A Rooftop Gay BBQ With Equal Parts Meat, Booze, and Heart

If there's one thing I love more than a posh NYC rooftop barbecue, it's a posh NYC rooftop barbecue for a good, gay cause.

And that is EXACTLY what is happening on Saturday, July 9th from 6-10 PM.

The fundraiser is the FIRST big event for I'm From Driftwood, a brand new non-profit that collects stories from gay folks around the US. Think of it as an It Gets Better... but everyone's gay, and you need to know how to read. Oh and it's creator is a gorgeous gay named Nathan (which is neither here nor there, but if it gets you on board with his non-profit, then hey... call me shameless.)

IFD Creator, the Gorgeous, Gay Nathan Manske

The BBQ features UNLIMITED Texas-style grub (and we all know how big they like their meat in Texas) as well as an OPEN BAR sponsored by El Dorado Rum. Double yum.

Imagine yourself trashed, stuffed fulla meat, sipping chilled cocktails and overlooking the city atop one of the hottest art galleries in NYC. Well, ain't you fancy?

Yes. Yes you are fancy.

I'll certainly be in attendance... and if you're one of those gays who likes to put his money where his heart is... I suggest you pick up a ticket too.

Grab that ticket right here.

Sex, Lies and Gay Boys

Every book has a trailer. Now mine has one too!

Check out the official (and, of course, pornographic) trailer for my novel Gulliver Travels!

Drugs May Not Be Bad... But I Still Don't Do Them

I was speaking with a magazine editor recently about my recently published novel, Gulliver Travels. Amidst the many wonderful compliments he made, while comparing it to his gay youth, he called out an interesting fact I never thought of: "It's so on the mark! Everything is as I remembered it... except, strangely, not a single character in your book does drugs once."

This comment surprised me. Not because it wasn't true, but because I didn't realize it until that moment. It is complete fact though - in Gulliver Travels, not a single character does drugs. They don't smoke up. Nobody is ever rolling. Not a line nor bump goes up a nostril. Sure, the kids are consistently sloppy drunk to the point of terrible decision-making and blacking out... but not a drop of drugs.

And I think I know why this is: because I don't do any drugs. It's true! I'll admit to doing drugs briefly, while I was in my middle 2 college years. My friends were huge pot heads, and so I would smoke with them on occasion. This never ended well. I would house three bags of Doritos, think everyone hated me, think everyone was calling the cops on me, eat another bag of Doritos, and fall asleep. I didn't get the happy high or the rampant giddiness so many of my friends enjoyed. I just got the shit end of the stick.

Now, I'm not some judgmental cunt with the white wig, flowing robes, and gavel. If you partake in chemical substances beyond the limits of the law, and maintain a functional existence, I have NO ISSUE WITH IT. Seriously. I just can't do it. Why? Here are some reasons:

1. I have control issues. Oh man. I used to hate flying. I refuse to go on roller coasters. When it comes to control, I NEED it, I don't just enjoy it. And when a single thing is not quite right in my body, I notice it immediately. It allows me to let people know that I will be sick in two days, because my sinuses are slightly off. I can predict oncoming illness with a fierce accuracy. Needless to say, since drugs heighten or modify you in one way or another, I have no interest in them. This also covers over-the-counter and prescription meds. I don't like feeling like I'm not myself.

2. I have an addictive personality. Food. Alcohol. Video games. Cigarettes. Scratch-off lotto cards. Pizza. You name it, I will quickly and amazingly develop an addiction to it. I don't care WHAT it is. If it's even slightly enjoyable, I will cling onto it like its a piece of driftwood and I am Rose in the film version of Titanic. Since drugs are apparently addictive (or so my elementary school teachers once told me), this is the last thing I need. Which leads me to...

3. Money is important to me. I love money. I try to make and amass as much of it as possible as quickly as possible. Nothing brings me greater comfort and security than watching my aggressive savings account grow. If I were to get addicted to a drug, well, that's one more way for me to spend money. And unless it's street crack, I doubt it'll be an affordable habit to pick up.

I also feel like my non-use of drugs has helped me to get as far along in nightlife and my day job and my life as I have gotten. I like to sprint with my head down, I don't need distractions (and as per the previous three bullet points, drugs would be a HUGE distraction).

But wait, you might say... just because you don't do drugs, don't you see other people doing drugs? You know what's weird? I don't! The closest thing I've come to seeing people do the drug thing are friends who will smoke a bowl in my presence at a party (which I politely decline). As for anything harder than a hit of ganj, I just never am around! I sincerely doubt the people I know are purposely trying to keep me away when they're doing it. I just think I'm never around when they are.

Hell, if you asked me which of my friends do drugs, I'd be hard-pressed to tell you who, if any, do. I hear this person is rolling or that person is on something, but they certainly never confide this information in me. They of course are more than welcome to tell me... but since I don't know what drugs feel like, it's tough for me to point at someone and say "ah yes, those beady eyes, that flop sweat, the giddiness... he's heffed up on Swine Sleeping Pills."

I know that all of my friends aren't drug free, which only speaks to the point that drugs don't leave you dead and/or homeless with no friends or family. I don't know any after-school tv film victims living out of their cars or being sent to rehab. All the drug users I know are clearly functional, and having as much fun as I am. 

All I know is this: when I'm with my friends, we are all drinking. Often a lot. No, not stomach pump and puke-enstein levels of drinking... but enough to get silly and stumble down a flight of stairs. Okay, every once in a while there's puking. Fun Fact: I didn't get drunk until I was 26 years old. Seriously. I have the liver of a 17 year old.

