Monday, August 31, 2009
Perhaps this fun link will redeem myself:
LA Times Visual DNA
It's super easy and fun: you just click on the pictures that most appeal to you.
For me, the quiz determined I am a Wild Cat: "You're a true original and like to live life on the edge. Quirky and just a little bit rebellious, you keep things fresh by embracing the unexpected and pushing boundaries whenever possible."
So the Rowan video I posted today seems to be picking up some steam online. And part of that is I see a jump in people subscribing to my channel, as well as a number of comments. Today I received an interesting comment on the video. Not quite written in perfect english, I felt the need to see who had written the fawning praise.
Turns out the comment came from a duo of twinks living in Monaco. How do I know they're twinks? Well, I went to see what videos, if any, they had posted... and came upon a few.
It seems like these two boys can't get enough of dancing together in their underwear. The background changes, and the skimpy underwear seems to get skimpier, and change colors. And check out the EXTENSION of that smaller one! He totally pulls off a move that I've seen Rowan do.
Are they boyfriends? Were they born in Monaco? What do you call someone that lives in Monaco? A Monocoan? These are many questions to which I have no answers. I DO know that their names are Daniele and Spencer. And they are apparently dancing in a dressing room somewhere.
I am showing the boys off because, well I think you guys would appreciate them. Furthermore, judging from their low view numbers, they just need a push to bring them into the mainstream. Feel free to pass around the video because, I mean, who doesn't consider this a midday pick-me-up?
I understand that there's been a lot of boys in their underwear on the blog today. Something tells me you folks don't mind much. Think of it as the "The Man Show girls on trampolines" gay-equivalent.
Without further ado, here they are.
And so I'm back.
This blog suits me well, because in life, too, I am a frequent Plus One. I am not often the person who has found the funtastic event or been invited to the phenomenal part, but I am frequently the ("+1") tagging along! Somehow, I am way too scattered and unfocused to ever figure out what's going on unless someone tells me what to do and where to go and when (but I'll be fifteen minutes later). So too with blogs, it seems.
I feel bad for you guys, because honestly, you're really only getting one blogger when I'm the guest star here. The more time Justin and I spend together, the more we realize we are two peas in a very exclusive pod that somehow spans the entire length of the United States with one pea on each coast and none anywhere in the middle. It's not that we're "the same," because in certain ways we are fantastically different. It's more like a science experiment in which you start out with the same ingredients but then raise them in very different environments and throw some paprika on one 6 weeks in, and have the other one sexually abused by his uncle, and then compare notes along the way. Or maybe a "separated at birth" Lifetime movie that was deemed too gay for Lifetime and then sold to Logo. Or Here! Or Showtime. My point being, this week you're getting gypped. It's like Justin Plus Himself. Or, Justin Plus Another Guy Who Is So Much Like Justin It Might As Well Be Justin Himself.
I also feel bad because, well, I'm a freelance screenwriter, which means I have no "job" or "office" I have to get to at "X" am in the morning. (I can't bear to put an actual number in place of "X.") I do not follow what others would call "a schedule" in any way. This means that by the time I actually get around to posting, you East Coasters are already on your way out, grabbing dinner, having drinks, or fighting off this week's Giant Mutant Lizard risen from the depths of the ocean. Way too busy to read a blog, in any case.
Being a writer also means I'm wordy and long-winded, so no pretty pictures or videos for you! I'm actually terrible at the internet, which leads me to believe I was born in the wrong decade. I have a bizarre aversion to clicking links and watching videos. I need a detailed explanation of the video in question's content, running time, and Oscar chances before I even think about viewing that baby. There are all kinds of pop culture references I don't understand anymore. I try to play along, "Haha...yeah...FAIL...totally" but really, I don't know what I'm talking about. To date I have seen roughly three videos online, one and a half of which were "funny," and zero of which contained cats and/or small children. See? I'm terrible.
But with those caveats, I look forward to splendid week of blogging!
(And I showed you the go-go boy trip to the nude beach that he was a part of).
But one thing he was never able to do (due to stealing wi-fi... verguenza en ti!) was upload a video of himself.
But that's no matter. Because this past Thursday at Splash, Rowan and I came together (minds out of the gutter, friends) to make a pilot episode of a new regular video series for Campus Thursdays: the Go-Go Boy-ographies. In GGB, we spotlight a different Splash dancer every week and give viewers a chance to hear from the guys they only normally see dancing in their underwear a few feet above them.
So, without further ado, here's Rowan Pierce himself. Hope you like it!
I am so excited to let you know that this week we have another Plus One Alum threepeat. Please put your hands together for Mr. Chris Alexander, my brother (not really) from the West Coast.
We've known eachother for far too long (and yet, nowhere near long enough.) He's funny. He's sexy. He's blonde (sometimes). And he'll judge you harshly on what your favorite film of 2008 was.
If you've read Chris before, you'll know to expect nothing but erudite hilarity, and maybe some gay sex jokes. If you haven't read Chris before, feel free to flirt with him in the comments section. He's planning a trip to NYC soon, so he'll need a welcoming committee awaiting his arrival.
Welcome back, bud. Here's to a fun week!
Los Angeles, CA
My Site/ Sites:
None that I use regularly, but you can find me on Facebook using LA / USC!
My Best Post from last time:
Tough call – it was Oscar week and Obama’s inauguration! But this one amuses me:
My Worst Post from last time:
There was nothing wrong with the post itself, but “eating bird vomit” definitely is synonymous with ”worst” in my book:
Why I came back to Justin Plus One:
I was promised oral sex.
What I might blog about this time:
Summer movies, fall movies…maybe some early Oscar talk. Sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, some TV, some music, a little of column A, a little of column B. Also, news about upcoming life-altering events!
What’s happened to me since the last time I blogged:
All too much – for real, yo. Plus a fantastic sojourn to Las Vegas with Mr. Justin himself, where all kinds of shenanigans took place! (Think The Hangover, but slightly gayer and substituting Kathy Griffin for Mike Tyson.)
I wasn’t really promised oral sex.
Friday, August 28, 2009
My co-worker Jesse sent me this video just a few minutes ago and I had to share it. Remember when College Humor was the place where you went to see photos of that girl in your college class who was dancing at a titty bar, who then got kicked out of school because of those photos?
(This really happened at my college, btw.)
Well now they are regularly throwing out original (and well-written! and well-produced!) videos for us all to enjoy. In this one, someone finally took the time to create a real-world comparison to stealing free wi-fi.
