Winter Storm Juno lured the “City that Never Sleeps” into bed with a mere six-inches (although she was expecting much more, if you catch my drift). It’s the cold-hard truth. According to this chilling report, men often lie about their penis size to get into a girl’s pants. Think about all the guys who’ve failed to meet great expectations on Grindr.
I digress. Who knew the Big Apple wasn’t a size queen?!
After a one night stand with Old Man Winter, the city then hit the snooze button—lulled into a day-long nap—and for good reason. If history’s any indication, Juno could very well produce a new crop of crab apples. We all recall the “baby boom” that followed Hurricane Sandy. Let’s not forget how people “stayed warm” during last year’s polar vortex. Only time will tell.
But, riddle me this one: what is it about being shut in that turns us on so much?
Perhaps it’s the surge of vulnerability—when Mother Nature comes roaring in like a dominatrix—that inspires us to cast caution to the wind (pun intended) and take hold of something within our immediate control. And when you think about it on those terms, that’s the silver lining in any storm.
Not so upset with the weathermen anymore, are you? Go easy on those guys. If anyone could use some cheering up with a good lay right now, it’s them. (Okay, the weather girls too).
Every time my blood boils, I somehow manage to grow a little colder on the inside. It’s alarming how frequently I gravitate towards frustration (some might argue it borders on anger although I don’t act out on that emotion) even during circumstances when most other people might feel sad.
Here’s where I’m going with this: I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m essentially devoid of certain emotions and basically not strong enough to make myself vulnerable.
To be frank (because at the moment “it sucks to be me”), my little epiphany comes after a series of extremely trying events over the last week. At the risk of throwing myself a pity party, I’ll spare you the details. Instead, cue the aforementioned song selection from Avenue Q:
As luck would have it, some homosexual on Grindr sent me a completely unsolicited message about this very subject. He had no knowledge I was writing this piece at the time, and proceeded to block me after I entertained his thoughts. BUT… not before I snapped a few screenshots of the conversation:
To bring everyone up to speed, my headline says I’m “looking to date.” And allow me to make one thing clear: I’m not attempting to mock this feedback. I harbor no hard feelings towards this guy. In fact, I admire his way with words. See below. Perhaps you’ll agree he’s slightly poetic as the message wraps up.
At this point, he starts to retreat saying, “I’d rather end it here since I have absolutely no interest in anything in this space.” But, for whatever reason, he kept going.
To be continued…
A year to the very day, it seems history is about to repeat itself. Last year, my heart fell out of my ass and shattered into a million little pieces after I met “he who shall not be named.” You may recall I referred to him as “George of the Jungle” as I tried to depict for an admissions committee (in as much detail as I could muster) our close encounter of the Grindr kind. That story got me a scholarship offer to attend law school, but (you guessed it) I digress.
Now it seems a slut has fallen in lust again — this time with someone we’ll call my “Knight in Shining Armor.”
Does it strike anyone else as odd that the word slut and lust coincide? And you spell them with the same letters too! Just reposition the ‘s’. Perhaps I’m alone here. Again… I digress.
In the past, I’ve discussed the concept that dating is an investment strategy with no guarantees, and I’ve openly admitted something about my game plan must change lest I resign myself to a life of solitude. But right now I feel like a queen (I use that term very lightly and strictly for paronomastic purposes) on chess board, trying to figure out my next move. I’m determined to remain in control, even if it means making myself vulnerable to a said “worthy opponent” at the risk of being struck down in defeat.
After a dose of liquid courage and a NyQuil shooter (actually I downed some cheap wine and smoked a few cigarettes, but the aforementioned debauchery sounds more fun), I decided to cast caution to the wind and rewrite an essay two-hours before I would submit it to the admissions committee.
I won’t say where, but a story about a one night stand got me a scholarship offer to attend law school. At least part of the proof’s in the personal statement I turned in with my application:
To be frank, I spent the better part of five-months drafting a “perfect” personal statement. I shopped it around to close friends, colleagues, and professional mentors. Each weighed in, offered his or her critiques, and helped me “polish” my essay. When it came time to submit though, I hesitated. It just seemed to lack something — my voice.
It occurred to me that a personal statement should be just that — personal. I’ve spent the last decade telling other people’s stories. This was my opportunity to share mine. I needed to be open, reflective and express myself honestly. But how does one do that when opting to write about a lustrous affair? It’s a story I first tried to tell on Bobbing for Apples in the Big Apple, but I didn’t go into as much detail.
In many ways, this blog did help me organize my thoughts and find my words. Take a look at the screen capture below, and you’ll notice I pulled from “No Strings Attached (NSA): Lie to Me, Pinocchio!” After putting the finishing touches on my personal statement, it also inspired a blog entry well-timed for the warmer weather of the season, “Twitterpated: Ice Queen Thaws Out for Spring.”