Either way, it's all, I suppose, a moot point. In the first short story follow-up to Gulliver Travels that I am publishing, you watch a character do some drugs. I don't focus on it too much because for one I don't know the experience, and for two, I don't want to come across as a Wikipedia article trying to do so.

Drugs may work for people, but they don't work for me. And I think that's totes cool, so long as you do.

<3 Justin Luke

EXCLUSIVE GULLIVER EXCERPT: A Go-Go and An Actor Go On A Date

As you may or may not know, I am embarking on a new self-imposed challenge. Everyone is asking me to pen the sequel to my novel, Gulliver Travels. And I FULLY intend to.

But first I want to do something fun.

Enter The Gulliver Travelers Project. I will be writing SEVEN short stories, each from a different Gulliver Travels' character's perspective, and each taking place on the same night: Gulliver's big live debut at the eWrecksion party.

(If you've read the book, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't read the book, read it and THEN you will get it).

Each of these stories will be sold in the Amazon Kindle Store for $1.99 or $2.99 a pop. They will be EXCLUSIVELY published as eBooks. Because I'm crazy like that. But don't worry... you can read Kindle books on your iPhone, iPad, iPod, Android, Blackberry, and PC/Mac. Free apps for each can be downloaded in seconds.

Anyway, I already gave you a sneak peek at the ROUGH draft of my first story, "Brayden's Sweet Revenge," which is currently with my editor and slated to be published in early August.

This post features an excerpt from the SECOND short I will release, "Marty's Big Break." This one should be out in early September.

Please Note: This is a SUPER ROUGH first draft. God knows what will change by the time I've revised it forty times and then given it to my editor. But, still, fun right? Of course it is.

I hope you enjoy it!

<3 JL


Stupid rain! I didn’t even think to bring an umbrella because I trusted the baking sun that welcomed me back outside of my apartment. But by the time I reached Manhattan, that sun had ducked out and left the door open for a blanket of fat smog-stained clouds. Seems like nobody expected this sudden temperate turn, because everyone is scurrying for cover like subway rats just before the 5 train pulls in.

I duck under a scaffold on 5th avenue, which doesn’t help at all. I still end up drenched by renegade streams of dirty city runoff. I send Chase a text apologizing for being late, with plenty of extra exclamation points dedicated to four letter words addressed to the rain. His text comes back:

“I thought we were meeting an hour ago? Already went home.”

Crap. We were meeting an hour ago. Gulliver strikes again.

“I’m so sorry! I’m here now, can you still come out?”

“Sure… give me twenty minutes?”

“You got it!!!”

Too many exclamations. The excess enthusiasm isn’t going to make up for my flakiness. Strike one. Dammit dammit dammit. I’m sure the fact that I look like a twinky swamp monster in my sodden black button down and jeans will most likely be my strike two. ARGH.

I pick the place where we’ll meet – a Thai place bordering Union Square. I had expected that we’d dine outside on the sidewalk, granting us a scenic view of the comings and goings of the small park and its many occupants. Of course that’s shot to shit now. The small rectangle of grass and concrete is filled with murky puddles, its only inhabitants of the homeless and pandering variety. I give change to as many of them as I can, like I’m the weather’s personal publicist.

Despite my proximity to the restaurant, Chase has still beaten me here. He looks miserable, ducking beneath an awning that isn’t generous enough to keep his entire body dry. The result is a Jekyll and Hyde effect: half of him crisp and dry and the other dripping and dark. My God.

“I am so sorry!” I shout as I run across the street. A car brakes and sits on the horn, just missing me. I let loose a scream that belongs in the mouth of a busty horror movie murder victim. By the time I reach him, I am both soggy and emasculated. I can smell that second date already.

“I am SO sorry Chase! I don’t know what happened. I’ve just been so messed up and stressed out today.”

“It’s okay,” Chase says, squeezing out his shirt and not putting too much energy into creating a convincing tone.

“I don’t know how I forgot, it’s not something I normally do. I promise.”

“I said it’s okay. I promise.” He smiles, but it’s still forced.

When we get inside the restaurant I discover yet another reason to curse the rain: because the outside seating has been decommissioned, all of the tables inside are filled. We have a thirty minute wait ahead of us. The diners are equally miserable, shifting uncomfortably in wet and heavy skirts and suits. The waiters are perturbed because the drippy customers are tipping less, and their bills are wilted from water damage. The entire restaurant smells like a gigantic wet shoe.

There’s even a wait to get wall space to lean against to wait for a table.

“Maybe we should…”

“Reschedule?” Chase incorrectly anticipates my words.

“Try somewhere else?”

He looks embarrassed. I probably look hurt, I certainly feel that way.

“Listen, this clearly was a terrible idea. And it’s my fault for screwing up the timing and everything,”

There are tears sneaking out of my eyes. Not necessarily because of Chase entirely, but man has today been such a trip. “Maybe we should cancel it. This first date hasn’t even started and I’ve already messed it up in five different ways.”

“Wait, no. Marty, no. It’s fine. I – I didn’t really have plans anyway. Plus, you’re cute enough to excuse my wet clothes and the stench of this place.”

“It does stink, doesn’t it?” I laugh, wiping away my tears. “God, sorry for the emotions. It’s been a stressful day.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it was sort of endearing. So many gays in this city killed off their feelings when they crossed the bridge into town. Did you have a bad audition or something?”

I forgot I had mentioned that to him in a text. “Actually,” I sniff again. “They loved me.”

His smile is gorgeous. Full teeth. Maybe this isn’t ruined just yet after all.

“Well then it can’t have been THAT bad of a day, right?”