A guy picking up hookers has always been funny (try it! you'll laugh, I swear.) Now throw a computer monitor on his head, and have a pimp aggressively demanding a WEP code ("WEP Shit, Motherfucker!") and you've got something funny enough to help you fight off this rainy day.
The two interactions in question are:
1. A link I posted to my article on the purported death of the twink.
2. A link I posted to shirtless pictures of Zac Efron.
But hold up, maybe you've never heard of STFU Gays.
EVER so original, this website grabs up Facebook dialogues between gay men, and couples them with uninspired, faux-witty comments. I'm not sure who the mystery gay behind the site is, as he's chosen to obscure his visage with a ninja mask (is that not gay? I think that itself is pretty gay.) But the one thing he has working for him is that the exchanges he shows ARE funny.
Mystery Gay Ninja though? Not so much.
STFU Gays has already been derided and torn down by blogger AKA William. I don't know who AKA William is, but I'd be happy to say he should probably STFU too. It's not that STFU Gays is homophobic, hateful, or prejudiced. And no, I don't think the owner is a bitter, unsexed gay.
Simply put, STFU Gays is stupid because, well, it's just not funny. It's one thing to take up the mantle and insult the times that gays become a bit too self-involved (say, by creating a blog where you make fun of other gays, claiming to hold the yardstick to measure over-gayety).
You know you're in trouble when the dumb, egotistical, stuck up gays you're lampooning are actually funnier than you are.
So STFU Gays, thanks for featuring me not once but TWICE. I look forward to seeing what other interactions you'll grab up from me. And while you're at it, Ninja GAY-den (oooh video game dorkery!) why not take off your mask? Show us the unfunny fella underneath. Something tells me no one knows who you are any way :)
Thursday, August 27, 2009
What can I say? Well, really, I don't think there's anything for me to say besides thanks for reading, thanks for contributing, and thanks for telling your friends to come 'round and read as well.
Remember, readers, anyone is welcome to be a Plus One. You have 10 things to say over the course of 5 days? Just drop me an IM, or an email, or a Facebook message, or throw a brick through my office window. Just let me know.
And now, to end the celebrations, here's a scary as fuck video of that fat fuck crazy person that you'd know I hate if you read my Twitter, Glenn Beck.
Watch him lose his shit. I'm so glad that this is the guy that middle America is idolizing...
PS: If any of you LIKE Glenn Beck for any reason besides he entertains you with his insanity, you can feel free to stop reading :)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes... to twinks?
Don't ask me. Lord knows I far prefer the smooth, twenty-something look of the much heralded twink. And last time I checked, there's no shortage of the young, toned, and coiffed variety of gay here in NYC.
However, it gave me pause just now when I stumbled across an article in the Village Voice called: Why Bears Are the New Twinks.
In the article, the author, that snarky gay who's ever-so-awkward in person, Michael Musto, alleges that the twink is dead, and the reign of Bear has begun.
"Are twinks gradually becoming the world's most endangered species since the kangaroo rat? Sure, their trim forms, asymmetrical hairstyles, and piercing squeals whenever a Lady Gaga song comes on are as adorable as ever, but it seems it's bears that are currently rising with a fiercer bullet in the hierarchy of gay body types. Bears are trumping chicken!The chubby, hairy gays are way better organized as a community and, as gym fascism wanes a bit, they've ratcheted up their acceptance as available sexual objects (which is good news for my own trajectory, especially if I gain just five more pounds and a hint of taint stubble). They're more in tune with the earthier, less narcissistic era we're apparently entering..."
I don't know about Michael, but maybe he should go out a bit more. Now, don't get me wrong, I've nothing against bears, besides the fact that everything that defines them I find not at all attractive. But as a subset of the gay community, they have just as much a right to exist as twinks, foot fetishists, club kids, and drag queens.
But really, Michael? Do you need to be so DRAMATIC? The twink is dead? I have about 1,000 Facebook friends that you should chat with. Or maybe you should look around you at all those parties I see you frequenting. Or maybe at the trove of twinks that seem to follow you wherever you go.
Sure, I'd love to hear bears are in season. I could stop eating so little. I could put my bodygroomer aside. I could revel in the masculinity that people tell me is a natural gift of mine.
Maybe, just maybe, what's in vogue is being yourself and not slaying your free time with the help of David Barton and the local bikini waxer. That I can abide by. That's fine. Lord knows I am no specimen of physical perfection. I've got a bit of mass to me. I'm glad to hear that I don't need to walk around with a finger down my throat to get someone's attention.
But really? Suddenly the West Village is the Country Bear Jamboree? Sorry babe, I just don't buy it.
Well, probably not. Wait. Stop. Reverse. Some of you may be asking "what the fuck is a torrent?" Let me be honest with you: it's not quite a tortoise and not quite a rental.
Okay, here's where I admit something: for all the tech geekery I possess (and MAN do I have a lot of it!) I have never come to understand the big deal with torrents. I know they're illegal. And that, through a massively confusing web of technology, they basically make it easy for you to get free music and movies.
I also know that they have been the cause of ridiculous fines and lawsuits, charging suburban teenagers hundreds of thousands of dollars for downloading a copy of Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.
I have used torrents before, but damned if I understood what the fuck I was doing. All I know is I now have two full-length gay porn movies on my home computer - and one came (for some reason) without volume. Let me tell you that muted gay porn is about as useful as a bicycle with no wheels.
Clearly this is the end of torrents and illegal file sharing, right? Citizens the world over will throw up their hands in defeat and return to traditional consumer stores and start buying music and videos and games at full price. Right. Some day, maybe, the film and media companies will realize that you cannot control this. People will trade illegally. If not this way, then another way.
But hey, if they want to waste their money on these frivolous lawsuits that then gets reflected in the price I have to pay for a copy of Three's Company on Blu-Ray, then go on ahead. In the end, more torrents sites will open up, and maybe I'll start using them, too.
I'd ask you to comment on your opinions on torrents, but I'll bet you a hundred bucks that they're trolling blogs everywhere, and will sue you. So feel free to keep quiet.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
She wants a job in the Obama administration. He's gonna give it to her, for a price. Let's just say that the national debt isn't the only thing that's swelling...
With "five" being the highest possible score and "one" being the lowest possible score, this porn receives Four Fat Oprahs.
We're hungry for more!
(This post was basically made because I refuse to acknowledge that this is my last hour of life as a teenager)
So, here's what's up for today. I'll take a little break from food to talk about something else: music for the casual listener. Now, if you're like me, your playlists could use a breath of fresh air. Here are some recommendations. Please keep in mind that I'm not a music critic. I write about music the way I listen to it, which is passionately, but with little proper education in it.
