Is "You Need a Massage" the New "I'm Great in Bed; Let's Have Sex?"

It's possibly me, but I've come to accept it.  The understatement of the century.
Gay men are just rampaging man-sluts looking for the next quickie without the questions. They could care less who they're sticking it to as long as it's

A - Male

B - Has an asshole

C - Has muscles

D - Is horny and has access to some party drugs.

Really. Why get to know a guy when there's all this bootay to fuck? Who has the time, anyway? We're going to die, so let's do so with a bang. Literally.

But, because there are guys like me who are what's called a rara avis, which is Latin for rare bird, which in Spanish becomes pajaro raro, which is perjorative for flaming homosexual, a thing I am not but am anyhow (I like Judy. Fuck you.), many of the fuckers have become quite crafty in wanting to get into my designer t-shirts and jeans and onto my soft skin that is usually well-oiled with the real aloe vera and then some. Now, it's not the "twenty questions of Hell" that were so in vogue in the Nineties before DSL or (huh) Broadband or complicated profiles linked to blogs and Twitter and Facebook and other dating pages and possibly one where they're offering a little some-some and a sponsorship. This is something I call, the new "Let's have sex."

It's called, "I give great massage."

Usually it becomes tweaked a little to become the 2.0 of itself: "You need a massage."

And if we really want to up the ante with mind-blowing suspense, we can re-phrase it as, "I wish I were there... I'd give you a massage you'd never forget." [Note: the idiot lives 3000 miles away from me.]

WHAT THE FUCK DO I FUCKING CARE THAT YOU HAVE GREAT HANDS, YOU FUCKING PIG?? DID I FUCKING ASK YOU TO ENUNCIATE TO ME YOUR SPECIALTY AT FINDING PRESSURE POINTS?? KEEP YOUR FILTHY, BASTARDLY HANDS TO YOUR PIGGY SELF UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO GRAB AN AXE AND USE YOUR HANDS AS KITCHEN PROPS. GEDDIT?

If I want a massage, I will show my lazy ass to the mall where I'll throw myself on top of the chair near Kohl's and that fucking Korean bitch BETTER give me one and make me smi-i-i-i-ile... or I'll show her what I can do with my hands.

See how simple my rules are?

Now follow them.

We Regret to Inform that you Will Enjoy Yourself Tonight.

It's no fun when someone leaves you high-and-dry at the very last minute right before you're supposed to meet them at the local leather bar for drinks, although in this case it's not just a local, boring hangout but Ybor City's premier Eagle.




Anyone who knows the Eagle franchise knows that these are very intense places to go cruise and possibly find yourself in a compromising position that involves a lot of rough foreplay and the videos certainly encourage this by being as in-your-face as possible. I enjoy these bars because of the raw masculine energy that they exude and whether or not I meet anyone, it's never a dull experience.

Anyway. I was simply heading out to meet and make a new friend and whatnot. Lucky me: usually my trips to Tampa Bay are boring to a point I actually contemplate a painful suicide by throwing myself in one of the many little ponds withing the area and hoping there's a crocodile nearby waiting for a freebie. The presence of my mother doesn't help and is a perfect recipe for a pot of soup about to boil over.

We were supposed to have met at around 9:00. Ish. Accent on the 'ish.' It meant that I'd be at the Eagle give or take at 9:30, having some beers, checking out the scene. Which meant leaving at 8:45 PM for a fifteen minute drive into Ybor city. However, come exactly 8:38 PM I received a text. In it, a rather odd excuse I really can't buy because it's so completely off-mark: roughly, it read---

Hate to do this but I have a funeral to go to tomorrow - it was scheduled for Sunday but I have to do a reading tomorrow and get hell if I don't show up

Note I was about to leave. Dressed, ready, practically out the door. I decided not to get annoyed---so many guys have a habit of scheduling with you, then chickening out at the last second or worse, leaving you waiting at the place, high and dry, never to hear from them again. However I felt my blood about to boil, and I was just about to explode when my sister decided to step in and along with my sister-in-law we took off into the night shortly after for drinks and dinner because they were ready to go and they were certainly not going to stay home on a Friday night.