So if you noticed I was quiet for the entire month of May, now you know why (I’ve been considering offers, weighing options, finding funding). And I hope you’ll pardon my absence in the future once classes begin. But, rest assured: I’ll still be “Bobbing for Apples in the Big Apple.” So there’ll be plenty of food for fodder, and I’ll keep posting to this blog.
A couple months ago (and to the shock and dismay of some of the folks with whom I conduct business on regular basis), I announced plans to jump back into the dating pool. Since “going public” or making my initial public offering (IPO), I’ve come to appreciate that dating is an investment strategy.
Does a high-risk, high-yield investment promise to net the savvy investor a range of compelling returns? Only time will tell. But let’s hope he has some meaty dividends. 🙂
I digress. Dating is expensive. There’s no doubt about it, especially in New York. Cue Bubba Higgins of the “Tri-State Area” on Mama’s Family circa 1987:
Match.com recently created an infographic about love and money, detailing what singles spend on their dating lives. Using U.S. Census figures and polling data, the company figured Singles in America spend a combined total of $82 million a year. The online dating service asked 5,327 singles (2,123 men and 3,204 women) to respond to a single question: “How much money do you spend on your dating life per month?” They came back with $61.53 per single per month or what amounts to $738.36 per single in a year.
It’s not clear if those costs include advertising and self-promotion, but for yours truly, “keeping up appearances” is half the battle. I’m talking about everything from grooming to maintenance. Perhaps a new shirt is in order for a special occasion?
The new approach to my so-called “dating life” has forced me to take stock of my own position in the market. If I go out with this guy, will the value of some of my finer assets fluctuate? Take a dive? How will other would-be investors or spectators respond if they find out I slept with him on the third date?
And then there’s this question of how I’m playing the stock market. Monogamy has its appeal, but financial advisors always warn against putting all your eggs in one basket. The best way to protect yourself is to diversify your portfolio (in this case, of men). I’ve applied that theory to the dating game (opting to see more than one guy at a time), and a part of me wonders if such a strategy should extend to romantic relationships altogether. I’m not whole-heartedly convinced. But it occurs to me that by spending all our capital on just one person, we run the risk that we could lose everything if that relationship doesn’t work out.
Now that I’m a dozen entries into this blog, perhaps it’s time to put aside sexual innuendo and ambiguity for a brief moment. I flatter myself to think that anyone should find my metaphoric prose entertaining, particularly when most of my musings are based on little more than my own meandering experience.
Over the course of the last three months (and much to my surprise), this blog has gained an audience that spans the globe. WordPress shows views not only in the United States, but also countries in South America and Europe. And, it’s a small world. While I was away from New York on business in Indiana, I ran into an Indianapolis man whose ex-boyfriend in Brooklyn sent him a link to this blog suggesting he read it.
So what compels a jaded, 30-something homosexual to take to the web and publish his thoughts (dare I say feelings) for the world to read? I guess that goes back to my journalistic nature. Stories don’t mean anything when you’ve got no one to tell them to.
Now I write under an assumed name, using a double alias. Doing so allows me to freely express myself. By channeling some of my excess sexual energy here, I hope to free my mind and open myself to dating — perhaps even love.
As my last post certainly demonstrates, sex is easy to find. But, you can’t hurry love. And although, I appreciate The Supremes, I’ll let Phil Collins take it from here:
I need love – love to ease my mind.
I need to find time.
Someone to call mine…
How long must I wait?
How much more can I take?
Before loneliness will cause my heart – heart to break.
Now I can’t bear to live my life alone.
I grow impatient for a love to call my own.
But when I feel that I – I can’t go on;
Well these precious words keep me hangin’ on.
I remember mama said…
You can’t hurry love.
No, you’ll just have to wait.
She said love don’t come easy.
It’s a game of give and take.
You can’t hurry love.
No, you’ll just have to wait.
Just trust on my good times.
No matter how long it takes.
What I lack in a physical appetite for food, I certainly make up for in the bedroom. Sexually speaking, I’m hungry like a wolf.
As I’ve mentioned before, caviar is a homosexual’s delicacy. But that’s just a sampling of what’s available on the menu.
I prefer take out — to order my food in and have it delivered to me at home. To be frank, I’d rather shove chopsticks up my nose and scramble my brain than be forced to swallow some Asian invasion’s sweet and sour sauce. Most egg rolls are too small for my taste. That’s not to suggest I’ve passed on sushi. I’ve even given kimchi a try. Chop suey just isn’t my preference.
Please tell me you catch my drift. Otherwise the rest of this will be hard to follow.
