Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 5: My Spotty Reputation)

I wanted to start off smooth and snide. Maybe pretend to ignore him and mutter "Man, I'd love to go home right now, but the vibe is all wrong." And then just walk on by the house. Then I would not answer his e-mails or phone calls (which I was certain there would be hundreds of) until that one day when I'd run into him at, of all places, Good Vibrations. I'd be by the vibrator wall. I'd slowly turn toward him, offer no proof that I recognized him, and say "Gosh. I want to get one of these vibes for my hot, eighteen year old poolboy/boyfriend, but I'm afraid I'll get the wrong type. You look like someone who knows his vibes, what would you get?" He would be not only crushed but rendered impotent by the exchange, and would spend the rest of his life breaking out into hives whenever someone discussed sex toys, acoustics, or that Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch video. One day, five years down the line, he'd be at a party, doing lines of Pixie Stix off some skank's diseased stomach when a certain Beach Boys song would catch his ear. At that moment he'd realize how empty his life was without me, and he would have no choice but to slit his wrists and throw himself into a vat of Hydrochloric Acid and lemon juice. His stomach skank would think it was a bad reaction to the nose candy, but, even though I would have so moved on by then, when word of Ethan's death reached me, I would know that I was the reason he pulled his fizzing body out of the acid vat and threw himself out the plate glass window and on to the salt-covered barbed-wire electric fence.

When I realized how that scenario was far too good for Ethan, I looked him almost dead in the eye and said "Hey."

"Hey."

"Why are you sitting on my doorstep?"

"I felt like an asshole."

If I had written the experience,instead of living it, I would have said "You were an asshole. I hope you didn't come here looking for forgiveness or sex, because you can forget about either." Instead, I said "Don't worry about it." Liam was right, I am a fucken pussy.

"Can I come in?"

No, you cockblocking, bad vibe having piece of spermicide, you can't. "Sure. You have to be quiet, though, my roommates are sleeping."

Let's pretend that we had some long conversation that completely vindicated why he essentially threw me out of his house. Maybe his Dad died, or his roommate urinated in his fish tank. The assumption that we'd reconciled our first encounter, makes us both sound a little less desperate than the truth: as soon as we were inside the door we began snogging.

"Before we go any further," he said with one hand down the front of my jeans, "I have to ask. Do you have AIDS?'

"No. I'm very much negative."

"So what's with all those spots?" I wondered if I'd had such a stressful night that I'd entered some sort of second puberty. Was my face a minefield of pustules? No.

"Spots?"

"Spots. They're all over your arm."

"My freckles?" Was it possible he'd never seen a person with freckles before?

"Freckles?"

"Yea. Freckles. When I'm out in the sun, instead of getting a tan, I get freckles. It's like low carb skin cancer. I've had them since I was born."

"So, they're not like lesions or an STD or anything."

"Unless you consider life as an STD, no. They're just freckles. No more contagious than my hair color."

"Oh." He pushed me on the sofa, slid off his Umbros, and sat his ample ass on my exposed cock. "Ooooh. You like that don't you."

I suppressed a snicker (and perhaps a Twix or two). Talking dirty is a fine art. Ethan was still fingerpainting.

"I know you love my ass. Don't you Safey?"

I froze. "What did you just call me?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/45618.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 4: Floored)

A majority of homes that I've lived in have hard wood floors. No wonder I grew up gay.

As a hard wood sort of fella, I've always had an aversion to carpets. They're high maintenance. When I moved to Big City, four years ago, the first major purchase I made was a bed, which was followed by sheets, a bedspread, and a matching carpet. I remember thinking how out of place the patch of carpet looked on the floor. I got the same feeling when James took off his clothes, and asked "So, do you like what you see?"

No, I didn't like what I saw. I saw a bunch of flea-sized Tibetans dying various patches of his hair, and weaving them into patterns. I saw a chia face with that ugly "not yet a beard, no longer just stubble" look going against the grain of his skin. I saw a man so petrified by the way he looked that he sent out fake pictures and then had the balls to take off his clothes and ask me if I liked what I saw.

I didn't reply. I pretended to be so absorbed by examining the room's decor that I hadn't heard him. I decided that if he was the type of person who loudly repeated questions when they weren't answered, I would leave. I prayed for him to ask again.

The next thing I knew Fuzzy Sluglips was more up close and personal than that horrible Robert Redford movie. I braced myself for impact. Scratch. Scratch, Scratch. I loathe stubble burn. I pushed him away. "I don't think this is a very good idea. The vibe is all wrong."

What the fuck did I say that for? I mean, I know that I needed to say something to stop the kissing and get out of naked guy's house, but of all phrases to come out of my mouth, that one kind of hurt to say.

I walked home quickly, taking a light detour when I noticed a skunk down the street from James's house. The night had been bad enough, I didn't need it to end traumatically.

I was staring off into space as I got home. Trying to spit the venomous taste of "the vibe is all wrong" out of my mouth without actually spitting. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I nearly tripped over Ethan as I walked up the stairs to my front door.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/45196.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 3: Fuzzy Recollections)

At some point in the past month, I've begun to schiz. Insobermode flops between leather computer chair and leather sofa, watching TV screen or computer monitor. He lives on Ramen noodles and Cherry Coke. Insafemode leaves the house at odd hours, whether it's to meet strangers for sex, or just to mill around Boston.

It was Insafemode who left the house at 3:45 on a Friday morning, after Insobermode had been rejected. While Insobermode had fretted about what would happen on his way to meet Ethan, Insafemode was writing a LJ entry in his head as he swaggered over to James's house.

Neither personality had walked in this direction before. I'm not talking metaphorically, I'd never had any particular reason to investigate the area Southwest of Chez Insafemode. After a couple of blocks, the familiar multi-family houses gave way to apartment/condo/dorm complexes; the sort of buildings with broom closet sized rooms, where people who wanted to live closer to their sub-living wage jobs.

I envisioned entering James's terrarium. He would be standing on the not-so-far side of the room, that "come hither, even though you're only standing three feet away" look in his eyes. He would coyly offer me a drink from the water bottle hanging from his wall. After a few sips, he would start playing hard-to-get running laps on his metal wheel.

At roughly the point where I was mentally envisioning leaving his house in a plastic ball, the quality of the buildings started to improve. Parking lots were filled with Maseratis and other mid-life crisis mobiles instead of 1984 Ford Tauruses.

James would answer the door in a cashmere bathrobe. In the middle of his room would be a water fountain shaped like an erect penis. His chihuahua, Gates, would be shivering in his lush doggy bed. "Insafemode," he'd say, "so glad you could make it. Your picture doesn't do you justice. Let's say we cut through the bullshit." At which point he'd, literally, disrobe, revealing his perfectly chiseled ass. We'd fuck until the Cubs won the world series. When we were both too spent to do more than twitch and moan, we'd fall asleep in each others' arms. The next day, my own private Dellionairre would take me out to brunch where we'd discuss those poor slobs running around the streets in plastic hamster balls.

