sex


Sometimes individual things add up to form a light-shedding, bigger picture.  Sometimes it is not a pretty one, and sometimes it is deceptively pretty, which is not to say that either may be accurate.  No, wait, come back!  I promise, I am going somewhere with this, Your Honor.

I have a Blackberry, which I regularly use as a mental scribbling pad or an electronic ribbon-around-the-finger to remind me to do stuff.  It is better than a ribbon, because it vibrates and blinks and when I pull it out of its little leather case, it says things to me, like:  (19:00) MILK, or (21:00) Client meeting tmmw – IRON/GO TO BED, or (10:30) SandPOW.  These are all recent reminders that Past Tailfeather sent myself at various points.  The first, clearly, was to remind myself to pick up some milk on the way home from work.  The second was to remind myself not to stay up until midnight drinking wine and watching Community on the internet but to, instead, pluck the least crumpled blouse out of my wardrobe and pass out at 11:00 pm after forgetting to call my mother.  The third, sadly, I have stared at for the last three weeks as a saved reminder in my Outlook calendar and still have no idea to what it pertains.  I have a friend nicknamed Sandy, but what is POW?  I refuse to delete it until I figure it out.  It is like a riddle of my own creation.

This Blackberry is a company-owned one, which is another reason I tend to keep my non-work-related reminders cryptic.  This is why one might enter “RX,” for example, instead of “pick up yeast infect meds.”  Also, it is catchier.  So with both work and personal reminders, I sometimes find myself making lists that grow throughout the day.  A work example would be if I have several clients or contacts to call in Southeast Asia.  As I sort through them the day before, my 9:00 am reminder grows from:  (9:00) Call Client X, to (9:00) Call Client X, Provider Y, Client D, Contact A, Contact C.  And then I know to start calling those people early in the day so I can spend my morning sweet-talking them.  Likewise, a personal errand list might grow from: (18:30) Nails, to (18:30) Nails, shower gel, toothpicks, sea bass, SORT RECYCLING.

Those items on my last example list are not related.  Like, that is at least two stops, if not three, plus home from there, as I do not professionally sort recycling or get my nails done at a place where I can also buy seafood.  And yet if you were a television detective trying to solve my murder by reviewing my planner, you might be confuddled.   “Let’s just go to Soho,” you would say wearily.  “It must be some underground perv thing.  Or drugs.  Shower Gel is a big thing now, right?  Oh, sorry, yeah.  That’s Bath Salts.” (more…)

Advertisements

Very, very thankfully, I have had only two stalkerish episodes in my life, outside of the usual bad-breakup scenarios in which one party has a more difficult time moving on; in that scheme of things, I have been guilty of my own share of unwanted phone calls or emails for the subsequent week after The Bad Talk.  Fortunately, I can take take a hint, and believe that the one or two boyfriends I’ve had who have ended things against my wishes still regard me fondly (I base that on friendly, occasional Facebook hellos that indicate we are in good stead and happy with our mutually infrequent communication).  I wish them well, they wish me well, and there is no drama or involvement.

Yeah, so.  While I have pursued a few guys beyond the point where they displayed disinterest, I can say with honesty that I’ve never harassed anyone or caused them fear (to my knowledge; I am sort of paranoid about that now, but given the “Ice Queen” accusations more commonly thrown my way and my general unwillingness to destroy someone’s car or call their mother to tell them what shits they are, I’m pretty sure I haven’t crossed that obvious, glaring line).  Which is a good thing, as I just spent about four hours of my afternoon reading the entire contents of Psychotic Letters From Men, as fixated on this blog as I was watching the final seasons of The Wire.

I was glued to this site to the point that my live-in Boy Person was annoyed that I would not go out into the rare London sunshine for a walk or a drink, so obsessed was I with reading about Terrible Men and The Women Who Despise Them.  Why is this site so good?  A few reasons. (more…)

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that “twincest” is a neologism you don’t need to impart into your regular vocabulary, but it is raised in a recent Salon article on Milo and Elijah Peters, 19-year-old Czech twins who have caused a stir in the gay porn community.  The twins reportedly first showed up on the website of Bratislava-based porn distributor Bel Ami in the summer of 2009 in group videos, not touching.  Over a period of months, they progressed to mutual handjobs within a group scenario, then blowjobs, then oral sex, and finally (and hugely publicized), anal intercourse.

Thomas Rogers explains:

While the concept of twin performers is not new to the gay porn world, the Peters twins are notable both because of the extent of their popularity and the things they are willing to do with each other on camera. They French kiss; they perform oral sex on each other; they have anal sex; and most shockingly of all, they do it in a tender and romantic way.

“My brother is my boyfriend, and I am his boyfriend,” says one of the twins during a phone call from Prague (Elijah and Milo sound so much alike on the phone it is impossible to tell which one is speaking). “He is my lifeblood, and he is my only love.”

The twins’ astonishing lack of shame — and their willingness to do anything with each other on camera — has helped turn them into a gay porn phenomenon. Since they first began appearing on Czech porn studio Bel Ami’s website (NSFW, like all links in this story) in 2009, the company’s traffic has doubled to 1.5 million users per month, and Milo and Elijah have become the subject of breathless coverage on adult blogging sites like Fleshbot and The Sword. They’ve even been flown from Prague to the United States for a whirlwind tour of Florida gay nightspots. But their surprising popularity raises some disturbing questions: Who are these twins? What keeps so many people watching them? And what, exactly, are viewers getting off on?