1. "Bee Thousand" ~Guided by Voices
I've listed this album first so that music snobs out there (you know who you are) will take me seriously, but also because it's the end of the summer, and this album is a great way to say "Goodbye, sunshine, hello slightly less sunshine!". Amazon hailed this album the "Greatest Indie Record of the 20th Century", which is just about the highest sell you can give anything, ever, especially considering. For the rest of us (myself included), it can be an underwhelming first listening. Those of us who want something more anthemic out of our "greatest of all time" will be surprised at how dressed down, how lo-fi this record proves. But after repeat listens (and this album demands repeat listens), its beauty starts to unfurl. Never mind the references you don't catch, and never mind the references that you do catch (but do pat yourself on the back each time), this album has a spirit to it. It's perfect for rolling the windows of your car down and driving somewhere, anywhere, over and over again.
Listen: "Awful Bliss"
2. "Dark Was the Night" ~ Various Artists
Something of a miracle, this compilation album represents the finest work of one particular present-day indie-scene. It's hard for me to think of an album that's closer to my heart than this two-disc set, whose first disc, the much stronger of the two, begins with an intoxicating collaboration between David Byrne and The Dirty Projectors and ends with a ten-minute long Sufjan Stevens cover of "You Are the Blood" that recalls his earlier, experimental electronic stuff. In between the two ends are some musical coups, including Feist working with both Ben Gibbard of 'Death Cab for Cutie' and 'The Postal Service' on a cover of Vashti Bunyan's haunting "Train Song", as well as lending her dulcet, phantasmagorical vocals to a Grizzly Bear collaboration called "Service Bell", which sounds, appropriately and soul-crushingly, like the wail of a lovelorn young woman. Remember when the whales were crying in Whale Rider? It's like that. But there are fun moments on this album, incredibly fun moments. Here's my favorite of all of them.
Listen: "So Far Around the Bend" ~ The National
3. "Alphabeat" ~ Alphabeat
I cannot, cannot, cannot think of a more fun album. Like, there's nothing you can say about this Scandinavian pop band except... ugh, it's like Abba but without that weird "taking themselves too seriously" thing they did at one point that gave us their saddest, dumbest moments. This band is something like an apology for all of those, as well as for the well-intentioned lackluster attempt by the A-Teens to revitalize this genre (sub-genre? movement?) for an American audience. Enter mothafuckin Alphabeat. If you aren't dancing with them... you're basically soulless.
4. "Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix" ~ Phoenix
On some corner of Shoegaze Street and Pop Avenue sit Phoenix, instruments brandished and hat held out, playing whatever you like until you like them. If Alphabeat didn't get you out of your seat (or if getting out of your seat isn't your thing), then this album's bound to do something for you. In an earlier song from an earlier album, this band seemed to suggest that their emotional spectrum ran from "doing well, well, well" to "only doing just fine." In this album, they rise higher and sink lower than both those emotional altitudes. And hipsters have been dancing on rooftops ever since.
5. "Books" ~ Belle and Sebastian
Three words: "Your Cover's Blown". They shattered all preconceptions about their music with just one track, and it ended up being, arguably, the best song of their entire career, and among the least well known. The other songs on this little number are fine, but that song. Worth the price of this, or any admission, and definitely the number that I want to end this list on. It'll get your blood pumping, which is an odd thing to say about a Belle and Sebastian song, what with all of their other music till this point existing somewhere between a sweet nothing and a lullaby. But here it is. "Your Cover's Blown," a song about stealing your boyfriend's money and using it to pay for a sex weekend with someone else until you get bored with that someone else and realize that the problem isn't with either man but with you. I'm sure that we've all been there, on Fire Island, that one time.
Listen: Your Cover's Blown
And listen well. And happy listening.
I am a huge fan of blunt, horrifying advertising. As a formerly sheltered Long Island youth who learned about the big, bad world suddenly and shockingly when he went off to college, I feel that everyone needs a good dose of reality on a regular basis.
For that reason, I applaud the folks in Wales who put together this graphic, long, and horrifying public service announcement that warns moronic idiot-heads that - hey, get this! You shouldn't send a text message while you're driving!
Yes, it seems like common sense. Why would you take your eyes, as well as both of your hands, off the road and task at hand to send something while you're piloting a vehicle going at speeds of over 60 MPH?
Well, it happens. A lot. And people die because of it.
Anyway, this video wasn't intended for anyone outside of Wales. It certainly has far too much gory violence to be shown on American TV. But that certainly hasn't stopped it from spreading virally online.
I'll just stick with texting while walking. To date that has resulted in me:
1. Almost falling down a staircase to a subway
2. Almost stumbling into an open construction pit
3. Almost being hit by 3 cabs
4. Almost knocking over Sarah Jessica Parker
Notice how they were all "almost".
Monday, August 24, 2009
Ceci n'est pas un crepe.
No, but it's a crepe. Now, I probably know what you're thinking, "Wah-wah-wah, I can't do this. Life is so hard. Didn't Obama promise we wouldn't have to cook for ourselves anymore?" Well, he didn't, and you do.
Getting a crepe batter ready is the perfect thing to do right before you go to bed. The best crepe batters are the ones that have had a chance to sit for at least an hour (at most 24 hours) in the refrigerator before heating. Why? Because your batter becomes more flavorful and less fragile. They just become so much easier to cook with the longer you let that batter settle. Hence, evening of.
You Will Need:
Frying pan, shallow, of desired crepe-size.
1 cup milk*
4 large eggs
5/6th cup flour (a scant cup)
*So let's chat for a second. Imagine your crepe and what you want to fill it with when you're done cooking. Are you going for a savory crepe, with maybe some sausage, and some green veggies? If so, substitute either some or all of that milk for some chicken broth/stock, or whatever stock/broth you like depending on what you have lying around. Be sure to add some salt, too. Are you going for a sweet crepe? Then you may want to consider substituting some or all of the milk for orange juice, or whichever juice you like depending on what you're filling is. Be sure to add a tablespoon of sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla extract, too. The liquid is the real chance to experiment with different flavorings. Do what feels right! Crepes are super forgiving, and everything you do (within reason!!) will be a success.
Now check out how easy this is.
1. Combine milk, eggs, flour in a mixing bowl.
2. Go to sleep.
3. Wake up and get cooking.
Here comes the heating part of the recipe. Dab some oil on a paper towel and rub against the pan, coating it ever so slightly. Heat it on medium high heat until it's nice and hot, let's say a minute and fifteen seconds.
