Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
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It all started when I wrote "God save me from teenage boys with womens' names." on the back of one of my poems, and passed it to my friend. I was not referring to my boyfriend[?], though it applies to him, but to the cute kid in the audience of one of my shows who'd tried to chat me up. I'm thirty. One teenager is four too many.
I was more than just a trifle embarrassed to realize that, for a good ten minutes of my show, that note was easily readable to everyone in the audience, including the teenager with the female name, sitting in the very front row. The possibility of him being illiterate or oblivious is the only thing that kept me from banging my head against the dashboard the entire way home. I know he was neither illiterate or oblivious, because he IMed me as soon as I got home in order to a) flirt with me; and b) call me out on my note. In order to distract myself, I started clicking on Craigslist ads. Not the sleazy hookup ads that I used to read, but apartment ads. And, ok, they were boring. And I had, like, a week to look for a new apartment, so why not check out those sleazy CL hookup ads. Why not place one? 30YO STD free, moderately hairy, masculine top seeks slightly but only slightly younger or same aged to relieve boredom on a Friday night. Fatties ok, femmes tolerable, but no teenage boys with womens' names, or seventy year old men looking to cuddle with young Asians. I didn't expect the deluge of responses nor the desire to respond to them. I certainly didn't expect to leave my friend's apartment at 11:00 to go meet some stranger in a park I'd never been to before. Those nights are way behind me, right? If only. After spending twenty minutes walking around the park looking for the appropriate entrance, I found it. The sign was covered with dirt. This wasn't just a sign with the name of the entrance, this was a sign of things to come. Or come in, as the case may be. The guy introduced himself as Junior, despite being a few years my senior. His picture must have been taken during the days when Soul Asylum ruled the charts. This did not bode well. Despite his never having done "anything like this before", he knew precisely where we wouldn't get caught, but would be comfortable. I really hadn't done anything like this before. Sex with some stranger I've only just begun talking to over the internet, sure. Outside? In public? No. I considered it research for my memoirs. As soon as we were behind some bushes, the clothes came off. It was dark. This was both lucky and dooming. He bent over immediately. "Do you rim?" Have I before? Yes. With a stranger? No. Was I about to? "No." "Ok. Just fuck me then." So I pulled out my condom, and began "You don't need that." He said. "I'm clean." Clean turns out to be a subjective term. Still, I put on my condom. This was both lucky, and dooming. Before squeezing my cock in, I did some spit-lube fingering. Usually, I carry real lube, but when I was in Austin a few weeks ago, I put my lube in one of my extra shoes. A pair of shoes I ended up letting a friend borrow, not thinking to remove the lube first. Neither my friend, nor I, have brought up his extra special shoe bonus. As a general rule, I spit on a finger, finger, then spit on another finger and use that. I mean, doody comes out that hole, I don't want to lick something that's just been inside it. This rule turned out to be both lucky, and dooming. Our sex lasted longer than it should, because I realized that my boyfriend[?] has spoiled me by being not only attractive and good in bed (or, I suppose, bushes), but also being someone I care about. Junior was not any of those three things. And I couldn't stop thinking about that. Eventually, though, I came. "Can I fuck you?" He asked. "No." I said, while jerking him to, oh yea, finish. "That's cool." That was the last thing he said. He got in his car and drove off. I began walking home. About ten minutes into my walk, my nose itched. I scratched it and...and that's when I noticed my hands had gotten dirty. No biggy. I'd had to lean in the dirt a few times and *sniff*...eww. Eww. My hands, while dirty, were not dirty with dirt. They were, in fact, covered in a thin layer of human fecal matter. I began feverishly spitting on my hands, pulling leaves off of trees and trying to scour them off. This did not work. Shit. Literally. Shit. Had this Junior not heard of toilet paper? Does he not know the proper about to get fucked etiquette? Either finger yourself clean in the shower, or take a cleansing dump beforehand. This will minimize the shit to the surface area of the other person's skin ratio. I'd guess the last time Junior wiped his ass was when he had that picture taken at the Blind Melon concert. I had at least an hour walk ahead of me, and I was shit handed. I couldn't even stop in a gas station and ask for keys to the bathroom because they'd have had to put the key to such a room in my crap covered hands. So, for the duration of my walk of shame I put my hands in my pockets, knowing I'd now have to do a load of laundry as soon as I got home. After the shower, that was. The few people I ran into on the streets between the park and the house, didn't make eye contact with me for very long. It was though they could sense my shame, or else smell my hands, I thought. Turns out, it was neither of those things. As soon as I got home, I ran into the bathroom, took off my clothes and turned on the shower. Then, I took the smallest bar of soap and scrubbed my hands until that soap sliver was but a memory. And that's when I looked in the mirror and saw why no one would make eye contact with me. My nose was brown.