Last night, I had souvlaki. And the night before that, I got onto the SweamlessWeb that is Grindr and placed an order for Middle Eastern cuisine. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction. Most guys are lucky to have chickpeas in their nut sacks. This guy had falafels overloaded with hummus.
Aside from the Clear Eyes, let’s just say the dude knocked my pita into next week and now, I’m taking steps in easy strides.
Again, I digress.
When you’ve sampled such a worldly cuisine, you develop a refined palate. Now that I have a few wining and dining (dating) experiences under my belt, I appreciate the tasting menu my convenient “fast-food” lifestyle afforded me (and on some occasions continues to provide whenever the mood dictates). At the very least, I know which foods bring me comfort. For someone who’s never had breakfast in bed, it’s something to think dating may bring me one step closer to waking sunny side up next to a partner whose bacon I’ll make sizzle every morning. All I’d ask for in return is a little cream to go with my coffee. 😛 Bon appetit!
A British guy who sparked public outrage after announcing plans to pop his homosexual cherry in front of a live audience took to the stage in London this week. But it appears the hyped performance was little more than an April Fool’s joke.
Last October, Clayton Pettet said he and an unnamed partner would have protected sex in a peep show called “Art School Stole My Virginity.” As Perez Hilton later put it delicately, “19-Year-Old Art School Student Will Create Art Through Penetration of His Virgin Butthole!” He told the UK’s Daily Star, “Basically it’s like I am losing the stigma around virginity. I want the audience to see if anything has changed between me and my partner.”
The ticketed event apparently attracted about 120 voyeurs who did not get to see anyone stem the rose and deflower Pettet. Instead, they found him pants on, sitting with two piles of bananas.
At the time of Pettet’s announcement, Twitter was a buzz. Who could have predicted TheWrap.com’s Executive Editor @JosephKapsch would have been so spot on and insightful in calling the stunt “BANANAS” back then?!
The Huffington Post’s Gay Voices describes the scene in so many words (a HuffPo attendee was invited to insert a banana into Pettet’s mouth):
“I am your anal virgin,” he said. “You are my partner. Pick up a banana.” I immediately started to panic: penetrating a 19-year-old was not on my to-do list tonight, even if it’s with a piece of fruit. “Now penetrate with my mouth eight times.”
Dazed Digital goes into more detail and includes a candid interview with Pettet who explained, “There’s this partner I’ve never identified. I think if people were expecting something else, it shows what they really wanted. They didn’t want an art piece, they wanted to see me have sex. If they came for the art, they wouldn’t be as disappointed — they’d know there were things to read between the lines for.”
A charitable initiative is yielding a bumper crop of men (many of them seemingly well-endowed and with washboard abs) posing for the camera wearing nothing but a sock.
Matt Stopera of BuzzFeed is reporting, “Men are taking pictures of their penises in socks and posting them on the internet with the hashtag #cockinasock to raise awareness for testicular cancer.” He calls the trend, “the best hashtag to exist in the history of the hashtag and human existence.”
Quite frankly, I agree. My mouth is watering. Here’s a look at the guys who’ve got me going weak at the knees.
It’s not clear (nor does it matter really) whether these men are gay, straight, or bisexual. But pictures say a thousand words and most of them appear to be pussy pounders. We can look if we can’t touch, right?
So whom do we have to thank for all this eye candy? James Brown is the beauty and the brains behind this “brand new, exciting way to raise awareness for male cancers.” Be sure to visit his fundraising page (whether you have a cock to rock out with or not). He’s trying to raise £5,000.00. That’s $8,264.50 USD. Proceeds go to Cancer Research UK, the world’s leading charity dedicated to beating cancer through research.
Disney coined the term “twitterpated” in its 1942 animated movie Bambi to explain to young audiences how the birds and the bees act during mating season. In the concrete jungle that is New York, all the animals who’ve been hibernating in their dens during the winter find themselves poised to emerge now that warmer temperatures have signaled spring’s arrival.
Yours truly is among them.
But this self-described “cold-hearted snake” has grown tired of slithering around with the underbelly of homosexual society. Most recently I entertained a vertically challenged specimen whose growth turned out to be just as stunted in other ways as well. Oh, get your mind out of the gutter! I mean he was massively immature. And alright (I’ll admit it), I’m a size queen and yes, he was lacking in that department too.
It’s time to shed my skin and expose myself (even at the risk of getting hurt), because as George Michael put it, “There is no joy for an uptown boy who just is unwilling to try.”
On that note, I’ve started to think about my dating life much as I would my career. It occurs to me that the more experience we acquire (in our chosen fields or in our social circles), the greater clarity we gain about the direction in which we prefer to take our lives. If each day we make one bold move toward where we want to be, eventually it’s possible to live the dream (and if I’m lucky, perhaps it’ll be a wet dream).