My San Francisco BFF sent me this the other day. Here's the back story. A girl named Olga was out with her friends in San Francisco's Marina district (known for being a popular hang out for douches), and she talked to this guy named Dmitri for all of two minutes. Then she gave him her card and said “give me a call.”
These are the two messages he left her. Listen to the whole thing, it just keeps getting better and better. You've gotta hear it to believe it:
http://view.break.com/527579 - Watch more free videos
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Swallow My Pride
A priest walks into a gay bar with a dyke, a fag and a straight chick. No, this isn't the beginning of some joke, but rather the start of my Friday night out in San Francisco. Seriously. Any trip I can come back from saying the aforementioned is a great one, which I plan to get a lot of mileage out of in the coming days. The significance of this date is that exactly 39 years ago in New York City (on Friday, June 27, 1969) the Stonewall Riots ignited the LGBT liberation movement.
Our Pride adventure in The City (what many Californians have nicknamed San Francico) actually started on Thursday, which wasn't necessarily off to a good start. The City of Seattle towed my car. Apparently the utility work on my block started a day early. I heeded the signage correctly, but the city fucked up. So I missed my carpool, but still made my flight in more than plenty of time as it was delayed due to poor visibility as Northern California was a blaze with wild fires.
Caught up with Hicks, a friend of a friend, inside SeaTac's sleek newer Concourse A. Ironically, I found him in the African Lounge, ironic because he's black.
Upon arrival, I turned on my phone only to be receiving a call from the plane pulling in right behind mine. It was my dear friend Rach, who I've known since my college "daze." We were meeting up in The City and both staying with my BFF Grace on Russian Hill.
No sooner had we put our things down in Grace's flat, we were whisked off to North Beach via cab to get a drink or several. We started at a very swanky bar, a place I had been to once before but can't recall the name. While there, a very muscular, athletic gentleman about our age approached. He's an acquaintence of Grace's who was very interested in having people notice his well developed bod as he drew attention to it by casually flexing from time to time. He was pretty sexy right up until those moments. Next.
Don't know what it is about the corner of Grant and Green in North Beach, but two out of two times I've been on that exact same corner adjacent to this quaint Irish pub, months apart, I've gotten completely stoned.
The time before this last it was Grace and my dear friend (and former co-worker) Macho Pacho (that's Grace's nickname for her). Pacho and her band performed at the pub last October. I had just stopped through The City for the night on my way to my other home away from home in coastal Mexico.
This time we were walking by these three big dudes and the smell of ganga in the air was extremely pungent. As we passed, I commented how good something smelled. We then invited ourselves to partake. They were more than happy to share. I suppose this stands to good reason.
Man, they had the fattest spliff I've ever seen. I swear it was nearly an inch in diameter. OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty fucking huge! And one toke got me pretty fucking stupid-baked. It's sometimes very fun to regress ...
From what I recall we ate some wood fired pizza at what first appeared to be a very charming Neapolitan pizza restaurant right on Columbus that was clearly open for late night dining. The waiters must have been faux Argentinians because they thought they were Mexicans who thought they were British and acted like snooty French men. We sat out on the sidewalk and even if you offered me $1 million, I wouldn't be able to recall what we talked about. I do recall a lot of laughs, but that's par for the course with these gals.
Grace had to run into the office early Friday morning. I don't know how she did it. Rach and I accompanied her to Peet's on Polk Street for some fresh morning brew. Lord knows we all needed it. So Rach and I went on walk about, strolling down Embarcadero on the water's edge until we hit Market Street. Along the way Rach made contact with our good friend Alice, who I had just seen about a month prior during my last visit with Grace in The City. We agreed to meet her and her girlfriend for lunch at Chow in the Castro.
We hopped a streetcar on Market Street, which would could have easily beat to our destination by just strolling at a casual pace. It was one tourist experience I hadn't ever indulged during my dozens of visits to The City over the years. Now I know why. Impractical when you have limited time, places to be and people to see.
Chow was delicious as was our waiter. Afterward, Rach and I returned to Russian Hill in time to meet Grace's friend, Priest Ralph de Bricassart.
The four of us started at a rooftop bar in the Mission, which offered skyline views and was fantastic except for the cold wind whipping up from the bay. Our next stop was surely for Rach, the Lexington, a dyke bar on the edge of the Castro. Some of her gal pals from San Diego were there. They came up as a band to play a few sets for the Dyke March the following night.
Our next stop was Moby Dick's, which was surely for yours truly. The men were out in full force for Friday night of Pride weekend in The City. Funny enough, I recognized quite a few men from Seattle, but we of course kept to ourselves and didn't bother saying hi to one another. It's the gay Seattle way, the prude misunderstanding that if you say hi to another gay man it means you want to fuck. Whatever happened to being able to just be genuinely friendly? Oh well ...
Apparently during our time at Moby Dick's, Priest Ralph de Bricassart engaged Grace in a very unholy conversation, more than insinuating (emphasis on the "sin") his romantic interest in her. Talk about an existential quandary, one that my dear Grace wanted nothing to do with.
We fled to Escape from New York Pizza on Castro. I love their pizza! Delicious, perfectly crispy thin crust and very flavorful. My mouth is watering just thinking about it, which is why I indulged in their pizza three times over the weekend. Mmm ... I digress.
After pizza, the priest, the dyke and the straight chick got into a cab and I ventured back to Moby Dick's. That's where I met Doug, a very tall, robust gentleman in his late 30s with slightly slivered hair and a gorgeous smile. Clearly I'm a sucker for that, but that came a bit later in the evening, pardon the vague innuendos.
