And I quote,
"I am lookin for a young dude that just wants to come in, get sucked off, and leave. I am not brad pitt, so if he's gotta suck you off lol, i dunno, but i'm not him. I am attractive, tall, strong, chub, good looking and talented. I am away from home on business, and I want a young dude. I will host, totally discreet, totally nsa.. I will swap pics, but if you're serious just send yours, i'm not all that picky, and you don't be either. If you're not willing to email a pic at first, give me ur details. IF YOU ARE OVER 30, i probably will not respond.. I DON'T CARE ABOUT DICK PICS...JUST SEND A NORMAL ONE, CUZ THATS ALL I HAVE... IF YOU WANT MORE THAN A BJ, I AM A TOP, BUT IF YOU'RE BI OR STR8 I'LL BET YOU JUST WANT HEAD...AND I'M COOL WITH THAT! GET AT ME "
I love the way it accellerates into ALLL CAPPPPPSSSSSS! Nothing like free ballin with the typewriter.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
I am not gay? Get serious
If a man gets his dick sucked once in a while by another man, and knows how that is accomplished in men’s rooms, that does not automatically make that man a homosexual. Those sorts of hookups go on all across America. Don’t believe it? Check out Craigslist personals. There are tens of thousands of men every day who, like Senator Craig, think that way about themselves. After all, they may have only done it occasionally; they may have done it out of sheer sexual convenience; they have only been on the receiving end of an oral, or perhaps a top. Throughout it all, they may have never even kissed another man. It could happen that way.
More likely, I think some of these men are confused, and others, perhaps, are being opportunistic. In any case, all of them are lying to themselves and their families. They are ashamed of what they do. Their acts provide an outlet, then their deceit and shame takes over for a while, but the need or desire always comes out again—sometimes in very destructive ways.
Many of these men, certainly those of a certain age and status, have never had to confront themselves with that central question. And there are many other traditionally-raised younger men who are simply afraid of being gay men.
I was one of those men.
Seven years ago, I had to make that decision. I had been waiting for my time—when the children would be old enough to know me on my own terms, rather than the ones I knew would be defined by my ex wife.
I had known I was gay for many years. I had endured a horrible, empty marriage. Yet admitting to myself and to my family that I was gay was still the most painful leap I have ever taken. It was a step into the void, where my future was uncharted. It would have been so much easier to have an affair with a woman than to come out as a gay man.
Fortunately, I had a core of friends who did not forsake me. My children, too, stayed by my side—as we grew to understand together who dad is.
For those who are struggling with this issue. Come to terms with yourself. Look around you. There are strong, good men who are out and gay.
But for men like Senator Craig, whose shame in this instance has driven him deeper into denial. You get what you deserve. You will never be free.
More likely, I think some of these men are confused, and others, perhaps, are being opportunistic. In any case, all of them are lying to themselves and their families. They are ashamed of what they do. Their acts provide an outlet, then their deceit and shame takes over for a while, but the need or desire always comes out again—sometimes in very destructive ways.
Many of these men, certainly those of a certain age and status, have never had to confront themselves with that central question. And there are many other traditionally-raised younger men who are simply afraid of being gay men.
I was one of those men.
Seven years ago, I had to make that decision. I had been waiting for my time—when the children would be old enough to know me on my own terms, rather than the ones I knew would be defined by my ex wife.
I had known I was gay for many years. I had endured a horrible, empty marriage. Yet admitting to myself and to my family that I was gay was still the most painful leap I have ever taken. It was a step into the void, where my future was uncharted. It would have been so much easier to have an affair with a woman than to come out as a gay man.
Fortunately, I had a core of friends who did not forsake me. My children, too, stayed by my side—as we grew to understand together who dad is.
For those who are struggling with this issue. Come to terms with yourself. Look around you. There are strong, good men who are out and gay.
