I have never been able to take journalists seriously. I know that not all of them are misinformed sensationalists who flunked out of their community college's liberal arts bachelor's programs, but most of them appear to be. I used to think The Boston Herald was the absolute worst newspaper in the country, even after the creation of Boston's version of the international free daily, The Metro. The Metro, however, is often subversively funny. For instance, they did a story on famous beards, and the photographs included Abraham Lincoln, a guy from ZZ Top, Fidel Castro, and Liza Minella. That's funny. However, without a doubt the worst paper in Boston right now is Boston NOW. On a day when the Metro's cover story was about increasing violence on the streets of Boston, Boston NOW's cover was about how celebrity golf scores are available to the public. The front page story was on how Joe Public had the freedom to look up Tom Brady's golf score. I mean who cares about racial tensions in Louisiana, the war in Iraq, or the fact that Boston is seeing its first rise in crime related violence in over a decade, Tom Brady's golf scores are available at your local golf course. That's not even an important enough story to warrant the cover of the sports page. Are they not aware of the Red Sox threatening to flop out of their division championship? Didn't they hear about the whole video camera/Patriots scandal? Fuck how Tom Brady's golfing is going, he appears to be ready to lead the Patriots to another Super Bowl.
Headlines like this are why most people think the Jena Six are a cover band that play only songs by Janet and The Jackson Five.
During tonight's Writing But Mostly Drinking Group (which was more eating and shit talking than anything else tonight), we were discussing the Jena Six, and the the recent hubbub over a local school putting on the "pro-gay propaganda" play, The Laramie Project, when the term ex-gay came up. Apparently the straight white Emerson student population (who makes up 2/3rds of the writers' group) was unaware of recent reports on the "effectiveness" of the Ex-Gay movement (I know there are more recent reports on The Internet but, being as this entry is sort of an homage to "journalism", I'm not going to use more than one source). Basically, one recent study of two hundred and two Ex-Gays found that only twenty-six considered the program a success. Of those twenty-six, eight claimed to not have any "slip-ups". Of those eight people, seven worked for the Ex-Gay movement. The head of an Ex-Gay group called Exodus International in Orlando, said the report presented "opinion and certainly not fact." It should also be mentioned that ninety percent of those interviewed reported long term harm, and feelings of deep depression and the desire to commit suicide. This says nothing of the dozes of "Ex-Gay counselors" sued and/or arrested for molesting the people they're supposed to be counseling. I think a complete guide to the history of The Ex-Gay movement would read like an article from The Onion. I mean, Ex-Gay leaders have molested more children than priests and Republican Senators combined.
During the Ex-Gay discussion, someone brought up a possible alternative to the Ex-Gay movement: Cock Suckers Anonymous. So I present
The 12 Steps of Cocksuckers Anonymous
(with the understanding that this is for male cocksuckers, not females who are welcome to suck cock whenever they please):
1. We admitted we were powerless over cock – that our lives had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that a vagina greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of vagina as we understood it.
4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
5. Admitted to vagina, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
6. Were entirely ready to have vagina remove all these defects of character.
7. Humbly asked vagina to remove our shortcomings.
8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.*
10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with vagina as we understood it, praying only for knowledge of vagina's will for us and the power to carry that out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other cocksuckers, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
*- "Hey Steve, this is Larry. You may not remember me, I met you in an alley in Manhattan, I was looking for crack, you had a couple rocks. I didn't have any money, so you suggested I suck your cock and...yea...yea, the senator. Anyway...no, no, no, the crack was great, I just wanted to apologize for sucking your cock. Really? Well, I'm flattered and everything but it was wrong of me. Wrong. See I'm in a group, it's kind of like AA, and I'm supposed to make this list and call and make amends to...Oh, no, I still smoke crack all the time. It's the cock I've given up smoking. Which reminds me, I came into a little money recently...no, not literally. Anyway, I can't suck your cock, but I could really go for some crack right now, do you think you could hook me up?"