Not when all of Tampa Bay is a-buzz.

Ybor was quite a happening place tonight. Of course, nothing can compare to New York City---any street, but this had a New Orleans feel to it---with the Spanish and French Quarter architecture, the rows of bars, pubs, clubs, restaurants open 'til all hours and a street littered with people of all walks of life. I instantly felt the initial anger subside and began to enjoy the cool air of the evening and the eye candy that was all around me.

We stopped by The Honey Pot, a trendy club. There we met Arica Love---a tall, attractive blonde dressed in a sleek black dress who immediately spotted us and without hesitation she came over and said:

"You look a little lost, honey. Would you like to come in?"

I'm like, yeah---I'm lost alright. I'm still pissed that I got stood up. Oh well... I guess this will do. "Sure," I said.

"Where are you from?"

"New York."

"The floor is pretty packed, though, so I'm going to suggest if you don't want to wait in line you can go in via the VIP system and you won't have to pay the cover."

I'm a bit shy to accept---I'm always shy on introductions, anyway---but I decided I didn't want to wait, I wanted a drink, and I wasn't about to stand for the next two or three hours. Hell no. So in we went.

As we walked in she turned around and told me (well, more like mouthed, it was so loud): "See? It's packed." She wasn't kidding: the place was a mass of people congregating around the stage as a drag performer whose name I cannot remember lip-synched to Lil' Kim's song "How Many Licks Does it Take?". After several twists and turns we wound up on a mezzanine of sorts where our booth---an array of sofas and ottomans---waited for us. We were in heaven: to not have to stand, to be able to enjoy an evening (my last) in Tampa as the music blared into the dancefloor---that is all I wanted and it was happening. We were getting our drinks (after a couple false starts; we weren't able to get our margaritas and Arica negotiated we settle for Buttered Nipples and a Black Russian for me) while being her pleasant self. I wanted to hug her but I'm surprisingly shy.

Now if only I'd have gotten the man, I'd have been a happy camper, but there we were, the three of us, chatting away into the night (a fourth, a friend of my sister's) came to join us, and all the time I kept wondering if perhaps not meeting someone whom I might not have had anything in common with could be a blessing in disguise because my head, as usual, was having its own little party as the dazzling lights and beautiful people danced and mingled and occasionally made out in front of me, the consummate voyeur taking it all in, quietly, smiling.

After all, I basically had the perfect evening with meaningful people. Two out of three (the sex part) ain't bad, right?

Dirty Mouf?

To anyone reading this:

I post quite a bit on Facebook. I have a potty mouth of the worst kind. I post with the sole intention to shock people and have succeeded here and there; I am banned on a couple [FB] pages and expect to be banned from more---that, to me, is an achievement.

So of course, one of my tirades began as a conversation with my lovely (and fellow Libran) friend Eira and I are talking a mile away (think "His Girl Friday" but faster if that's humanly possible) about sex, men, more sex, raunch, and did I say raunch? Yeah. We're profoundly romantic in a way John Waters, circa "Pink Flamingos", never could achieve.

Anyway, somehow conversation moves into my the realms of my (well worked-out) ass (you really should see it, it's rather epic I should say) and its lack of action (i. e. "fucking") and that it's in a dry spell. It's depressed. It's contemplating suicide... or another more sexually active body, leaving me thusly in the dust, ass-less. And then what?

Cut to our convo. We're talking about this very sad Spanish song called "Penelope" about a woman who waits---like the Greek story---for her Man to arrive. Years and years go by and she waits. When he arrives he's heartbroken beyond repair---she's an old, old woman, possibly senile. The moral of the story? Get another man. Ulysses is busy chasing monsters and what-not while you wait. Not good for the complexion.

So I say, you know what? I know why that song was made: it was made for moi, because I am getting NO action through the backdoor. Not even of the DIY kind. Unlucky me. Penelope has the smaller word PENE (penis in Spanish) and she ain't gettin' no mofo friction, yo! Dat shit ain't right!