“No. I guess not. But this place still smells terrible. And that’s including the stink eyes the host keeps giving me.”

“Well this calls for a celebratory meal in a place that doesn’t smell like a ripe scrotum, pardon my French.”

“Better than the Thai they’re selling here.”

“I actually know a better place and it’s right around the corner. And it looks like the rain has stopped. Wanna make a run for it?”

“After you, sir.”

Chase sprints a lot quicker than me, but he has a firm grip of my hand and drags me a few blocks away to a restaurant that sits below street level. It’s tricked out to look like the backyard of a trailer park, and the menu is all deep fried things filled and/or covered in Velveeta. But the waiters are smiling and friendly, and the customers are grinning like Buddhas as they try to overcome their food comas.

“You’re not one of those gays who says they don’t eat, are you?” Chase asks once we’re seated at a table along the side wall by the kitchen.

The fact that there’s already an over-buttered slice of bread sticking out of my mouth saves me from having to answer him. He orders us two drinks that come served in frosty glasses like ice cream floats with little plastic alligators sticking out, tails-up, drowning in the booze.

It’s like a whole new date. Conversation is flowing at hyperspeed. And Chase is everything I was hoping he’d be. We talk about Armistad Maupin’s Tales of the City and how we had to spend half of our time on Google to understand all of the now-outdated references. (“Almost as much time as I spent in the companion guide for James Joyce’s Ulysses.”) We both hate reality television. We both aren’t on the best of terms with our parents, but we both have kickass sisters. Even though it’s not proper date etiquette, we somehow end up on the topic of ex hookups and dates. We each have a trove of stories to share. We challenge each other to come up with the most interesting one.

“Funny enough, my guy’s name was Marty too.” Chase says. “We met at a club, went home together, had a great night. Then, nothing.”

“Ugh, clubs suck.” I say. “That’s where I met my ex Brayden.”

“Brayden was MY Marty’s last name!” Chase laughs, already tipsy from whatever drink he ordered us.

“That’s so weird!” I laugh. I also opt to not go too deep into the details of crazy Brayden. Just enough to give him a flavor of the insanity I had to go through.

We have so much in common! But now I have a new problem; I’m now trying as hard as I can to not begin dreaming up our kids’ names. How I’ll get him out to Jersey to meet my sister. The outfit he’ll wear to the opening night of whatever show I end up being cast in. Maybe he’ll travel out of state to see me in the Wicked tour if I land it?

This is a problem I can’t stand: my proclivity to jump ahead forty steps to the point of a relationship with a guy I’ve where the dumb fresh-love romance is dead and we’re picking out what toothpaste we want at Duane Reade or bitching about our double date with that boring couple from Morningside Heights.

“That IS funny,” I laugh. “Marty Brayden. Sounds like a porno name.”

“It does, right?” Chase chuckles, before assaulting his straw again. “Oop! Refill time?”

I’m nowhere near done with mine, but I shrug and suck the entire thing down. Brain freeze commences, which Chase finds adorable enough to crack up.

“So you like me most when I’m in pain or under duress?”

“I can only hope you’ll end up in some sort of hostage situation before we say goodnight to each other. I may just fall in love with you, Marty.”

Finally the food comes, along with our second round of drinks. My God I’ve never seen so much macaroni and cheese before – a mountain of it spilling over the trough-sized ceramic bowls plopped down in front of us. Chase digs in and I try to match his vigor.

“Let me be honest,” Chase says through a cheesy mouthful, “I usually have a No Dating Actors rule.”

“You and everybody else in New York,” I sigh. “The actors themselves included. We can’t STAND each other. Granted, that doesn’t stop us from sleeping with each other on tour or in the apartments they put us up in at regional theaters. I was on tour with Jersey Boys as a swing last year. I swear to God The Four Seasons were more like The Four Sluts.”

“What a lonely existence,” Chase laughs. “You won’t date each other, no one will date you. How do you handle it?”

“We’re actors, we’re good at being way too self-involved and pretending that we’re not bitter, jaded, alone, and miserable. So are you anti ALL theater? Or just the talented boys that bring it to you?”

“Well, I have seen a few shows. Some Broadway. A bunch of my friends go to NYU, so I make a habit of seeing their showcases.”

“So you can be friends with actors, just not date them?”

“You forgot sleeping with them. That’s also acceptable. I’m kidding. Relax! I’m willing to make exceptions on the Actor Date rule, when it’s warranted.”

“And do I make a worthy exception?”

“You’re certainly making a good argument for me to consider it,” Chase says, taking another sip. He’s drunk. But so am I. And we’re both apparently giddy drunks, which is yet another commonality that I am enjoying immensely.

“Well, you should stop by a Musical Mondays sometime soon. It’ll help you get more accustomed to actors and theater queens.”

“Musical Whatdays? I’ve never heard of it!”

“Musical Mondays. It’s my favorite party! They throw it every Monday at Splash. They play Broadway videos on the big screens. Cheap drinks. Free to get in. And there’s a live performance by a touring or Broadway actor at midnight in a show called Curtain Call.”

“That actually sounds like it might be a lot of fun. Of course, only if I’m as drunk as I am right now. Would you take me there for my first time?”

He grabs my hand as he asks this question. My heart pukes happiness everywhere. Oh man. Here we go again. One-Date-Romantic Marty Perry. Gulliver? Gulliver who? I’m already strategizing about when will be the right time to call him tomorrow to go out and see a movie or rush a show. Assuming we don’t end up going back to his place tonight, which I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to.

