Current status on weekend plans:
- Cold not quite eradicated.
- Duncan and Rick moderately entertainied.
- Bottles not updated.
- Sex not had. No volunteers either.
One out of four ain’t bad, I guess…
Current status on weekend plans:
One out of four ain’t bad, I guess…
Duncan and Rick make a cute couple, dontcha think? They’re welcome to my living room couch any time, even though it’s considerably less hospitable than their guest room. I want to live someplace where I can have a guest room, dang it…
I didn’t much care about the American version of Queer as Folk before it aired. I saw a little of it Sunday night at the corner bar, and I now realize that I seriously underestimated just how MUCH I didn’t care.
What a pile of crap.
I’ll say it again: stories which are about nothing other than “being gay” are boring. Period. To be interesting, a story must have good characters, which means they should do something other than look pretty and “be gay”. Just as in real life, a sexual orientation is not a substitute for a personality.
And frankness is no substitute for substance either. While it might be great that they said “buttplug” on the air, it might have been nice if they’d said something else too. ANYTHING else, as long as it might have made me care whether these people lived or died. The sermons and the dialogue were worthy of an ABC Afterschool Special, at best.
QAF makes Sex in the City look positively entertaining by comparison, which is no small accomplishment. I found that a half hour of this tripe was quite enough, thanks. There are enough personality-deficient professional homosexuals on the streets of San Francisco; I don’t need more of them on TV.
Give me Tales of the City any day…
Went on one of those long drives in Mark‘s new car today. It’s rare that I hit Sacramento and Stockton in one day, especially with a side trip to Isleton for crawdad melts. It was fun. I may show pictures sometime. But not tonight…
At the cheap cigarette store in Sacramento, I started chatting with the woman behind the counter about matches (long story). Eventually, the subject turned to the fact that she has eight children and one grandchild. I was shocked, since she looked about 30.
As it turns out, she’s actually 34. Two years younger than me, and she has eight kids and a grandchild. That’s horrifying. I left feeling very relieved not to be heterosexual. There’s nothing wrong, mind you, with being heterosexual, but, given my occasionally slutty nature, it’s almost certain that I’d have a huge collection of devil spawn running around some double-wide in North Carolina.
I’m going to bed now and have a nice wank fantasizing about pregnancy-free sex…
I just had phone sex following a light two-hour email flirtation. I haven’t done that since about 1987. It was sort of nice, actually, and I got to meet an interesting guy I’d so far only known in ASCII format.
The miracle here, I guess, is that I actually answered somebody’s email in a timely fashion. Imagine what might happen if I did so more often. I might even have a boyfriend. Or a job. Or a life…
There are few things more pleasant than waking up on Sunday morning to find Willie Wonka on TV.
Sex is definitely more about psychology than about a series of physical sensations for me. I’ve always known this, but I never really thought about it much until I started writing one-handed fiction.
What I mean is this: some people fantasize about doing specific physical things, like having the tongue hit just a certain spot during oral sex or whatever. But when I’m fantasizing, it’s usually more about the situation which led to the sex rather than the actual mechanics. Or sometimes about the psychology associated with a specific act like shooting a load in someone’s mouth, etc.
That’s why, for example, one of my big turn-ons is when a guy does something that seems totally out of character. Like when some tight-assed little clean-cut preppy guy decides he wants to get pissed on by three punks, or when a decidely swishy sort turns out to be a really nasty aggressive “top”, or when a cute trendy young’un chases after older guys.
I don’t think my outlook is all that uncommon, really. It definitely looms large among many tearoom afficiandos, whether they get off on the potential for getting caught, or (as I did) because you meet some surprisingly interesting types there. It also comes into play every time a couple decides to have a three-way. And, of course, it’s a big part of most fetishes.
I don’t think this heavy-duty psychological approach to sex is necessarily superior, either. It makes the hunt difficult when you’re always trying to create a “story” with your potential victims. In fact, it even may have its drawbacks when push comes to shove (so to speak) as well. That’s why most fetish videos are so boring once you get past the boot-licking or armpit-sniffing.
But when it comes to writing stories, it means that I create (I think) really great and sexy situations. As might be expected, though, I’m weak on the bump and grind. I have occasionally had the same problem in the sack.
I’m babbling. This made much more sense when I was thinking about it than it did when I started typing. I’ll try to be better tomorrow…
Funny how, just as I find the time and inclination to catch up on email, new email stops coming in. It’s either the holidays or I’ve just pissed everyone off. Note that this is not necessarily a hint or a request. I like feeling like I’m getting caught up…
I think today is the day that everyone who’s going home for the holidays finally leaves San Francisco. Which means tonight might be an interesting Thursday night out, with only the heartiest of the hardcores left in town.