Rogers doesn’t quite answer all these worthy questions in the article, but they are certainly worth a ponder.  First, the boys themselves:  they’re cute and twinky, no doubt about it, and either one of them on their own could likely make a small splash, but in combination?  Titillation dynamite.  They even have a YouTube channel to give their fans access to their lives (the video below, in which they talk about their upcoming trip to Florida, is SFW): (more…)

This weekend I went to see Iron Man 2. I should have walked out ten minutes in, but as I am wont to do when it comes to a movie I just spent $15 on and waited on line outside to see…I stayed. Bad decision. Iron Man 2 a terrible movie overall. Tony Stark is a douche of massive proportions with a hateful personality. In Iron Man, Stark was a narcissistic jerk who learned a lesson: caring for people and doing good is better than being a war profiteer. That was the first movie. Inexplicably, in this second installment, he’s a bigger dick than he was before his big redemption in the original. Stark’s character is so insufferable that it’s really quite a feat he is the alleged “hero” of this story. And the sexism. Good god, the sexism. It comes with a dose of Fox News-style wingnuttery!

(more…)

When the UK Metro alerted me (via Jezebel) to this story about the evil clown on hire to parents in Switzerland to stalk their children for a week, I was not only intrigued, repulsed, and delighted, I immediately forwarded it to every child-hater I know. The service?

Dominic DeVille stalks young victims for a week, sending chilling texts, making prank phone calls and setting traps in letterboxes.  He posts notes warning children they are being watched, telling them they will be attacked.  But Deville is not an escaped lunatic or some demonic monster.  He is a birthday treat, hired by mum and dad, and the ‘attack’ involves being splatted in the face with a cake.

‘The child feels more and more that it is being pursued,’ said Deville.  ‘The clown’s one and only aim is to smash a cake into the face of his victim, when they least expect it, during the course of seven days.’

Horrific, cruel, hilarious, yes, yes, and yes.  Also, probably more appropriate for adults who are in on the joke, although I think it is sickly awesome that this exists at all.  But where do consenting adults go for Hot Clown Action, you ask!  (You did ask, right?).  My good friend Fozzy Bear immediately emailed with the answer.  Enter:  Sugar Weasel of Austin, Texas, who services the greater las Vegas area as well:

[T]he self-proclaimed Clown Escort is an adult entertainer, a world-class lover, a rogue and a scoundrel.  Interpreted, Sugar Weasel is a punk rock thrill ride that leaves you weak kneed and panting for more….  He possesses a singular vision to make the world a strangely erotic, more satisfying place for women.  His exotic go-go dance is like watching a roller coaster derail… (more…)

I live in Vegas now and one thing Vegas has a lot of is nudity.  I was reminded of this (as if one could forget) last night as I was sitting about 10 feet from the stage at a middle-of-the-pole strip joint.  The girls were alright looking, all had put some effort into hair and make-up and kept their skin looking fairly smooth (red lighting is your friend, girl) although I would say the ratio of Buttahfaces to Hotties was about 4 to 1.  There seemed to be a lot of the Tiger Woods Selection of strippers on deck last night, and the ones who didn’t make you want to put on your beer goggles all looked hella aggravated.  Lookit, it’s not easy to be up there all night, night after night, trying to look ‘exotic’ or ‘ravishing’, especially when you consider what working conditions the average stripper has to put up with.  So this is what I was thinking about as I waited; the ugly expressions so commonly found in strip clubs and the usual causes of them.  I reached back to my days in a thong and came up with Top 5 Complaints of a Stripper:

–  Losers that camp out in the front row and grease up the rail with their skeevy, sweaty hands while carefully parsing out 17 dollars in singles.  Wow.  Hey.  Careful.  Don’t hurt yourself putting that one dollar bill out there for the girl who’s been dancing 3 song sets all night.

– This one used to annoy me purely out of principal – strippers that hit the stage looking fine as hell until you get down to her feet and her toes are hanging on for dear life to those Bakers platform heels, looking like swollen shrimp cocktail.  Get those bear claws outta here, girl!

– So you get a lapdance from a stripper and sit back to enjoy the show.  You know you can’t touch her but you’re so convinced that what she secretly wants is for you to palm your grimy, ragged hands all over her ass so instead you think you’re slick and you slide your finger under the band of her thong and tug on it.  Then when she whips her head around to see what the fuck your retarded ass thinks you’re doing, you smile all stupid like and ask her, “You like that, huh?”  No, fucker.  She didn’t enjoy a band of elastic cutting her in half while you eyeballed her asshole – surprised?

– You know what’s creepy?  You calling a girl over to your table of 4 with no extra seating available and expecting her to perch on your knee while you bounce her up and down against your balls and try to play patty-cake on her tits with your face.  Either pay her for a dance or follow her back to VIP – she’s not a fucking accessory.

– Oh, you REALLY think you’re being crafty, don’t you?  You think you’re a fucking genius when you roll up to the club in commando mode, or wearing some silky shorts, figuring that when she grinds on you it’ll be just like her rubbing on you naked.  First of all, you ain’t slick, she knows exactly what your game is and secondly, you putting your tiny dick front and center sans padding only confirms what she already knew – you’re hung like Jon Gosselin and too cheap to pay for a booth.  Fuck off.

This concludes the community service portion of my probation (I’m lying).

Happy Friday, Y’all!                                       

I hope you all have excellent plans for the weekend and if you don’t then you better get you some.  As for me, I have an incredible weekend planned in San Francisco with the fanciest of gays known ’round here as SkinnyBoneJones and The Dashing M, with a special guest appearance by my homeskillet, BritneyCanadaWhore.  I know, I know it’s tough but try not to hate, you’ll just make wrinkles.  Ahhh, but don’t worry your pretty faces about it, I have some alternative weekend action JUST FOR YOU!

Allow me to present; Liberator Bedroom Adventure Gear!  More realistically known as: The Fanciest Sex Pillows You Will Ever Need!  (aka ‘Pushin’ Cushions’ if you’re hillbilly like that) (more…)

Next Page »