“I would love to be your guide,” I smile, before taking my hand away to allow me to jam more of the disgustingly amazing mac and cheese in my mouth. “It’s actually the only party I really go to. Nightlife’s not exactly my thing, yanno?”

“Not your thing? What do you mean?”

“Well, I used to do the bar scene, in Jersey, here in the city. Especially when I was in college. I was a big party boy on the weekends. But I got over it real fast. It’s just so SLUTTY, you know? Everyone just gets trashed, has sex with each other, gets into fist fights all over the place. I’m over it. There are better ways to spend my time.”

“Well, not ALL parties are that way.”

“You’re right, there’s Musical Mondays. Other than that, just sluts, whores, drama, STDs, and embarrassing people. Spare me, you know? I’ll take drinks at a straight bar any night over that sorta scene. What a sorry place.”

“Gotcha. You feel the same way about people who work there?”

All I can think of is Todd DiTempto, Gulliver’s former roommate. The over-muscled Bro-this and Dude-that guy with the always-present facial stubble and tiny tank tops that barely cover his nipples. How Gulliver snuck me around like an illegal immigrant in the back of a van, hiding me out of view, just because his nightlife crew had deemed I was a villain, instead of Brayden. Gay men had so much more potential than drinking themselves into stupors, waking up with crabs (or in my case, gonorrhea), and drinking enough water to gain the strength to do it all over again.

“They’re even worse,” I tell him. “Enablers. Yuck. Yanno?”

Chase recoils like I just slapped him in the face. And then the conversation well runs dry. Up until now it had been flowing so perfectly, a witty tennis match full of volleys as delicious as the cheesy carb piles we were shoveling into our mouths. But Chase has gone silent. I open my mouth a few times to try and create a new vein of discussion, but I’m too self-conscious. Verbally constipated. I’m at a complete loss.

After a minute of us silently chewing and slurping, Chase finally breaks the awkward silence. “Um. Marty?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I guess I’ll come out with this now. I usually hold off on it until a few dates in. But, up until a few minutes ago, I was liking you… And the last thing I want to do is waste either of our time.”

“We’re not wasting our time!”

I’m immediately defensive, on date protection duty. Oh God. What? What did I do that made this take a suddenly serious turn? His mysterious upcoming announcement completely steals the thunder away from the fact that he just told me he likes me. Or liked me. Dammit. I guess my club condemnation was a little harsh. But I’m drunk! And it’s really how I feel! What can it be? He’s married. Even worse, he has a kid. He is HIV + (not that that’s really a problem we can’t deal with). He’s got three months to live. He’s a white-collar criminal who’s heading to trial, soon to be arrested and incarcerated upstate. What is it?

“Yeah?”


... and that's all you get for now! Stay tuned for more. Crazy Brayden's adventure will be on sale before you know it!

Gays Don't Pay! (But maybe they should).

There is one sticky, thorny thing in nightlife that a lot of people don't like. No, it's not the slutty behavior of club goers. Or the drink prices (well, sometimes it's the drink prices). Or the themes or clubs.

It's the cover charge.

For those of you who don't go gay clubbing, or those of you who go to clubs in small towns, you may not be used to the concept. Basically it's an admission price for people to gain entry to a nightclub. You pay money, and we let you in. Simple, right? Sure. Except New Yorkers do NOT like to do it.

I have to admit. Before I worked in nightlife, I hated cover. I did everything I could to avoid it like the many-pennied plague it was. But since then I've caught wise, and understand why it exists.

"Wait a hot sec, I have to PAY to go into a place where I will then have to PAY to check my things and PAY to get my drinks? Really?"

Yes, Seth Myers impersonator - really!

And it's REALLY not ALL that bad, most of the time. Typically cover charges in New York are aggressively low. Because New Yorkers don't like cover charges, and they will register this opinion with their feet - as they hoof it to another gay bar or club that will be happy to let them in without charging them. There is a wide variety of bars where cover simply doesn't exist. You walk in, and begin doing embarrassing things.

But, I will quote a friend of mine, Playgirl marketing guru and nightlife smutmaster Daniel Nardicio: "Sometimes you have to pay to have a good time."

And Daniel should know. He doesn't throw free parties. And his parties are awesome for that reason. Slutty underwear soirees. Sex parties in expensive apartment lofts. The dirtiest events you'll find on the island of fire.

And we at BoiParty.com are the same. All of our parties have cover charges. Because they happen at multi-floored mega clubs with at least two DJs on staff, as well as a bakers dozen go-go dancers, two performers, three drag hosts, the list goes on.

But we're not unfair in our dealings. We are willing to make concessions. If you show up early enough to our events and say the code word, you get in free or cheap. If you are 21-28 or in a jockstrap, Daniel will give you discounted entry to his Buck underwear party.

I'm sorry, you just can't have it both ways. You can't show up when the party's at its hoppingest AND expect no line and free entry. It just doesn't work that way. You can have your cake and eat it too, but you better bet that cake ain't being donated.

Sometimes, my friends, you must pay the cover. Because there are entertainers who expect money. Hosts who helped fill the club. Promoters who invested money in flier design and eblasts and text messages and all that stuff that got all the cuties to the club you're about to enter in the first place. And shouldn't they be paid? Yes. Yes they should.

And then there's the matter of rent. How much does your small 1 Bedroom cost? And the licenses! Liquor licenses. Managerial licenses. Bartender training licenses. Licenses that let us LET YOU DANCE (it's called a Cabaret License. Google it. I'm not kidding.) The money to pay for all of this must come from somewhere.

And cover is rarely more than $10. Which is the cost of one drink. Or one and three quarters Starbucks drink. Your pants you are wearing that show off your bubble butt just so probably cost about 15 party covers. Don't even get me STARTED on your man bag.