Then add the crepe until it's just thinly covering the pan. After a minute, or whenever it's ready to be flipped, flip it. Cook it another minute.
Tada! A crepe! Repeat until you're done with all your batter.
Some ideas for what to fill those bad boys with:
1. Scrambled eggs, ham, cheese, chives, dill. (Milk as your liquid)
2. Cold leftover chicken, strawberries, arugula. (Half orange juice, half milk as your liquid)
3. Melted chocolate, marshmallow fluff, crushed graham crackers. (Milk as your liquid)
4. Motherfuckin Nutella! (Milk as your liquid)
5. (My personal favorite) Take some granny smith apples, slice em up, fry in a pan with unsalted butter, brown sugar, honey, mint, and (if you're feeling sinister) a splash of whatever dessert wine you have lying around. Wait till they're soft. Put 'em in your crepe and top with vanilla ice cream. Voila, Un Crepe Anthony.
Experiment, experiment, experiment. Be bold and brave and things will go your way.
My boyfriend brought a term with him from the West Coast, one which I have rarely used myself, yet have wanted to for months now. That term, "Stupid Hot" he uses to describe guys who are just too hot for words. I'd use "gorgeous" or "godlike," but to me, "Stupid Hot" really fits the bill.
I am happy to finally have a guy on which I can use this description. His name is Steve and he is the featured guy this morning on Queerty. Even funnier is I think we're friends on Facebook and he's been to a few of my parties (maybe).
What shocks me is that Steve is not normally the type of guy I would find attractive. Mostly because I am not drawn to guys with enough muscle mass to choke a horse. This guy's chest is so thick that I can't imagine him being able to stand up straight (though I'm sure those tree trunk legs certainly help him where balance is concerned.)
I think I'm also giving him points for the guido-ish good looks he sports courtesy of his hometown of Staten Island - a place Long Islanders and New Jerseyans often deride as the place where we dump our garbage and unused hair gel. Despite all this derision, I think that Staten Islanders, Jersey boys, and Strong Islanders secretly all want to sleep with each other.
But what can I say? I think Steve is Stupid Hot. But I don't think that I could ever sleep with him, if that makes any sense. More likely, I think I find him hot in the way that if I could close my eyes and BECOME him, I would. To have those muscles would be pretty sweet. To put on skintight shirts or walk around in booty shorts and have my muscles pour out and drown everyone in a 20-mile radius would be a dream come true.
Of course I'm not about to spend hours in the gym a day to get it. Because I'm lazy and just want to wake up gorgeous.
But that's me. I'd be interested to see what YOU think of Steve.
Is he hot, or is he not?
So, let me just come right out and say that I’m not really good at anything. I’ve been trying to think about what the focus of this guest bloggery should be, and I’ve been drawing a great big blank. And then, post-blank and pre-genius, it hit me like yet another Coen Brothers vehicle (if you’re laughing, get my cell phone number from Justin because we need to meet): I’m good at being single. I mean, really, really being single. What if no one cared about Carrie Bradshaw? Welcome to my world. But don’t stay too long, because you either have real commitment problems or can’t deal with my snoring!
I hope you’re as uncomfortable as you ought to be.
So, I guess this should be about, I don’t know, what it’s like to live in the shadow of Manhattan on the edge of my twentieth birthday, which I am dreading for some reason. More on that dread at a later date, let’s talk about something that everyone, whether they be gay or straight, Manhattan-bred or somewhere else, single or good-looking, can enjoy: food.
I’m not going to turn this into the common food blog. Nor am I going to give you intricate recipes that’ll take you hours to prepare, minutes to fuck up, and seconds to dump into your garbage disposal. What I will share with you is a ritual I’ve been honing since my first pimple: the art of cooking while doing other, more important stuff.
Now, farbeit from me to say that cooking is unimportant. We all grew up knowing how the tradition of family dinners held some family, somewhere out there, together. But let’s face the facts: you’re busy, it’s a recession, and chances are your kitchen isn’t stocked with the kind of cooking stuff that even the most simple cookbooks would like you to own. So let’s aim below the belt, sink a bit lower than the basics, and let’s make you something yummy and healthy while trying to score you someone yummy and healthy.
Let’s talk asparagus for a second. It’s the end of the summer, and it’s going out of season. The stuff they’re selling at the supermarket near my house doesn’t look so hot, but it still tastes great. So while it’s still tasting great, let’s have a little fun with it.
Flash-Brined Asparagus Served with Lemon and Herb Butter
You Will Need:
One bunch asparagus, about a pound
One stick unsalted butter
Four cups of water
Four tablespoons of salt (Morton’s Kosher Salt, if you can find it)
One sprig fresh rosemary, chopped
Three sprigs fresh thyme, chopped
Juice from half a lemon
1. Go to supermarket and buy shit you don’t have. Give cute bagboy your number, even if (and especially if!) he insists he isn’t gay. This is called “being coy”. Jane Austen heroines would do this all the time.
2. So you have everything! Perfect. Let’s start by bringing the unsalted butter out of the refrigerator to soften. While you’re doing that, let’s start preparing the asparagus. Now, asparagus is a really handy vegetable. When chopping off the parts of the stem that are less edible than that delicious spear-tip, hold right below the spear-tip with one hand and right at the tough edge of the stalk with the other. Gently bend until it snaps right off. Each asparagus snaps at a different place, which is why this should be done individually as opposed to with one great big knife and a chop down the middle. Instead of throwing away discarded stems, feed a few to your dog. It’s a good way of apologizing for any and all come-down related neglect.
3. The butter still needs to soften a bit more, especially if you are one of those rich-types what can afford air-conditioning. This is the perfect amount of time to update your Manhunt profile with those Photobooth pictures you took after your new haircut.
"The hair says 'top-heavy'. The lips say 'power bottom'."
4. Now that that’s done and the barely-literate responses are pouring in, you’re ready to start the brine. In his book, Ratio, which should be the bible of every home cook, Michael Ruhlman suggests that the ideal ratio for a brine is 20 parts water to 1 part salt. It’s perfect, and a brine solution is the best way to cook your green vegetables. So combine the water and the salt in your saucepan, and turn on the flame to about medium-high heat. Oh, okay, high heat. Let’s do this quickly.
5. Now let’s work with that butter. It should be soft and easy to work with, now. Mix it with the herbs until the herbs are distributed thoroughly throughout. Reform its shape into a cylinder, put it in the plastic wrap, and put it in the freezer. Know that elegance is just a few minutes away with that minimal amount of work you’ve done.