Doug and his three pals, one couple and one ex boyfriend, were a breath of fresh air. They were welcoming, talkative and genuinely nice. Very un-Seattle I have to say. They invited me out on the sidewalk for a toke and then Doug bought us a round of drinks. We stayed at Moby's for one more and then headed down to a much smaller, quieter bar called the Men's Room, just down the block.
Not long after our arrival to the Men's Room, we were sitting at the bar when the gentleman next to me stood up on the bar stool, hefted his glass up high and announced the death of his father, asking everyone to join in his toast. It was the sort of moment you'd see on the silver screen, but rarely in person. I was so stunned I stood to my feet, placed my hand on his back and asked whether he was serious. He said he had just moments prior received word from his brother in San Luis Obispo, the town where I attended university. He also explained that his dad was very ill and this had been a long time coming. He was glad that his father is at peace now.
The night was winding down, and Doug extended an invitation to his place by Almo Square Park. The park is famous for the row of colorful Victorian "Painted Lady" homes often seen with the San Francisco skyline in the background on films and TV.
Suffice to say my time spent with Doug was the most amazing 12 hour relationship I've ever had! The conversation was great, the intimacy spectacular and he treated me like a complete gentleman. We slept in until nearly noon, and then he took me to breakfast at his favorite greasy spoon. It was delicious and the perfect elixer after a night of tying one on with Father Tom and friends. Afterward, Doug drove me back across town to Russian Hill in his convertible Audi with the top down.
Meanwhile, the girls (Rach and Grace) were enjoying Bloody Mary's at The Cliff House. We had planned to see an art exhibition, but that didn't actually come to fruition. A few years prior, the three of us went to go see "The Universe Within," which is that Chinese exhibit of human cadavers. It was housed at San Francisco's Masonic Temple, and it was definitely not the type of exhibit one should experience hung over. Enough said.
The three of us had an appointment with some other dykes and tapas in the Mission that evening and then we were invited to walk in the Dyke March. At the tapas table, I had Grace to my right and a scruffy dyke to my left. She had a bigger goatee than me! I can't recall her name, but she was very nice to converse with. She said she loved Seattle and had been up recently to film a documentary about bearded ladies. Oh, of course.
We went by foot from the restaurant to the start of the march at Dolores park. I have seen enough dyke breasts (a.k.a. yams in socks) for a lifetime. What was great to experience was the festive atmosphere. People in the row houses and apartments that lined the streets of the march hosted parties. One of the parties consisted of what appeared to be several breeder families, whose children were hanging out of the windows giving peace signs and waving little rainbow flags in support.
Grace and I grabbed a couple of ice cold Sapporros from a sidewalk vendor and drank them out of paper bags during the march. By the end of it all we had all we could handle, so the two of us left Rach to her fellow dykes and devices while we grabbed a cab back to Russian Hill.
Despite having gone to bed at a very respectable hour, 10ish, morning still came a bit early. We had to get Rach to the airport and then had a brunch with Grace's friends at none other than their favorite Polk Street haunt, Bar Johnny, which I lovingly refer to as the Regal Beagle. They offered a phenomenal brunch.
I had poached eggs with lox, sweet potato hash browns, mixed greens and bottomless mimosas. Grace shared her brioche with me, which was absolutely one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. They clearly slice their own fresh brioche loaves and then throw the slices on the grill with some butter. Simple yet mildly sweet and deliciously savory.
After our bubble-filled brunch, the gang (I think there were like eight of us) went with Grace's friend Alysha, whose birthday it was, back to her amazing apartment for a little smoke out. That seemed to be a theme that wove its way through the weekend. Along the way half our group stopped in for a glass of wine at the most charming cafe on the corner of Hyde & Jackson. After the smoke out, we returned to the same corner cafe with the intention of taking the trolly over the hill near the Wharf.
Trolly after trolly passed us by as they were filled to capacity with tourists. So we settled for taking over the sidewalk tables at this gorgeous corner cafe, where we had several rounds in the sun before a chilling fog rolled in. Then it was off to the Bell Tower, where Grace had originally met Priest Ralph de Bricassart. Incidentally, he met us for brunch, but left early to play a round of golf. He was leaving early the next morning to do some fundraising in Portland, Oregon, but was to return to The City a few days later. He ended up cutting his West coast trip short, having to head back to New York to attend a funeral.
I managed to get myself to the airport, drunk as a skunk, all the while wearing my Swallow My Pride t-shirt. I left some DVD's at Grace's and lost a ring through security. Otherwise I returned to Seattle without so much as a scratch, thankfully.
My plane touched down before midnight, and it was still Pride weekend on Capitol Hill. So instead of driving home, I parked near the Cuff. That turned out to be dead, so I walked over to Madison Pub, which was even more so. Decided to have a beer there anyway, which turned into two, which turned into a flirty conversation with a muscle cub, which turned into smooching in an open parking lot among just a few other things ...
Although I always have a grand time in The City, it's good to be home.
Our Pride adventure in The City (what many Californians have nicknamed San Francico) actually started on Thursday, which wasn't necessarily off to a good start. The City of Seattle towed my car. Apparently the utility work on my block started a day early. I heeded the signage correctly, but the city fucked up. So I missed my carpool, but still made my flight in more than plenty of time as it was delayed due to poor visibility as Northern California was a blaze with wild fires.
Caught up with Hicks, a friend of a friend, inside SeaTac's sleek newer Concourse A. Ironically, I found him in the African Lounge, ironic because he's black.
Upon arrival, I turned on my phone only to be receiving a call from the plane pulling in right behind mine. It was my dear friend Rach, who I've known since my college "daze." We were meeting up in The City and both staying with my BFF Grace on Russian Hill.
