Another Personal Post

From an actual ad:

My boyfriend dumped me because he said I was needy. All I wanted was love, respect and the few things a relationship was based on. He never wanted to give me any of those things. Material things do not make up for emotional things. Why is it that was supposed to be an apology for not giving me the things that I want. I posted this here because Iknow he reads these. Im not sure what hurts worse

Uhhhhh, I would have dumped your needy ass, too, bitch. Jesus, it's one thing to confess something like this to your friend or in your Livejournal (*coughs politely*), but why the hell would you post a thing like that in a place where people are looking for casual gay sex.

Oh, right, because you wanted your boyfriend to see it. Well, if Elvis or Tommy, or any of my other exes posted an ad like that I'd certainly run out to take them back. In fact, I'd buy a car so I could drive over, pick them up, warmly embrace them, slap the handcuffs around their wrists and drive them to the nearest institution so they could get the help and attention they so desperately need.

If I were to place an ad on Craigslist this week (which I might do just for the amusement of viewing the responses, I don't think I have time or the interest for whoring this weekend), my ad would look like this:

Tricks For Treats

No, not those kind of tricks. I'm not offering anyone money for sex. I'm broke, too.

I'm a 27 year old versatile redhead looking for someone my age or younger for safe fun. I have the weekend off from work, and would rather not spend it masturbating to reruns of Queer as Folk. So, if you're a guy in your twenties, looking to get fucked or better yet interested in a full day of various positions/techniques, drop me a pic, and I'll reply in kind. While I am fairly open minded about things, I tend to be on the French Vanilla side of kink. I don't want you to dress me up in high heels and a Red Sox uniform and flog me with a leather whip. I also would appreciate keeping our bodily fluid interaction to saliva and sperm. Otherwise, let me know what you're into.

If you're a closet case, it's Halloween, put on a mask and an outift and pretend you have a fucken spine.

Busted

When I was living in Burlington, Vermont, a few of my friends were discussing how often they masturbated. I was distracting myself by imagining what our waiter would so like with my dick in his mouth.

"And I bet Adam masturbates at least a dozen times a week." The Dagster said.

"Probably more like twenty." said The Soggy Blind Lesbian.

They'd have been pleased to know that my actual masturbation per week average was comfortably between their guesses. But I wasn't going to tell them that.

I'm an incredibly sexual person. Deviant some might say. Still others would shout "Whore!". One of the things I'm proud of, though, is I have (or had until this journal) a low sexual profile, and I'd never been caught masturbating. I've walked in on friends, roommates, the Brazilian water polo team...wait, no that last one was a fantasy. The point is, while I've walked in on easily dozens of people masturbating (though not at the same time, that would have been awkward), I have never been caught with my pants down.

*cue ominous music*

While I may have masturbated between fourteen and twenty times a week back in the good old days of 2001, lately I've been in a serious rut. My libido isn't shrinking, it's just that I live with two roommates, one of whom has a six year old child. There is nearly always someone awake at my house. Usually working on the computer which is within close visual/audial range of my bedroom.

This morning marked...entirely too many...days/weeks since the last time I had an orgasm. At around four-thirty my mentally six year old, physically thirty-something year old roommate finally stopped playing "City of Heroes" and went to bed. I made myself some apples and peanut butter to celebrate my domination of the room, and appease my inner-kindergartner.

At six, the child/monster roommate went off to school, and the other adult roommate headed for work. I decided to literally seize My Opportunity (that's what I call him).

I opened up a dozen or so various porn sites. Remembered that pictures on The Internet just aren't doing it for me these days, and opened up my Porn Playlist on Media Player. I clicked on "random" and hit the forward button. The first movie was twenty minutes long. I decided that would be the duration I'd, pardon the pun, shoot for.

About fifteen minutes into the session, the phone rings. I'm waiting to find out if my book about bad gay sex experiences is coming out, Luckily, caller ID is in sight. It's not my publisher. If it had been her, I still wouldn't have interrupted my special time with my long neglected right hand. After all, I could legitimately claim I was doing research for the sequel. While I lean back from looking at the phone, I accidentally squish my left hand into the plop of peanut butter that I had yet to eat. I go to shake the peanut butter off my hand (yes, I know that doesn't work, but my brain was lacking proper blood flow at the time), and knock the dish on to the floor. For whatever reason, my dick decides this would be a great time to come. So I do, loudly and messily. There is now a broken dish, come and peanut butter all over the floor. And I hear footsteps.

I'm not sure whether the footsteps are my roommate coming upstairs, or one of the people from another apartment going down the stairs into the lobby. Just in case it's my roommate, I leap up to get paper towels, only to discover my feet have fallen asleep. I have just enough time to yell out "Fucker of God!" before I fall, pants around my ankles, on to the peanut butter, come, and dish covered floor.

My shouting attracts the attention of the neighbor who was coming down the stairs. I am briefly thankful that there is a door between us. "Are you okay in there?" Then I remember the door is not locked.

"Fine. Just dropped a dish. No need to come in."

I realize that, as I made to brace my fall, I cut my right palm on one of the broken dish pieces. So now there's blood in the mix. Our floor looks like a discount tie-dyed t-shirt. God, what if my neighbor, whose name I don't even know, came in and saw me like this? Would he laugh? Dial 911? Be aroused?