6. The water should be boiling already. If it isn’t, smoke that stray cigarette suspiciously lying on your night-table. I won’t tell. Add the asparagus and cook for three minutes. Drain.
7. Put it in a bowl and top it with lemon and butter. Check Manhunt for responses. Wait for bagboy to call. If those fail, remind yourself that you are an intelligent, independent young man, and watch Annie Hall till you sleep. Repeat tomorrow, with more successful variations.
THIS week we step away from the go-go, but stick with the boy. I would like to welcome yet another newbie to the Plus One fold - Anthony Smith.
He's smart. He's cute. He's a New Yorker. Do you need anything else? Oh, he's an awesome writer, too.
Have at him, boys. Enjoy!
New York City, NY or Middletown, CT
My Site/ Sites:
What I might post about:
Cooking, Being Single, Eating, Music, Movies, Television
What I love:
The idea of an “All You Can Eat Buffet”
What I hate:
My Last Word: Having the last full week of August on this blog is pretty cool. Having my birthday week is even cooler. Having the last full week of August containing my birthday week during my last year as a teenager is even cooler.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I’ve had wealthy older gentlemen try to take me out in the club, on facebook, myspace, manhunt. (Yes, I got curious and I just had to get one) and let me say now, my red-alert goes off when I hear the word "generous" or the phrase "take care of you."
My friends, and even my sister have joked that I ought to have one. After all, I love new experiences, I’m good at faking interest, and I’m materialistic as hell. But the whole idea horrifies me. I see why it’s done- and really there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. You have to know that both parties are satisfied and get something out of it. Just as in a typical relationship both parties are satisfied and get something out of it. And when one or both no longer are, the relationship must inevitably dissolve. Is it really such a big deal? I think, objectively, it’s not. And it’s totally fine. And if some nice man wants to take care of you, why not let him?
Well, I don’t like having things bought for me. When I go out to dinner, I bring enough for both of us. I expect to pay, or go dutch. Rarely I’ll allow someone else to pay (and if I invite, it’s on me) It’s a lovely trait I inherited from my maternal side of the family.
As a tangent, my uncle & his partner once took me to dinner when I visited them. As the check came, I went to check my cell phone. My uncle thought I was reaching for my wallet and sternly commanded, “Take your hand out of your pocket!” And when the same Uncle and I went out to lunch this weekend, I didn’t suggest that I even cover my half, I knew he’d be offended. When he went to diner’s cashier he, in the same stern voice, informed the man. “That,” he said, “is my nephew,” and I then realized why everyone had been staring at us.
Of course, my family is the only group of people I don’t object to spoiling me. I can’t question their motives. After all, they only want the best for me (though our ideas of what that is are quite polar.)
But as for others, there are always ulterior motives, and I hate the idea of somehow being indebted to someone. Like, you bought me a nice dinner so now I ought to sleep with you. Ew. And on the level of a consistent relationship that relies on his credit card, I do get very titchy. Because though I may have less than most, I have money for my age. And if there is one thing I am most proud of, it’s the fact that at 18 years old, I can, and successfully have, provided for my own finances with no assistance. This past summer I decided not to move home so I could keep dancing, and to prove a point- I wanted my parents to know that I did not need their money. And now when I date I want my boyfriends to know that I don’t need theirs, either.
I’ve been put in a very strange situation recently. See, I don’t date guys more than, say, five years my senior, and I very rarely date guys who are above my socioeconomic class. It’s a matter of pride- I like to pay for dinner. I like to be able to say “I’ve got it covered,” and I’ll do so ‘til I’m broke. I once saved up for weeks just so I could take a guy to a fancy dinner. I ate Ramen for the next week, but it was worth it.
But I recently agreed to go on a date with a very handsome guy who, I quickly realized, had more money than I could comprehend. It’s pretty ridiculous for me to suggest that dinner be on me, when in comparison I’m dirt poor. And it was a little strange for me. I didn’t quite know what I would do with myself when the check came, so when he asked the waiter for it I excused myself to the restroom. Being the smart cookie he is, he took this time to pay. On a later date I stopped mid-cigarette to very bluntly say, “I don’t want a sugar daddy.” He looked at me a little like I was clueless and replied
Now maybe it was me endlessly reminding him that –lord almighty- I’d skipped on the parental benefaction this summer, or perhaps when, in Duane Reade I bought aloe vera for a nasty sunburn he said “I got it,” and reached for his wallet. A little coldly, I suppose, I quipped “No you don’t.” and grabbed a few crumpled singles from my backpack. But I was glad he’d already picked up on it.
Now, this leaves me in a predicament. As a wealthy man, he has the luxury of going to nice restaurants, taking weekends trips to places I’ve only seen in National Geographic, and shopping at stores where I only buy underwear. (Diesel calls me “one’s-boy” in lue of a string of shopping trips where I bought one pair of briefs every Wednesday with tips. The cashier at Armani just gave me a strange look and sighed at the idea of having to count.)
So how do I respond to the invitation to an activity that I can’t feasibly cover my end of? After all, he is inviting. Is it a matter of pride that I suck it up and go with, and just maybe not turn on the air conditioner this month? Or should I reason that he is asking me to attend something I can’t cover and so I shouldn’t object to being paid for? Well, I’m still not sure. After all- I can’t reasonably have an opinion or solution on something I have never experienced. So I certainly wouldn’t mind hearing yours!
p.s. just walked out onto the deck and met my new neighbors. I don't think they're fans of Britney Spears or my booty shorts.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Well, shit, I got no idea. Last night Alan Picus ambushed the locker room with his camera and honed in Anthony and myself. And we're like, should we take our shirts off for these? We've never taken pictures clothed!
See I don't do much with clothing to start with. My roommate and I try to leave the a/c off as much as possible so at home I just wear underwear (otherwise, I have a really cute pair of Andrew Christian booty shorts to horrify my neighbors.) Out, I wear shorts and a wife beater (I hate to sweat, so the less, the better!) and on a good day when I want to go out clubbing or hit up a party, well, snoop dogg would be proud. I always wear sneakers color coordinated to my belt buckle or T shirt with a nice pair of jeans and matching jewelry. I'm not kidding. I'll match it down my tongue ring- and of course my outfits are usually one to two colors and a metallic. It's really, truly, appallingly trashy. Right now, I'm wearing denim shorts, Steve Madden houndstooth high tops, and a black wife beater.
But today, it was hot as hell. I was tired, and running out of clean clothes. To catch the bus I settled on a green t shirt and some basketball shorts, ended up shirtless with my shorts rolled up stuck in the sun waiting for the bus to come (it was a fantastic 45 minutes late, which is a lot bigger of a deal when you're stuck in the heat!)