As quickly as they'd popped up, the posh condorms disappeared. I arrived at the properly numbered house. Hamster cage it was.

I buzzed the button with "james 's place" written in cursive letters on a post-it note, a big smiley face dotting the "j". Nothing about our encounter was what I imagined. His condorm was deceptively large. Two bedrooms, one kitchen, one bathroom, one den. His room was the swallowing image of Ethan's. Madonna poster? Check. Computer with pretty boys fucking screen saver? Check. Rainbow triangle adhered to window? Check.

"Hi."

James was...not the guy from his picture. Heavy-set, but not fat, he was majorly stubble-faced. I imagined he had a thick carpet of hair covering his body from Adam's apple to toe knuckle. A theory that was quickly proven accurate.

He pulled me toward him, and shut the door in one fluid motion. "So," he asked, "do you like what you see?"

A question, I realized, that I really shouldn't answer honestly.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/43308.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 2: Still Up)

As the front gate clicked shut behind me, I tried to figure out what I could have possibly done wrong. I'd barely said anything, I hadn't made any moves on him...maybe that was the problem. Maybe I hadn't been forward enough. We'd been meeting for sex, and we'd spent the ten or so minutes I'd actually been in his house making small talk and watching Tom Green being interviewed on Leno. I don't even like Leno, and I fucken hate Tom Green. I should have jumped him, or at the very least kissed him. Fuck.

I'd only ever been rejected for my looks before. Now someone who had found me physically attractive, someone who liked being around me and was 100% definitely gay, someone who had invited me over to their house for sex had rejected me without even seeing me naked. This was new territory. Painful new territory. Atlantis without an oxygen tank. I got the bends, and they weren't nearly as fun as The Radiohead album led me to believe.

Since I only lived about a ten minute walk from his house, I didn't have to spend too much time brooding in the rain that should have been falling around me. It had been less than a half-hour round trip. Some evil bastard in my brain took possession of the remote that controls my mental broadband. Images of my dead gecko, the smell of Ryan's shampoo, Ethan saying "I'm really glad we finally met" "the vibe is all wrong" "you should leave", the memory of Liam's "I never want to see you again you fucken pussy" e-mail. To top it all off there was some sort of fire near my house, so in addition to the lovely mental soundtrack of rejection, I had the piercing sounds of fire engine to fill my head.

Refusing to surrender to depression, I watched some South Park as soon as I got home. I didn't do a lot of laughing, but it kept my mind occupied.

After about an hour, I grew steadily more bored and negative, but not an ounce less horny. What to do? Watch more TV? Write an Insafemode entry? Masturbate? E-mail James? Hmmmm.

I'm not sure whether I had some subconscious premonition, but I'd given James a short-term bullshit excuse. One of those things that could have taken ten minutes or ten hours. Much like sex, but not.

I shot him an e-mail letting him know that I was once again looking for something someone to do. Then I sat back and waited for a reply. And waited. And waited. After an hour had passed, I figured he'd either gone to sleep or found someone else. I headed to bed, but remote control wielding demon wouldn't let me sleep; images of gecko, Elvis's laughter, dead chinchilla, the smell of MAMIP's cologne, "you should leave."

After two hours of pointless tossing and turning, I got up and plodded over to the computer to write an entry. One new message in my inbox.

From: Jamesishorny
To: Insafemode
Subject: Still up

Sorry I missed you. After your e-mail, I decided to head out to The Leather Bar with a friend. I just got back. Am a little buzzed, but wide awake and still very interested in getting together. If you're still awake, hit me up.

I looked at the time sent. It had just arrived. Sweet. I replied that I was, in fact, still awake, and could be in his house (which was about the same distance as Ethan's but in the opposite direction) in ten minutes or so.

The same distance, but in the opposite direction. I liked that. Surely that meant I would have as much success with James as I had failure with Ethan, right? Isn't that the way metaphors and cheesy chick-flick logic work?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/42676.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 1: The Vibe)

Shortly before I left Cranberry Lake for Boston, I worked as a stage manager/actor/lighting designer for a theatre troupe in Tourist Trap. It didn't pay well, but it allowed me to spend several hours a day attending to the needs of a certain parasite who need not be named. When said parasite was removed from my gills, I began shark swimming through life. When the mother of one of my coworkers got wind that I was leaving for Big City, she smiled at me and said "I knew you'd be moving on soon. You're a big fish in a small pond."

I know that she meant I was a talented actor in a limited scene (there's no accounting for taste), but my subconscious interpreted the statement differently. I had lived in Cranberry Lake for nearly seventeen years that. I couldn't leave the house to get my mail without running into four people I'd slept with, two of my elementary school teachers, one of my mother's best friends, and a former coworker with a partridge in a fucking pear tree sticking out of their ass. After Ryan's death, I lost all desire to get into a relationship with someone I already knew.

I began moving on whims. Six months in Boston, a year in Vermont, a year and a half in Boston, three months touring the country, five months in Boston, five months in Pieceofshitdeserttown, and another six months in Boston. All in all that's nearly three years of the last five that I've lived in Boston. No one will ever be able to say "You're a big fish in a small pond" to me here. I live in an ocean.

The problem with the ocean is that there are a startlingly high number of beautiful fish: marlins, coral angels, clownfish, heniochis, red volitan lions. I'm at best a minatus grouper. I stand out enough to get noticed, but I'm not the fish that either the tourists, the scientists or the anglers are looking for. Discarding the fish metaphor, I'm never surprised when someone expresses an interest in meeting me because of my writing or my personal ads,then stops e-mailing me after they've seen a pic.

Last night was an exercise in frustration. I've been writing about Ryan for the book, one of my geckos died, Timmy didn't work out, blah blah blah, depressing shit. So perhaps it wasn't a good time for me to be trolling for a date, but (insert deity here) I wanted to fuck the pain away.

Enter The Internet. I had a few e-mails from people who wanted to meet me, filed away in my inbox. I sent them replies, and placed an ad of my own. Among all the thirty-eight year old obese married guys who chose to ignore the "under thirty" that I placed not once but twice in the four sentence ad, was an e-mail from someone named James. James was my age. His picture was a face. A cute face but it could have been pasted on to any body. Whatever, I was depressed and horny. We made plans to meet around 11:30.

At 11:00 I got an e-mail from someone I'd been interested in for a long time, Ethan. Ethan was Colombian. His pic suggested he was slightly chubby and a shy, fairly masculine guy. In short, perfect. Also, he'd known what I looked like for a month or so, and he thought I was cute. Booya.

Ethan's roommate was out of town, and he was horny. I e-mailed James a bullshit excuse why I couldn't meet, showered, grabbed some condoms and lube and headed down the street to Ethan's house. Down the street.

It's been a long time since I've gone to someone else's house for sex. Since the night I started this journal, to be exact. My record on going to people's houses for sex is poor. This is why I prefer to host. Last night, hosting was not an option, so I trekked over to Ethan's house.