I imagine my book being released posthumously. "It was the greatest marketing gimmick you could ask for." My publisher would say. "A guy writes a collection of awkward sex stories and is found dead of embarrassment after a stranger walked in on a bizarre auto-erotic ritual involving blood and peanut butter. It's like John Waters meets Mel Brooks in a dark alley."

Luckily, my neighbor believes that I'm ok, and leaves. I fail to pass out or die. Instead, I hobble over to the kitchen and realize that we're all out of paper towels.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/73473.html
http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/147353.html
http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/864233.html

Razzy, Donna, and My New Favorite Oxymoron

When I was just four years old, the family dog died. I don't remember too much about it. I'm not even entirely sure if Razzy was a Rottweilier or a Black Lab. He is a big and blackish blur in my memory. My father told me some confusing nonsense about a "puppy farm in the sky" which led me to picture a floating garden with puppy heads growing in neat little rows.

Shortly afterwords, my parents and I went out to choose a new family pet. Over the years my mother had developed an intense allergy to dogs and cats, so eventually we were the proud owner of blue parakeet. He didn't lick me nearly as much as Razzy had.

There was never much drama surrounding family pets. I've owned one cat, three parakeets, umpteen billion fish, two hamsters, an assortment of gerbils that I bred for a local pet store, two chinchillas, six leopard geckos, one calote, one anole, and one flying squirrel. Not all at the same time, though I did have a gecko, the cat, the squirrel, the calote and the anole all in the same house for a brief period of time.

On the rare occasions that the pet died (the squirrel and Spider the Chinchilla I gave to a friend of mine), I buried/flushed it (buried the fish, flushed the cat obviously) and went on with my life.

When Zuzu's cat, Eureka, died after sixteen years, she and her son were understandably devastated. Eureka had been the only family pet. A true member of the family. I loved the little furball, even though he pissed all over my papers when I decided to move to Vermont.

After a few weeks of grief, Zuzu decided to go pet hunting. Because Zuzu is stubborn, and, well, batshit crazy, she couldn't go the normal route of pet stores or animal "shelters". Instead, she decided to call another one of our crazy friends for advice on what type of dog to get. A golden retriever? Too big. A miniature dachshund? Too likely that I'd punt it through a window when I visited.

I put my vote in for a chihuahua. I'm not a big fan of little dogs, but ever since I heard someone read a poem about how they shiver because they're in a state of constant orgasm, I've had an affinity for the little Taco Bell spokesmen. Plus, if Zuzu ever brought the dog over to my house, I would sit in front of the lizard tank and say "Heeeeeere leezard leeezard leezard" over and over again until it either stopped being funny, or the dog died of starvation.

Zuzu decided to call our friend Eve to get her opinion. I love Eve, she's a rock star. She served as bridesmaid to dozens of couples during the night they legalized gay marriages in Boston. The thing is, if you ask Eve whether or not she thinks you should get a chihuahua, she will give you a six hour lecture on the history of dogs beginning with their evolution from dinosaurs to their current role as purse accessories.

It was during Eve's canine magnum opus that Zuzu and I first heard of a lesbian couple who bred border collies. We agreed that border collies were beyond cute with their hypnotizing eyes and reserved nature. So Zuzu contacted the breeders (lesbian breeders? I've discovered a new oxymoron!) and set up an appointment to meet with them. But she weren't just going to go to their house and hang out with dogs, Donna and Elaine (the lesbians) wanted to show Zuzu the breeding process. So why shouldn't I tag along? What's more exciting than a Sunday afternoon kicking back a few Jack & Cokes and watching dogs fuck?

We reached Donna & Elaine's at around 11 AM. We had heard the dogs barking since 9:15. During our conversation with Donna, we had to yell in order to be heard. I was amazed at the way Elaine seemed to waltz around the room completely oblivious to the constant yapping of puppies. Turns out she's Deaf.

After some ASL dialogue, and witty repartée, we were ready to watch the breeding. At least, I thought we were ready.

I'm familiar with canine sex habits. Male sniffs female. Male gets erection. Male commences fucking. Mother Nature makes male doggy's cock so engorged with blood that he can't pull out until his little spermies have established property rights in female's uterus. No big whoop. The lesbians, however, had a different breeding method.

While we watched, a male dog, who we'll call Harrowed, was picked up by Elaine. Donna entered the room with a female dog, appropriately known as Bitch. Bitch was put down on a table so that her face and Harrowed's were level, though Harrowed was still being held by Elaine. Harrowed began sniffing her face. At this point, Donna brings out a large tube and begins jerking off Harrowed into the tube. When the tube is filled, Donna attaches it to a syringe and proceeds to inject it into Bitch's vagina.

"Oh don't look so traumatized." Donna said, while I sat in a chair looking and being traumatized. "How did you think dogs were bred."

I know how dogs are supposed to breed. What these people, these lesbians were doing was just cruel. Just because they can't get pregnant without use of a sperm donor and a turkey baster is no reason to inflict their lifestyle on their dogs. Fuck marriage and adoption, lesbians should not be allowed to breed dogs.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/73027.html

Flyer Monkey

A witch, an orphan, and The Phantom of the Opera walk into a bar. The bartender says "What the fuck?" The orphan says "Can we use your restroom?"