Tonight is the Seth Gold underwear party at Town, with Elite underwear. I have a tiny pair of briefs, and a cute baby blue boxer brief with silver stars on it- I may wear one of those, or see if they have a new pair to match my purple dancing shoes. But a picture says a thousand words. I went through all my photos taken recently, and, out of 120938409234 that I've found tagged or in my photobooth, I've discovered 4 where I'm actually so dressed that I have on a shirt.
This one was taken last christmas season, right after I got my ears pierced (strangely enough, they're my most recent piercing, I had the tongue and dermals first!)
This one I took just before my friend's 19th, towards the end of spring semester. I'd just started gogo dancing and so I guess that's why I have, like, a t-shirt on. 'Cause after all, who does that any more?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The first thing is:
I know you're not a model scout, especially if you've run out of business cards. To start with, I wouldn't want to be part of an agency that invited that many people to apply in one evening- the standards must be very low. To finish with, what kind of businessman is that un-prepared. Please don't try to gain my attention by offering business deals of this sort, or any other, unless your intentions are sincere. It wastes both our time. Aside, my job is to show interest in you, and not your scam, and given that I really enjoy conversation and people you only need discuss that.
On the note of business propositions, it is inappropriate to ask me, or any other stranger, if they escort or, more crudely, "how much for an hour," I pass no judgment on either parties (and that is not said to appease, I legitimately have no bias against escorting) but simply, there is a time and place for that. There are agencies which are discreet, organized, and upscale that will provide the right kind of thing to those who seek it. If you don't know of one, might I suggest the manhunt of escorting- rentboy.com? They sponsored a lovely McGovern party I did once and if that party has any correlation to escorting, then I'm sure rentboy knows how to please.
Touching. This one gets tricky because we all have our own personal boundaries, and we find them through dancing. I tell newcomers to decide their boundaries before they even get on the box, but they will always change.
Here are mine:
- If you tipped it, you can touch it. Bear in mind that I am talking about a light grope, pat, or squeeze here. If you crush my balls, I will have to kick you- and boys should already know better than such.
- You cannot finger me (and they often try) but really dude, germs! ew!
- If you're a deep sea diver looking for the Titanic, honey, my taint isn't where it landed, so don't think that I'm just going to stand there for five minutes while you go looking. It makes the both of us look trashy, and wastes my time.
- If you wanna cop a feel up front that won't bother me. I'll get agitated if you grab it and I will get up when you tug or stroke. That's completely inappropriate for a bar like Splash or Town.
The ankle-grabber. the fucking ankle-grabber! You know how large dogs will simply lean on you and pin you to something so you can't leave them? It's adorable on dogs. But when you grab both my ankles, tip or not, it means I can't move and it really restricts my range of motion to dance in that same spot. Even if someone consistently tips, I'll try to get away if they try to hold onto my ankles. And I do get rude if someone simply grabs them without so much as tipping. We dance for tips, and time is money. I'll often stop to chat without thought of a tip because a man looks interesting, but I do so at my own will, and not by someone holding onto me like a small child.
if you slip me a single, it generally means "hey, I like what you did there. I'm gonna go dance now, but keep it up!" which I really enjoy. You can imagine, of course, that it's not worth any gogo boy's time to dance with attention on one individual for simply a dollar.
If you slip me a succession of ones, or several all at once, I interpret this as "I've got my eye on you, and I like what you're doing. I'll stick around and maybe ask for your number" and these guys I pay attention to. Not too demanding with your attention, but certainly worth your time.
If you slip me a five or ten, I generally interpret as:
A) This tip isn't a big deal, and there's more where that came from.
B) you ought to dance my way and strike up a conversation.
If you slip me a 20 it can mean several things. The first is;
- I have money, and more than enough to throw around on gogo boys. I'll be back for you later, but I like the look of that one over there, too.
- the second thing it may mean is "I want to take you home, and here's why you do, too!"
The third thing it may mean is, and it's often accompanied by a direct statement, is, "You're good. You're really fucking good. Do that trick again," and you bet your ass I'm gonna get right back on that pole and give it my all. Not only did you just make my night, but I'd hate you to think I just took your 20 and ran.
Holy shit, y'all, golden rule right now. If you can't talk to me like a human, I'm not going to bother, no matter what you dangle in my face. If something offends me I'll presume that it's simply my own sensitivities, giggle, and lead the conversation elsewhere. If it continues, I'll say sugar-pie-sweet that I don't like it. If it still doesn't stop, I get cunty. I smack, bitch, and sometimes kick. There's just no excuse for continuing.
I don't often date guys from the club because I know what they already think of me, and it isn't me. If they show interest in who I really am then I'll take a second look, but I typically turn down requests for dates or numbers. Some people have gotten rude, offended, aggressive, or even argued with me. One guy grabbed his friends arm and stomped off yelling. Shit happens, man. I once had a guy tipping me just under the line of my elastic and as I smiled at him, some random guy copped a feel. I smacked his arm and shot him a look, and he gave me this face like I was pissing on the flag. One guy even backed into a shadowy area of the bar, staring at me, and dropped his pants. He seemed confused when, wide-eyed, I yelled to put his shit back on. Hilarious. And to this day, some random ass guy keeps demanding that I date him. That's the kind of shit that gets under my nerves.
My favorite tipping story, however, was, while totally offensive, FUCKING HILARIOUS. I couldn't even take it seriously. A guy walked up and held out a dollar. First, I danced for it before I realized that, like some guys, he wanted me to take it out of his hand. When I did, I realized that the one dollar bill was wrapped around a condom. And not just any condom, the condoms they were handing out on the lower level for free. Of course I didn't like what he had just insinuated, so I took the dollar and threw the condom aside. The best part was that it was a handout condom, he hadn't so much as paid a quarter for it in a bathroom dispensary. Perhaps he thought we'd be using it later, but the outright statement destroyed any chance of ever making it happen!
Just bear in mind that we are people here to dance for you and to entertain you with our companionship, not our orifices. If you treat us as you would the person sitting next to you on an airplane we will be as friendly and flirty as you like. Just once in my dancing career, I gave my number. When he'd asked for it, I was tempted, but told him if he came back the next week, he could have it. He did. He joined me for my smoke break (despite not being a smoker) and proceeded to hold a conversation with me as if he'd tripped over my foot on the subway. I went out with him.
All my gogo boys- what do you think? Let's hear it!