Ethan was not a slightly chubby, shy, fairly masculine Colombian. Unlike certain Pakistanis, he hadn't lied to me, he'd just lost some weight since the photograph, and become, for lack of a better term, gayer. My gaydar has very limited range, but even I could tell from the moment that he opened the door that he would have a Madonna poster in his room. I don't know what he does for a living, but I imagine it involves flowers, choreography, or a pair of scissors. Not exactly my type socially, but the boy was hot.

We walked up to his bedroom, where we sat down on his bed. The next two minutes were a blur. We talked about how his little brother was living in Pieceofshitdeserttown, how disillusioned he was with "the gay scene," how he was really glad we'd finally gotten together.

This was the moment of the film where everything turns around for the hero. After a particularly tragic time involving lots of rain and tear-stained introspective brooding, the main character meets someone he finally clicks with. Fuck you, Timmy. I'm so over you, Elvis. Look at this extremely hot guy who likes me for my looks and my personality. I'm going to fuck all the ghosts away.

Camera zooms in on the protagonist and his love/lust interest. They are sitting together on the bed. Both are smiling. The camera pulls in tight on the love interest's lips as he says "The vibe is all wrong." Pan out. Protagonist is clearly rattled. "You should leave."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/41848.html

Exquisite Corpse

There's nothing terribly original, unique, or even slightly uncommon about the fact that I find sleeping people beautiful. I can't possibly be the only person on my block who ever wished they could kiss, caress, fuck the hell out of a sleeping person without having to deal with their being awake. Unfortunately, the only options for that are roofies or necrophilia. The former is far too expensive for my taste, and necrophilia? Well, my mother always told me "don't knock it until you try it." I shall never knock necrophiliacs. Likewise, I shall never knock up a corpse.

So here I am on a Saturday night staring at a sleeping boy. A sleeping boy who a few hours ago was nothing more than a name called out during masturbation. Call him Timmy if you'd like. I do.

Tonight after a big gay fundraiser full of some of the most talented same-gender-fucking writers in Big City, Steggy and a few stragglers came to Chez Insafemode for some gossip and writing games (we're losers, fuck off). About ten minutes after we sit down, the phone rings. It's Timmy, The King of Impeccable Timing. While there is little I'd like more some Timmy ass up in my grill, my friends currently in the house come first, not me. At this point, I may never come. So I tell him I'll see him tomorrow, when I mean Monday.

Well, an hour or so passes. The friends drive off into the moonset, and I sit down at my computer to check e-mail. The phone rings. "Hello, Timmy."

"How'd you know it was me."

"It's 2:15 in the morning. Not many other people call me this latearly."

"Oh." "Yea." "Are your friends still there?" Why is it that gay boys sound so damned cute when they're nervous? Is that the vocal equivalent of being asleep?

"Nope. They just left. What's up?"

"I'm down the street from your house."

"Oh."

"Can I come over?"

"That would be"'the best thing that's happened to me all week, and it's been a good week. "That would be" a good way for me to get rid of my oceanic backlog of sperm "That would be" the reason why I'm stuttering like an idiot "fine."

And there he is, all 6'2" 150 pounds of him.

After the disappointment of my last few potential relationships, this could go really really right (much to the dismay of those who revel in my romantic/erotic misery). We sit down on the sofa and do some talking snuggling.

Snuggling? What am I a fabric softener? Since when do I snuggle? I don't even know this kid. This beautiful, intelligent, romantic kid. Shit, I'm getting sickeningly schmaltzy here. And, damn it, it hasn't even been an hour since I was openly ogling my friend's girlfriend's gay friend. The absurdly cute kid who actually wears *gasps* briefs. I can't love Timmy. Were it not for Caller ID, I wouldn't even know his last name.

Yet, there I was snuggling with him not one hour ago, right before he started snoring. It's very cute snoring, kinda like Huey, Dewy, and Louie from Duck Tales. Still, that's not what I wanted him to be doing with his mouth within the first fifteen minutes of our meeting.

As he snored, I couldn't stop fucken staring at him. Full blown, deep breathing, slack-jawed, I'm a dumb-ass romantic staring. I'm going to have to fuck him all day tomorrow to get this romantic crap out of my brain.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/41148.html

Mount Saint Christopher

Michael Christopher (a.k.a Saint)'s testicles had swelled to half the size of his body. If the average man ejaculates approximately 40 million little swimmers every time he shoots his wad, I was guessing Saint had approximately 6 billion. If you showed a photo of his testicles to an elephant, it would have said "Holy shit, those things are fucking huge. He should really see a doctor."

But Michael hadn't gone to a doctor. He had come to me.

"I'll let you do whatever you want to me if you give me a blow job."

I did my impression of a velociraptor trying to distract a human while the other raptor sneaks up and eats him. Michael was what I called quasi-gay. He preferred pussy to cock and was absolutely petrified of the very existence of anal sex. He had no problem with two guys getting off together but the very idea of any part of a person's body coming into any sort of contact with another person's ass repelled him. It didn't matter if the ass belonged to a male human, a female human, a transgendered platypus, ass was not an appropriate place for any kind of penetration.

"Let me get this str...correct. If I give you a blow job, you'll let me fuck you?"

He gagged. "Yes."

"Ummmmm." I really wanted to fuck him. Had in fact spent several hours of my life masturbating to the idea. Knowing his aversion to anything anal, I had long since given up the idea of it ever happening. We hadn't even fooled around before. He was mostly straight, and, as far as I had noticed, not the least bit interested in having me as anything more than a friend. Sure we'd made out a couple of times but he had been reeeeeeealy drunk. "Have you switched teams or are you testing your stamina for a Fear Factor audition?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He moved next to me on my bed, rested his head on my shoulder and began rubbing my back. "I just --- I really need --- it wouldn't change our friendship, would it?"

"Would giving my friend and occasional roommate a blowjob before I fucked him change our relationship? Hmmmm. I would imagine so, yes. I'll be happy to do it but it will change things."

"For better or for worse?"

"Are we getting married or are you talking about the comic strip?" No laugh. "I don't know. Maybe if you explained why the sudden change of heart or change of preference or change of cock or whatever this is I could give a better assessment."

He leaned toward my ear and whispered, "I really need to cum."

I matched his phone sex operator tone "So jerk off."

"I can't."

I gave him the raptor look again. "You can't jerk off?"

"I haven't jerked off in over two years."

"What? You used to be a fiend." After being barely more than giid acquaintances in elementary and high school, Michael and I had reconnected after we'd both dropped out of college. He was managing a Blockbuster, while I was managing Raspberry Records. After having a few beers, and catching up, we'd headed back to his place, where his delightful roomate, Scott, had filled me in on Sain't college years. Apparently, Saint was well known throughout the dorm as the hardest jerking man in the business. Scott, who'd been his roommate in college, too, would often complain about waking up to squeaking springs, coming home from class and interrupting saint's handball, waiting forty minutes to take a shower because Saint was gluing the tile together with his special brand of adhesive.