Last Wednesday night, my roommate announced that he would like to go to Las Vegas. I went over the pros and cons of the city, as I saw them. One of the largest cons (besides Celine Dion and iodine filled shrimp) on my list was the barrage of people who stand outside the casinos smacking flyers against their palms and sticking them in the front of your face. I referred to those people as soulless inbred pieces of shit. This week I call them colleagues.

When Zuzu called me and said that a company wanted to pay me $20 an hour to dress up as The Phantom of the Opera and hand out flyers, I thought...well, I didn't think anything, little green dollar signs flashed in my eyes, my dick got hard, and I began to drool. This is clearly a sign that I need to reconsider my career options.

On Thursday afternoon, I listened in on The Conference Call of the Damned. Dozens of people from around the country who, like me, had chosen to sell their dignity in order to play dress up, called and asked ridiculous questions of the incompetent managers running the promotion. When the managers felt they had distributed all the appropriate knowledge to us lowly pions, they deigned we could hang up the phone, one of my boneheaded colleagues shouted "I'm SanFranPhantom2004 on AIM, IM me." I considered donating some of my pride to him, but I know he'd only abuse it.

Friday night I went to see/participate in a show with Steggy and veritable who's who of my friends list (meaning that if I posted their journal names you'd be like "who's that? I've never seen them comment before"). Unfortunately, I didn't get to do any Insafemode stuff, but that's ok, I got to satirize Steggy AND hear a bunch of my favorite poets from MA. When I got home shortly after midnight, I sat down to watch John Stewart bitch slap Crossfire. The doorbell rang. At 1:05 AM some motherfucker was ringing my goddamned doorbell. Zuzu was that motherfucker.

We drove to her house, my humble abode circa 2000, and then again circa 2001. After some pistachios and chai, she gave me the first of the bad news. Chuck the Incompetent (what can you expect from a grown man who goes by Chuck?) had told both men in the promotion that they would be the phantom. The other guy being a 75 year old man. The other character in the promotion being Oliver Twist. Now, for the benefit of mankind, I was willing to concede that I should be the one dressed as a twelve year old orphan. So I put on the torn shirt, ripped corduroys, green neckerchief, and paperboy hat (I bet you'd like to see a picture of that you sick fucks). Meanwhile, Zuzu put on her Tracy Turnblad costume.

When I lived in the house with Zuzu, her husband and their son, the neighbors gave us lots of dirty looks. More than a couple of people believed that we were living some sordid swinger life. I can only imagine what these neighbors were thinking when they peered through the windows at 3 AM and saw Zuzu in a big wig and a housedress featherdusting while I wandered around the kitchen dressed like a twelve year old orphan.

The next morning Chuck called to give us moral support. He called Zuzu's house and told us how stupid the people from the California promotion were. He called the other half of our team and told them how stupid the Chicago people were. He also mentioned how hard it was to cast the New York show, what with all the black people replying to the ads. "You can't have a black Phantom of the Opera. That would be like a gay Oliver."

The promotion was scheduled to start somewhere in the city at nine. At 11 or so, we all met in a parking garage, introduced ourselves and walked out into the public eye. Actually we walked into auditions for the fucken Real World. Picture 2 men, and 3 women dressed in Broadway show costumes weaving through hundreds of 18-24 year old "reality TV" hopefuls. There were a few cat calls. And yes, by putting on ridiculous costumes and walking the streets of Boston we sacrificed a bit of our dignity. You can make fun of us for that. But while we're losers for pretending to be somewhere else, if your narcissistic ass gets a part on The Real World, you'll be branded a loser just for being yourself. May you all get stuck on Road Rules, trailer trash.

From the very beginning of Day One, I got all kinds of flirt play. Mostly from fairly hot looking women, but from a few Broadway geek gays, too. I was returning the flirt to one such boy when I noticed this really sleazy looking Skeletor standing in a puddle of his own drool. He limps over to me and starts talking to me about how much he loves musicals, and he's really happy that young men like myself are able to make money acting in musicals. Whatever, freak. After a few seconds of me obviously trying to ignore him without being so obvious that I drop character, he asks what high school I go to.

EWWWWWW. Look you middle-sighted Skeletor looking pedophile, I'm not at all flattered that you think I look young enough to be in high school. I felt like calling over one of the cops that was in the area and asking them to beat him with their nightclubs.

I understand the attraction to youth thing, but if I'm sixty years old and approaching what I think to be a high school student on the street in an attempt to get some play, I hope they taser my testicles and drag me back to the senior citizen concentration camp.

Don't get me wrong, I don't see anything wrong with old people and young people dating (I'm a little grossed out in most cases, but to each their own deviance) but old people harassing teenagers is just bleurgh. No amount of Viagra in the world...

The rest of the day was smoother than a queen's upper lip. People loved us. Hordes of tourists demanded to take pictures of us, and then took flyers by the handful. Not one was thrown on the ground. We were promotion whores. Around oneish we hit The Commons, where we were serenaded by a homeless man dressed as The Cat in the Hat. If I'm ever down on my luck, I will write an inspirational story about this man. At three we turned around, and began our pilgrimage to the car. All in all, a fantastic day.