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So, the original post is down, and despite my voting for it, it may not get Best of Craigslist, but I saved the text (I've edited the punctuation as it was neither correct nor uproariously incorrect), and this ranks as the most hilarious ad I've ever seen. From BostonM4M, cock knows why.
Is Your Wife a Cunt? Hate your wife? Me, too. Call me and tell me about all the way that bitch pisses you off. Tell me until I come. Your e-mail gets my cell phone number. Dude. WTF. I imagine it would take a team of psychiatrists decades to detail all the problems this guy has. Assuming, of course, it isn't some wise-ass giving out the cell phone number of someone he doesn't like. Then the issues are different, and...well, equally as horrifying. I happen to think your wife is pretty spiffy. Finished some late night Chinese food with Zuzu, Lot, and Zuzu's ex-husband. I opened my fortune cookie, ate it, and then read the following fortune:
Your problem just got bigger. Think, what have you done? Seriously, fortune cookie? Seriously? Who the fuck gives dooming fortune cookies? When Ben and I were living together, we formulated the ultimate revenge plan. We would steal someone's iPod, write down all the tracks on it, delete the iPod and then refill the iPod with nothing but Cher's "Walking in Memphis", but give each track a title from the original iPod playlist. We decided this was one of the cruelest punishments imaginable (The worst punishment being a friend of mine's idea. Every year, she and her best friend would try and give each other the worst possible birthday present, and the receiver of the gift HAD to use it. One year, her friend gave her ONE Celine Dion ticket, so she would have to go see that trainwreck, but wouldn't have anyone to share the horrific experience with).
Having driven from somewhere around Waco, TX to Arkansas, I was tired. So I slept through most of Ben's drive through Arkansas. And when I saw we were hitting the border of Tennessee, naturally, I grabbed the iPod and turned on some Arrested Development. When the song was over, Ben grabbed the iPod and began singing Cher's "Walking in Memphis" just like Cher. Creepily like Cher. Exactly like Cher. I'm not sure that's a talent, but if it is, he is very talented. This was not as creepy as when he sings old Fleetwood Mac songs exactly like Stevie Nicks, but it's close. Creepier was when he started singing Notorious BIG songs in the Cher voice, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Ben and I drove around Memphis for hours. There is no free parking in Memphis, and the hotels are spread out. Sadly, there weren't any hotel rooms available in Memphis because it was Elvis week. When we decided to get back on the highway, Ben suggested we go to Nashville, and hang out there. "I don't know why you think we'll have any better luck there." I said. "It's also Dolly Parton week." It wasn't. We found a hotel, ordered a pizza, made plans to hit up a gay bar, and promptly fell asleep. The next day's plan? Knoxville. Ben would hit up a gay bar (he's opposed to clubs because of the loud music and the fact that most people in clubs are...well, club people), and I would catch a bus home to Boston, so I could be to work on Wednesday night. It was a good plan, so I knew it was going to go awry. We arrived in Knoxville in the early afternoon, we circled Knoxville over and over looking for hotels, but we only saw a too expensive Raddison that overlooked the Woman's Basketball Hall of Fame. There is almost no parking in Tennessee, apparently, so we parked roughly back in Nashville, and walked to the information center of Knoxville. The really nice woman behind the counter suggested we stay out of town, or at a place called St. Oliver's. We couldn't find St. Oliver's for a long time, due to construction in the area, and our general inability to read maps. When we did find out, Ben went in to ask how much rooms were. "We have $55 rooms, $75 rooms, and $200 suites." Said the concierge. "But all of our $55 rooms are full." "Well, I'm a videoblogger recording a road trip of some of the nicest hotels in the country." Lied Ben, in a stroke of utter brilliance. "If I give your hotel a good review, could we get a $75 room for $55." When the concierge immediately agreed, I thought he might be really stupid. But when his hot young boyfriend picked him up from work a few hours later, I realized he was just looking out for some fellow queers. God