No sooner had we put our things down in Grace's flat, we were whisked off to North Beach via cab to get a drink or several. We started at a very swanky bar, a place I had been to once before but can't recall the name. While there, a very muscular, athletic gentleman about our age approached. He's an acquaintence of Grace's who was very interested in having people notice his well developed bod as he drew attention to it by casually flexing from time to time. He was pretty sexy right up until those moments. Next.
Don't know what it is about the corner of Grant and Green in North Beach, but two out of two times I've been on that exact same corner adjacent to this quaint Irish pub, months apart, I've gotten completely stoned.
The time before this last it was Grace and my dear friend (and former co-worker) Macho Pacho (that's Grace's nickname for her). Pacho and her band performed at the pub last October. I had just stopped through The City for the night on my way to my other home away from home in coastal Mexico.
This time we were walking by these three big dudes and the smell of ganga in the air was extremely pungent. As we passed, I commented how good something smelled. We then invited ourselves to partake. They were more than happy to share. I suppose this stands to good reason.
Man, they had the fattest spliff I've ever seen. I swear it was nearly an inch in diameter. OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty fucking huge! And one toke got me pretty fucking stupid-baked. It's sometimes very fun to regress ...
From what I recall we ate some wood fired pizza at what first appeared to be a very charming Neapolitan pizza restaurant right on Columbus that was clearly open for late night dining. The waiters must have been faux Argentinians because they thought they were Mexicans who thought they were British and acted like snooty French men. We sat out on the sidewalk and even if you offered me $1 million, I wouldn't be able to recall what we talked about. I do recall a lot of laughs, but that's par for the course with these gals.
Grace had to run into the office early Friday morning. I don't know how she did it. Rach and I accompanied her to Peet's on Polk Street for some fresh morning brew. Lord knows we all needed it. So Rach and I went on walk about, strolling down Embarcadero on the water's edge until we hit Market Street. Along the way Rach made contact with our good friend Alice, who I had just seen about a month prior during my last visit with Grace in The City. We agreed to meet her and her girlfriend for lunch at Chow in the Castro.
We hopped a streetcar on Market Street, which would could have easily beat to our destination by just strolling at a casual pace. It was one tourist experience I hadn't ever indulged during my dozens of visits to The City over the years. Now I know why. Impractical when you have limited time, places to be and people to see.
Chow was delicious as was our waiter. Afterward, Rach and I returned to Russian Hill in time to meet Grace's friend, Priest Ralph de Bricassart.
The four of us started at a rooftop bar in the Mission, which offered skyline views and was fantastic except for the cold wind whipping up from the bay. Our next stop was surely for Rach, the Lexington, a dyke bar on the edge of the Castro. Some of her gal pals from San Diego were there. They came up as a band to play a few sets for the Dyke March the following night.
Our next stop was Moby Dick's, which was surely for yours truly. The men were out in full force for Friday night of Pride weekend in The City. Funny enough, I recognized quite a few men from Seattle, but we of course kept to ourselves and didn't bother saying hi to one another. It's the gay Seattle way, the prude misunderstanding that if you say hi to another gay man it means you want to fuck. Whatever happened to being able to just be genuinely friendly? Oh well ...
Apparently during our time at Moby Dick's, Priest Ralph de Bricassart engaged Grace in a very unholy conversation, more than insinuating (emphasis on the "sin") his romantic interest in her. Talk about an existential quandary, one that my dear Grace wanted nothing to do with.
We fled to Escape from New York Pizza on Castro. I love their pizza! Delicious, perfectly crispy thin crust and very flavorful. My mouth is watering just thinking about it, which is why I indulged in their pizza three times over the weekend. Mmm ... I digress.
After pizza, the priest, the dyke and the straight chick got into a cab and I ventured back to Moby Dick's. That's where I met Doug, a very tall, robust gentleman in his late 30s with slightly slivered hair and a gorgeous smile. Clearly I'm a sucker for that, but that came a bit later in the evening, pardon the vague innuendos.
Doug and his three pals, one couple and one ex boyfriend, were a breath of fresh air. They were welcoming, talkative and genuinely nice. Very un-Seattle I have to say. They invited me out on the sidewalk for a toke and then Doug bought us a round of drinks. We stayed at Moby's for one more and then headed down to a much smaller, quieter bar called the Men's Room, just down the block.
Not long after our arrival to the Men's Room, we were sitting at the bar when the gentleman next to me stood up on the bar stool, hefted his glass up high and announced the death of his father, asking everyone to join in his toast. It was the sort of moment you'd see on the silver screen, but rarely in person. I was so stunned I stood to my feet, placed my hand on his back and asked whether he was serious. He said he had just moments prior received word from his brother in San Luis Obispo, the town where I attended university. He also explained that his dad was very ill and this had been a long time coming. He was glad that his father is at peace now.
The night was winding down, and Doug extended an invitation to his place by Almo Square Park. The park is famous for the row of colorful Victorian "Painted Lady" homes often seen with the San Francisco skyline in the background on films and TV.
Suffice to say my time spent with Doug was the most amazing 12 hour relationship I've ever had! The conversation was great, the intimacy spectacular and he treated me like a complete gentleman. We slept in until nearly noon, and then he took me to breakfast at his favorite greasy spoon. It was delicious and the perfect elixer after a night of tying one on with Father Tom and friends. Afterward, Doug drove me back across town to Russian Hill in his convertible Audi with the top down.
Meanwhile, the girls (Rach and Grace) were enjoying Bloody Mary's at The Cliff House. We had planned to see an art exhibition, but that didn't actually come to fruition. A few years prior, the three of us went to go see "The Universe Within," which is that Chinese exhibit of human cadavers. It was housed at San Francisco's Masonic Temple, and it was definitely not the type of exhibit one should experience hung over. Enough said.