The photo today was taken by Andy Kay, whose other work can be seen at Ak-47.me
I see no reason for you to stop posting about the extremely intriguing life of a go-go boy. For people like me, all we know of you is what we see - a young guy in his underwear (or less) dancing on a box.
I am so glad to have had you and Dylan on here to blog this past month. I feel that it's doing a world of good for people who have preconceived notions about go-go boys (they're idiots, they're prostitutes, etc.)
Ever since I tripped face-first into nightlife promotion, I've been able to see the truth, at least here in NYC. Most of the go-go boys that are up there on the cube are in fact students, paying their way through college. You, a photography major. Dylan, a theater major. A night ago I was speaking with Alan Picus about this, and he was proud of the fact that the boys who dance at his parties ARE in fact students, and a few of the older ones are actually graduating college (which they paid their way through by dancing).
There is much that people don't know about go-go boys. For instance, a lot of them think that you're on a company payroll. When, in fact, the truth is you mostly work for tips. Compound this with an image in clubgoers' heads of that skeevy old dude sticking a ten spot in a g-string to get a shot at poking your taint and what you end up with is a hesitance to tip a go-go boy.
When I'm working at Splash or other venues, I make it a point to encourage patrons to tip the go-go boys. I show them how it is not only okay, but it's why you are there. And what's a dollar or two when you're spending 8 - 10 bucks on a drink?
Perhaps you can do a post on the respectful ways to tip a go-go boy. Perhaps you can show people why you want them to tip you. There is so much that they don't know, or don't understand.
Educate, Rowan. Show them the light.
So for all of you workin' a 9-5, today is Thursday. Weekend's almost here, and you're starting to feel just a little relieved. For me, it's Monday. Which is a great thing, actually.
today I woke up early (9:45) and took a long shower, shaved, doused myself in fake tanner (I shit you not, this stuff is the best thing EVER) did some pushups, and made some breakfast. Oh, and some textsfromlastnight over my morning cigarette.
this morning's favorites:
(813): I think dad's getting high again. His last google search was "awesome ping pong shit."
(850): this girl ate taco bell on my bed naked last night, it was the sexiest thing ive ever seen
Since this is my Monday, it will start with a trek to Lukoil, where I'll buy two packs of Pall Mall Menthol 100's for 4-and-change, because I'm not paying 10.50 for Newports in New York (they don't even sell my ghetto ass brand in Manhattan. Then I'll head off with my life in a backpack, and catch the bus to New York. Tonight I'll dance at Splash, and tomorrow morning I'll catch a bus to Washington, d.c. where I'll dance at another club, called Town (as a tangent, this is the first place I ever auditioned to dance)
Then Saturday morning I'll wake my tired, sore ass up, and walk four blocks to d.c.'s equivalent of "chinatown" (which is more like, one tiny chinese restaurant and a great Asian inspired arch over the road over the span of one block) and pay the nice lady who yells at me "WEH YOU GO!" 15 one dollar bills, and ride back to the Philthy city.
My two day work-week will be fueled entirely on Monster and Redbull energy drinks. I doubt I'll have more than a drink, if that and I certainly won't smoke. The collective amount of sleep I'll get will be comprable to that of an insomniac on a coke binge. I doubt I'll see the light of day, and if I do, I'll put on my sunglasses, cringe, and run for shelter.
On Saturday I'll go visit my old roommates and for the first fifteen minutes of my visit, as it was all summer, I'll recount every ridiculous thing that was done, propositioned. Kait will listen patiently and laugh at all the right times. Kaihly will walk in mid-story, make a joke at my expense, and walk off. Then we'll have a cigarette, and for the remainder of the week I'll sleep in my coffin in the basement.
I'll be sure to keep you posted with the details, and maybe I'll even have something off the gogo topic that's worth hearing of. In the meantime, here's to my hangover!
Instead of posting, today I took pictures. I don't think I've yet to mention that I'm a photo major, and tied with dancing, it is mostly all I care about. So here is a sampling of today's work. I have been playing lately with a macro setting (which allows you to focus on a very small point about an inch from your lens) that people use on things like flowers.
These images are, instead, of my roommate Nicole's dermal anchor.
These last images I'll leave you with are some still shots, and though I typically stick to portraiture, you'll know I'm a sneakerfreak. You remember that Kelly chick? I could eat her alive, and stomp all over her little posse. These shoes are Supra brand which I hadn't heard of until I last decided to get really, really ridiculously unnecessary shoes and ended up buying shiny, acid green kicks.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Okay, we've all heard of Pink Profits, right? It's the (smart, correct) discovery that gay men buy lots and lots and lots of shit. We speak with our wallets. We spend and spend and spend. I think this is (usually) a great thing for America to have noticed - what it means is that there will be more products and services designed with we gays in mind.
But it has also given rise to an idiotic sub-consumer culture: the not-really-gay products. Take for example, this wine company called UO! I read about them this week in Springwise. When I first heard of a "wine for gay men" my ears perked up. Not because I'm gay and want to drink gay wine; but because I was curious to see what, exactly, made this a wine for gay men.
Turns out that this wine is made from extremely fruity grapes, and the ingredients help our penises grow and increase our 6-packs by at least 50%.
Actually, I'm kidding.
No, my gay brethren. This is hardly an enlightened wine. Actually, what makes it gay is that the owners of the company pasted a bunch of pictures of an ass-naked guy on the label. And then they wrote all of their descriptions to have to do with orgies and gay sex.
Take, for instance:
UO! Ánima Blanca, for example, is a Sauvignon Blanc and Verdejo blend featuring earth tones and "wisps of flowers and fruit – the perfect accompaniment to a gathering of friends on a hot day, whether the heat comes from within or without." AKA: when you're with five of your friends, and a good group cornholing in the rambles is desired... go for the Blanc.
Antinoo, meanwhile, is a Monastrell that's "young and mature, fruity, elegant, smooth….Mediterranean.... When you try it, shut your eyes and imagine that you are licking rivulets of syrup from his body." Who is he? Maybe one of the guys you triple fucked while in the rambles.
Listen, I'm as sex-minded as any other gay. Or any other guy, for that matter. But I find it moronic (and maybe a bit offensive) that a company thinks they can get my wine money because there's a guy with a bubble butt holding up the cork. Until that wine contributes 15% of their profits to fighting Prop 8, I'll stick with my box of Franzia.
So as of late, Thursdays at Campus Splash have become incredibly competitive, (though they’ve been since I started at the beginning of the summer) and I’ve worked hard to keep up. Which puts me on this thought track thinking over all the things I do, not for the sake of my own health or vanity, but just to pay the bills.