And you have to pay for everything else in this city, right? Few museums throw open their doors and say "come on in! check out our expensive art!" No movie theater escorts you to your seat so you can enjoy The Hangover 5 and brings you free popcorn. (Speaking of which, a large popcorn at the movies is the same cost as a cover charge). So why shouldn't large dance clubs with scores of employees, lights, sound systems, and security charge you a small fee?

Think of what cover gets you: a chance to see and be seen. A night full of loud music and dancing. A show or performance or expensive giveaway. A shot at finding the love of your life or the love until you meet the next cutie at that brunch hosted by a drag queen. Contests where you can win sweet stuff. The ability to show your friends in other states how cool, popular, and busy you are when they head to their tiny podunk bars to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon with roadies on tour with Kool and The Gang.

Allow me to say this: gays under 21 should NEVER complain about a cover charge. This is something I deal with every week. I'll allow someone of drinking age to complain, but if you can't buy liquor and plan on just being there - how are we ever supposed to keep our doors open and our go-gos fed (assuming they eat, which they shouldn't be). We need some money, pal. Especially if you don't plan on spending any more of it until you stop by McDonalds on your way home.

Oh, and GIRLS who are under 21 need to never complain about anything again. You're not even eye candy. You're that crappy dusty minty candy that sits in metal bowls next to the cash register at diners. Pay up and enjoy the gays. This ain't gonna be free.

And listen: I pay cover too. I'm not going to a club and making a scene. If it's $5, here's my $5. If it's $10, here's my $10. If it's more than $10, I will go to the place that charges $10 instead. We all have our limits.

Of course, this rule only changes this week and Thanksgiving week. During Gay Pride, every club charges exorbitant covers. Why? Because it allows them to make enough money to keep cover down the rest of the year. Because tourists will fund our alcoholism until Christmas time. But these parties are hot, friends. Acts are flown in from around the world. Celebrities and Celebrity DJs are going to put on their best and do their best on beaches and rooftops and piers. And because of that, cover charge will reflect the extra effort.

Because we all gotta pay the bills somehow. It's how we keep our jobs and the toilets working.

I know it's not the sexiest thing to pay cover. And if you know a manager, promoter, DJ, or dancer who can get you in, it's always fair game to exploit the opportunity and look cool in front of your friends.

But at least understand why we do it: because if we didn't do it, we wouldn't be here. There'd be no clubs for you to stand outside of, fighting with the cashier about the cover. I promise you we're not getting fat on your money. We're just staying in business.

No one likes spending money... but at least you're spending it on having fun, right? Go bitch to your dentist and ask him why you have to spend hundreds of dollars on a root canal, just to be in pain for five weeks.

Frankly, HE should be paying YOU, if you ask me.

<3 Justin Luke

Videos of Hot Near-Naked Guys All Over Eachother

A lot of bloggers are posting their reviews of Broadway Bares, the massively popular Broadway Burlesque fundraiser for Equity Fights AIDS. But I'm not going to do that. Since the event is already over, what do you care what I thought of it? You don't. If you were there, you have your own opinion. If you weren't there, you probably are upset you missed 500 guys in underwear or less getting all up in eachother's butt cracks.

So my solution is a simple one. I stop writing here, and the rest of this post are a bunch of videos I have found on YouTube. If you're home, break out your lube. If you're at work, wait til you get home, and then break out your lube.

<3 JL

Weird Al's Lady Gaga Spoof Video is OUT!

Are you one of the many Plus Ones who thought Lady Gaga's Edge of Glory video was the latest citizen to move to Epic Failsville? Well this might be able to hold you over until her next video which, given her usual productivity, should come out in about three hours.

It's Weird Al Yankovic's new single "Perform This Way" and the music video is great. It maintains the same kooky charm he's had since I was listening to him spoof "Gangsta's Paradise" on cassette tape in the early nineties.

You go, Weird Al! You GO!

<3 JL

Is Cuddle-Snuggling the New Gay Sex?

As the creator of the group Gorgeous, Gay and Twenty-Something, I get to observe and interact in the daily digital comings and goings of over 4,500 hot gay twenty-somethings around the world every day. And every once in a while, I notice a trend emerging. In this post I will discuss one such trend: the sudden, undying need for guys to cuddle and snuggle.

It began as a few renegade posts in the group. Gorgeous gays leaving a post saying:

"Bored/Lonely... who wants to come cuddle with me!?"

"Would KILL for a cute boy to snuggle with."

"Here's my BBM... HMU for a cuddle sesh!"

Turns out it was the calm before the storm. Now, on any given day, at LEAST 10 GG20s are asking for a cuddle buddy, wishing they had a cuddle buddy, and missing their cuddle buddies. Cuddle Fever has taken over, and it's a snuggly epidemic!

Now, I'm a world-wearied almost no-longer-twenty-something. I grew up during a very very sexualized time. Can I be blamed that I immediately assumed these guys had just developed a euphemism for deep-dicking each other? How cute, I thought. They can't say "Looking for a dude to run my Out-Hole ragged," so instead they're requesting cuddle buddies!

But it turns out I was wrong, as I later learned. These boys are indeed looking for cuddle buddies. Attractive guys to come over, lie with them in bed, big spoon and little spoon engaged, and watch a movie, or a terrible reality show, or raindrops running down the windowpane during a thunder storm.

I still, at times, think that cuddling may very well be a pre-cursor. CLEARLY these boys also want some cock-action... right? We're gay men! We need to get laid and get off, right!?