The three of us had an appointment with some other dykes and tapas in the Mission that evening and then we were invited to walk in the Dyke March. At the tapas table, I had Grace to my right and a scruffy dyke to my left. She had a bigger goatee than me! I can't recall her name, but she was very nice to converse with. She said she loved Seattle and had been up recently to film a documentary about bearded ladies. Oh, of course.
We went by foot from the restaurant to the start of the march at Dolores park. I have seen enough dyke breasts (a.k.a. yams in socks) for a lifetime. What was great to experience was the festive atmosphere. People in the row houses and apartments that lined the streets of the march hosted parties. One of the parties consisted of what appeared to be several breeder families, whose children were hanging out of the windows giving peace signs and waving little rainbow flags in support.
Grace and I grabbed a couple of ice cold Sapporros from a sidewalk vendor and drank them out of paper bags during the march. By the end of it all we had all we could handle, so the two of us left Rach to her fellow dykes and devices while we grabbed a cab back to Russian Hill.
Despite having gone to bed at a very respectable hour, 10ish, morning still came a bit early. We had to get Rach to the airport and then had a brunch with Grace's friends at none other than their favorite Polk Street haunt, Bar Johnny, which I lovingly refer to as the Regal Beagle. They offered a phenomenal brunch.
I had poached eggs with lox, sweet potato hash browns, mixed greens and bottomless mimosas. Grace shared her brioche with me, which was absolutely one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. They clearly slice their own fresh brioche loaves and then throw the slices on the grill with some butter. Simple yet mildly sweet and deliciously savory.
After our bubble-filled brunch, the gang (I think there were like eight of us) went with Grace's friend Alysha, whose birthday it was, back to her amazing apartment for a little smoke out. That seemed to be a theme that wove its way through the weekend. Along the way half our group stopped in for a glass of wine at the most charming cafe on the corner of Hyde & Jackson. After the smoke out, we returned to the same corner cafe with the intention of taking the trolly over the hill near the Wharf.
Trolly after trolly passed us by as they were filled to capacity with tourists. So we settled for taking over the sidewalk tables at this gorgeous corner cafe, where we had several rounds in the sun before a chilling fog rolled in. Then it was off to the Bell Tower, where Grace had originally met Priest Ralph de Bricassart. Incidentally, he met us for brunch, but left early to play a round of golf. He was leaving early the next morning to do some fundraising in Portland, Oregon, but was to return to The City a few days later. He ended up cutting his West coast trip short, having to head back to New York to attend a funeral.
I managed to get myself to the airport, drunk as a skunk, all the while wearing my Swallow My Pride t-shirt. I left some DVD's at Grace's and lost a ring through security. Otherwise I returned to Seattle without so much as a scratch, thankfully.
My plane touched down before midnight, and it was still Pride weekend on Capitol Hill. So instead of driving home, I parked near the Cuff. That turned out to be dead, so I walked over to Madison Pub, which was even more so. Decided to have a beer there anyway, which turned into two, which turned into a flirty conversation with a muscle cub, which turned into smooching in an open parking lot among just a few other things ...
Although I always have a grand time in The City, it's good to be home.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
A League of His Own
I feel funky. Maybe it's the week. Maybe it's the weed. Maybe it's the dweeb. This afternoon Luke, this guy I dated for the last couple months, tells me he thinks I'm out of his league. That was a first. He said he felt inferior and thought I must think he's a bore. That's about the saddest thing I've heard in quite a while. Almost as sad as, "I can't be the man you need me to be," famous near last words from an old flame ...
Is it me or is there something seriously wrong with someone who would say such things? Let us not overlook the fact this way of thinking is purely unilateral, which comes from a completely self absorbed place.
Well, truth be told he was too insecure and emotionally immature for us to be a good fit. Instead of just being direct and straight forward, he would often hint around about how he was feeling. Can't tell you how much that drives me up a wall. I'm not a mind reader, and I would never assume to ever just know how someone else is feeling. Perhaps over time, a long, long time, I might gain some insight.
Luke had many great qualities. We had a nice little connection. Even today, despite not having seen one another for a couple weeks, we chatted across a cafe table for a couple hours. We made a lot of small talk, and then broached the elephant in the room; what went wrong.
I suppose what baffles me the most is that he had the vulnerability, the humility, the balls to articulate how he feels lesser than me. I really liked him, and I'm very expressive, so I showered him with praise. From day one he deflected my compliments, almost couldn't take one to save his life. Translation: very poor self esteem.
OK, we would all be remiss to not admit our insecurities. Everyone has them. Some clearly more than others. I mean, c'mon, I'm the guy who farts into the phone with some of his best gal pals on the receiving end. Guess sometimes others see in us only what they want to see and overlook understanding who we really are.
On some level I would say this is unfortunate. Though one should never curse their bad luck until they're absolutely certain it's not good luck.
We walked out to our cars together and hugged a couple times prior to parting ways. We agreed we could still continue on as friends. What amused me the most were his parting words, "This isn't goodbye, just see you later ..." Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps he'll just remain in a league of his own.
Adios, amigo.
Is it me or is there something seriously wrong with someone who would say such things? Let us not overlook the fact this way of thinking is purely unilateral, which comes from a completely self absorbed place.
Well, truth be told he was too insecure and emotionally immature for us to be a good fit. Instead of just being direct and straight forward, he would often hint around about how he was feeling. Can't tell you how much that drives me up a wall. I'm not a mind reader, and I would never assume to ever just know how someone else is feeling. Perhaps over time, a long, long time, I might gain some insight.
Luke had many great qualities. We had a nice little connection. Even today, despite not having seen one another for a couple weeks, we chatted across a cafe table for a couple hours. We made a lot of small talk, and then broached the elephant in the room; what went wrong.