Some might try and say that Saint wasn't/isn't hot. He's no Collin Farrel or Matt Damon or whoever is currently young enough to be leading the box office with his capped tooth smile. True. Ok, and also, the only six pack he carried said "Heineken" on the side, but he was soooo cute. Short, spikey blonde hair, blue eyes, an almost wiry frame with a hint of belly, and his hands -- He had Marfan Syndrome, which gave him long spindly fingers, and stork legs. The disorder doesn't affect the cock, but that didn't bother me.

Back when he was in college, Saint had the kind of look that made co-eds trust him and want him to fuck them. At the time, he was saving himself for marriage. When he dropped out (the same semester I transferred), he gave up on the whole "saving himself" idea and became one of the most successful whores (not prostitutes mind you, whores don't necessarily charge money) I knew. He had clearly studied his Wilt Chamberlain, and made good use of it. He certainly didn't need to masturbate anymore, but he still did. When he crashed at my place, I often heard him in the other room. Something I was completely ok with.

When the two of us took a six month road trip through the forty-eight continental United States, visiting various friends and relatives, we kept a running tab of how many different homes we jerked off in. He kicked my ass.

"Well? Why can't you jerk off."

"If I tell you, do you promise to blow me?"

"It depends. Is an alien going to shoot out of your meatal and try and kill me? Is there some rash I can't see from this angle?" I lifted up his balls. This was the first time I'd ever touched him in his bikini zone. He shivered, not unpleasantly.

"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Okay."

"A couple of years ago, I bought a porn DVD for the first time. One of those fancy deals with multiple angles, chapter selection, and no unnecessary plotline, just really classy, really beautiful women getting fucked."

"And this was detrimental because --- "

He pushed me away with his head, and then pulled me back with his arms. "I watched it for at least six hours, I must have come like twelve times."

"If this story involves chafing I'm not only not giving you head, I'm making you put your clothes back on."

He stuck his tongue out at me. I put it to good use.

"Chafing? Please. I used to be a professional wanker. I never start without lotion."

"Go on, then, what happened?" The kiss had already sealed the fact that he was going to get his blowjob, even if he was going to come an alien life form.

"I turned off the DVD player, and the news was on..." He stared at me.

"Oh God, nothing kills an erection like Ted Koppel. Well, maybe Dan Rather or" I shuddered. "Connie Chung."

"Actually it was Katie Couric."

"Ewwwwww."

"The first thing I saw when I turned off the TV was the plane flying into the tower."

"Oh. My. God." I was starting to grasp the issue, as well as his cock. "You poor thing."

"I just feel like --- ahhhhhhhh, yea --- I feel like if I hadn't been jerking off, maybe the towers wouldn't have fallen."

I gagged a bit. Pulled my head out of his lap. "What?" Raptor look #3, a personal record for most times used during single conversation.

"I just -- I mean, what if next time I jerk off Mt. St. Helen erupts or a meteor strikes Washington D.C."

"A volcano eruption would be tragic, but I think the nation would owe you a huge debt if you single handedly..."

"I like to to use both hands."

"Okay, if you double fistedly wiped out Washington D.C."

He laughed. I returned to the business at mouth.

"Do you think that makes --- ohhhh God --- does that make meeeeee -- I'm going to" He did. Everywhere. Mt. Saint Christopher erupted all over my face, chest, headboard, wall, window, blanket, pillow. It looked like an explosion at the Liquid Paper factory. He smiled at me, and wiped the come off my face. "Does that make me fucked."

"It does now. Bend over."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/34164.html

The Polite Pakistani

You know I love you all. I even suffer for you. I am the Jesus of Whores. You shall be forgiven.

I canceled the date tonight. Not just because Steggy is coming over to hang out, but because I did a very bad thing. I'm not talking morally irresponsible, I mean just not very fun. I posted another Craigslist ad. I don't know why. Incredible stupidity? No long term memory?

I got about six responses from people who weren't folically challenged married men. In fact, most of them were written by seemingly friendly, cute, young guy guys. I whittled the candidates down to two. My first choice was --- uhh, I never got his name. Whatever his name was, his e-mails were really polite. Almost absurdly polite. I got the impression he was some sort of subservient bottom slave. The other candidate was Derek. Derek was a cute asian guy (maybe he read my faux post from last night before I deleted it) who decided last night that he was gay. He wasn't up for anything very exciting, he just wanted to come over and jerk off with another guy. Candidate #1 wanted to get fucked. Sorry, Derek, tell him what he's won Roddy. Today's runner up receives CVS brand plastic ware and a dozen naked photos of Ed Asner.

For our winner we have my phone number.

Candidate #1 called my house using a blocked number. Shady shady shady. He was at work and was whispering in a very cute Indian accent. He expressed his desire to just come over to the house and get fucked. No conversation, no promise of a second coming, he didn't even want to get off. Well, I did have a date tonight, so I thought if I took #1 up on his offer, I would be tension free during the date.

He got out of work in three hours, and asked if I had any rubbers. Rubbers. I can't even type that word without feeling British. Imagine the phrase "Would you be so kind as to purchase some rubbers" being said in a fairly effeminate Pakistani accent. Awwww. Ain't colonization a bitch?

#1's picture was hot. Young Indian guy on the beach, nice body, nice smile. Lust at first site. Too bad it wasn't him.

I suppose it's possible that it was him ten years ago, but he'd put on a bit of weight (not enough to be offputting...I like mildly chubby guys as much as non-bony thin guys), and he had clearly aged. Alot. If he was 24, then I'm 19.

Before I could second guess my decision we were in my room and getting naked. He was wider than I am, but about the same length, and much hairier than he was in the beach photo. C'est la vie.

He had a very nice butt. Nothing I would cut off and put on my headboard, but it was round, and it was there. After some lubrication and fingering, InSafeMode was raring to go, I put his swim cap on and he dove in. We tried several positions before I was comfortable. This was the first time having sex on my new bed, and it's not ideal for moderately heavyset Pakistani bottoms. I was in and out more than Anne Heche (it's an old reference, but what can you do?). After about twenty minutes, my phone rang. I wasn't going to pick it up, but it got frustrating as about four people decided that this afternoon was the ideal time to call me. About thirty minutes into the fucking, Old What's His Fuck informed me that his ass was burning from the inside. I'd used a ton of lube, and frankly I'm not big enough to cause tremendous ass pain. Especially to someone who is a practicing bottom.

I asked if he wanted to try oral. He doesn't do oral. Wonderful.

I'm past the point in my sex life where jerking off with a random stranger turns me on. Especially a random stranger whose picture was much cuter than his reality. He began clumsily jerking me off. I envisioned myself chafing, and put a stop to it.

We'd been going about forty-five minutes when my roommate came home. You'd think that would be a mood killer, but it was a relief. There was a closed door between us. I got the idea that The Guy wanted to leave. I would have been completely ok with that. I was barely hard.