So I'm like, "Wait. You just wait. I'm gonna post something so out there it's guaranteed to make people close their doors on me. I want to see that list shrink down to the bare essentials... so I can laugh at them all. Fucking complacent cowards."

I posted my status in Spanish. It reads: Lament of the day: People, I just realized why they dedicated the song "Penelope" to me. The thing is, my pleasure-pillows are waiting for the absent penis to come. And they're turning old and dry due to the lack of food, presence, bang-bang, and flava. What a tragedy. You cannot be a sissy-mary withOUT the mary.

No one has since left me and a straight guy replied with one of the raunchiest comebacks I've seen---hence my reply in Spanish: "Words were SPOKEN!"

Eira doubles in laughter, but it gets better. I have to share this with you in a transcript.

Esther: HAHAHAHA you're crazier than ever!

Eira: Oh my Lord! God give him strength to resisit this! HAHAHA

Me: I'm REALLY sad because here I am waiting for the man with the flava to come and no one's fucking paying attention to me.

Monica: hahahah omg, you are so much fun

Me: That's what the last guy told me to my ear before he left me high and dry and waiting.

Eira: OMG! You don't do that to people!

Esther: And you still remember him? You masochist.

Me (to Eira): I tell you---he left me cold.

Me (to Esther): Well, it depends... sometimes I like it when someone whips me or sticks needles on my back, sometimes I like it when I dig my heel onto someone's nuts and make him cry uncle. Just a little autobiography in a couple lines.

Esther: OMG!!! I did NOT want that much info! LOL

Me (to Eira): You see, Eira? They're dropping like flies due to shock.

Fab: The guy loves to talk smack.

Eira (to Fab): We have to love him the same! He's waiting on SOMETHING and it's not there yet! HAHAHA

Me: And the ones who show up are married, what the fuck is up with that? I want a man NOW!

Me (again): One that has a mouth filthier than mine and not because he likes it when they shit into it!

Fab: Let me know so I can take it away (I think she was referring to my state of mind).

Me: Well, come because I need a man or woman with a huge-ass toothbrush, toothpaste, or Oxy Clean. Grab a taxi and come to 237 Ogden and I'll be waiting for you in my birthday suit and a somewhat piggy smile [on my face].

Rafael: Dude this is what is called an intensive ass attack and you take care of it with 2 Penismitron pills and 3 Dickcyline pills three times a day, try it and see if it works.

Fab: Holy shit.

Me: Words were spoken!

I love this interaction. You cannot write this---this is what life is all about.

Ivan's Alphabet Pastiche

Alright, I gave in. Yes, I gave into one of THESE things: one of them "things you MUST know about me"... as if temper tantrums, sexual frigidity, and the occasional soft-weeping at the sight of Hannibal Lecter munching on someone's visage to the lovely tunes of Liszt's Piano Concerto weren't enough to make you recoil. [Well, I should state that my shocking pink faggotry sure has---you will NEVER see one of them (GRRR/macho/UNH!-UNH!-UNH!/sweat/stank/Big&Tall wearing/Coors drinking/fifty-four kids in record time spawning while poor wifey's vadge falls apart) folks, ever, EVER post on my lil' place on Facebook which is where this ditty was created. Note to married comformists with a cock between they laigs: ya cain't catch it!]

So let's see. Yadda, yadda, my smelly socks, the alphabet which is supposed to describe me. Or something. Read and be entertained... or repulsed and embarrassed to know me.

I mean, sometimes even I'm embarrassed and repulsed to know me.

A is for Age:
Forever young. As if gay men could ever age...Ha! Pass the martinis.

B is for Bed Size:
Full, but need to upgrade to Queen 'cos that's what I am. A big ole' queen.

C is for Chore you Hate:
Cleaning up after someone else's spunk on my Chinese-red carpet. Come on, guys... really. The OxyClean is on the counter in the kitchen; the scrub-brush is under the sink. They're not going nowhere.