I suppose what baffles me the most is that he had the vulnerability, the humility, the balls to articulate how he feels lesser than me. I really liked him, and I'm very expressive, so I showered him with praise. From day one he deflected my compliments, almost couldn't take one to save his life. Translation: very poor self esteem.
OK, we would all be remiss to not admit our insecurities. Everyone has them. Some clearly more than others. I mean, c'mon, I'm the guy who farts into the phone with some of his best gal pals on the receiving end. Guess sometimes others see in us only what they want to see and overlook understanding who we really are.
On some level I would say this is unfortunate. Though one should never curse their bad luck until they're absolutely certain it's not good luck.
We walked out to our cars together and hugged a couple times prior to parting ways. We agreed we could still continue on as friends. What amused me the most were his parting words, "This isn't goodbye, just see you later ..." Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps he'll just remain in a league of his own.
Adios, amigo.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
My Nude Neighbors
My apartment faces directly into the living room of the Canadian breeder couple who live in the building across the street. I'm deducting their national origin based on the oversized flag they have displayed on a post in their living room. They moved in a few months ago, and have a tendency to rearrange their furniture on a weekly basis. They also have a tendency to walk around bare ass naked with their window coverings pulled wide open.
Between their living room and bedroom windows is a smaller window into the alcove that houses their shitter. My kitchen window looks directly into it. On the thankfully rare occasion, I've been washing dishes only to look up and see the guy wiping his butt. The odd thing about it, in addition to him doing so shamlessly in an open window that directly faces my 100+ unit building, is that he stands up to wipe while watching himself do so. Yeah, it's gross.
However, I will say the guy is otherwise physically attractive. Tall, lean, muscular, beautiful skin. He also has a HUGE dick. Once he was standing, smoking a cigarette in the buff right at their living room window on a bright, sunny weekend morning. His member was taking an elongated bow while he sure seemed to be standing proud. I can only imagine he was having a post fuck smoke.
Yes, I have also seen them fuck, but nothing quite prepared me for what I witnessed this morning. The guy was going down on his woman like he had just returned home from Auschwitz and hadn't eaten a scrap of food in weeks and months. At first I thought he was just on his knees with his head in her lap while she was sitting up on their living room futon. No, it couldn't have been that innocent, not with them. They were moving and grooving almost violently. I thought at one point she was going to unbirth him and her voracious vagina was going to swallow him up whole.
"Nah, don't bother drawing your shades. The whole neighborhood just loves watching you pig out in your woman's trough."
Straight nasty. Rude.
So that's how my morning started. Then I attended to a suit and tie business affair at an office tower a few streets down the hill from me. This was a most welcome change of scenery.
Between their living room and bedroom windows is a smaller window into the alcove that houses their shitter. My kitchen window looks directly into it. On the thankfully rare occasion, I've been washing dishes only to look up and see the guy wiping his butt. The odd thing about it, in addition to him doing so shamlessly in an open window that directly faces my 100+ unit building, is that he stands up to wipe while watching himself do so. Yeah, it's gross.
However, I will say the guy is otherwise physically attractive. Tall, lean, muscular, beautiful skin. He also has a HUGE dick. Once he was standing, smoking a cigarette in the buff right at their living room window on a bright, sunny weekend morning. His member was taking an elongated bow while he sure seemed to be standing proud. I can only imagine he was having a post fuck smoke.
Yes, I have also seen them fuck, but nothing quite prepared me for what I witnessed this morning. The guy was going down on his woman like he had just returned home from Auschwitz and hadn't eaten a scrap of food in weeks and months. At first I thought he was just on his knees with his head in her lap while she was sitting up on their living room futon. No, it couldn't have been that innocent, not with them. They were moving and grooving almost violently. I thought at one point she was going to unbirth him and her voracious vagina was going to swallow him up whole.
"Nah, don't bother drawing your shades. The whole neighborhood just loves watching you pig out in your woman's trough."
Straight nasty. Rude.
So that's how my morning started. Then I attended to a suit and tie business affair at an office tower a few streets down the hill from me. This was a most welcome change of scenery.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
What Gays Have Been Reduced To
Holy shit! You've gotta read this. A gem of an excerpt I recently ran across on Craigslist:
YOUR AVERAGE GAY MAN - 30 (Seattle)
Reply to: pers-718157208@craigslist.org
Date: 1969-12-31, 4:33PM PST
I'm your average gay man. I'm emotionally shut down, but have an uncanny ability to have empty, casual sex whenever the mood strikes. I'm self absorbed and judgemental, but deep down, like most of you, I'm very insecure. I lack emotional maturity and assume the role of victim in life.
In addition to being checked out, I also like to play head games. I expect you to guess what I'm thinking and how I'm feeling most of the time. If you guess incorrectly, I'll get upset and become withdrawn. When that happens, I'll need your unending devotion. I'm a bit needy.
Otherwise, I'm entirely physically attractive and always present myself very well. You can think of me as somewhat of a wolf in sheep's clothing. I promise the sex will be killer because that's about all I'm good at. Well, aside from being aloof and passive aggressive. Sure, it'd be easier just to be direct and up front, but where's the drama in that?
Don't worry, if I suddenly lose interest in you, I'll just sever all ties and you'll never hear from me again.
Any takers?
Location: Seattle
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Hmmm ... well that pretty much about sums up every guy I've dated over the past couple years. Whoever wrote that is a genius!
OK, I'll admit it. I wrote it and posted it to Craigslist as somewhat of a joke and some what of a way to express my disdain for dating. I actually received responses. None was more creepy than this fugly fifty something guy who thought I sounded really interesting. OMFG.