I'm trying to think of some way to wrap this entry up in a nice little bow, but really all I can come up with is that so called journalists are really just a bunch of cocksuckers who refuse to apologize for the current state of The American Media, but that seems cruel. I mean, sure, there are a lot of cocksuckers who will lie to your face (or crotch), but at least they have the decency not to write their opinions about your cock and call them news stories.
It's not so much a dry spell that I've been in, as a drout. Blind Melon's biggest hit was about my August/early September sex life. Native American tribes have elaborate dances based on preventing my current sex life. That classic rock song by Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Who'll Stop The Rain"? The answer was me. My sex life. No rain.
I recently dumped my ex because, instead of putting out, he just went on and on about what a horrible ex-boyfriend he had. An ex-boyfriend who dumped him because, well, he stopped putting out, and spent all his time talking about his previous ex.
So, sleeping with an ex's ex, specifically the one he would not stop complaining about when he should have been bent over with his face in a pillow, seems like the hottest form of revenge. Plus, my ex's ex has a finished basement with a fully stocked bar, a pool table, an enormous TV, and an impressive collection of porn. And he wanted to pick me up at my house, and drive me over there. Sweet.
Of course, my ex's side of the "why I broke up with the ex I never stop talking about" story, is that his ex was a flake who made false promises, and then belittled him all the time.
Naturally, he flaked out on picking me up. So, I moved on.
A college student who looks alarmingly like a really good friend of mine. Stood me up.
An ex-college jock (still jocky, but no longer collegey). Stood me up.
And, of course, a series of Indecisive Boston Gaysians (I've slept with plenty of non-Boston Gaysians, and they're great, but the Boston Gaysiasaurus Indecisivus is as obnoxious a reptile as The Rapeasaurus Rex. But not as sex-driven. In fact, the opposite of sex-driven. They tend to back out of sex at the last possible moment, claiming that the moon is at the wrong distance, or that your freckles spell out "Kill The Gook" in Chinese (which is further odd, because Gook is a slur against the Vietnamese, so it would make no sense to write it in Chinese, and he's Korean, anyway, what does he care?).
So, tonight, when I got an e-mail from yet another Boston Gaysian, I thought No. No more. Safey, your AIM status is No More Gaysians. It doesn't matter how cute this one is, it's a terrible idea that will only lead to...
God damn cock override.
So, I run down the street to make sure I catch the right bus, because taking a bus to a hook-up is pure class. I get there just in time to catch the bus. Going in the wrong direction. Never having gone to this particular part of town, I do not realize I'm going in the wrong direction until I'm all the way at the wrong end of the bus line. And I only know I'm all the way at the end because I am the last person on the bus, and the driver turns the lights out.
"Ummm, was that the last--"
"Jesus Christopher Columbus!!! Did you fall asleep or something? This bus is out of service."
So I get off (not the way I prefer), and head back to the bus stop. It's only a couple of minutes before the bus shows up, and it's a pretty short route. I go to call my awaiting ass, but my phone is completely drained of batteries. I hope he'll be waiting.
About halfway through the run, our bus slams into another bus. Boston's ever popular Out Of Service line. And now our bus is deemed undrivable, so we have to wait for a replacement bus. And I'm an hour late when I arrive at the end of the line, and I know he's not going to be there, and my phone isn't working. So I wander around, searching for a payphone, which I eventually find.
"Hey, it's Saf--"
"Nice shirt. Turn around."
I turn around. I do not see anyone.
"The other way."
I still do not see anyone.
"I'm on a bike."
I hear him cough, and I sort of focus my head turning on the direction the cough came from. I can barely make out a bike. And a...I think...guy? In a hoodie. Definitely a hoodie.
The fucken hell? I don't know why, instead of doing the logical thing, and walking back toward the bus, I follow the bike.
He rides deliberately slowly, but just far enough ahead that I have no idea what he looks like. Clearly, I'm about to get jumped and robbed. But that's ok, I only have condoms, an mp3 player, a tissue, and enough money for bus fare home in my pocket.
And then he is driving down to an area by a river. Ahhh. A classy outdoor river fuck. Reminds me of high school.