Or something to that effect…
No, I’m not going home for Christmas. This will be my second year in a row of not doing so. There are a lot of reasons, but the main one is this: if I can only manage to go home and see my family one time a year, Christmas is definitely not the time I want to do it.
Aside from the insanity of trying to fly anywhere during the last week in December, it’s pretty crazy once you arrive where you’re going, too. Every minute is accounted for, with assorted gatherings and visits, etc. It’s not a relaxing way to spend a week or so. When I go home, one of the things I want is a little normalcy. There’s more of this to be had in January, which is when I’m planning my trip.
It could be a fun trip too. I may stay for three weeks or so, and I’m thinking of side trips. Charlotte, Richmond, Atlanta, Norfolk, and maybe even Baltimore and New York are under consideration, but everything’s subject to change. But if I went home for Christmas, very little would be subject to change.
Of course, there are a few other things I need to do while I’m in North Carolina too, many of which would be best done after the holidays. But I’m not talking about those things tonight.
Anyway, for those of you who are still near your computers: the divorce of Planet SOMA and The Other Stream is moving forward with a semi-finalized Other Stream design. I hope to have everything nicely separate by the first of the year.
Tonight’s sucky movie I’m glad I didn’t pay money to see: The Last Days of Disco.
Thursday night on Folsom Street was every bit as odd as I imagined it might be…
The ghost of Christmas past:
Most of my extended family lived pretty close to home, so I grew up with a heavy dose of family for the holidays. The tradition was to spend Christmas Eve with my mom’s side of the family and Christmas night with my dad’s side. My mom’s parents were divorced, so we visited my grandfather and his wife usually on the Saturday after Christmas until he died in 1979.
With my mom’s family on Christmas Eve, we always drew names and the youngest kids would pass out all the presents after dinner. Since I was the youngest of all my cousins, I was pressed into service for for a long time, until my other cousins started spawning their own kids. We usually did all this at my grandmother’s massive house, but the celebration rotated to other houses on occasion.
I remember a few things more than others: devilled eggs, two kinds of stuffing, bizarre cogealed salads, fighting over who got to sit in this one chair which looked like a throne, and sneaking outside to smoke with a few of my my cousins after I was a teenager. And we always drove around town looking at the Christmas lights before going home.
Christmas morning was just for me and my parents. OK, it was pretty much just for me. Later, we started having a late breakfast with my aunt and uncle who lived next door.
On Christmas night, we usually went to Reidsville to see my dad’s people, unless it was our turn to host them. This was a pretty lively gathering, bursting into a collection of Christmas carols and assorted hymns which ran pretty late into the evening. There were always at least two aunts with low-fi tape recorders preserving the whole thing. I wonder if they ever went back and listened to any of those tapes. There were some pretty good singers (my dad can really belt out “Oh Holy Night”) but I can’t imagine that the sound was very good.
With my dad’s family, I learned that people with very bad politics and opinions can still be good people. They had the prejudices of an earlier place and time, but they were generally good, loving, moral people, many of whom devoted their lives to helping other people, even the ones they didn’t particularly care for.
I also had my first experience with “gaydar” at one of these gatherings. When I was about 15, I sneaked out to have a cigarette with my cousin’s new husband. He was sort of cute, and as we talked, I just sort of knew instinctively that he liked boys. And, a few years later, he was indeed one of the first faces I saw in the local queer bar. He and my cousin were amicably divorced by this time. No, I didn’t sleep with him.
At some point we’d always call my aunt and uncle in Florida, everyone taking a turn at the phone. Only one of my aunts ever seemed particularly worried about how high we ran her phone bill. Afterward, we ate a little more for the long journey (20 miles) back to Greensboro. I always hated that drive back because it meant Christmas was pretty much over.
The Saturday celebration with my grandfather and his wife Fleeta was always a little anti-climactic. I never felt quite comfortable at their house in the country with the well water and the black and white TV. I often got the feeling my grandfather had the same reaction. But Fleeta did make an amazing strawberry pie, and I’d kill for her recipe now.
The celebrations are a lot more muted now. There are fewer kids around, particularly on my dad’s side of the family, which hasn’t reproduced well. My grandparents have been gone for years, the last one dying in 1990. I’ve lost one aunt and two uncles in the past few years. The generation which pulled these celebrations together won’t last a lot longer, and I doubt my cousins and I will really keep the traditions alive.
Christmas dinner party at Kevin and Steve’s last night. I work with Kevin, and Steve is probably the person most responsible for the fact that I now live in San Francisco.