The second day began the badness. Being smarter than the coma patient who dreamed up this promotion, I suggested we head to the Theatre District and hand out flyers about a Broadway themed television show to the people who were paying top dollar to go see Broadway shows. This is why they pay me the big bucks. Unfortunately, parking in Boston on Sunday near the Theatre District is an ugly zoo. It took, literally, hours, for us to find parking. While the women searched for parking Grandpa Phantom and I headed to The Wang to pass out flyers. We were quickly told to disperse.

When we met up with Zuzu, The Witch, and Thoroughly Modern Millie, we decided to hit up some high traffic locations that we'd avoided the day before. On the way there, we made a return trip to The Common. This time, instead of flocks of tourists, there was a mob centered around one of the park bench areas. The Phantom and I were leary of the mob, so we stood back while the womenfolk began pestering the people of the mob. That's when I noticed the cross. So did Zuzu and "Millie," both of whom backed off. Meanwhile, during a moment of silence for the homeless Christians of Boston, a woman in a witch costume was handing out flyers for a television show. Oddly, no one was struck by lightning.

Other highlights of the day included being waved into a senior citizen home where all the residents took pictures and flyers, and getting free advertising by the Duck Tours staff who took flyers, and pointed us out every time they drove past us, making sure to note the TV show we were promoting and when it airs. Go Ducks.

On our way through the North End, we encountered some sort of hockey team who took pictures with us. After the photos were taken, I handed one of the ugly monkeys a flyer which he refused. He said "I don't watch no Broadway shows" much the way a hooker will tell a cop "I don't suck no dick for crack money."

Around two o'clock we headed toward The Opera House, where The Lion King would be getting out. Unlike those assholes at The Wang, the lovely staff at The Opera House were more than happy to allow us to hand out Broadway related flyers to the people leaving a Broadway show. Right around the corner from The Opera House, a mob of people with photos snapped hundreds of pictures of us, and took hundreds of flyers. They were there to take pictures of The Yankees leaving their hotel room. And so it was that a mob of Yankee fans, Red Sox Nation, the audience of The Lion King, and five soulless TV promoters shared the same block in Boston, MA. We gave out ten thousand flyers. TEN THOUSAND in thirty minutes. They had given us five days to give out fifteen thousand. Chuck and his bosses should each fly out here to Boston and suck my cock for coming up with the "pass out flyers in the Theatre District" idea.

They won't. Chuck would probably have said something like "I hope you didn't give any tickets to the gooks or the spics. They don't like Broadway shows."

Now we had a conundrum. We'd signed up for five days of work handing our flyers. In one and a half days, the tickets were all gone. We decided as a group to call Chuck and ask him to send more tickets, hinting that we might need more, not letting him now that we were finished with the job. So Chuck mailed us out more tickets.

For whatever reason, we were forbidden to work on Monday (further proof that Chuck belongs to some weirdo cult for the creatively challenged). So this morning, the witch, the phantom, "Millie", Zuzu and I met in the pouring rain to hand out flyers in malls. This is, by the way, completely against policy in every mall in America. Incompetent Chuck and friends had not arranged any place for us to go in case of rain. I knew, having done my tour of duty as a mall worker, that handing out flyers on their property was going to get us in trouble. Once again, I came to the rescue. I harassed the nice folks of Borders and Barnes & Noble, all of whom were overjoyed to take stacks of flyers from us. Still, we had been contracted to hand the flyers out on the streets, so in my two size too small shoes (which I forgot to mention earlier), I trudged through the rain where angry suits, aging Valley Girls, and the sort of black-eyelined cutting pseudo-goth whose LJ name likely includes the word "bitch" "pain" or "vindicated" refused to take flyers.

There are five common moves used to avoid getting flyers:

Move #1 is the no-eye contact fly by. I approve whole-heartedly to this approach. You don't want the flyer or your time wasted. I agree that you have a right not to talk to me, hot and charming as I may be.

Move #2: The two handed cell phone approach. This says that you would take a flyer but your cell phone is so heavy that you just can't carry anything else. This is usually accompanied by a shrug.

Move #3: The head shake and grimace. Kind of like the no-eye contact fly by but with a "Fuck you for interrupting my very busy day of molesting children and stealing from the poor" cherry on top.

Move #4: Feigned interest. You listen to the spiel, ask questions, then leave without taking a flyer. Have you nothing better to do? I don't. If I did, I'd be doing it. Either take a flyer or go back to your job at Starbuck's.

Move #5: Arm waving hostility. This is accompanied by screaming and moral outrage. Luckily, none of the promoters in my group were the recipient of move #5. But while we were in Harvard Square in the wind and rain, we were interspersed with people trying to get donations and volunteers for John Kerry and a similar group for George Bush. One poor sap asked some liberal looking guy if he'd like to donate to Kerry. The guy got really indignant and began waving his hands and screaming "I've already given $500 to the Kerry campaign and $500 to the Democrats. Thanks to this ridiculous McBane law (his ignorance, not mine), I can't legally blah blah blah. Why can't you guys give me a pin or something so you know that I've done all I legally can. Stop harassing me blah blah blah." While he ranted, I asked the pro-Bush people for a stack of flyers, and stuck them in the manpurse the guy was carrying.