Bless Tennessee. Hotel St. Oliver is filled with beautiful French furniture, a piano that doesn't quite work, and every cool amenity you can expect in an old hotel, with the exception of a wireless connection. The concierge gayve (no, it ain't a typo) us a tour of the hotel, showing us plans to build lofts into certain rooms, different wallpapers they were considering during renovations, etc. At some point during our tour, Ben realized that our room keys opened every door on our floor. Stroke of Ben's brilliance #2. After the tour, we went out in search of food. But it was after seven, when they roll up the streets of Knoxville. We found only one food place open. A brand new bar/restaurant/music venue/art gallery/hair salon/spa called World Grotto that had just opened. The owner made a killer salmon sandwich for Ben, while I scoured the place for inspiration. At around tennish we headed to the bus station, where I was to pick up my travel stipend to go home, and then...well I was to go home. A 24 hour bus trip. Not nearly as fun as the two day Boston to Dallas trip, I was sure, but close. Now, the stipend was sent at 9:30. It was a check for $150. The ticket home would be about a hundred, giving me plenty of food spending money for the trip. The money was in the computer at the bus station's Western Union "but there's a password on it. You got the password?" I did not. So I called the person who sent the money, who, naturally, did not answer his phone. He called back at 11:55. Ben was understandably antsy. He had plans to go to a gay karaoke night and go hotel with a nice little TN guy. Being the good friend, he decided to stay with me until I had the money. While we waited, he played video games, and I fretted. There wasn't supposed to be a password on the account, but after I handed Ben's phone (my phone doesn't work in eastern TN or western Virginia, or the Carolinas) to the Western Union lady, she smiled and printed out my ticket. I thanked the sender, and gave the phone to Ben. "You good?" He asked. "Yeup." I said, without betraying my sense of impending doom. "Thanks for waiting with me." And I hugged Ben goodbye. I was not good. The lady behind the counter frowned at me. "So, I just emptied the cash drawer a couple of minutes ago." I smiled and nodded. "So I won't have enough money to cash your check for a while." "A while?" I asked. "Check back in a half an hour." I did. They hadn't sold a single ticket. "What time does the next bus that you sell tickets to leave?" She smiled and said, "Eight thirty tomorrow morning." The bitch smiled. Fucken August. I called Ben. Collect because my fucken phone still didn't work. He had already met someone, but was going to drive back to the station and pick me up. "No, don't worry about it." I told him. "I'll just walk back to the hotel, and wait for you there, it should take me about an hour. And I can wait. Don't rush back." It was a fifteen minute walk. So I decided to kill some time at The World Grotto, where the owner made me a free chicken sandwich and a few Captain and Cokes. I told him I would plug The World Grotto in my blog. Plug, plug. At around two-thirty Ben and a very cute guy in glasses stumbled toward the hotel. Ben apologized profusely for making me wait, despite the fact that I told him to take his time. The cute boy introduced himself to me and asked "How old are you?" "Thirty." I said. "Cool. My last boyfriend was thirty-two, but he told me he was twenty-six." "Ah ha." I said. Unsure why he was telling me this. "So I aspreschiate your honesty." And we entered the hotel like the scarecrow, the tin man, and Dorothy. I won't say who was who. Ben's flash of brilliance #3: our key opened all the rooms on our floor. One of the $200 suites was being renovated, but the bedroom was fine. So he and the boy would take the suite, I would sleep in the room, making sure to wake them up at eight, so they wouldn't get caught by the concierge when his shift started at nine. Ben went into the bathroom for a few minutes, leaving Boy and I to small talk in the room. "So...I never do this sort of thing." Boy said. "I'm kinda drunk. I never. I mean. How old is Ben." "Twenty-three." "Cool. I'm twenty. So...I...uh...this...are gonna have a threesome?" No. No. No. No no no. Or as Ben would undoubtedly say "Nooooooooooooo." For the record, I don't think Boy was hitting on me, he was just drunk and confused. And incredibly lucky he ended up with Ben and not some asshole who was going to take