"If it is not too much trouble, I would like to see you come." Did this guy learn manners from the kid on Johnny Quest? Yeesh. It was probably the cutest thing about him.

"If you bend over--"

"It burns from the inside."

I explained that I could do very nice things to his bottom without actually penetrating. And so I did. It still took me another fifteen minutes and about eleven different fantasy asses to reach climax. I came like a porn star.

I finished him off. He came like a sixteen year old boy on round #8 on a Sunday hand marathon.

He made me go out and talk to my rooommate while he got dressed and snuck out of the house. He said he couldn't wait to see me again. He can wait, and he will. I've already started talking with Scott about actually dating. I may be too old for this whoring thing.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/33189.html

This Morning's Horrifying Horoscope

Aries 3/20-4/18
Unless you are saving yourself for someone, it is time for you to get laid. Even if you’re in China – do the deed. Unfortunately you’re not going to meet anyone at a bar. Find a new thing to do and work to qualm your libido necessities with that angle. Oysters – eat oysters – just to be masochistic – while you search or at least until your s.o. gets home..

Maybe I'll wander around the city scrawling my phone number on bathroom stalls or something. That would certainly be "a new thing to do". As you can see by my astrological sign, y'all missed my birthday, so someone out there owes me some zodiac supported sex, no strings, necessarily, attached.

Why I Gargle With Bleach

After a long night of people abandoning plans for your birthday, a night filled a screaming match with your pseudo-boss and an awkward moment with your not-quite-ex who is your not-quite-ex because you were never quite dating; after a night like this you're almost grateful that your roommate's girlfriend greets you with a little kiss when you get home. You are grateful until her boyfriend/your roommate hands her some Altoids and says "Try one of these, your breath still smells like my dick."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/71183.html

All My Exes Live In Sex Flicks

Like a pedophile's inappropriate erection at a YMCA pool, Seith kept popping up. Three years post-Seith, I was living in Burlington in a house full of "creative types" (read: potheads with enough money to buy musical instruments, paintbrushes, and poetry journals). For a couple of months, I was the only person in the house with a computer, so I put it out in the den to make it a public computer. I deleted all the pornography, and wiped the history file clean of anything that could ruin someone's day.

About a week into it being a public computer, I checked the history file to see what people were looking at. I found an assortment of online comics, the complete lyrics and tablatures to Phish and Ween, a how-to guide about Section 8 living, and Gay.Com.

I was not the only out homosexual in the house. There were up to seven of us living together at any given time, and at this particular juncture there was me, one bisexual guy (no, not ever, not if his cock tasted like Smarties, and his ass felt like gelatin...well, maybe if his ass felt like gelatin, but it didn't, so the point is he was gross), and one decidedly dykey lesbian. Oh, and we think the cat was a little fey, too.

At any rate, I had never seen gay.com before. I'd visited the personals on PlanetOut, and seen an assortment of real porn sites, but I'd never stumbled over that infuriating little spike on the information superhighway known as Gay.Com. So of course, I started clicking. Everywhere. Guys here, guys there, looking for this, look at my cock, I want a man who dresses in purple bunny suits and likes to be peed on while reading Martha Stewart Living, etc. I was enthralled. And then...I saw him ByronElvisSeithRex. His hair...his hair was styled EXACTLY like mine, it was my color (it had not been when we were together). He looked like a thinner, better-looking version of me. So much so that when I showed the website to a friend, she asked if he was my little brother. Ga.

I haven't been back since.

Occasionally, his name would pop in a conversation with someone who knew me back when we were together. I started writing about him in the hopes of exorcising him completely from my life.

I moved from Burlington back to Boston, and spent two years not thinking about him much. Then I moved from Boston to Pieceofshitdeserttown and knew I would never have to see his face again. We were both older, and...why am I trying to build up tension here, you know what's coming.

A couple of weeks after I returned to Boston, I resorted to porn. Well, not exactly resorted, more like camped out at a cheap motel, or hoboed. I put some phrases into Kazaa and started downloading. The first three files were very porny. I found myself more amused than turned on. Began contemplating writing a porno script, so I began to put in common porn theme ideas into the search feature: pizza delivery boy, plumber, behind-the-scenes, poolboy, etc.

The sixth video I successfully downloaded was a plot-porn. The first two "characters" were discussing a third. The two were amazingly hot. I really didn't think I was going to make it to the third character when they showed him: Elvis.

The turtle pulled in his neck, the boys decided it was too cold and went home, someone let the slack off the line...my cock was Droopy the Fucken Dog and it said "Going down, sir. Sub basement level, sir."

It was at least an hour before I looked at porn again.

My Baby's Mama

When I first started working at my current place of employment, I was determined not to be an asshole. This can be difficult for me. I have a habit of purposely saying the wrong things to the right people in order to get laughs at their expense. I think this is why I've almost exclusively dated morons.

I lasted a record two shifts before I became the poster child for Eye Rolling and Sexual Impropriety. I got to be really good friends with Former CoWorker and She Who Would Eventually Become My Baby's Mama. A few months into our friendship she asked me if she looked fat. The girl is 5'3" and possibly 11 pounds, maybe 12 if you dip her in a vat of bacon grease. Maybe.

I told her that she did look like she'd put on a few pounds, but what did she expect? She was carrying my child. It was a throwaway joke and probably wouldn't even be memorable if it weren't for the next night.

I was hungover like a towel on a dormroom closet. Between paperwork and the actual waiting tables, I'd been working for nearly ten hours str---gay. My last table of the night was a group of frat boys. Like koala bears and Elijah Wood, frat boys are cute in their natural habitat, but you wouldn't want one up close and eating in your restaurant.

Fifteen minutes into their debauchery, I realize they hate me. I mean they HATE me. Enter, She Who Is Now Referred To As My Baby's Mama. It's her night off, but she stops in to meet some people after work for a few drinks. She looks a-fucken-mazing. You know, if you're into short chicks.

One of the guys at the table starts to get huge hearts in his eyes, his tongue falls around his ankles and his erection would have knocked over the table except for the fact that he's a frat boy, and everyone knows frat boys have macroscopic phalluses.

Frat Boy #1 turns to Frat Boy #Who Cares? and says "Dude, I could totally get her phone number." This starts a barrage of comments affirming their heterosexual machismo while reducing She Who Is Nearly Known As My Baby's Mama to nothing more than a walking ass with tits on them. An affliction of sight prevalant in the wild frat boy.

She Who Is Seconds Away From Being Known As My Baby's Mama has great hearing. She pivots towards the table, which does little to hush the bravado of Frat Boys The Musical. As she walks by me, she pushes my order book out of my hand and kisses me quite hard.

*Thunderstruck Silence*

She looks right at the table and says "You guys are lucky My Baby's Daddy isn't a jealous man," and then walks away.

The Fratboys ask me if she's seriously my wife. "No." I tell them. "We're not even really dating, we just kind of fool around, and thought it would be fun to have a kid together."

