BLACKOUT REVIEWS
1. It was the Halloween of my twenty-third year and I was fucking T’OH UP. I dressed as Dionysus with golden laurels and only a wreath of real grapes to cover my bits. In the end, the costume (and Maker’s Mark) took control and I ended up taking on the spirit of that powerful, ancient, and wasted Greek god.
This is what I’m sorry for:
—Calling my blind date and cursing him out for ending the date early ’cause I was “kissing too many boys.” They were all platonic friends that I had slept with before. Not competition. I felt so bad for bitching him out. He was a cancer patient! (When we talked later, we had an argument that led me to believe that even though he was a cancer patient he was still a douche bag.)
—I’m sorry I lost fifty dollars.
—I’m sorry for ringing all the doorbells at that Internet trick’s apartment (we only hooked up once!).
—I’m sorry for falling backwards down his stairs and having the gall to spend the night. I think I hooked up with the guy that sells drugs on my front steps. If I did, I’m sorry for that too.
What I’m most sorry for:
—I guess I got naked outside the bar crying telling everyone that my father hates me and that I have AIDS. What was I going through? My sweet papa doesn’t hate me—he’s just harder to scam for money than my mom. That’s all. The latter, well, that was just my paranoid drunken delusions of ill health because I was ho-ing it up. That’s all. Others were not going to forgive me as easily as I forgave myself. Some positive guys got wind of this and rolled their eyes at me because they were used to me, but some positive guys (and the men who loved them) banded together in community action against me. Those motherfuckers talked shit on me like it was going out of style. They even went so far as to say that me saying I have AIDS when I didn’t was the equivalent of me wearing blackface. Even though I was guilty of it, I didn’t want to be accused of AIDS-face. That’s fucked up. After I apologized several times to no avail, that’s when I said FUCK those unforgiving bitches. (If you don’t like to see drunk people then don’t hang out in bars so much.)
2. I rather unfortunately got blackout at a friend’s graduation party. The next day, when I woke up at the house in a bedroom I shouldn’t have been in, I got this strange feeling that my life had been ruined the night before somehow. Unfortunately, my intuition was correct. Here’s what happened: Sometime in the middle of the night I stood over and pissed on this passed out boy who was a fellow partygoer. He punched me, broke my headphones, stole my skateboard, my passport, and my cellphone, burned some of the clothes I had in my bag, and I have this sneaking suspicion that he used my identity to run up an eight-hundred dollar electric bill for some random punk house in Oakland. Me and the boy shared a previous history. I drank his piss in LA one time and gave him a hummer a different time. We kissed here and there a couple of other times. He always gave me qualifiers that led me to think everything was cool. He’d say things such as, “Hey man, thanks for the blow job.” He also tenderly patted the back of my head when I drank his piss in LA. I guess me pissing on him was a deal breaker though, because he told all my friends I drugged him with marijuana and then had some teenage girl he was fucking tell everyone I was a creepy date rapist. I was heartbroken and thought for sure I’d get kicked out of the scene. But, as the story usually goes, in a month’s time no one gave a shit, and six years later it’s still very uncomfortable when I see him.
3. Long story short, I had basically started blacking out and walking into a friend’s house and eating shit out of the refrigerator. It wasn’t a big deal until my “friend” failed to inform me he didn’t live there anymore. The new tenants left the door unlocked like he did. I was fucking wasted and going to town on the most delicious box of organic banana popsicles when I was tragically interrupted midslurp, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU MAN?” I turned around and saw these two skinny hippie motherfuckers, arms folded and looking not too friendly. They were serious. They meant business. They weren’t having it. I told them I was an honored guest of my friend so and so and the shorter of the two yelled louder than the tallest, “He moved out EIGHT MONTHS AGO!” He also said that I deserved an ass beating and that’s when I decided I didn’t like that bitch’s attitude. Clearly this was all their fault for leaving the door unlocked. Even though I was the victim in this unfortunate circumstance, I stayed noble. I surveyed the situation and noticed that both boys were skinny hippie bitches—possibly vegan. I was just drunk enough to mop the floor with those popsicle hoarding “oh I’m gonna be free and open and leave my door unlocked and then get hella butt-hurt when someone eats my popsicle sticks” stingy hippie fuckers. If my plan went according to plan then no one would stand in the way of me and that box of yummy cool treats. But in that split second between thought and action a hippie bitch voice interrupted, “This is the third time you’ve done this!” I was slightly embarrassed. Who knew? I told them it was probably some other black guy, but they said it was definitely me. I (nobly) apologized, thanked them for not calling the cops on me all those other times, and left.