Maybe I'm wrong after all. Maybe I'm not giving these wee romantics enough credit.

And so I wonder: has cuddling become the new gay sex? During my younger twenties, our need was to get off as often as possible. Has that trend and need changed? It very well might have. While my generation was often sexually stifled, our need was to shoot shoot shoot. To revel in our gayness while we had the free time and privacy. Now, with gayness so much more publicly acceptable, and sex no longer hard to get thanks to things like Manhunt, Grindr, A4A, etc... is sex no longer the need?

With sex so easy to obtain, it looks like gay boys have moved on to something a little more unattainable still: human connection, non-sexual intimacy, and the warm head-buzzy feelings of romance. Anyone can suck a dick. But not anyone can get a relationship where they feel loved, cared for, and supported. And so these cuddle hookup sessions have emerged: two guys in bed acting like boyfriends without necessarily committing to each other. They can bury their faces in the crooks of eachother's necks. They can rub the back of eachother's non-dick heads. They can be cute and married-like without having to break down emotional barriers.

And I must admit: some days I just want to cuddle. Sex is all well and good. Hell, I love it plenty. But there comes many a day where I can think of nothing better than lying down with my DJ boyfriend in the apartment on the couch, his head in my lap or vice-versa, the fan on, West Wing playing on the TV, and just rubbing our hands on eachother's arms and feeling like we're not alone in this world. Napping with the warmth of our bodies creating a cocoon around us. Maybe that's not such a bad thing, after all.

This is definitely new to me: this cuddle trend. Maybe someone needs to come up with an M4M cuddle site. CuddleBuds.com. SnuggleStuds.info. Whatever. Figure it out. It may prove more successful. Lord knows, most of the guys I know who use the sex hook-up sites rarely ever sleep with any of the guys they meet there. Rather, they chat, become friends, and maybe end up cuddling together.

Maybe a site where the boys with profiles simply want someone to give them good spoon will be massively successful. I'm too busy to create it myself, so I give the idea for free to anyone reading this who cares to give it a shot.

Sure, as men we all need to get our rocks off. But you know what? Sometimes I think we just need to get our cuddle on.

<3 Justin Luke

What is YOUR Gay Sex Statute of Limitations?

Last night I was at a bar with some friends, drinking far too much and talking up a storm when one of our crew stopped the conversation, pointed out a cute guy across the room, and said, "we fucked four years ago."

"So in other words, it's like you never fucked at all," another friend countered.

"Exactly," the original friend said. "We're actually great friends now."

The most interesting part is that not a one of us found this odd or tried to debate the statement. We all just nodded. Four years ago was a damn long time. So of course they could be friends, despite whatever they may have done or not done so many years ago.

And I am going to have to agree. Maybe not where you are, but certainly in New York City, there seems to be a Gay Sex Statute of Limitations. A certain period of time where, once it has passed, you can basically act as though you never got naked and deep-throated each other to orgasm in the first place. Much like an outstanding bench warrant for your arrest that you duck out of the country to avoid, returning years later and no one really gives a damn.

Beyond ACTING like you never had sex, I think this goes down to a deeper, more mental and physical reaction. Think about it. If you're gay and attractive, and in New York, and single... even a few months of time may be enough. You've slept with and/or dated so many guys in that time. Each additional body stacked on top of the original body you had slept with. As they pile up, that first one (or second one, or tenth one, or whatever) gets farther and farther away. Until, finally, you've been with enough other guys and enough time has passed that it's like it never happened at all.

I think this is something that came as a result of queer evolution. A sort of protective shell, if you will. Because in New York, you are doomed to run into every guy you've fucked or dated at LEAST once a month, if not more. And if you weren't able to physically and emotionally move on from the sex you have had with people, you'd most likely be forced into a hermit-like existence for the rest of your days, or you'd have to move to another state, never to return.

For me, I think my Gay Sex Statute of Limitations is about, give or take, three months. That's assuming, of course, there were no repeats or anything. That's a little tougher. And when it comes to gay relationships, I think my statute is about 7 or 9 months. It took me that long to start talking to my ex-boyfriend of five and a half years again.

Now, since I've been with my boyfriend over 2 years, basically this means I have a sexual and relationship clean slate! I can remark that I slept with or dated this guy or that, but I'm just saying words and stating facts. I can hardly conjure up memories of what we actually did. Any feelings from those meetings are long gone. Not buried like someone who can't deal with reality, but, rather, eaten through and done. I remember THAT we did something together, but goddamn that was a long time ago, wasn't it?

Of course, this is just my personal statute of limitations. I imagine they probably vary. I have an ex that I dated for less than a year, three years ago. He still won't speak to me. I don't blame him, I callously dumped him without warning and began dating someone else almost immediately after. It's weird because I can hardly remember a single thing about the time we spent together, and still he won't talk to me when we pass on the street. Clearly his statute stretches into years.

I think this statute necessary. Especially in a hyperactive and hyper-horny city such as New York. You NEED to be able to separate and move on. It's all a part of survival here. If you haven't evolved to that point, I hope that you can sometime soon. It'll make life and going out to drink at night far, far easier. Think of my 9-month ex. How much easier would it be if he could just nod and smile at me on the street, versus gritting his teeth, looking enraged, and stomping past me while he screams profanity into his phone about how much of an asshole I was... three years ago.

At some point, we all need to let go.

What's your Gay Sex Statute of Limitations? Would love to know!

<3 JL

D.M. Does Music: Summer Gaylist Part 2

Hello Plus Ones!

Another day, and another post by that sex-muffin, Gorgeous, Gay and Twenty-Something member David Michael. Here he continues from Part 1 of his Summer Music Gaylist, which I posted on Monday. You can read that part of the list right here.