YOUR AVERAGE GAY MAN - 30 (Seattle)
Reply to: pers-718157208@craigslist.org
Date: 1969-12-31, 4:33PM PST
I'm your average gay man. I'm emotionally shut down, but have an uncanny ability to have empty, casual sex whenever the mood strikes. I'm self absorbed and judgemental, but deep down, like most of you, I'm very insecure. I lack emotional maturity and assume the role of victim in life.
In addition to being checked out, I also like to play head games. I expect you to guess what I'm thinking and how I'm feeling most of the time. If you guess incorrectly, I'll get upset and become withdrawn. When that happens, I'll need your unending devotion. I'm a bit needy.
Otherwise, I'm entirely physically attractive and always present myself very well. You can think of me as somewhat of a wolf in sheep's clothing. I promise the sex will be killer because that's about all I'm good at. Well, aside from being aloof and passive aggressive. Sure, it'd be easier just to be direct and up front, but where's the drama in that?
Don't worry, if I suddenly lose interest in you, I'll just sever all ties and you'll never hear from me again.
Any takers?
Location: Seattle
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Hmmm ... well that pretty much about sums up every guy I've dated over the past couple years. Whoever wrote that is a genius!
OK, I'll admit it. I wrote it and posted it to Craigslist as somewhat of a joke and some what of a way to express my disdain for dating. I actually received responses. None was more creepy than this fugly fifty something guy who thought I sounded really interesting. OMFG.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Seattle: Colder than Siberia
Colder than Siberia? Must be a reference to my last couple break ups. Joking aside, Seattle is generally known for being soggy, not frigid. Though I once saw it snow in the Cascade foothills around North Bend in June back in the early '90s.Truth be told, Seattlites are never satisfied with their weather. It's either too wet, too cold or too hot. We're not even talking extreme weather and a place where as soon as temps hit 60, people are walking around in shorts and short sleeve shirts. Seattleites are just a bunch of whiney pussies.
Well, if global warming is really occurring, it's sure not yet making a stop on its world tour here in Seattle.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Bliss (Mutluluk)
My buddy Scotty and I went to go see "It's Hard to be Nice" at the Seattle International Film Festival last night. However, we were instead destined to see a substitute screening of "Bliss." Apparently the film we originally intended to see was stuck in customs.
There are definitely no accidents in life. Bliss was an amazing independent foreign film out of Turkey. It reminded me quite a bit of White White Black Stork, the play I saw a couple months ago, performed at ACT by a talented Uzbekistani theatre group. The connection between this film and that play I saw had to do with strict cultural traditions that condemn people for their very human mistakes.
In Bliss, the main character was condemned for a sinful act that wasn't even her fault. She was raped, and was SO horrified by what had happened to her, she was unable to verbally recount the crime. Her village as well as her own family condemned her for something that was clearly out of her control. This survivor of rape had no rights, no voice and no recourse except to repent for a sin that didn't even belong to her. She was expected to pray for forgiveness and then end her own life by hanging herself. Thankfully she couldn't go through with it.
Miraculously, a relative took her away to the big city of Istanbul. Still within the same national boarders, the city offered a little more forgiveness than her small, archaic rural village. The twist was that her rescuer was also intent on assassinating her.
This poignant film explores the disconnect between extreme fundamenalist religion and issues in contemporary society. Bliss, based on a novel, was an outstanding film with high production values, depth and soul. This film was dark and light, sorrowful and joyful; a cinematic buffet of emotion and feeling. Definitely a masterful movie that inspires one to appreciate freedom of expression, something many of us spoiled rotten Americans commonly take for granted.
There are definitely no accidents in life. Bliss was an amazing independent foreign film out of Turkey. It reminded me quite a bit of White White Black Stork, the play I saw a couple months ago, performed at ACT by a talented Uzbekistani theatre group. The connection between this film and that play I saw had to do with strict cultural traditions that condemn people for their very human mistakes.
In Bliss, the main character was condemned for a sinful act that wasn't even her fault. She was raped, and was SO horrified by what had happened to her, she was unable to verbally recount the crime. Her village as well as her own family condemned her for something that was clearly out of her control. This survivor of rape had no rights, no voice and no recourse except to repent for a sin that didn't even belong to her. She was expected to pray for forgiveness and then end her own life by hanging herself. Thankfully she couldn't go through with it.
Miraculously, a relative took her away to the big city of Istanbul. Still within the same national boarders, the city offered a little more forgiveness than her small, archaic rural village. The twist was that her rescuer was also intent on assassinating her.
This poignant film explores the disconnect between extreme fundamenalist religion and issues in contemporary society. Bliss, based on a novel, was an outstanding film with high production values, depth and soul. This film was dark and light, sorrowful and joyful; a cinematic buffet of emotion and feeling. Definitely a masterful movie that inspires one to appreciate freedom of expression, something many of us spoiled rotten Americans commonly take for granted.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Doughnuts & Ghosts
Where do I find myself on a perfectly gorgeous late spring evening in Seattle? An intense hour of yoga followed by camping out at a beautiful, park side cafe a few blocks from my Capitol Hill bachelor pad with a hearty thirst for some comforting chamomile tea and the written word.Not sure whether it's the cloudy weather, but I've been struggling with self motivation professionally as well as creatively in recent days. Though lately I've been leaning more toward having some gusto for the creative, so at least something gives.
Today is the first Friday in June, which also marks National Doughnut Day. Really. According to sources I found online, this day honors the women who served doughnuts to soldiers on the front lines of World War I. Apparently the very name for this beloved American edible was derived from the men of the armed services as these fried morsels were often cooked up in their helmets. The American troops of that era were referred to as "doughboys." Clearly the name stuck as well as this sweet treat. Though where does the "nut" in doughnut come from? Perhaps back in the day they thought it was nuts to be frying up dough in the trenches under the shower of enemy shells and small arms fire.