The Fratboys name me their king, toss me on their shoulders and lead me to the infinite land of keggers and Madden Football. They also leave me a sweet tip, and ask me if My Baby's Mama has a sister.

Now the offhand comment about our relationship become a long-running joke. Nine months after the comment we name the baby Unique, and make jokes about my deadbeat-daddedness. I keep leaving for three or six month sabbaticals, and never pay child support. What can I say? I'm a bastard. So is Unique, I suppose.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/15509.html

His Name Was Marc

Sometimes this journal makes me fall down stairs. I'll be at work, dropping off someone's check, and I'll see someone giving me the eye from another table. Not the "let's take off each other's clothes and fuck right here on the table" look, but the "I think I know you from somewhere" look.

Two weeks ago, I dropped off salads to a guy that I had gone to elementary school with. Hadn't seen him in fifteen years, but we immediately recognized each other. No, this story is not going to get kinky.

Before I took a six month desert sabbatical from work, I got the eye from one of my own customers, while I was taking their order. I'd already introduced myself as Insafemode, so I figured if the person really knew me, he would have recognized the name, and figured out how we knew each other. He did look somewhat familiar to me, but I happen to think that all white people look alike, so I dismissed it.

When I stopped by the table to make sure they liked the food, he asked me if I went to some high school near Boston. No, I didn't. He then asked if I ever worked at a movie theatre. No, I hadn't. We went back and forth about places we might know each other from, Cranberry Lake, a renaissance faire I used to work at, places I'd performed, the state he had lived for a few years. Nada, nothing, zip. We just looked familiar to each other.

At least, when we recognized where it was we knew each other from, that's what we led the rest of the people at the table to believe. Oh, we'd met alright.

I think the chronology went: Guy I Blew on the Beach, Joey, Tommy, Marc. I don't know, I was rather busy with the ass and cock that month.

You'd think I'd be fixated on Tommy. He was beautiful, astounding in bed, had many common interests, and had the libido of a seventeen year old...you know, because he was seventeen. I wasn't. Not because I was a whore, but because Tommy was seventeen, and just as much of a whore as I was. While I thought he was amazing, my self-confidence led me to believe the feeling was not mutual. So back to AOL's Cranberry Lake Whore4Whore I went.

As soon as I entered the chatroom I got an IM. Marc had read my profile, and wanted to hang out somewhere public and safe. So we did. He was a twenty-five year old student who was about to transfer from UMass Cranberry Lake to some Ssuthern University. He really likes Cranberry Lake, but he hadn't found anyone interested in the same type of films, animation, books, whathaveyou until he read my profile.

The scene resumes at my house. We're talking about Run Lola Run. We're naked. Because, really, there's no better way to talk about a foreign movie than when you're about to fuck a film student.

The conversation was great. The sex was equivalent. I wasn't aware of it as it was happening, but we were having angry sex. I wasn't aware of it because I wasn't the one who was angry. I was in bliss. He was way better than Joey or The Guy I Blew on the Beach, and nearly as good as Tommy, who had only left the house about eight hours earlier.

When we were finished, he immediately started to put his clothes on and head to the door.

"Have somewhere you've got to be?"

"Kind of." He said, as he put on his Southern U cap.

"Want to get together sometime and rent a couple of movies."

"I can't. When I get home I've got to tell Joey that we're even. Then, I'm hoping he'll be faithful to me. Otherwise I'm dumping his ass. Even if that happens, I won't be calling you."

"Oh."

I was almost tempted, as I cleared their dishes away and dropped the check off, to ask how Joey was doing. For all I know, Marc was a sleazebag who dumped Joey when he failed to be a cutiful nineteen year old hornball. Marc was pretty sleazy. He lied to me about his age, wasn't up front with me about having a boyfriend, and he apprently monitored his BF's Internet use by reading over his chatroom logs. But who was I to judge? I was the guy that blew his boyfriend on his bed. I didn't say or ask anything. That may have been the reason he left me such a good tip.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14961.html

Giggles The Chowderhead

Giggles and her boyfriend arrived in the restaurant I work at, just before I was to go home for the evening. They took a seat in my section and informed me that they were waiting for six of their friends to show up. They ordered two waters (of course), and said they wanted bread on the table at all times. I got the feeling there were no other friends showing up, and that they were on some sort of prison diet.

An hour later the friends showed up, all talking on their various cell phones, and shaking their heads and shushing me every time I went to their table to ask if they were ready to order.

Giggles was the Alpha Bitch. When she was ready to order she yelled my name across the restaurant. The table ordered a plate of Cheese Fries, two salads, and a bowl of Clam Chowder.

Someone had rung in a Cheese Fries by mistake earlier, so there was an order sitting in the window when I got into the kitchen. Since I wanted to get these people out of the restaurant as soon as possible, I brought it right out to them. I then went back to the kitchen to wait for the salads and soup.

Just as the salads were coming out, one of my coworkers rushed into the kitchen and said I was needed at my table immediately.

Giggles was no longer chattering with her boyfriend, or their assorted friends. Her lips were sneered so high that I couldn't see her nose, and I'm reasonably sure there was steam coming from her eyes.

"Sir," she snorted "I usually don't like to complain" *cough* YEA, Right. "but I have never been so disgusted in my life. The clam chowder you brought out is cold, has no clams in it, and the portion is ridiculously small. I demand a refund, AND I want to see the manager. There is no excuse for such horrible food."

I did my best to keep my polite customer-service smile as I said "Miss, that's not clam chowder, it's ranch dressing."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/mock_the_stupid/889252.html

A Personal Post

I was telling one of the two people that know me/read this journal that the other day I received yet another e-mail from an antique online personals ad (hadn't placed an ad in about a year) and briefly considered meeting someone. Why? To have more stories for this LJ. These are the lengths I was pondering going to until I realized that Iwanted to keep all of my horrible sex stories in the past.

Then I got another e-mail. I didn't reply to it. Instead I decided to update my profile on the dating site, and see if I got any replies.

This is how it reads:

Someone recently made a degrading remark about a gay mutual friend, and implied that the annoying fantasy world he lived in was because he was gay. When I replied that I'd rather not be lumped into a category with the lunatic simply because we both liked cock and ass, my friend said "Wait, you swing that way too?" "Yes," I said, "but whereas many of our gay friends prefer to swing for the fences, I prefer to bunt."

This pretty much sums up my sexuality.

Odds are, if you see me in a gym, I'm asking for directions. By the same token, if you see me up at the buffet with a heaping plate of food, I'm filling my plate for someone confined to a wheelchair or a pantsuit.


Ideal Person: So far my experience with men has been, at best, unbalanced. I've had some mundane relationships with people who I really cared about, and I've had some amazing sex with people I wouldn't mind seeing strapped to an anchor and dropped off in the deep side of the continental shelf.

I'm tempted to write that I'm looking for someone interested in more than just sex, but I should point out that "more than just sex" implies that they're interested in sex. I already have friends who don't put out.

