find something in one of these joints, you know full well the only chance is right then.  If you ponder on it for a while and come back, you will be guaranteed to lose out.

Some days later, I was on the hunt (this time on purpose) for a rug to replace the runner in my hall.  The rug there had seem insouciant and amusing when we first met, but the charm has worn off and I wanted to dump the bitch and bring in one of those Art Deco lovelies.  EBay had a perfectly nice one for a not too ridiculous price, so I bid on it.  And then I looked down at the bottom of the page, and there was the hot pink carpet taunting me.  Obviously, this was a sign.  I had to have it.  So gritting my teeth against the hideous price (oh, don’t ask) I plunged in and snagged it.

Yay.

In the thrill of victory, I sort of forgot about the bid I had put in until I got a cheery email from EBay gaily announcing I had won.  Again, yay.  And so I bought 2 rugs.  Still, I actually needed that one (or at least had a viable excuse for it) and I wanted the other one so now I am all set.

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The only picture I could find of the rug I won.

Except in the time I have been hacking away at this post, I wound up buying 3 more little rugs.  The Ebay page with my winning bid on it just happened to have pictures of a few others “that I might be interested in.”  What a sucker I am.  But, but, but they’re delightful, and they really were affordable and I have places for them.  Plus, as I mentioned, I had watched all the porn.

So NOW I’m through.  Absolutely.  Never gonna go down that bad path again, nosiree.  Except the place in front of the dor now is bare and there’s this gold one with dahlias on it.

Oh god.

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We now resume porn.

The Dick, as They Are Sucked

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I know many gay men have gone through their life without embracing the slutty thrills of excessive sex, much sex with many mens in any setting that was at hand in the way that I so enthusiastically did.  I don’t know why, but I accept it.  Because of that, I now find myself an expert in the field of cocks and the sucking thereof.  And so today, I will be considering the way different cock structures lend themselves to different sucking methods.  Herewith, the Six Main Dicks and Their Utilization in Prick Licking:

 

1 The Straight Down the Middle Cock

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These are the least demanding, most versatile of dicks.  Fortunately they’re also the most common.  They pull it out of their jeans, you get down and get down, it pretty much takes care of itself.  A side note, which applies to all penises: bigger is not only better, it’s easier.  A dick that is not big enough to cross the gag reflex line and stay there is just trouble.  Once a dick has gotten across your reflex and you’ve settled all that choking down, you can concentrate on swallowing the Man Bologna, but if it’s so small that it keeps slipping back and forth across the reflex line, there is no end to the semi-retching you get to enjoy.  Also, what is the plural of penis?  Penii?

2 The Banana

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God’s gift to cocksuckers.  the curve downwards of this bad boy follows the natural line of your throat and thus snugly fits in your gullet.  Plus side: in a speedo, it looks like porn come to life.

3 The Rhino

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The exact opposite of The Banana, the Rhino is the hardest to handle in a “get down on your knees and swallow it” kind of setting since it refuses to fit in a mouth past the incisors, despite the Rhino man’s screams of “Watch your fucking teeth!”  While it lends itself to those backroom situations where the sucker is standing next to the sucked and just leaning over, it really is at its best in a good, old fashioned 69.  By crawling over the Rhino’s belly and coming at it upside down, the sucker is able to turn the curve of it into the same throat compatible arc of the Banana.  No other dick gets so stiff or looks so rigid as a Rhino.

 

4 The Slice (curves to the right) and 5 The Hook (to the left)

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Both the Slice and the Hook are simply deviations from the Straight Down the Middle, in that they just snake to one side, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot.  Usually the divergence isn’t enough to bother a serious sword swallower, I only include it here because there are times when it definitely matters and that would be the Drive By Blow Job.  No one enjoys more than me the spontaneous thrill of some lip service in the front seat of a car, whether the car is moving or not (but watch those speed bumps.)  It’s in those rather constricted spaces that the bend has got to work with you or it’s all teeth marks and tears.  Simply put, you have to point towards the gear shift.  The Slice (curving to the right) is perfect for drivers getting swallowed while the Hook can only help out a passenger.  A note: this is all dependent on left hand drive.   Obvs.

Finally, 6 The Maypole

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Another variation on the Straight Down the Middle, this is that all too rare prize: too much of a good thing.  While the Straight Down the Middle will be nice and hard, the Maypole borrows its rigidity from the Rhino resulting in a jabber pointing straight at the back of your head, through the front.  Overly enthusiastic possessors of this (and they’re always overly enthusiastic) will shove you away even as they’re pull you in.   Should you try to ease up for, I don’t know, OXYGEN, the Maypole will just follow through by stepping further up to the plate.  As you retreat, he pursues and eventually you wind up doing a kind of backwards conga line across the backroom floor.  Amusing to bystanders, it’s hell on your throat and knees.

While these are the basics, I’m sure there are others out there, near and dear to our readers’ perverted little hearts.  Tell us all about them, darling.  Spare no lurid details, even if you need to make them up.