At the end of the day, wet, sullen, burly, blister-footed, I dragged myself to the bar where I have, on occasion, met my prospective publisher. I hoped she would show, see me in all my raggedy glory so she would be inspired to either speed up the publication/check cutting process or at least see the limits I was willing to go to get material for my next book.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/67715.html

Virus Coming At Choo

The file attachment said "Downloadable Virus". I downloaded it simply because I wanted to support truth in advertisement. And while I've heard of viruses that do horrible things like delete your harddrive, give your dogs worms, e-mail kiddie porn to your parole officer, or give you AIDS, the "Downloadable Virus" virus is different. As soon as it was done downloading, all of the plot points and non-penetrative shots were cut from my porn collection.

Usually, I leave my computer running for weeks on end. My computer repairman says it's good for my computer. He tells me this every month when I go in to have him fix whatever's wrong with it. For whatever reason, last night I turned my computer off. When I turned it on this morning, it was a completely different machine.

Instead of a crappy 1995 Packard Bell Statesman, it was a Dell XPS that's so large it doesn't have to access The Internet, it actually has the entire Internet inside it.

Have you ever been to one of those technology museums where they have pictures or scale models of The Univac? The entire Univac could fit in the cooling system of the Dell XPS. But unlike the ugly 1950s dinosaur reel to reel look of the Univac, the Dell XPS has the a futuristic blue look that just screams “Look at me, I’m almost as trendy and cool looking as a Mac!”

The XPS turned on instantly when I turned it on, unlike my Statesman which took approximately six hours to load through Windows 3.1. All of my icons were alphabetized, and all the useless programs like Microsoft Internet Explorer, Microsoft Office, and well, anything with Microsoft in their name were deleted.

This Downloadable Virus was the best thing to happen to my computer since they invented Lemmings.

I decided to send a copy to everyone in my contacts folder. When I clicked on the send button, the computer actually told me who would and wouldn’t bother to even read my e-mail. Wow, technology is astounding.

The only downside to the virus that I’ve discovered so far is that it doesn’t allow pop ups. How will I know how to spend my money if I’m not constantly barraged with Lava Life Dating Service, and Sovereign Bank ads?

The reason why I’m writing about this, is that if I can get four thousand more people to download “Downloadable Virus,” I will get a free iPod. Despite their cool, pink minimalist ads, I’m not sure what an iPod is, but I iMagine iT must be cool iN order for iT to have a liTtle i at the beginning of it. Does anyone know what the i stands for? It can’t be Internet, because Internet is always capitalized, which is weird because according to our Yale graduate President there are several internets. Who decided which one got the capital? I mean if we had two presidents, would one be a president, and the other a President? Now that I think about it, after our last completely legitimate, no funny stuff at all election, I remember a bunch of people referring to bush as the Resident. Maybe I misread those bumper stickers and t-shirts, maybe it said pResident. mAybe tHere’s mOre tO tHis cApitalization tHing tHat i’M nOt cLever eNough to uNderstand.

Anyway, if any of you have time to help me get the iPod thingie (it kind of looks like a hearing aid, not one of those cool little Miracle Ear things, but one of those huge old Game Boy sized things that death people had to wear in ancient times), I’d really appreciate it. I really want to be as cool as this guy.

In other exciting e-mail news, I got an e-mail from Geneology.com that says they can trace the Safemode family all the way back to the Civil War. This is really cool because I thought I made the name up. Apparently I just appropriated someone else’s legitimate last name. The legitimate last name of a descendant of one of those brave men and woman who battled the British in the Civil War. I feel really guilty about this. I’m thinking about finally just coming out and giving my real name in this journal. Stay tuned!

Speaking of (actually it’s more like “typing of”, aren’t I clever) staying tuned. I was totally enamored by the pResidential debates this week. That Bush is a fantastic public speaker. He has that je ne say kwa, whatever that means, that makes me believe every word that comes out of his mouth. And he keeps his emotions so carefully guarded. He must be a hell of a good poker player. Kerry, on the other hand, strikes me as a bit of a spoiled rich kid. He didn’t have to work his way up through the ranks of the metal class the way Bush did. All he has to do is snap his fingers and Teresa Hunt’s gives him fifty-seven varieties of money to spend on all those negative TV ads from the Swiss veterans.

Those Swiss are so shifty. How can you trust a bunch of people known only for their meatballs and massages? My mom tells me that Sweden is the biggest province in France, and we all know how shifty those French Nazis are. They’re pancakes, just like sEnator Kerry.

Well, I have to go now. I have this really kewl idea for a Snape/Sirius/Hermoine/Frodo/Dax fanfic that’s going to totally change the world of dribble. When I’m done, Hairy Potter fans aren’t going to be able to sit for a week, and not because they got their asses kicked by the audio/video kids.

Oh, before I go, someone in nonsensicals posted something about me being a troll. I happen to take great pride in how well trimmed my body hair is. Is it possible that troll refers to my habit of cruising for gay sex under bridges, or is this one of those trendy new internet terms that I’m not privy to?

Oh well, as the late grating Maury Povich said, Until Next Time America!

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/64898.html

Break Up Letters To The Damned

On October 6th, 2004, I posted a meme in my LIvejournal, asking people to break up with me. In return, I would break up with them. These are the breakup letters I'm most proud of:

Chris,

This may be the wrong time for a blender. Too soon for the microwave and cappuccino machine, as well. I think if we call Wal-Mart now, and let them know that the wedding is off, all our relatives will be able to return our wedding gifts for a refund.