advantage of his drunkenness. Well, I mean, Ben was taking advantage of his drunkenness, but in a way that had been agreed upon before drunkenness ensued. The next morning, I woke up as Ben and Boy were entering the room. They had not been discovered. And while they crashed in the bed, I made my way to the bus station, blasting a prereleased Jared Paul CD (amazing, amazing, amazing). I took off my headphones when I got to the ticket counter. The station was empty save me, two people chatting on the far side of the station, and the lady behind the counter. I put my discman down. While the lady and I were talking, apparently, a tribe of Knoxville Ninjas entered the bus station and stole my discman. Seriously, there was no one within range to steal it, but during the minute and a half it was on the counter, it disappeared. Poof. Fucken August. So, Steggy, the poet I toured with in 2003 is here in Austin. He is dressed in his blue footy pajamas and his rabbit ears hat on a near full time basis. I haven't seen him since he moved out of Boston in 2004. So I called him to see where he was hanging out after our bout. Turns out, he was with Mr. Drunk Bisexual from the previous post, as well as with my friend Asterisk. So I go to their hotel room, knock on the door, and go in. And there, leaning against the dresser, is Ben. Just after I say hello, my phone rings.
"Hey Safey, it's Sora. Are you okay? I just got this feeling that something really terrible is happening to you right now." Sora wins at life. I was in Austin for a poetry event, and there are a couple of cool sandwich shops. When I went to Austin last year, I started collecting stamps toward a free sandwich at a particular shop, so when I returned to Austin this year, the sandwich shop was one of my first stops.
The guy behind the counter was totally cutiful. Brazilian. Early twenties. gay but not Gay. He gave me the hard sell on a milkshake. There was some sales contest he was trying to win, so not only did I buy a shake, I convinced all of my friends to buy shakes, too, thus winning him the sales contest, and, apparently, winning me a place in his heart. Well, maybe not his heart. But a place in his groin just sounds weird. I go back the next day, a stamp away from my free sandwich. "Hey, you're the guy from yesterday." Sandwich Guy says. I confirm. We small talk about weather and different clubs in town, when he says "You're in town for some businessy thing right?" And I'm about to tell him that, actually, I'm in town for a poetry competition. One that I've just lost hardcore, and am currently in a minor depression, but he rolls right over me saying "Chicken Caesar Wrap with bacon and cheddar, right?" I confirm. After eating my delicious sandwich, I head back to my hotel, where I take out my wallet in order to find the little credit card thing that will open my room, when I notice a phone number written on my sandwich card. Classy. At around ten o'clock, the friends that I'm in town with go out to an after party. I am not feeling particularly partyish, but I do have that phone number. "Hello?" "Hi." God, what am I supposed to say? I don't know his name, he doesn't know mine. I can't very well say Is this the Sandwich Guy? "Is this the Sandwich Guy?" Okay, maybe I can very well say it. "Oh. Yea. Hi. This is the uhhh...business guy?" Business guy? I've been wearing purple shorts and slogany t-shirts all week. I don't have the business paunch. I'm certainly not a business anything. "Yes. I'm the business guy." "Cool." Silence. Silence. Silence. "Soooo...how long are you in town for?" "I leave tomorrow." Silence. Silence. Silence. "I've never done this before." He says. And I'm not sure whether he means giving out his phone number, or...something else. But, either way, I'm not sure I believe him. Turns out, he means that he wants to meet me for something akin to sex. After many minutes of painful phone silence, he tells me that he's always had a fantasy about meeting up with a businessman in a nice hotel, fooling around, and then leaving. "But I only want to do it with a guy who's not, you know, gay." Riiiiiiight. One of those straight businessmen who fucks strange men in nice hotels. "Well, I'm married." I say. Surprising myself with the lie. "My wife lets me fool around with guys when I'm on the road, though. She thinks it's hot." "Cool. Your wife sounds...cool." And then more silence and awkward sex talk, and then "Could you...could you wear dark socks for me?" Oh for..."Sure." So