But for men like Senator Craig, whose shame in this instance has driven him deeper into denial. You get what you deserve. You will never be free.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Blogworthy
Blogworthy
Being new at this, I am still searching for a voice in this medium. I must admit to having started this blog with less than a clearly focused goal. Therefore, one of the biggest challenges is to determine content. That, for me, can be a tough, since I’m not usually self-directed as a writer.
I’m a hired writer--hired to write news, ads, corporate crap. Give me a topic about corporate safety, and I have five paragraphs ready for print, including quotes and colorful examples. About myself, it’s not so easy. Although I could come up with a quote and a colorful example from this Friday night's take home (a very nice and horny man from Kansas City), I'm a little hesitant to be so revealing about myself.
And that’s part of the goal of this endeavor. To find my own voice. To challenge myself to speak out on issues that are important to me, and that I feel are important to share. I’m the decider here.
So, on that note: this blog is dedicated to things I find blogworthy, and things I do not:
Blogworthy
About being gay
About being 50
About children (mine)
About neighbors
About ex-relationships
Non-blogworthy
Babies
The weather
What I had for breakfast
What I did this weekend
Karaoke
Ok, that’s a start.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday's my night
For the past, gee, let me think.
For the past 25 years or so, I have been visiting the same bar. It used to be called the "Frolic," and now it is called "The Elbow Room." It's the sort of place that Cheers could have been, before the writers and set designers got ahold of it and made it really something detestable, like the series ended up being.
I digress. Thursday has often been a good night out with my straight friends. I've known most of them (all three) since grade school/middle school.
So, it's a comfortable get together. Lots of mutual jokes and mocking of past failures. Ex-wives and former dates are mercilessly tossed onto the pyre of laughter. Add some politics and topicality, and you're gold for the evening.
Topics from tonight included:
1) A thorough discussion of the qualifications (large breasts) and relative intelligence of the Hooters International Contest, which was playing on the big screen TVs. Instead of the evening gown competition, it should have been named the "sluttiest prom dress EVER contest."
2) High school teachers we still hate.
3) ED drugs are not just for straight men (I brought up that topic)
4 or 5 beers later, it's time for bed.
For the past 25 years or so, I have been visiting the same bar. It used to be called the "Frolic," and now it is called "The Elbow Room." It's the sort of place that Cheers could have been, before the writers and set designers got ahold of it and made it really something detestable, like the series ended up being.
I digress. Thursday has often been a good night out with my straight friends. I've known most of them (all three) since grade school/middle school.
So, it's a comfortable get together. Lots of mutual jokes and mocking of past failures. Ex-wives and former dates are mercilessly tossed onto the pyre of laughter. Add some politics and topicality, and you're gold for the evening.
Topics from tonight included:
1) A thorough discussion of the qualifications (large breasts) and relative intelligence of the Hooters International Contest, which was playing on the big screen TVs. Instead of the evening gown competition, it should have been named the "sluttiest prom dress EVER contest."
2) High school teachers we still hate.
3) ED drugs are not just for straight men (I brought up that topic)
4 or 5 beers later, it's time for bed.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Get a Queue
This is directed at you, Ms. 20-sumthing chatting on the phone in the red Passat, not that you’ll ever be exposed to hearing or seeing this. This is for you, too, grandpa in the Buick. Accellerate for chrissakes! This is also for everyone who shuttles along aimlessly through life like they drive. Have none of you ever learned how to queue?
The English know how to queue. So do the Russians. But most Americans can’t spell or even pronounce it. It means, keep up your place in line. Pay attention. Watch the light. Just fucking pull your goddamn car ahead. Move it a couple of feet to allow those who have other agendas in life to pass. Inch it up, baby. Let the person who’s behind you secure his or her place in line, or make it through the light.
It’s so easy to do. And it will make everyone’s day a little brighter. Especially mine.
Thank you for listening.
The English know how to queue. So do the Russians. But most Americans can’t spell or even pronounce it. It means, keep up your place in line. Pay attention. Watch the light. Just fucking pull your goddamn car ahead. Move it a couple of feet to allow those who have other agendas in life to pass. Inch it up, baby. Let the person who’s behind you secure his or her place in line, or make it through the light.