I'm truly sorry things didn't work out between us. Maybe next time you'll remember there is no u in matrimony, though there is a y and an o, but without the u, those letters spell yo; as in yo, Chris, I can't believe you cheated on me with Dick Cheney. You're so dumped.

***

Brandon,

You're right. It isn't me. It is you.

It's the way you crush entire cans of Pringles, and scatter the crumbs on my waterbed. It's the way you melt candles into my ear while I sleep. It's the way you always drink all the Sunny D, leaving me with a fridge full of OJ and Purple Stuff.

I can't take the way you mispronounce my name. It's not Bitchtits Macfuckyourself, it's Trent. They don't sound anything alike. I don't want to even get into the names you call me in bed. Who can keep track?

I'm sorry you never loved me enough to make eye contact. It's over.

***

I should have left you at hello. When you told me you wanted to plug me in like an improper fraction in an equation, I hoped you were merely being derivative. But the day I came home to find you'd screamed the glass out of my windows, I shuddered.

I'm not sorry. Somehow I knew you'd lick the creme out of my Oreos and replace it with strychnine. I had the feeling that when you offered to make me breakfast in bed, you'd intended to grind my up into sausages while I slept.

It's over Enola Rayne. I can't be with someone who can't kill me with kindness or a cutting remark. Call me the next time you're in Big City. We'll have coffee over for dinner, and spill beans across the desert that's formed between us, waiting for a stalk to rise to the sky.

***

Is that all I was to you? A Bea Arthur substitute?

Fine, you can have your Ben & Jerry. You always did have a thing for hippies with corporate expense accounts and an infinite amount of Chubby Hubby ice cream.

But while you're up there waiting for the license for a polyamorous civil union, I'll be laying out on a chaise lounge with Tom & Jerry. Tom, who scratched my back while you were guffawing at Rose's St. Olaf stories, and Jerry who starring in those American Express commercials way back when you were nothing but a tadpole in a whale's jumpsuit.

Goodbye Joshua, may your right hand twist around your heart, and your sweet sweet blood drip on to the cold tundra and disappear like a Branch Dividian's faith at the No Longer Pearly Gates. You were never Gallileo. You weren't even Mr. Wizard.

***

Last night, I thought of you while I was raking the house of leaves into a pile big enough for a bonfire. I'm burning all the love notes you forgot to write me. I hope their smoke will reach your nose as you inhale the cologne of your next lover. The smell will remind you of the barbequed potato chips I used to sneak out in the middle of the night to buy you when you were depressed. You'll cry. A tear will slip down your cheek, and solidify to at the touch of your marble floor. Over the years, the rotation of the Earth, and its changing orbit will lead the tear back to me. On the day it rolls from beneath my leather baggage, I'll accidentally crush it like an amethyst egg beneath my Hush Puppies, and release the sound your voice makes when he kisses you. I'll sigh without knowing quite why, and then go about my business.

***

Tonight, much to my dismay, I realized I am biassexual. I can love everyone except you. This may have something to do with all the times you've forwarded GW Bush's calls to my voicemail, or it could be the way you make like your flipping your hair when you're angry, even though you're as bald as Mr. Bigglesworth's baby after chemotherapy.

Whatever the reason, I can't get past it anymore. It's an SUV parked sideways in the middle of a highway.

You can call me if you ever find yourself with a quarter and no one to call. Just don't expect me to pick up.

***

Felch,

I regret to inform you that upon reading your letter, I seem to have accidentally run over Ethyl with the lawn mower a few dozen times. Hildegard is mourning the loss by pissing in all of your fetish boots.

I wish I could say I was surprised by your sudden descent into BDSM, but I knew from the moment you asked me to puncture your cornea with a needle full of boric acid, that our love would be the Gigli of gay marriages.

I wish you the best of luck in your future career as a duct tape repairman.

--I see fandom

***

Wolf,

That isn't a dress I'm wearing, it's a garbage bag. It's raining outside and you jacked my raincoat.

Maybe we weren't meant to be together. You were always stealing zucchini out of my crisper to do God Knows What, and I haven't been able to find my furby since you discovered that he vibrated when he laughed.

Look, you're a nice girl (by which I mean fat) with a great personality (ugly as a bulldog with burn scars), and I'm sure you'll find someone who is right for you (if you start hanging out with coma patients). I just hope that after all this, we can still be friends (please don't ever call or e-mail me again).

--yeafS

***

Canth, you ignorant slut,

The word you were looking for isn't wimp, it's pussy. As in canthlian is such a pussy every three weeks he has to stick tampons up his nose to keep from bleeding on his shirts.

How dare you imply that I don't have the world's largest cock. You can see my phallus from space, bizznatch. I would tell you to fuck off and die, but that would entail you getting laid again, and I don't think anyone else should have to suffer through the shitdick that sex with you entails. (Yea, I used entails twice motherfucker, you want to make something of it? I'll skewer your entrails, if you get what that entails.)

Off and die,
--do me I fanse

p.s. Can I have your new boyfriend's number after you off yourself?

***

Steggy,

Somewhere beyond the prosaic desserts of Key Lime and Waterlemon Meringue, inbetween the Molehill Mountains and Buttermilk Sea, is a practically fractally challenged diva with test pattern vision and a plexiglass heart.

She is of no consequence to you.