4. I was standing in line at the café waiting for my bagel when my recollection of the night before (which had somehow escaped me all morning) came snapping back and SHIT FUCK JESUS MARY what a doozy! Bits and pieces came together. After the beer bust, I went to a hotel room with a very short dark Asian porn star. No sex—he just wanted to be friends. WEAK! I stole some of his underwear and left. On the train back home I looked at my balls falling out of my jogging shorts. If I wasn’t me, would I want to gay bash me? I got off at my stop and that buff meth-head was asking me for change again. He was really feeling it and followed me all the way to the taco truck. He refused to let up, so after some shrewd negotiation I paid him two dollars to suck his dick behind a taco truck at the far end of the parking lot. His dick tasted like coffee. I started crying and called my big brother and almost pulled that whiny “WHERE IS MY LIFE GOING?” bullshit.
Luckily, he set me straight and explained his reasoning in three parts:
1.Don’t trip about blowing a drug addict. There is no bigger understatement than “homelessness sucks.” If you were homeless you’d want hella drugs too.
2.Not having sex with someone just because they don’t have a house is discrimination. Do you really want that on your conscience? Don’t be a dick! Just let it slide!
3.Besides richer parents and the hygiene thing, what makes those promiscuous, soulless, cokehead, art school fucks you scramble to fuck more “sexually credible” than the homeless guy? (I couldn’t really think of anything.) Seeing it this way made me feel better, and that buff meth-head (or my lover rather) stopped asking me for change and started flirting with me more, because I guess I give good head. I was so pleased with all the positive outcomes of this scenario that I was even inspired to stop drinking for a week.
NIGHTMARE PARTY REVIEWS
1. I took leave of my senses and picked up this asshole artist. He was in town on business and had sold some huge chunk of art. I told him I’d be on the East Coast soon and would visit him in New Jersey. It all fell to hell really soon. He talked about his most talked-about work, how he dressed his mother, who had Alzheimer’s, up in drag and took pictures. I certainly wasn’t going to win the son of the year award but yikes. I let the pills and booze hit and straight-up ignored that shit. Stupid, stupid. I didn’t split for practical reasons: I was horny, intoxicated, and where the fuck was the train station anyway? Long Branch, New Jersey, all the way back to New York—fuck. He started talking to me about my “writing career” and how I was doing everything wrong. I just wanted to fuck this asshole, wake up, and get a ride back to the train station. His pervy neighbor came over and I let him give me a hand job and I think he got mad because he went all asshole middle-aged white guy on me and started letting the racial slurs fllllly. The train was closed till morning. This last thing I remember is getting out on the passenger side of the car, jumping on the hood, and kicking out his windshield (with him
still in the driver’s seat). I felt slightly sorry (at the time) and asked if we could work it out, but that’s when little Mr. Asshole artist with the “outlaw” politics ran in the house (like a little bitch) and called the police. I think I still have a warrant in Jersey and that’s why I don’t fuck dickheads from Jersey anymore.
2. I ended up in LA at this party with a totally famous gay rapper. This fat kid kicked me out of a three-way, and then I started receiving somewhat unwanted advances from one of the rapper’s friends. I guess I flirted with him a bit before and he took it really seriously. He grabbed me, refused to let go, and repeated to me in his thickest cholo accent, “Don’t be fucked up.” I wasn’t going to fool around with him, but then relented partly because I don’t know why and partly because I was mildly curious. We get to the bathroom and he wanted to fuck, but I told him he could cum on my face and that was it. Though I felt like I had worked hard to make the situation a mutually loving and erotic experience for the both of us, he still told all his friends at the party that I was a stuck-up bitch.