It’s so easy to do. And it will make everyone’s day a little brighter. Especially mine.
Thank you for listening.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Eeew, That’s So Gay,
While searching for the spot to restart the video after a long string of commercials, I slowed down the tape, and ended up running a bit of the last ad before the show started back up. Will Farrell was on screen, kissing another guy in an old promo for Saturday Night Live. A groan traveled across the classroom.
So, it didn’t really surprise me that the audience groaned during the Simpsons Movie, when the two cops kissed and ducked into the restroom and ignored Homer and Marge on the lam. Nor did it surprise me today, when in my doctor’s waiting room, I heard a portly, mid-40’s guy admonish a tyke who had grabbed a squeeze toy, “No, boys don’t play with pink toys.”
When that is the reaction of the general public, it sometimes causes me to despair. Much has been said and written about the use of the word gay, especially in recent usage, as a pejorative term. And, although I’d like to think the tide has turned in the use of “gay” as a bad label, I know that the feelings that lay behind that usage still remain. Kids didn’t learn that attitude from themselves, they learned it from adults.
When I was young, I was formally taught that black people were called “colored” or negroes. We didn’t see many in my little suburban community, and my father occasionally would use the N-word to describe them and their demands—primarily in regard to real estate and moving into neighborhoods. To be fair, he was more ignorant than malicious, and in those years, he probably was lashing out because he felt our value systems were being challenged as society changed during the 60s.
I recall traveling to Florida in 1961; I was six. I remember seeing the signs for “colored” and “white” at restaurants and gas stations. A few years later I found myself on an El-train in Chicago, sharing a bench with an older black gentleman, with my mother and her friend keeping watch over me from across the aisle. I also remember being in Washington DC, seeing Resurrection City, on the eve of RFK’s funeral in 1968.
What made me change? What was it about those years that made me a different man than my father?
I think it boils down to the simple fact that people took a stand against injustice--a public act or voice against discrimination and separate treatment. Rosa Parks, of course, is the patron saint of the modern Civil Rights movement for a very good reason.
Now that I’m a gay man of 50 (ok, 51), it’s time I do too.
So, it didn’t really surprise me that the audience groaned during the Simpsons Movie, when the two cops kissed and ducked into the restroom and ignored Homer and Marge on the lam. Nor did it surprise me today, when in my doctor’s waiting room, I heard a portly, mid-40’s guy admonish a tyke who had grabbed a squeeze toy, “No, boys don’t play with pink toys.”
When that is the reaction of the general public, it sometimes causes me to despair. Much has been said and written about the use of the word gay, especially in recent usage, as a pejorative term. And, although I’d like to think the tide has turned in the use of “gay” as a bad label, I know that the feelings that lay behind that usage still remain. Kids didn’t learn that attitude from themselves, they learned it from adults.
When I was young, I was formally taught that black people were called “colored” or negroes. We didn’t see many in my little suburban community, and my father occasionally would use the N-word to describe them and their demands—primarily in regard to real estate and moving into neighborhoods. To be fair, he was more ignorant than malicious, and in those years, he probably was lashing out because he felt our value systems were being challenged as society changed during the 60s.
I recall traveling to Florida in 1961; I was six. I remember seeing the signs for “colored” and “white” at restaurants and gas stations. A few years later I found myself on an El-train in Chicago, sharing a bench with an older black gentleman, with my mother and her friend keeping watch over me from across the aisle. I also remember being in Washington DC, seeing Resurrection City, on the eve of RFK’s funeral in 1968.
What made me change? What was it about those years that made me a different man than my father?
I think it boils down to the simple fact that people took a stand against injustice--a public act or voice against discrimination and separate treatment. Rosa Parks, of course, is the patron saint of the modern Civil Rights movement for a very good reason.
Now that I’m a gay man of 50 (ok, 51), it’s time I do too.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Marketing 101
Gay men always look at men who are not wearing shirts. When I was a young boy, it might have been a neighbor (or a friend’s older brother or dad), or the boys at the local pool. As an adult, it’s the construction guys or the guys at the gym I look at. Helloooooo Nurse!