We happened to meet one night in Charlotte in 1987 merely because we were wearing compatible T-shirts. He was sporting the Jesus and Mary Chain on his chest; mine featured something unmentionably embarrassing, but it seemed cool enough at the time. We became friends, he moved here in 1991, and I followed a year later.
Funny how choosing the right T-shirt one evening can change one’s life way off in the future, isn’t it? Maybe I should pay more attention to how I dress…
Take those two pictures as any sort of play on words you choose.
Christmas dinner at Dan‘s was quite nice, and I must say (modestly, of course) that I out together both my best pot of greens ever AND my best pot of black-eyes ever.
And now I’m going to bed. Hope you had a nice day too, even if you were just celebrating Monday rather than Chrsitmas…
Biff is a “designer alternative”. He’s that fag who tries so desperately for an “alternative” look on a Neiman-Marcus budget. What’s with this obsession with working class and alternative types, and how does it make otherwise generic jockohomoclones spend such a fortune on cute, overpriced faux-scruffy clothing?
Look closely at Biff and you’ll see that the old worn-out baggy jeans were actually purchased last week at Abercrombie & Fitch for $85. The jacket which looks like it was pulled from the bottom of a bin at Goodwill was on sale for $195 at that “wild” Urban Outfitters; the small rips and stains were artfully created by a sweatshop worker in a Third World country which didn’t exist three years ago.
The white t-shirt, of course, is $20 Calvin Klein rather than $3 Hanes. Instead of spending $200 for a designer dress shirt at Macy’s, he went Bohemian and spent $250 for a designer dress shirt at some boutique on Haight Street or St. Mark’s Place. And the shoes. Oh my God! No cheap-ass army boots or less-cheap Docs for Biff; he shelled out a week’s pay for Kenneth Cole’s new line of alterna-boots.
Is it because buffed-up Biff wants to look a little less shallow? Or is it just because he thinks a romantic alternative look will get him laid more? Is he horrified by the smell (or the look or the location) of places where his role models actually shop? Or is he just so clueless that he doesn’t know that places other than the mall exist? He may want the look, but he’ll be damned if he wants to seem like he can’t afford better.
Sorry, Biff. You still just look like a Castro clone, despite the $500 you spent on that $50 outfit. And the fact that you spent so much on it calls attention to the sadder fact that you also THINK like a Castro clone.
Why do so many queers have such a problem doing anything right when it doesn’t fit neatly into either the “preppy pretty boy” or “leather daddy bear” categories? Take, for example, those rare moments when pornographers try to do videos about, say, skateboarders or metalheads. The skaters end up looking like someone’s neon wet dream, all decked out in orange lycra and sporting spiky platinum hairdos which weren’t even popular in 1985. And, of course, any character in a rock band ends up looking like some pitiful spandex drag queen, mainly because he’s usually nothing but a steroid clone in a wig anyhow.
They just don’t get it. Nor does the queer bar which has a “hardcore and alternative night” where the closest thing to rock and roll is some house diva’s remake of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, or maybe a Pet Shop Boys song.
Slumming faggot tourists, all of them, looking into a world they’ll never understand because it’s not covered in The Advocate or Out. Amazed at how adventurous they are, and laughing at it once their fascination has passed. Just like the Americans who visit France and are highly amused to find that residents there speak (gasp) French.
Come to think of it, Biff’s also not really so far removed from your Uncle Bob — the one who always started using that exaggerated accent and making “Robert Foo Young” jokes with the waiter every time the family went out to a Chinese restaurant.
Lastly, thanks to all of you, for holding your tongues and not telling me how much you hate the current round of changes on the site(s) until after New Year’s.
Why does it always leave me in such a good mood when I catch Priscilla on TV by accident? I kind of want to go out and make it with an Australian drag queen now. While listening to Abba. Or “Take a Letter Maria”.
It’s also got me thinking about 1994 when I had a boyfriend who was neither Australian nor a drag queen. I’m having this very strange mental picture of the two of us flying up I-5 from LA at 4:00 in the morning, listening to Abba’s greatest hits really loud. It seems strangely comfortable now, but it didn’t at the time. I think I ws pissed about something, probably the fact that we were driving home from LA at 4AM.
But I don’t think I’d mind doing the same thing again right now, albeit maybe with a different companion…
From all the streets blocked with big “no parking 3PM-4AM” signs. it looks like the cops are expecting last year’s non-existant riot to surface tonight South of Market. I can hardly wait. Really.
I don’t usually do much on New Year’s Eve. It’s one of my least favorite nights to go out, given my lack of patience with crowds, particularly crowds of severely drunk idiots. I haven’t decided what tonight’s plan will be. Depends on what’s on TV, I guess…
Anyway, hope you have a lovely new year. And if you’re drinking and driving tonight, I hope you realize what an idiot you are…