Fortunately I've come up with a pretty pleasant diet where I eat everything I want, just a whole lot less poptarts. Then I get on the pole, practice 'til I'm sore, and presume I've worked it off.
But my roommate brought over some freaking monster arm excercising doo-hickey that, to me, looks a little like a novelty double ended dildo. (and I suppose that would be a workout of a different kind indeed) but you push it and pull it and bop it until you have bulging biceps. So last night I decided to give it a spin. Indeed, I got high as balls, popped in little miss sunshine, and in between cigarettes tried using this strange ass gismo. It's pretty excellent after all. you can hold it in front and work your (triceps, I think it is? all you personal trainers don't laugh, they're just arms to my ignorant little failed-anatomy soul) or hold it above your head and pull away form your body, where it will still work your arms, as well as your upper back and delts (which gives you that fluted swimmer build after a good long while)
I'm very pleased to say that, thanks to the carmen electro pole kit, and my roommate's freaknasty arm THING, I'm pleasantly sore today. I plan on doing it every day. And hey, one day the real boys at splash will be like, 'hey dude, where can I get a freaknasty arm thing?"
And in case it wasn't transparent enough, you could come see the results at Splash this Thursday, where every drink you buy earns you another chance to win tickets to see Britney Spears live!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Ha, Justin, bet you thought I'd forget. No, I just steal wi-fi from my neighbors, and we only get a signal on our porch. So needless to say, during tonight's storm I was incapable of updating.
I know on this blog and on anything gay related we spend a whole lot of time talking about sex, and along with it tops and bottoms, so I'm going to post a piece I wrote last week for y'all. Like I said at the start, I apologize for ever being redundant and hope only that I have a fresh perspective you will be interested in hearing.
This top/bottom dichotomy is driving me right up the wall. Maybe it's the swift introduction to the gay scene I've gotten, or maybe not, but I'm of the opinion that being on one side of the give/take fence is pretty limiting. So let me get on my soapbox right quick and I’ll say my peace. My view has always been that anything I'm willing to do to someone else I should be prepared, if not glad, to have done to me, and expect the same of my partner.
What complicates this is there's masculinity associated with being a top, some satisfaction associated with domination (which, really, if you've seen the power you have over people when you're in control of what's going on with their dick, I'd say that's just the same.) I'm no sociologist but I'd put money on that it comes from in straight sex (which weren't we all brought up on?) the man does all the penetration. I don't know too many couples who break out the strap-on and flip that up. (actually, scratch that, I know a LOT.) but tangent aside, that's not in the "norm."
So we go and apply that to ourselves, this idea of the top being a masculine role and the bottom a feminine. It’s a load of shit, really. We're all men here, and we need a different perspective on these things.
So sweet jesus/shakespeare/Random House, thank you for the word reciprocation. The sexual experiences that are most vivid to me, and regarded as "best" have all been situations in which we would flip, and were both glad to assume both roles.
I think a lot of guys are too insecure to try bottoming, or admit they like it. But no, really, dick is just fantastic. I'd hope you agree because spending all night playing with yours certainly won't get me off, and pleaser as I may be, I'm only going to enjoy pleasuring you when I know that soon enough you'd do the same.
(unknown photographer. thank you google, and myspace)
This week I want to turn the spotlight over to Alum Becky Bain, who has two new (and hilarious, and true, and slightly creepy) web videos out.
The first is a mattress commercial gone terribly wrong. It takes those commercials you see where they drop tigers on top of mattresses and yet wine glasses daintily remain unmolested and turns the dial to 11.
Well, god bless Becky and the sick sense of humor that made me think I was heterosexual and should date her... this video takes it beyond the realms of good taste and right into Hilarityville. I may have fallen back in love with her and her hilarious Long Island accent in the end. Oh, and in case you couldn't tell, that's her playing the sleeping wife!
The second is a bitch-session long overdue - a big FUCK YOU to people who give you a hard time for not having seen a movie (like, in this case, The Goonies).
Hilarious, to be sure. Bravo, Becky!
Well I'd hate to disappoint, but it really wasn't much an orgy (aside from, of course, the lovely couple in the tent next to our group. And, for the record, there is no way to get dirty in a tent without making it obvious. especially when you don't zip up the windows.)
As all gay functions are, our expedition was fueled by tequila and vodka which, after a few of each meant now and then the more ballsy of our group decided to flash a little more skin, and a few just decided to free-ball it the whole afternoon. I got disqualified from a great game of volleyball where when you fuck up you lose an article of clothing (turns out I'm still awful at all sports. shame) and spent most of the afternoon people watching. I wasn't too familiar with most of the guys there and instead decided that any nasty old hag who wanted to let her tits hang out and didn't care what anyone said was worth giving a little thought. I have mad respect for the adults who were there because I feel like that level of acceptance with your body is incredibly admirable, especially when it's gone to shit.
I go to an art school for photography, but in freshman year we were required to take all sorts of classes, including drawings. During second semester that meant nude life drawings. I wasn't much of a fan because the first few of our models were people who used to be very attractive but had gone a little to seed and didn't really want to accept that. Some of them seemed insecure and for me, that was unpleasant. Our last model, however, was a gorgeous woman named Maria. You could tell she'd had a few kids and her breasts sagged down to her bellybutton, and she had this little tattoos of fall leafs around her hip that were only a few shades off her latin skin color.
She wasn't hesitant at all and struck all sorts of poses that looked a little dance inspired, never trying to make herself seem any more or less physically attractive. She was so confident that I felt instantly she was beautiful, and every one of us enjoyed drawing her. Even over the summer I spotted some drawings of her in a friend's a apartment who'd been in a different class, and she had the same response.
So when an older woman wearing nothing at all came to have a drink with us at the beach I really had to admire that she could hang out with a bunch of gogo boys and ignore the fact that when she moved she jiggled. I think that's the kind of shit that I really respect.
I know you guys were hoping for a post detailing every furtive look and sexual advance and maybe a romp in the bushes, but I'm more of a wallflower, and the highlight of my afternoon was having a conversation with a boy who could neither speak nor hear, on his sidekick. Then, hitching a ride back to New York with a friendly gent who could hold a conversation that wasn't about me getting on all fours. (both guys mentioned are pictured above) I do apologizing for not having a post that more closely resembled a penthouse letter, but this event took place outside the club. That's a situation where I'm quiet, shy, and a loner. If there was anything that you guys were looking for, I missed it. I was off skinnydipping on my own.