D is for (your) Dog's Name:
Buddy. And so is my Akita.

E is for Essential Start Your Day Item(s):
Groan, wince, curse at daylight, feel bones crack, crawl out of bed, check email/facebook, edit a story, check some muscle porn like a dirty ole' man, possibly touch myself but that's to make sure it didn't fall off due to lack of use, shower, teeth, cereal, get dressed, and out the door, still groaning and wondering WHY ME???? In that order.

F is for Favorite Color(s):
Electric blue, Chinese or Tomato red

G is for Grandchildren:
Why? That ages me, so ergo, FUCK no.

H is for Husband:
What husband? With my temper? He better be fuckin' Paul Bunyan strong or I will willfully wipe the floor with him. But he might come back for more. Masochistic bastard. Get on your DAMN knees and give me 25 while Daddy makes some Hazelnut coffee with cream and sugar (By the way, how do you like yours? Black? Oh, okay) and DON'T fucking cheat or you will feel this heel on your right temple.

I is for Ice cream flavor:
Chocolate-chocolate chip rolling down a man's full set of pecs so I can lick it all off. Yums.

J is for Job Title:
Slave or Language Whore, whichever fits. I'm the voice you don't want to hear over the phone.

K is for Kids:
No. Kids. Ever. "Wednesday's Child" does NOTHING for me. Neither does "Destiny's Child". Not even "ToniiSha's Love Chile 'Cuz She Fuggot to Tell Her Pimp it Wuz Dat Time Uf Da Monf An Now She Got Dis Dag Baby Cryin En Shit".

L is for Living Arrangement:
Crate and Barrel, please, with a dash of decrepit 1800s house settling the crap around me like old bones on a bonfire.

M is for Missed out on something?:
No. Well, maybe strangling my exes and wearing their skin. Or throwing hot coffee at someone who was just there, just to see a reaction. Ouchie. Nurse? Yeah, um... Marla got some coffee accidentally thrown at her. Again. By me. No, it's not Hazelnut with cream and sugar. Just... come clean 'er up.

N is for Nicknames:
Ivan, but those who know me well call me Lucretia Branford-Cathwhaite or Tammy Luvzcock if I go ghetto. [See K is for KIDS.] Some gay men call me Stud or WOOF but that's because they're shy... and can't read my very complicated, Nigerian-based name you can only pronounce with a very nifty tongue.

O is for Overnight Hospital Stay:
I swear I fell down the stairs! No, it wasn't someone else's wine bottle crashing on my head!

P is for Pet Peeve:
Oh, this is easy. Cunts. So prevalent in gay men.

Q is for Quote From a Movie:
Where do I start? 'All About Eve?' "Annie Hall?" "Lion in Winter (1969)?"

R is for Right or Left Handed:
Left. Ergo, creative.

S is for Song:
When you Touch Me---Freemasons. Disco-house rules. Key Largo---Sarah Vaughan. Can't Keep Lovin' that Man O' Mine---Ella Fitzgerald. [Ooh... revealed too much. Must NEVER show heart.]

T is for Time you Wake Up:
When I hear my bones crack and my iPhone startle me into full-blooded, terrified wakefulness at precisely 5:00 AM.

U is for Underwear:
Sometimes, sometimes not. Wouldn't you be surprised if I were in my "sometimes not" mode.

V is for Vegetable You Dislike:
Paris Hilton or Daisy from "Daisy of Love".

W is for Workout Style:
Weights. Intense. You should see me, even when I've had a 'rough night.' I still pump it out, don't I?

X is for X-rays you've had:
I once had a fantasy I was pierced in a private place by a manta-ray. Does this count? I also own "The Man With the X-Ray Eyes".

Y is for Yesterday's Best Moment:
Laughing on Facebook as I churned out my crazy. I should get fucking PAID for the shit I pump out. Or a show on the telly.

Z - Zoo Favorite:
Zoo Station. U2.