3. It was the last time I would respond to an online ad without a picture. It was profoundly so wrong. The host lured me up to the Oakland Hills with the promise of shrooms. I took a pill and thought I’d be all “groovy” and get my sixties trip on with some tunic-wearing, handsome, big-dicked old white man who lived in the Hills. It wasn’t like that. The host was wearing sweats and had mostly gray hair with home-done blond highlights and I mean home-done in the most fucked-up way possible. His creepy dog kept trying to give me head, and every inch of his carpet was soaking wet. He had two other boys over, Asian and white. Not to be racial, but naturally it was the entitled white boy who was the first to be over it and thank god. I got a ride with him and we both agreed that we just escaped some evil shit. The Asian boy didn’t want to leave with us and we prayed that monster didn’t cook and eat him.
4. After a whirlwind blitz of binge drinking on a Thursday night, I snapped out of it too late to realize I had ended up at a total nightmare party. Me and two of my friends walked into some huge anonymous house. We were greeted by three twins having a three-way, snorting coke off an unopened condom box. Classic. Upstairs we met the housesitter, “Lena,” who introduced herself as the world’s top tranny porn star and showed us the cover of her latest video. Someone offered her coke and she got way pissed because she preferred speed. I felt like the night was going to get uncomfortable. She told me and my friends that we were really pretty, like girls, and that we should be taking hormones. I thought about it, and knew that if I ever decided to make “the change” that I would probably be the hottest bitch ever. But hormones were too expensive and I spent too much money on bud. I lacked the gumption it took to be a woman. I sometimes (here and there) put ads on Craigslist where I showed up wearing a wig and strategically ripped panty hose and would let straight guys hit it from the back. This was as tranny as I got, and next to Lena I felt like a total square. She started saying racist shit about black people, and it was one of those things where you’re not so offended ’cause you knew it was coming. She then tried to rapport with me about how she ruined her life by getting boobs and being a porn star. I am human and was still very sore about all that racist bullshit she said, so I naturally wasn’t in the mood to hear her shit. I didn’t understand what she was complaining about; she had boobs and a film career. I’d seen the posters around town and knew that most people walk away from speed addiction with nothing. She was complaining. More uncomfortable shit happened, and it occurred to me and my drunk-ass friends that we didn’t have to be there. On the way out of the door, I stole Lena’s Pac-Man game for throwing the weakest after-party ever. (Some years later, photos surfaced of Lena fucking some passedout Marine in the ass and I forgave her for everything.)
5. I bitterly lamented that the party ended up at my place. My roommate insisted I go get beer even though I didn’t cosign on this bullshit surrounding me in the first place, not to mention my out-of-state ID clearly stated that I was underage. She kept listening to her Destroy All Monsters record over and over, and petting her cat all drugged-up creepy like (and her cat was in heat!—ewwwww!). This straight couple was smoking crack in the living room, when the woman’s knight in shining armor pretends to drop the crack pipe and then pretends to load the bowl again. She’s not having it (and good for her!). “Do you think I’m stupid? DO YOU THINK I’M FUCKING STUPID?!?! THERE’S NOTHING ON THERE YOU SONOFABITCH! I BOUGHT IT!” She slams my living room door and almost breaks the glass. I sat in my room crying and puzzled. Why oh why did I ever drop out of college? Oh, yeah, ’cause it was weak. It later was revealed to me that even a college degree wasn’t going to save me, but I continued in school ’cause, why the fuck not?
CRUISING REVIEWS
1. I took a ballet class and I was fucking horrible. My teacher was a ground-breaking eighty-year-old artist who survived multiple heart surgeries and danced in the last days of vaudeville. She told me that I had potential. She also told me to study the Mexican dancers; watch their technique. It was something about their technique. Juan introduced himself after class and I followed him to the locker room where he undid my belt, pulled down my pants, and gently turned me face first into the lockers, pulled my hips back so my ass was more exposed in the corridor of locker compartments. He rubbed saliva on his dick and tried to enter me and I told him no. He physically insisted and I didn’t tell him no the second time, but I was too tense. I knew something more reasonable was going to have to happen so I sucked him off and he came in my mouth and on my chest. We cleaned up in time before the dumb baseball players stormed the locker room. I never saw him again after that.