I don't really go to clubs, but that's mainly because I work nights, not because I think I'm too good for them.

I'm not interested in married guys or people into in-depth role playing. I have a father, thank you, and there is a reason I don't have kids. That said, I'm pretty open minded in the bedroom (and the kitchen, and the bathroom at City Hall, and the sidewalk in front of my Republican neighbor's house...) but there's only one bodily fluid I'm interested in exchanging, and it doesn't usually involve toilets.

Basically, I'm looking for someone for a LTR, but realize I'll probably have to go through a few one-night-stands/STRs to get there. As long as there are no STDs I'll be a happy man.

I wonder if I'll get any interesting replies.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/8439.html?view=2873079#t2873079

Why I Almost Just Hurled

After a long day of work, I came home to write some e-mails and get to bed. After typing up a few LJ comments, I went to rap my fingers against the desk and got three fingertips coated in my (I assume) roommate's semen. Where is my Lava soap?

Uck. It's not like there isn't a box of Kleenex right next to the desk.

At least I didn't bang my head against it.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/41207.html

Sexual Harassment Theatre

As a general rule, I don't mess around with people I work with. Sometimes I break that rule, but it comforts me to know the rule is there to fall back on.

I recently discovered that several people I've known and worked with for the last two and a half years don't even know I'm gay. I mean the gay people I work with don't know I'm gay. The dreaded curse of the SSGG (Straight-seeming gay guy). I don't hide my sexuality. In fact, they should make videos of the way I behave at work and show it to potential employees just to warn them away. I'm like a roving Scared-Not-Straight Campaign.

I'll be posting a bunch of stories involving myself, Jeremy The King Of Bisexual Harassment and Equality, and John The Weirdest Perv I Know Outside of My Friends List.

Here's tonight's story:

I was training a new kid. Let's call him...Jason because that's his name. Normally when I'm training I tend to be more matter-of-fact than normal, but this was the kid's fourth night. If he didn't get it by now, he was gonna be busing tables instead of waiting on them.

I thought I had been fairly low-key the past few shifts, not being the perverted ass that I can be. I was wrong. I know this because after my sincere conversation about what I expected him to do, and what I felt we should work on, I asked "Is there anything you think you need my help with?" To which he replies: "If I need anything from you, I'll scrape it off my zipper."

¿¿¿What???

I'm fairly sure he got the line mixed up, but I can guess the intention behind it, so I preceded to make the rest of his night Sexual Harassment Hell. I sicced Big Rich on him.

Big Rich is far gayer than even Big Gay Tom. Big Rich is a fiftyish year old man about 6'2", at least 300 pounds. He kisses the tops of guy's heads for no discernable reason, likes to pinch people, and seems to have a fetish for youngish looking asian and/or jock boys. Who doesn't?

Anyhow, I have Rich invading his space all night. After about a half an hour, Jason playfully slaps my ass while I'm carrying a tray of food. Oh, it's on now, motherfucker.

I start carrying a big wooden breadboard with me. I "accidentally" slap his ass with it while he's taking an order from a table. He retaliates with a bread board while I'm up at the bar. As he reaches into the bread oven I wind up and CRACK!!!

I (A)break the breadboard on his ass, which causes (B)his upper body to spasm upwards, pressing his (C)arm against the top of the bread oven (D) which is very hot causing him to (E)curse so loud you can probably hear him outside in the restaurant's parking lot, which causes (F)another server to drop a plate, and eventually the whole kitchen is involved in a very Rube Goldbergesque scenario.

His arm is not actually burnt, making me feel a little better. He whimpers out "I think my ass is bleeding." and then proceeds to go check. Of course it's not. Bruised perhaps, but it's not like I poked him with a skewer.

That ended our breadboard warfare. While I don't know if I ended up winning for the night, I know he ended up losing, as another server for reasons that had nothing to do with me took his cell phone camera thingy into the bathroom and left him all sorts of blurry dirty pictures.

Sometimes I love my job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/4289.html

All Moby, No Dick

There was a reason Justin never sent me a pic. I'm not choosy, but he wasn't my type. Not unattractive, but too fat to comfortably fuck. A friend once told me that he hated having sex with other fat people because it was tough to stay penetrated. I'd never experienced that before tonight.

We were off to a bad start when we realized that neither of us had done any online dating since the nineties. We were obviously uncomfortable around each other & had little chemistry apart from both liking the same TV shows.

Drank a beer to get prepared. I hate beer.

Started out in the shower. He was bigger without his clothes. Smooth but awkward. I knew I should have gone home. He was too big to shower with, so we headed to the bedroom.

The bedroom had a couple of dildos out and some lube. I had brought the condoms.

He likes to give head with the latex on. Had I known I would have bought flavored condoms.

Despite not being attracted to him in any way, I managed to get aroused. He gave decent head.

After a few minutes he was ready to get fucked. This is when I realized that I am an emotionless robot. If I'm not attracted to someone I have the most mechanical sex imagineable.

It was tough to find a position to get comfortable in. He was clearly too big to be comfortably on top of me. It would be like being pinned by The Canadian Earthquake. His bed wasn't high enough for him to be laid out on his back, so we ended up doggy-style.

Usually I'm all about long tantric sex, but I just wanted this to be overwith, so I ended up coming in about eight minutes. Yes, I looked at the clock. That's how bad it was.

The hard part would be getting him off. I'm not a fan of licking latex, and haven't bottomed for anybody in about six years, though I don't dislike it. I decided I'd rather get fucked for a while than lick latex.

He lubed up a condom, and put it over a butt plug which he then sat on. I laid on my stomach, forgetting that the bed was too low for this to be a comfortable option. Doggystyle again. It didn't work too well, though, as his stomach kept getting in the way. Also he was much more of a bottom than a top, so he was having trouble staying hard.

After about two minutes the condom fell off, and that was all she wrote. I wasn't into it enough to kiss or give proper attention to keeping him aroused. My passionless jerking of his cock did nothing for either of us.

He was clearly embarrassed. He offered to pay for a cab ride home, claiming it was too cold for me to walk to the subway. It wasn't that cold. Neither of us broached the subject of his not getting off, but he was clearly disappointed. So was I.

At least I don't have to wash santorum out of my boxers.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/458.html, http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/379486.html

Who Let The Penguins Out?

I have decided to move again. I can't take the cold so I'm going to move to a warmer clime like Siberia, Moscow, of the North fricken Pole. It was twenty degrees warmer today in Moscow than it was in Boston. When I went to open my front door today, my hand broke off on the knob. You read that right. I am now typing one handed, and not because LJ entries turn me on.

I went to the aquarium today and asked one of the workers if he would consider letting the penguins out to play. I think he thought he was coming on to him, though I'm not sure what "letting the penguins out" means in perv. The sea lion I could see, but penguins?