So get your iTunes fired up, and make a mix to take you from Provincetown to Fire Island to NYC Pride and wherever else your gaytastic summer may bring you.

Summer is quickly approaching loves, which means long beach/pool days and long party nights are upon us! But what would summer be without music to live through it with? Not much, to be honest. That’s why I came up with a 20-song playlist that’ll ensure the summer fun doesn’t stop for you at all for the next three months and I hope you all enjoy hearing some familiar and some not-so-familiar smashes!

We Do It (Primo) - Colette Carr 

You may not know Colette Carr yet, but this track, produced by Frankmusik, is one of the best for just lying at the beach, sipping on a margarita or chilling out doors in general. Produces pretty cool vibes.

Burning Up (Madonna Cover) (Remix) - Britney Spears 

As if I didn’t need to fall in love with Britney any more, she goes ahead and does a cover of Madonna’s “Burning Up”! Well, let me tell you this track is “FIYAHH” and will be performed on her upcoming Femme Fatale tour!

 

Rain Over Me - Pitbull (ft. Marc Anthony)

This song is most definitely PERFECT for when it’s been the hottest day on the planet and all of a sudden there’s a gigantic rain storm on it’s way. Point your stereo out of the window in your backyard or have it under a tent outside and blast it while you dance in the rain.

Fired Up (Fuck the Recession) - Shaggy (ft. Pitbull) 

A track that, unfortunately, relays my lifestyle and outlook on today’s economic standpoint. If you’re not willing to go broke, I’d suggest you not have this song playing while near the bar, at a mall or near a go-go.

No Bueno - Nadia Oh 

Story of my life right here. Nadia Oh has created a club smash that encapsulates how horrible wrong my love life is at all times. Here’s to all you, douches ;)

Say Jambo - Mohombi 

This is the players’ anthem, and although I’m so not for those guys and gals who got their stacks of love interests, this song is a necessary addition to iPods & mp3 players everywhere.

Take Off - Mr. Vegas (ft. Wynter Gordon) 

A great track to get down to, featuring the one and only Wynter Gordon. “Come, let’s fly away, away, away.” There’s an awesome hot summer feel to the track that I just couldn’t deny.

Notorious - The Saturdays 

Whether everyone knows your name at the club or whether no one knows who the hell you are, this track will make you feel like all eyes are on you and no one can deny you your place on the dance floor.

Believe in Me Now - Taio Cruz 

Believe in Me Now when I say this Swedish House Mafia produced track will be the new anthem all over the nightlife scene this summer with it’s chanting “Oh Ay Oh Ay Oh Ay Oh ah ah”

Taio Cruz - Believe In Me Now Vidéo guiguidu442 sélectionnée dans Musique

Till Death - Wynter Gordon 

The perfect ending to my playlist, Wynter Gordon brings us the utterly flawless Till Death. Since she first performed it at Deko Lounge almost a year ago, I was fiending for this track on my iTunes and it’s just recently been released to purchase. I try to end every night with this song and hopefully this’ll be the last song I play on the last night of summer. ;)

- D.M.

Video Post: 1,600 MJs and a Gaggle of Fire Island Gays

In this post are two videos that you absolutely need to watch. The first is the trailer for an upcoming Web (or actual) TV show called "Half-Share" written by and starring my Aussie Bum pal, Jesse Archer. It looks to have all the wit and charm of "Broken Hearts Club" with a nice modern twist.




And then, on a completely different note, I recommend you check out the official video for Michael Jackson's posthumously released song "Behind the Mask." I love it because it's crowd-sourced from over 1,600 fan-made videos. You'll love it because I said you should!

xo JL

D.M. Does Music: Your GAYtastic Summer Playlist! (Part 1)

Our favorite sexy music maven David Michael is back again for another post this week on Justin Plus One! I'm just going to go ahead and let him take it away.

xo JL

Summer is quickly approaching loves, which means long beach/pool days and long party nights are upon us! But what would summer be without music to live through it with? Not much, to be honest.

That’s why I came up with a 20-song playlist that’ll ensure the summer fun doesn’t stop for you at all for the next three months and I hope you all enjoy hearing some familiar and some not-so-familiar smashes!


Brand New Bitch - Anjulie
The summer’s here and if you’re like me, it’s time to let go of the ties past douche bags have kept on you. So enjoy Anjulie’s new smash which has quickly become my anthem this summer.




You Make Me Feel... - Cobra Starship (ft. Sabi)
Cobra Starship is experimenting with a new sound and I’m loving it! They’ve paired up with newcomer Sabi (Drop Dead Beautiful off Femme Fatale) in making this irresistible summer fling hit!




Marry the Night - Lady Gaga
Most definitely my ultimate “getting ready to turn this town upside down” track and my favorite off her new album, Born This Way. I know ya’ll know it already.




Dirty Dancer (Remix) - Enrique Iglesias & Usher (ft. Lil Wayne & Nayer) 
Loved the original, but mega-producer RedOne doesn’t stop until people are infatuated, apparently. The Dirty Dancer remix is a must for all clubs this season, so get to know it and brush up on your own dirty dancing.




Drop It Low - Kat DeLuna
Just listen to the instructions: Drop it low, pop it up, pop it up, turn around. REPEAT. ;)




We Own the Night - Jessie & the Toy Boys
My new obsession: Jessie & the Toy Boys. This is a perfect track to blast in the middle of your night when you’re on your way to the next hotspot of the evening.




Hypnotico - Jennifer Lopez
Infectious and sexy. This track makes babies on the dancefloor.