You who would batter pancakes like mouthy wives, and hide your ample sausage in the freezers of bisexual women. You are a washcloth. You are an ampersand.

When The Mango Princess went pregnant with pauses, you swallowed her down like an "I love you."

I can't be with a man who swallows I love you hoarse pills but would proudly change me into Regie Cabico. How can I love a man with a fetish for diapers and burning firewood children for a mere spark of inspiration? How? I can not. I can not love a man who cracks jokes like Formica and pisses on the rugs of prematurely balding furries.

If I can not love you I must curse you. An inch of snow for every bunny-suited giggle. An uncomfortable couch for every frantic waving of hands. For your propensity for verbose moroscosity, I sentence you to four weeks of winter with an unplugged refrigerator full of cheese and only an unlucky dragon for company.

Is it not common knowledge that Goulash the Great climbed down from his pumpking patch hideaway and showered golden poetastiness on the formaldehidden corpse of Coyote the Bear? And when Coyote the Bear eased into the hot springs and made to steal Goulash's newspaper and picnic basket, did he not run thirty-seven miles to the nearest coffeeeshop where he stopped for a nice cup of chameleon tea? Lo, we shall never know for sure.

But it iswritten that Goulash, upon hearing your name, dropped trou like a charcoal briskette, and said unto thee, “pthththththththththth.”

You think you can stoat your way into my bedroom with your electrolyte play and French Fry manicured toenails? Well, pishaw to you, fruity. You were never the Tidus of my Final Fantasy XXX.

***

J,

You're a pimple where genitalia should be, a troll on a bulletin board. When I woke up, after a night of huffing swampgas and kickboxing with sasquatches, I understood why people waterproof witticisms and bury ostriches upside down in sanddunes. You're biscotti in a breadbasket, an unavailable number on CallerID.

***

You fucken pussy-licking, dildo breathed, shit stain. How dare you think you could break up with me. Do you know who I am?

I'm the Simon to your Garfunkle. The Garfield to your Odie. The Odin to your raven. The rave to your hokey pokey.

Did you really think I would shatter like a Faberge egg on a concrete patio just because you decided my cock and vocabulary were too much for you? Well I'm made of stronger stuff. I am asphalt wrapped in Laffy Taffy with an admantium shell.

You couldn't dump me if you had a million friends. My ego is too heavy for you to even lift you pansy-assed, narcissistic, unfocused eyed sceintist! Trying to back out of this relationship now will slowly kill you. The long nights crying into your bedpan wondering why you ever gave up someone who could make you come just by whispering your name in someone else's ear. The endless days masturbating to the last grocery list I mad eout and ordered you to go shopping for. You'd miss me like you were a pie wielding liberal, and I was Ann Coultier.

Can't you see? I'm trying to save you from a life spent wishing you had just shut up and let me fuck you. So ziplock your windbag shut and bend over.

My Newest Pet: Peeve

I've been up for less than an hour. I've had my breakfast, and done my friends list checking, and I already have a new pet peeve:

Why, when I'm eating breakfast, do so many people on my friends list feel the need to post pictures of their or someone else's asshole or vagina? Fucken ewww. Let's forget for a moment (or maybe, blissfully, forever) the vagina pictures. Let's focus on the assholes posting asshole pics. I'm an ass man. I love me some ass, but the actual asshole is not attractive. Especially when it looks like it just got done passing a Buick. Good god, I've spent a good chunk of my life fucking gay hos up the ass but I've never seen such nasty-ass assholes. Do these people have to sit on fire hydrants to get that look? I'd link the pictures, but I respect your right not to have to see upclose shots of anal cavities.

Why can't these people post up close pictures of other things I like. I'd love to be able to write:

Why, when I'm eating breakfast, do so many people on my friends list feel the need to post pictures of their or someone else's Cherry Coke or Pepsi Blue? Fucken ewww. Let's forget for a moment (or maybe, blissfully, forever) the Pepsi Blue pictures. Let's focus on the cokeheads posting Cherry Coke pics. I'm a Cherry Coke man. I love me some Cherry Coke, but the actual bottle mouths are not attractive. Especially when they look like they just got done passing a Buick. Good god, I've spent a good chunk of my life drinking Cherry Coke from the bottle but I've never seen such nasty-ass bottle mouths. Do these bottles have to sit on fire hydrants to get that look? I'd link the pictures, but I respect your right not to have to see upclose shots of carbonation cavities.

That wasn't nearly as painful (unless you count the Pepsi Blue reference...did they learn nothing from the sweet tasting tragedy of Crystal Pepsi?), was it?

A lot of you may be wondering what this has to do with my sex life. You're hoping beyond hope that there's a point here that has nothing to do with goatse or fire hydrants. Maybe it'll be about my relationship between my asshole & a Cherry Coke bottle. To you I say, that's really fucken gross. My point is, Ethan's ass looks like he sat on a church steeple and slid all the way down to the ground.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/46381.html?view=2874157#t2874157

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 7: Introspective Interlude)

I'm working on a novel which is, essentially, a fictionalization of this journal. If I'd met Ethan in the book, I'd have the benefit of being able to tell you why he chose to first invite me over for sex, then reject me, then show up on my doorstep looking for sex. I could relate it to how his parents abandoned him or how he has a fetish for making people uncomfortable. Maybe I could invent an ex who was a writer who was hung like a an elephant with elephantitis and shot strawberry flavored semen out of his cock. Semen that not only tasted great, and cleared up your skin, but also built up your self-confidence, and shampooed your hair.