My dearest Snow and I observed this day by meeting up in the mid afternoon at Top Pot Doughnuts on Fifth Avenue in Belltown to enjoy a hot beverage, one of their artfully tasty, doughy treats and friendly conversation. Though admittedly I don't believe either of us were fully aware of the real significance this alleged holiday marks when we cemented our plans to meet. Oh well.
I told Snow of my recent dating woes, specifically about the wookie, who I really liked. However, over the past week or so he has taken a turn toward inexplicable insecurity. I'm not quite sure where this started coming from. Snow believes he really likes me and is just afraid of getting hurt, so he's acting out of fear. Hmmm, that sounds all too familiar. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what drove him, my catalyst for leaving my seven year relationship, to employ the "push me pull you" bit, which eventually disintegrated one of the greatest loves I've ever known in my life. I'm certainly not venturing down that road again.
Last night, aboard friends' boat, the Red Herring, on Seattle's Lake Union, my dear friend Bay Bay informed me he had had a run in with him last Saturday night. Bay Bay and his partner were just exiting one of Capitol Hill's few remaining gay watering holes when they ran into him out on the sidewalk. He approached them both in a very excited manner, exclaiming their names and giving them both big hugs, as though they were dear old friends who had at long last been reunited. He says to Bay Bay, "I sense that you're holding back." To which Bay Bay replied, "You're very intuitive." I'm also told he looked like a big, drunken mess.
Just the weekend before, another one of my friends ran into him, out at the bars (perhaps the bars have become more than just a mere pass time for him). At first I was told my name didn't come up in conversation, and then later that he had referred to me by my full first name, something he once did to express endearment.
Both Snow and Bay Bay believe he's communicating with me through my friends, and this feels safe for him. All I know, as Snow also observed, he seems to keep popping up, especially as of late. Perhaps it's coincidence. Seattle is still a pretty small town. Maybe, just maybe, we'll come full circle someday soon.
I'm still in the same place I was the last couple times I wrote about this topic, wanting only to make peace with him and that which suddenly tore our love apart, which was seemingly too short lived. Despite knowing I deserve so much more from a lover than what he became incapable of, traces of him still linger on my mind and in my heart.
Snow opined that he's afraid to face me because I am the one person who knows and can see all his weaknesses. She asked me what I would do if by chance he were to actually come around and want to make a genuine go of it. I hate to admit it, but this is a question I asked myself as recently as this morning. Would I be willing to take another chance? Would I be willing to take the ultimate risk for what may or may not be? I'm not sure. What I do know is when things unraveled with him, part of me died inside. It took me months and months to rebound from that. Nearly a year and a half later, I'm still not the same person with respect to how I live and love. Though that might have changed regardless. Who's to say. Doh! I must be nuts for even having these notions. Or perhaps better yet I may just be human.
With every passing day I fall deeper into myself, hopefully getting that much closer to being more like the person I always knew myself to be. I wear these romantic wounds and their subsequent scars like a badge of honor. Just like fashion, love is for the brave. Love is truly the only thing in life worth fighting for. What else would humankind have to live for? What else is there beyond our hearts' greatest desires?!
Snow also reminded me of another love of romance past, my ex of seven years. Snow's hubby ran into him several weeks (if not months) ago while out on patrol. My ex readily confessed that he missed the way things used to be; missed our home, our dearly departed dog and me ... I miss him and much of our old lives too, but he left me long before I physically left him. Apparently my friend Scotty also ran into him just this past Sunday. The first thing he told Scotty was about the fact we broke up as though it had just happened yesterday and not nearly two years ago.
Sometimes I too long for the good ol' days, when life was more comforting, more predictable. Then again, it's the journey and surprises one finds along one's path that maintains a youthful spirit and a profound appreciation for life's many gifts as well as one's achievements.
After I left the busy cafe, I took an evening stroll down Broadway. It was a mostly clear night with a sliver of moon similing at me from high above. The air smelled fresh and clean after a day of showers intermittently rolled over the city. I noticed a certain calmness to Seattle tonight, which kept me at ease as well as feeling a strong sense of home.
Now that I am back home and in for the evening, I'm going to crawl into my nicely made bed with freshly washed linens. Then I'm going to pull the covers up over me, shut my eyes and allow myself to dream of all the wonderful things to come ...
Good night.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Erection Killers
I've met a few guys in recent weeks who actually don't annoy me and who I actually like as well as find attractive. Well initially anyway. It's funny how one can go from having all kinds of items on their romantic interest wish list, to just hoping the people one meets won't be annoying fucks. OK, that's kind of taking things to the extreme, but you get my point.
In relation to the four men I've been actively dating over the past couple months or so, I recently let two go becuase they just didn't know how to listen. I know they're not deaf.
Despite fair warning, both faux deaf guys began applying an obsene amount of pressure in the early "getting to know you" stages. In fact, we'll call him faux deaf guy number two who bought me a ticket to a family outting on the Duck Tour. OK, anyone who knows me knows I despise that fugly white barge on wheels, which turns Seattlites going about their everyday lives into zoo exhibits. But it wasn't the activity so much as it was him pressing me to meet his family, barely more than a month into us seeing one another, after clearly letting him know I wasn't comfortable with this. I think most people would feel similarly. Too much too soon.
When faux deaf guy number two finally admitted to me he doesn't drive was also part of the tipping point. Duplicity equals b'bye. We broke up in email, which was oddly pleasant. Actually, I think faux deaf guy number one and I broke up in email as well. How very nonconfrontationally Seattle. Gotta love this isolated little passive aggressive Northwestern oasis of ours.