2. My neighborhood in two parts:
a.It really wasn’t a block for homos, but in an already crowded city I was too lazy to find another place to live. I stayed with this hot, big, black dyke who was really feeling it and left her Santeria altars fucking everywhere. One morning when I was too lazy to go to the bank, in an unfortunate and youthful disregard for cultural sensitivity, I took ten dollars from her altar thingy, cleaned the honey and chicken feathers off of it, and spent that shit. In doing so I must’ve pissed off one of those spirits (or loas or whatever) something crazy, because after that the rain came down in that neighborhood like it never had before. Getting clowned by those Korean gang members was so embarrassing. They made fun of my outfit! Getting mugged at knife point was really cool. I tried to pretend I didn’t have my wallet, but my jeans were too tight and they saw through my lie. I knew it was over when I saw that laughably large size chunk of asphalt coming at my head in slow motion.
b.Three years earlier, life in that part of town had been a breeze. I lived in the warehouse district as opposed to the residential. Because of my awesome fucking genetics in my early twenties (to the unsuspecting eye) I looked to be in my late–early teens. This gave me choice dibs on all of the East Oakland pederasts that tried to pick me up on East 14th on my way to junior college. I recall this one day-worker, Pilipino and Mexican, in his late forties. I threw my bike in the back of his pickup and blew him off by the warehouses up the road. I can also recall walking my friend’s dog and being stopped by that Goodwill truck driver. Big black dude. He looked like my uncle. His dick weighed five pounds. I was intimidated but pressed on. He wanted me to suck him off in the truck, but I didn’t know what to do with the dog.
3. My mother had this totally cuckoo practice of reading all the major newspapers in California and calling me at 6:00 a.m. (8:00 a.m. her time) and relaying what all horrible things had happened in my neck of the woods. I endured years of wake-up calls detailing every arson, minor earthquake, and report of cannibalism. I didn’t read the paper because the world scares the shit out of me. I begged her not to do this. She didn’t give a fuck. One morning my mother read about how everyone was catching this super-duper staph infection rash thingy, and how it was all the gay dudes’ fault. She asked me if I was hanging out at these “bathhouses” and “cruising parks” and, more i
mportantly, was I washing my hands enough? I quickly and pleasantly lied “no” and told her that her little boy was too precious to ever get fucked in a bush (LYING THROUGH MY GODDAMN TEETH). It’s not that I make a habit of lying to my mother, but, fuck man, I’d lie to anybody at 6:00 a.m. just to get back to sleep. I didn’t rest so easy. Much like the mother’s boy that I am, my guilt for telling my mother a catastrophic lie kicked up in my ass. I dreamed I was biking to class when that invisible impact hits me from behind and slams my body into some asshole’s piece-of-shit car, my (helmetless) head rolling clear across the pavement. This was my punishment for lying to my mother. My mind flashed forward to my mother flying to California for my funeral; cleaning out my dirty ass room, she’d find my sex diary. In one journal I kept a running tab of all the randoms I hooked up with at the parks and whorehouses. This way in my drunken old age I’d have my memories (of sorts), and this way I could be 100 percent honest with the people at the free clinic. My mother, though, a devout Christian, knows how to kick up her heels and have a good time. Through life, I’d seen her put that Jesus shit on the back burner if it stood in the way of her getting every gory detail of the story. She impressed me with that shit. With that I decided that if anything should ever happen to me I should just highlight the best parts of my journal. She would rather have it that way. There were, of course, kinks in the system. Like that time I was at the lake cruising and that crazy motherfucker started shaking his semi at me. He said (and I quote), “I been smoking crack and that shit makes me HELLA FREAKY. BEND THE FUCK OVER. I’M GON’ BEAT THAT PUSSY UP.” I wouldn’t highlight him. I didn’t want my mom to dwell on the fact that I fucked that guy. I would highlight, however, that other motherfucker at the bathhouse. Room 202. White dude, white (full) beard, white chest hair. He was more on the muscular side of “jolly.” After he was done pummeling my crack he said (and I quote), “Son, you just got fucked by Santa Claus.” I did not get a pony, but I would draw three stars by it in my journal. My mother would find this fucking hilarious.
Johnny Would You Love Me if My Dick Were Bigger Page 9