I have a theory that it’s because guys can stare or look at a guy’s chest pretty much without causing homophobic reactions in straight guys. In fact, straight guys like to show off their chests. But this isn't about straight guys chests. It's about men's chests in general.
So, naturally, a weekend of seeing perhaps a thousand men’s bare chests in all shapes, sizes and degrees of furriness was just the tonic this soul needed mid-summer.
A few random thoughts from Market Days. Maybe some topics to write about in the future.
Did you know that there are three streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina?
When you are walking with a very furry, handsome man, some people just want to touch the fur.
If these folks really love their dogs so fucking much, and are selling doggie t-shirts with slogans like “I have two daddies” with a dog between two stick figures, please do your dogs a favor and don’t take them to a street festival with wall to wall people and 90 degree heat and hot pavement. Think of the dog’s comfort.
Same advice for strollers. Dog strollers, too.
If underwear is your outfit of choice, choose your Sunday best, please.
Is the stubble chest look really the way to go?
Twister at Steamworks with men in Speedos is fun
But I digress.
Thanks to my gracious hosts and reuniting with a friend, a good time was had.
I have a theory that it’s because guys can stare or look at a guy’s chest pretty much without causing homophobic reactions in straight guys. In fact, straight guys like to show off their chests. But this isn't about straight guys chests. It's about men's chests in general.
So, naturally, a weekend of seeing perhaps a thousand men’s bare chests in all shapes, sizes and degrees of furriness was just the tonic this soul needed mid-summer.
A few random thoughts from Market Days. Maybe some topics to write about in the future.
Did you know that there are three streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina?
When you are walking with a very furry, handsome man, some people just want to touch the fur.
If these folks really love their dogs so fucking much, and are selling doggie t-shirts with slogans like “I have two daddies” with a dog between two stick figures, please do your dogs a favor and don’t take them to a street festival with wall to wall people and 90 degree heat and hot pavement. Think of the dog’s comfort.
Same advice for strollers. Dog strollers, too.
If underwear is your outfit of choice, choose your Sunday best, please.
Is the stubble chest look really the way to go?
Twister at Steamworks with men in Speedos is fun
But I digress.
Thanks to my gracious hosts and reuniting with a friend, a good time was had.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
aka the cheese stands alone
For now, its the working title. Not original, I know. The heigh-ho the dairy-oh, the farmer takes a wife, you know the tune.
Somehow it does end up with the cheese being alone. That's where I come in. For now.
Not only is this title stolen from that song, it is also stolen from a college friend who claimed her first book would have this title. Well, I haven't seen it out yet, and I always thought it was a good one to use. Sorry, P. (Gosh, I'm going to have to come up with some sort of fake names for everyone.) Note to self--keep phone book handy for fake names.
So yes, this cheese is alone. Also, for now. I guess I am LTR-minded, and would gravitate to that someday, but I'm mostly enjoying my single status. Fifty-one, good health (relatively). Employed. Gay. Dad with kids. But also on my own.
More about me later--not that that's the point of all this anyway. Now you know where the title came from.
Somehow it does end up with the cheese being alone. That's where I come in. For now.
Not only is this title stolen from that song, it is also stolen from a college friend who claimed her first book would have this title. Well, I haven't seen it out yet, and I always thought it was a good one to use. Sorry, P. (Gosh, I'm going to have to come up with some sort of fake names for everyone.) Note to self--keep phone book handy for fake names.
So yes, this cheese is alone. Also, for now. I guess I am LTR-minded, and would gravitate to that someday, but I'm mostly enjoying my single status. Fifty-one, good health (relatively). Employed. Gay. Dad with kids. But also on my own.
More about me later--not that that's the point of all this anyway. Now you know where the title came from.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The Cheese Stands Alone
What, you thought I'd write something for a first blog entry? C'ome on, I have to think about that a little.
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