I'm standing outside my room in dark socks. Several of my friends are walking through the lobby below me. I wave at them. I call my roommates to make sure they're having enough of a good time at the party that they won't be back at the hotel anytime soon. They won't. Sandwich Guy walks slowly up to me. His eyes never leave the floor. "So...what do you want to...you know...do?" So Sandwich Guy doesn't do anal, or oral. And doesn't feel comfortable touching guys. He wants to jerk off while watching me jerk off. You know, I can jerk off by myself, and I can certainly think of hotter fantasies while jerking off than watching him jerk off. "Your socks are hot." He says. They're socks. Blue socks. There is nothing sexy about my damned socks. Just as there is nothing sexy about watching him jerk off. He has a nice enough looking cock, but his ass is about 90% bone, and he won't even take off his shirt. "Do you..." He looks at the floor. "Do you like my ass?" I do not. "Yea, you've got a great ass. Do you work out?" "I'm gonna....I'm gonna." And he does. On my damned shoes. "Well that was" fast, awkward, gross, disappointing, a waste of my night "good for you?" "That was amazing." No. Really, it wasn't. I must still look like a poet. Or a drug addict. The two aren't necessarily indistinguishable. But while I'm waiting for the train home from Sora's, a guy offers me some trees for some haze, and I don't think he's trying to solve global warming.
I have no trees. The only haze is in my mind, because I didn't sleep much last night. It was my turn to sleep on the floor, and my body clock is more of a blinking digital 12:00 VCR flash (which I suspect is the real reason DVDs were invented). I get on the train and am surprised to see an old friend back from Africa who shares smacknothing talk with me between Providence and Boston, where I pack, and go to meet another bus. The beginning of my trek to Dallas. I noted several years ago that Cerberus is actually a Greyhound. I think if Americans were serious about rehabilitating criminals, instead of sending them to jail, they'd put them on a bus for a week. This theory is shot to hell when I discover my first seatmate is fresh from jail and headed to rehab I said no, no, no. He entertains me with the level of lies I haven't heard since I deported Elvis almost a decade ago. And then I fall asleep. Wake up in New York. Grand Central Fuck Yourself Port Afuckenkillyourselfthority. The 9:15 bus I'm supposed to take doesn't exist. The next one is, of course, 11:45, and it will be pack packed. And, of course, the really obese woman in front of me clicks her seat back against my knees, and a woman and her toddler squeeze in next to me. And the baby rarely cries but she kicks and grabs my arm. And the mother's knee is in my hip, and it's like this all the way to fucken Richmond Virginia. Richmond to Roanoake to everywhichwhere Caroliginiasee, the bus is a hive of crackheads and loud women and crying oh my god kids. And somewhere in Tennessee Nate gets on. Nate. Nnnnnnnnnnate. If I wasn't stupidly Sorafied (he is not stupid, I am not stupid, I am using it as in wicked, as in hella, as in completely), I'd have noticed sooner how unnervingly sexy he is. Not beautiful like Sora. Not hot like...hot people. He looks like what would happen if Gary Sinese got Tobey Maguire pregnant. And he's of course Irish, and is reading The Hitchhiker's Guide, and I am reading The World According To Garp, which makes us best buddies because obviously we're both nerds who are Irish who listen to The Dropkick Murphys and The Pogues. And everything is a racist joke to him, except the religious ones. And hours pass. He is showing me pictures of his fiancee, asking if I approve. And she's obviously also Irish, and pretty, and, sure I approve of why not her? "It's just..." and he stares at me, "I've always had a thing for redheads..." And the stare keeps lingering there, like someone sprayed Axe bodyspray in a microwave. "O...k. I don't really have a type, in that way. But. Good for you." And he is a kicked puppy that I keep feeding and at my god every stop he wants to know what I'm buying and oh man I'm tired but the conversation and the sleep can't coincide and he has so much to say and instead of a knee in my hip, it's a tongue in my ear, and not in the cool way that Sora does it. "And I'm a soldier." He says. "So when I say Fuck Bush, I know what I'm talking about and" yip yip bubbledy bloo. And he keeps touching my leg, which is