But I'm not an omniscient narrator of my life. I asked Ethan what was going on, and he left. Sure, I know where he lives. I know his phone number, I even know that he reads this LJ (do you have anything to say for yourself Mr. Stalker?). That's all I know. And while I do have some degree of fatalism and curiosity, I can't bring myself to knock on his door, or give him a call. Then I, too, would be a passenger on The Psycho Train.

This whole incident has me thinking of sitcoms. How much easier it would be if my life was confined to a cast of revolving characters. I could have run into Elvis at the gay marriage ceremony. He would have been marrying Tommy. I could have stepped in and stopped the whole thing. Presented the list of Seithcrimes, confessed how much I missed Tommy and his tongue. We would have dated until the cliffhanger season finale when Liam would have shown up on my doorstep. Why? You'd have to tune in next season to find out.

What if, instead of a sitcom, I hired Chris Carter or M Knight Shyamalan to write this journal? Would Ryan come back from the dead? Maybe Elvis, Byron and Seith would actually be three different people. Clones, perhaps. Maybe Ethan would turn out to be a brother from the family that gave me up for adoption. Hmmm...these ideas seem a bit more like "Dark Shadows" or "Baywatch Nights."

I guess I have to settle for taking what I get. Living what I'm given.

What I got from Ethan was a sense that I need to slow down before I end up a character in the next SLC Punk. Big City Fags? Sodom 90666?

Maybe the next book will focus on my religious conversion. How I became a Mormon minister. Or better yet, a Republican fund raiser. I'll call it "The Way Things Ought to Be Part 2: The Right Way." My book will be sponsored by Wal-Mart and MobilExxon. I'll move back to Pieceofshitdeserttown and sell coffee while I listen to really crappy poetry about how Dick Cheney is baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.

Maybe not. What's most likely is that I'll stay reclusive until the book is done. When it's over, I'll --- ok I don't have a clue what I'll do. Anyone have any ideas?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/46121.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 6: I'm Such A Character)

Earlier this month, for the first time, I met someone as Insafemode. It wasn't a date, or a hook-up, or anything remotely scandalous. I was meeting another writer for a drink (Cola, for those keeping track of Safey's alcoholism). I was curious how I would come across to someone who only knew me through this blog. The few people who know me in person, and who read this can probably vouch that I don't come across as...well, slutty in real life. Maybe if I wrote more entries about my music obsessions or my recipe for Ground Nut Stew, Insafemode would be a more balanced me instead of a cariacture. But who wants to read about how I couldn't sleep this morning because a pack of cute Latinos are scraping paint off the house?

Put your hands down, there's no nudity involved in the story.

Before I agreed to meet said writer for drinks, I tried to evaluate whether I should "Insafe it up." Should I be as catty and queercentric as I am in this LJ? Hell, no. I can't stand being around catty guys for more than a few minutes at a time, I certainly wouldn't be able to be one.

So I went as me. Straight seeming gay guy. Good listener. Inquisitive soul. Forever in blue jeans. I showered the "unemployed poet" stench off me before I left. I would have been early to the meeting had not my roommate said "What's wrong with your hair? Are you trying to look gay?" which meant I had to towel my hair drier so as not to have the "slick emo kid look." (I prefer having the scruffy emo guy look)

As a regular reader of this LJ, Other Writer remarked that I don't come across Insafemodish in person. I'll take that as a compliment.

In addition to learning that I'm not Insafemodish, I also learned that I have a number of readers not brave enough to put me on their friends lists (pussy pervs!) for various reasons. Some don't want their friends page covered in gay porn, some don't have LJs, others are just afraid I'm contagious (they're just fucken freckles).

What I didn't realize is that there was at least one person not on my friends list who was cyberstalking me.

"Did you just call me Safey?"

"Yea."

I pushed his ass of my crotch. "Why?"

"I thought that's what some of your exes called you."

What would Clark Kent say if, one day, Jimmy Olsen was bouncing on his cock and said "Go ahead, call me Lois if it turns you on, Superman?" Fuck if I know. (author's note: I'm using fuck as an interjection, not a verb in that last sentence)

"Look." he said, as I pulled up my boxers. "I have a Livejournal. I've been reading your stories for a couple of months now. I kept answering Craigslist ads that I thought might be yours."

"How did you know when you found me?"

"Your e-mail address has Insafemode in it." Ok, it was my turn to be the moron asking about cancerous freckles.

I tried to rectify things in my mind. A cute guy had been searching me out because of my LJ. He'd found me because I, apparently, have no secret agent skillz whatsoever He'd invited me over to his house so that I could fuck him, and then he threw me the fuck out before I could even take off my shoes. Then, for whatever reason he'd gone to my house (since I'd foolishly given him my address & phone number). There, he threw me on the couch, took off his clothes and proceeded to address me by a fictional alias.

"Um." was really the best thing I could come up with.

"I should go." Yes, you should go. But now you know who I am, where I live, what I look like. Fuck, I need a hypnotist or the MIB memory eraser.

"No. Don't go. Not yet."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/45826.html

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.