When I'm a millionaire I'm going to buy me some Emperor Penguins and let them loose on the streets of Boston. Sure, they look cute on TV, but imagine walking down the street on your way to the grocery store and seeing a flock of pissed off four foot tall penguins waddling towards you. Everyone assumes penguins just eat fish, but there's not a lot of human flesh around in the Emperor Penguins natural habitat. In fact, it gets so cold in Antarctica that every type of bird migrates except for the Emperors. They're some hardcore fucken penguins. I bet if I start feeding them human flesh, they'd develop a taste for it and start running amok in a way that even Alfred Hitchcock couldn't imagine.



The new Opus strip wouldn't be very popular then, would it?

Christmas In A Piece Of Shit Desert Town

If I could have been someone, anyone, else for Christmas last year, I would have. Since I had no ID, I technically could have been someone else. It was the not having the ID that was the problem. Somewhere during my three day trek from Boston to Arizona, I lost my driver's license. Again. I had managed to survive five months without the documentation, procuring two jobs, and even being served liquor by some very accommodating Mormons. Unfortunately, the people at Delta airlines were determined to make my life difficult.

All I wanted to do was go home. Not just for Christmas, but forever. I'd had it with Martyr Complexed "friends", cracked out Goth losers with too much ecstasy and not enough brain cells, and I'd really had it with being broke. Every paycheck I earned went to a roommate that I only actually lived with for two months, though I paid rent for three. She was a much better roommate than say...Melissa Plummer, but she certainly didn't make my Favorite Roommate of All Time list. Then, again, I'm sure I didn't make her list either. It was a bad fall. I wanted out of Arizona. I couldn't think of one thing about this state that I was going to miss.

Add to this the fact that one of my uncles, and my Grandfather were both on the other side of the country, getting ready to distribute their wills, and I was very anxious to get home:

***Author's note: Time jump. It is now no longer 2004, but December 2003. It was a short time jump, more of a time hop, really, but I thought I'd let you know.***

Synopsis of the week so far. Call airline to let them know I have no ID. Am advised to kill myself, there is no way on plane. Call VT DMV to find out how to get new ID. Am advised to call AZ DMV. Call AZ DMV. Am advised to get lost. I consider going Greyhound. Get good info from Steggy. Get an e-mail from a police officer/poet/friend informing me I need only file a report with the PD, and they'll give me paperwork to get on my flight (which is now the third scheduled flight on the third different airline).

I call the PD, fill out an incident/lost ID report. Am advised to call VT DMV, that they will fax a copy of my ID to me. Call VT DMV. Am advised that it is against federal law to fax me any ID info. This makes me comfortable security wise, decidedly cross on getting-homewise. They suggest I call the AZ DMV, that they can help me. Call AZ DMV. They are completely useless and can do nothing. They are the only people I called that are both useless AND rude. I call the airlines and update them on my situation: no ID, no ID related paperwork, one copy of my incident report. Am advised that I will probably be able to get a boarding pass, but that the gvt. security has the right not to let me on the plane without ID. I call the gvt. agency (Flight Security or something). Am informed by a very nice lady that apart from checking my bags, I should have no problem with the gvt. security, but that the airline will probably not give me a boarding pass. Call airline again. Update them on the gvt. security issue. Am advised that it's not up to them or the gvt. agency, but Phoenix Skyway. Call Phoenix Skyway. Am advised that it's not up to them, but really the airline.

The terrorists have already won. I just want to get the fuck home.

ATA airlines to the rescue. I don't know what ATA stands for, but they promise to give me a boarding pass, and let me deal with security. I damn near crawled through the phone and gave the lady on the other end cunnilingus. You have no idea how much I have to love a person to offer that.

My flight leaves on the 26th. Tomorrow. A day too late to spend Christmas with my family, but at least it gets me out of this fucken town. To celebrate, I threw on my bathing suit and went out to do water angels in the pool. Soon enough I'll be able to do snow angels. For now, this is comforting.

Several...ok, two...very kind people have offered to include me in their Christmas plans. Bob the Amazing has done enough for me. He got me a job, he tried his best to keep me from killing certain people who could have used a good dying, he even had me over for Thanksgiving for an amazing meal with his family. Chris the World's Cutest Straight Boy invited me as well. But, like Bob, he's done so much that I don't want to infringe on him anymore. He offered to get me out of my roommate's house long before I was unhappy there. He helped me move my stuff to his apartment, where I'm not paying rent, I even had to talk him down last week when my ex-roommate came buy to pick up the last check. I really thought he was going to rip the skin off her face and shove it down her sanctimonious throat.

Because I didn't want to alter their Christmas plans, I am on my own. I've got all the ingredients for Ground Nut Stew, a computer, a DVD of my favorite gay porn, and a two liter bottle of Cherry Coke. It's entirely possible that this Christmas will only Mostly Suck.

I toss the sauce I made for the stew last night in the microwave, put some rice on the stove, and turn on the TV. I don't want to risk being distracted by porn or The Internet while the food is cooking. The only things on TV are "The Married With Children Christmas" and "A Very Brady Christmas". I am officially in Hell. Although, "A Very Brady Christmas" isn't nearly as bad as I'd imagined. It's a reunion show. The kids are all grown up. Dad Brady is very obviously making eyes at Greg Brady. All in all it's---why is the fire alarm going off? FUCK!!!! THE RICE!!!!

I rush to the stove, pull off the pot. Curse myself for not thinking to use a towel. Put my now burned hand under some cold water. It doesn't look too bad. I grab a towel, pick up the pot and begin scraping the rice into the garbage disp---oh fuck. You don't put rice in the garbage disposal. I dig out as much as I can and then hit the switch. Grind grind grind grind grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgrgrgrgrgrgrgr

grgrrg sputter wheeze. Fuck.

I open all the doors and windows, and turn on all the fans, blowing the burned rice smell throughout Christopher's condo complex. Here's the smell of my holiday cheer Ari-fucken-zona! I then go to scrub the rice that burned into the bottom of the pan in the sink.

Joy of joys, my garbage disposal breaking is causing the sink to back up. How am I supposed to clean up this mess if I can't use the si...ahhh, I'll use the shower.

I don't think it's possible for anyone, even people who've known me for years, to imagine the look on my face when I realized the rice that was blocking the sink/garbage disposal in the kitchen, was now floating up into the bathtub. This was really Not Good. Christopher was Not Going to be Happy.

I cleaned up as best I could, popped the DVD in the computer, and prepared to pop myself.

Just as I was cruising down Ejaculation Alley, Christopher came home. I turned off the computer and zipped up. Most of the smoke had cleared, but he has Wolverine's sense of smell. "Burned rice?" he asked as soon as he walked in.

"Yeup."

"Hope you didn't try and get rid of it in the garbage disposal."

Velociraptor look.

"You did, didn't you? Fuck. I did it a couple of months ago. I had to call the condo people to fix it."

Man, my fuck up wasn't even original?

"I brought you some of the Girlie Beer that you left at The Kuk's house. If you put the red and green Skittlez in the Stoli Razz, it's almost like being festive."

Ok, maybe there was one thing I was going to miss.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/94370.html