So now I'm left with the prickly pear and the wookie. A little fur is sexy, but too much makes manscaping a must. As for shaving body hair, please do so only if you're a competitive swimmer or cyclist. Being with a guy who shaves his body is like sleeping next to a cactus. I like being poked, but in the more conventional sense of the slang use of this word.
Then there was the "cocky" guy I met for the first time Tuesday night. Horrible self esteem party of one, your table is ready in the losers section. Good luck with all that. Please don't let me know how it turns out. Poor chump bastard. When in doubt, act gentlemanly. Why do so many guys think they'll get somewhere by acting like total douche bags?
The one common theme I've noticed is that most of these men expect something to develop despite not putting the effort into it. I don't mean elaborate nights out on the town at five star restaurants sipping 100 point wines, though I wouldn't be opposed to that either. No, I mean basic effort, like being able to simply hold and carry on an engaging, intelligent conversation. A little friendliness and humor can go a long way. Really. Yeah, it's that simple.
Speaking of conversations, the wookie critiqued my conversational style the other night. His idea of me rudely interruputing him was when I attempted to further engage him in his own topic of conversation by asking deeper questions. What an asshole. Five words: like it or leave it. Better yet, two words (brevity is king): fuck off.
What inspired this post? Foremost, these jokers who call themselves men. Secondly, a conversation with none other than my dearest Grace earlier today. She had a date last night with a guy who claims to never date.
Their first date was supposed to be late last week. He texted in the late afternoon the day of the tentative date to firm it up. She, like I would certainly have done, had already made other plans. Sorry, no man is worth waiting around for. If any man can prove me wrong about this, I will literally eat my own words on the heaviest weight paper stock with an "I told you so" chaser.
Last night Grace finally got together with this guy for a first date. They dined at a little Neapolitan joint in The City and then ended up back at her place. They shared a kiss on her chaise with no real sparks. A while later he tells her he doesn't really date and then said, "Will you go out with me?" To which Grace replied, "We just went out."
Of course I couldn't resist the opportunity to get some more mileage out of this one, so I emailed her the following:
Yes or No
I like you. Will you go with me?
Are you kidding me?! Even high school was a bit too mature for the use of the aforementioned phrase. I have the utmost confidence in Darwin's theory since so many "men" are living proof that man evolved from apes.
A good man is hard to find and a hard man might be all I'm up for right now ...
In relation to the four men I've been actively dating over the past couple months or so, I recently let two go becuase they just didn't know how to listen. I know they're not deaf.
Despite fair warning, both faux deaf guys began applying an obsene amount of pressure in the early "getting to know you" stages. In fact, we'll call him faux deaf guy number two who bought me a ticket to a family outting on the Duck Tour. OK, anyone who knows me knows I despise that fugly white barge on wheels, which turns Seattlites going about their everyday lives into zoo exhibits. But it wasn't the activity so much as it was him pressing me to meet his family, barely more than a month into us seeing one another, after clearly letting him know I wasn't comfortable with this. I think most people would feel similarly. Too much too soon.
When faux deaf guy number two finally admitted to me he doesn't drive was also part of the tipping point. Duplicity equals b'bye. We broke up in email, which was oddly pleasant. Actually, I think faux deaf guy number one and I broke up in email as well. How very nonconfrontationally Seattle. Gotta love this isolated little passive aggressive Northwestern oasis of ours.
So now I'm left with the prickly pear and the wookie. A little fur is sexy, but too much makes manscaping a must. As for shaving body hair, please do so only if you're a competitive swimmer or cyclist. Being with a guy who shaves his body is like sleeping next to a cactus. I like being poked, but in the more conventional sense of the slang use of this word.
Then there was the "cocky" guy I met for the first time Tuesday night. Horrible self esteem party of one, your table is ready in the losers section. Good luck with all that. Please don't let me know how it turns out. Poor chump bastard. When in doubt, act gentlemanly. Why do so many guys think they'll get somewhere by acting like total douche bags?
The one common theme I've noticed is that most of these men expect something to develop despite not putting the effort into it. I don't mean elaborate nights out on the town at five star restaurants sipping 100 point wines, though I wouldn't be opposed to that either. No, I mean basic effort, like being able to simply hold and carry on an engaging, intelligent conversation. A little friendliness and humor can go a long way. Really. Yeah, it's that simple.
Speaking of conversations, the wookie critiqued my conversational style the other night. His idea of me rudely interruputing him was when I attempted to further engage him in his own topic of conversation by asking deeper questions. What an asshole. Five words: like it or leave it. Better yet, two words (brevity is king): fuck off.
What inspired this post? Foremost, these jokers who call themselves men. Secondly, a conversation with none other than my dearest Grace earlier today. She had a date last night with a guy who claims to never date.
Their first date was supposed to be late last week. He texted in the late afternoon the day of the tentative date to firm it up. She, like I would certainly have done, had already made other plans. Sorry, no man is worth waiting around for. If any man can prove me wrong about this, I will literally eat my own words on the heaviest weight paper stock with an "I told you so" chaser.
Last night Grace finally got together with this guy for a first date. They dined at a little Neapolitan joint in The City and then ended up back at her place. They shared a kiss on her chaise with no real sparks. A while later he tells her he doesn't really date and then said, "Will you go out with me?" To which Grace replied, "We just went out."
Of course I couldn't resist the opportunity to get some more mileage out of this one, so I emailed her the following:
Yes or No
I like you. Will you go with me?
Are you kidding me?! Even high school was a bit too mature for the use of the aforementioned phrase. I have the utmost confidence in Darwin's theory since so many "men" are living proof that man evolved from apes.
A good man is hard to find and a hard man might be all I'm up for right now ...
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