not his beautiful fiancee. And all I want to do is sleep, and I don't think I've eaten anything since my God Boston. When he switches buses in Texarcana, he takes down all my info so that we can keep in touch. I can't imagine what I'll say if he ever actually calls or writes. And blissful then sleep until Dallllllllldallllllldalllas. Where poets and old friends and a camera await me. While the national poetry slam starts in Austin on Tuesday, there is a pre-nationals invitational tournament in Dallas on Sunday night. So I left Boston a little oh god too early. And the rest of my team doesn't arrive until Monday, so instead of competing, I volunteer to record the event. Put down poetry book, pick up tripod and video and lay down on weird angle floor. And so many people I've not maybe purposefully maybe not seen for a while. I am called by hot_rod_poet's name no less than a dozen times (mostly by the same person). This is because all white people from Boston look alike. Even though, according to my last show in Boston, I am actually a 6'2 black man named Wiz. After the show and some requisite drinks and food, I hang out with my not teammates (another team from Boston comprised of people I have previously been on teams with), and then there is...then there is drunkoolery. And beer? "I want a beer." Someone drunk drunk tipsily tells me. "I" of course "don't have any beer." I look around for support. There is drunk boy, drunk boy's nearly as drunk friend, Asterisk, and Insaferubenmode, a friend of mine who (obviously) has nearly the same name. Drunk Boy invites all to get beer with him at the gas station across the street. When Asterisk, Insaferubenmode, and I decline, he says "Anyone who doesn't get beer with me is gay." He is, in fact, two thirds correct. But Asterisk looks mock horrified and Drunk Boy says, "Oh, you know I'm kidding. I'm as bisexual as they come." And his friend says "On your face." And Asterisk and I are of course obliged along with Insaferubenmode to begin BeerQuest. Which fails. But I do get to see Drunk Boy climb a pole and run super speedy across the street and then Asterisk says "I couldn't fuck him. When he gets drunk his eyes go crazy, and I can't tell if he's looking for me or looking at me." And there is much laughter, and you know, I hardly ever spend time with just Asterisk, and we amuse ourselves muchly. Then Asterisk goes to sleep, and I grab my bathing suit and head to the pool where Drunk Boy, Drunk Boy's friend, pageloads of LJ friend/poets and some sort of family reunion that has nothing to do with poetry but who have decided to record some video of performing poets who are swimming and making, according to the management, too much noise, since the pool is supposed to have been closed for three hours so be quiet anyway. And it's not that I was looking to see Drunk Boy naked, it just sort of happened, and good for him and good for whichever sex and whichever person he ends up with because well, yea, good for him and everyone involved. And I am involved, but not with him, with Sora and. And. Well, you know. He's no but who is Sora. And it occurs to me I should have been sleeping hours ago. But the pool. And the computer. And Dallas. And LJ poet friends. And the maniac from Albuquerque (not a slam poet) who is in town for American Idol with his band, a novel he's working on, his website, a team of flying reindeer, the blueprints to Fort Knox, and a whole other wagon full of bullshit if anyone believes the first few piles he shovels at you. And, you know, naked on your face. And in a few couple maybe less than one hours I'm off to Austin and don't ask me how but you know it will happen and more poetry and dizzy and blur and more naked would be great and I wish Sora were here (though he needn't be but I wouldn't mind naked), but rumor has it Ben is coming in how did this happen stead. This is meanfunny I guess but I don't know where Ben is planning on staying. But I have an idea. I brought some masking tape. I'm thinking of taping off a section of the hotel room I'm sharing with Wiz, fifteen inches by four feet, and labeling it "Van Seat" in honor of the "bed" I slept on in his house. It was more comfortable than Sora's floor (but that's not my usual place when I stay over), and didn't smell as badly as the Greyhound seats, but it was still you know a too small van seat for my long legs, and really I just always need an excuse for something to do. |
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