I lose sight of him in the secluded, lightless parking lot. I'd call his name, but he sent me two e-mails, and we had an IM conversation, and there was no common name among them. And I don't mean that his e-mail name was RobinLovesBrucey, and his IM name was OnBatmansCock, I mean that his e-mail signature was Tim Drake, but when he IMed me, he told me his name was Jason Todd. So I'm just sort of wandering in the dark, in the direction I think he's in, when I notice a weird light. A cell phone light. I walk over, ready to drop trou, but he shakes his hand. "Follow me. But not, like, right behind me. Walk in front of me."
O.......k. Follow in front. This involves some guess work on my part, as I have no idea where I'm going. He stays about ten yards behind me, occasionally calling out "Left." or "Right." or "Go go Gadget Fellater." No, not that last one. But the first two were accurate.
We cross a bridge over the river, and into a labyrinth of paths before he he walks over to a rock, and pulls his shirt off. Go, go Gadget erection! (See, I knew it would fit in, eventually). I walk over to him, and his hand is on my zipper, and my pants around my ankle, and I throw my head back a bit, and
"Keep your eyes open. In case, you know."
Done. And he sucks, and he sucks, and he's pretty good and "You have con-dumb?"
Now, this guy must be used to Asianophiles. The kind of fag who finds it so sexy to find a short little guy with black hair, and "exotic features". They love it when the guy has a funny little just-off-the-plane (because no one takes boats anymore) accent.
"What?" I ask, voice thick with disdain.
"Did you remember to bring condoms?" He asks, without any trace of accent.
"Yes." And out comes one, and out comes the lube, and over the knees goes the head, and in the air goes the ass, and in the ass goes the cock, and....in. And out. And in. And
"Did you hear something?"
Is he going to freak out the entire time we do this? Having sex outside by the river was his idea. "No, I don't."
"Would you like to?" And he starts moaning, softly, and...hell yea.
I'm usually a focus on the gorgeous ass kind of guy. I wrap my hand around the guy's cock while I keep my eyes on the prize. But the view outside was just...amazing. Like, I'd go back to this spot even if there was no one there to have sex with. The stars are brilliant, the water is slow and soothing, there's a great breeze, and, oh yea, I'm fucking someone. Right.
We have to keep changing positions because, he's on a fucken rock, which is hot, and all, but must hell on his knees, and then his back, and then his stomach. And then I take one for the team, and sit down on the rock while he backs on to me, and I kiss his neck, and he moans, and I am finally having some really good...are those police sirens?
I don't care.
I fuck and I fuck, and he moans and he moans, and he comes and he oh wow comes, and it shoots him off of me.
Given my pre-drout sexual history, I'm fairly sure sex is over. I haven't come, but what does he care? He's gotten off in a gorgeous wooded area with some guy he'll never have to see again, why shouldn't he just throw on his clothes and leave me here?
But he doesn't. He turns around, pulls off my condom, and resumes earlier blowjob. And after about five minutes, I give him the "I'm coming" warning, and he moves his head out of the way, and I point my cock away from anything stainable, and come. And come. And, oh yea, come.
"Wow." He says. "Damn."
We put our clothes on in blissed out silence. "Want me to walk ahead of you again?" I ask.
I pick up the condom wrapper, wrap it and the condom in a tissue I happened to have in my pocket, and walk back through the labyrinth. I don't cross the bridge back to his bike, because the bus stop can be accessed another way, and this will make him feel more secure, I guess.
The bus stop is completely empty. I take the tissue out of my pocket and throw it in a garbage can. As I walk back to the waiting bench, I see a guy whiz by on a bike. He nearly acknowledges me. Cute. I check the bus schedule, and discover I have about ten minutes before my bus shows up, so I take out my Zune, pop in my headphones and start shuffling through my collection. In the midst of an air drum solo, I whack my leg with my right hand, and...and my shorts are covered in Mr. Hoodie's jizz.
It was an interesting bus ride home. "Sure, I'll meet you in a half hour."