Mr. Saxobeat - Alexandra Stan
Has a funky, infectious sound and beat to it. Just recently heard DJ Steve Sidewalk drop it at Deko and the crowd went nuts!




Loud - Stan Walker
A banger that’s already topping charts in Australia and Europe. Get to know it months in advanced of it landing in the States!




Do It In The AM (MNEK Remix) - Frankmusik
I know none of you are newcomers to partying until the AM just to do it all over again the next day. This is your anthem and this remix of the original by Frankmusik is sickening.

  'Do It In the AM' MNEK remix by Anorak London

 



Stay tuned for part 2 of DM's Summer Playlist, coming at you tomorrow!

xo JL + DM

DM Does Music: Simon Curtis is BACK!

Today's post is a guest spotlight written by the gorgeous gay 20-something, nightlife promoter and musician, David Michael. Send complaints to him, and compliments to me!
xo JL

“The name is S-I-M-O-N. The game is P-O-P.” In the very first line of the opening song from R∆, “Laser Guns Up”, Simon Curtis begins his assault on the pop music community. Somewhat of a newcomer to the “game”, he enters the world of downloads and charts with the message that he’s here to win; and with a weapon like his sophomore album, this indie pop artist is well on his way to doing just that.

After the explosive success of his first album, 8bit Heart (available to download for FREE at www.simon-curtis.com), Simon quickly got to working on a follow up album that he named after the slew of loyal fans who call themselves the Robot Army. Tracks on R∆ like “Laser Guns Up”, “Superhero” and “Get In Line” are clearly dedicated to the Robot Army who also help make up fan bases of many other prominent pop artists today, such as GaGa and Ms. Spears.

Simon released two singles (“Superhero” and “Flesh”) to buy on iTunes (the very first tracks he’s ever made available to purchase) before surprising us by dropping the full album on Tuesday. Since yesterday, the album has peaked at #19 on iTunes Pop Albums Chart and has cracked through the top 100 on iTunes’ Top 200 Albums Chart, peaking, so far, at #86. And then there’s one other thing to mention... Simon isn’t signed to a record label, doesn’t have a manager, or even a freakin’ publicist! It’s indie at it’s finest and he’s definitely making his mark with R∆.

Now, if you’re looking for some fresh-out-the-factory bubblegum pop, I’ll have to tell you this isn’t the album you’re looking for. It’s much better than that. Simon Curtis’ R∆ will leave you with high tensions, blood pumping and feeling... well, kinda dirty. You may even feel a bit mind fucked after listening to a couple of the dark and grimy tracks.

On the second song, “Don’t Dance”, Simon is proving that he’s doing his own thing, not conforming to the norms of pop music that mainstream has molded. So many songs today command their audiences to get up onto the dance floor, put your hands up and have a good time. Now, you may find yourself doing just that to this track, but throughout the song we hear Simon defiantly telling us “don’t dance.” A track like this tells us he’s not in this “game” to create some manufactured four-on-the-floor music, but instead is all for making some great mid-tempo tracks that can be enjoyed thoroughly whether you choose to sit and listen or get up and party.

It looks as though Simon’s also been through a little tribulation since the release of his first album. Tracks like “Pit of Vipers”, “D.T.M” (Dead To Me) and “I Hate U” are seemingly used as a way to vent and definitely bring a lot of high tension to R∆. If you’ve got that person in your life you love to hate or were recently back stabbed and need some form of musical closure, these tracks will most definitely do the trick for you.




Although we see a ton of empowerment, anger and defiance on the album, there is a side to this artist that he allows us a glimpse of in the elements of love, heartbreak and sex. The seventh track, “Flesh” is definitely one for the horny and slightly kinky. It’s the only song on R∆ that is explicitly about sex and, believe me, it produces enough steam for you to be satiated until his third album. The track is sensual and begins with a racing heartbeat, immediately throwing the listener into a frenzy of twists, turns, shoves and thrusts. The track comes to a climax (pun most definitely intended) as Simon shows off that crazy high falsetto we came to fall in love with, leading to a thumping dance beat to close the song. Most definitely one of my favorites off the album.

On the eighth track, “How to Start a War”, Simon passionately describes the situation where his significant other has fallen out of love and what was once paradise is now ravaged with anger, hatred and hurt. His confusion is evident in the track, which is something that one who has truly fallen into love feels when it’s become apparent that the love isn’t shared.

Then we have “Enemy” (the 13th track) which, to me, goes hand-in-hand with “How to Start a War”. This song was truly a climactic point for me when listening to this album from start to finish. It was seriously on such another level that all I could think about for a video to this song was Simon standing atop a mountain (yes a mountain--I told you some next level shit), alone, wailing the chorus to a far-off lost love who he begs to come back to their senses. The track emanates suffer from within and a longing to be touched that kind of leaves the listener transfixed until the final utter “I don’t wanna be.. your enemy”. This song will forever be one of my all-time favorites.

As a whole, R∆ is a brilliant, searing red-hot album that any pop culture connoisseur will devour, hungry for more once the 14th track has come to a close. It sets the bar for not only independent pop artists, but also for those reigning champs on the pop music scene. So GaGa, Britney, Katy, Rihanna... love you, but I’m rooting for the underdog.

To buy the album on iTunes, click here.

Who Here Likes Jerking Off with Sandpaper?

Anyone? What about wrapping barbed wire around your dick and using it to fuck someone in the ass?

No? Come on, someone must!

What about watching a bunch of mutilated people shitting in each other's mouths? You know, Two Near-Dead Girls, One Cup (which is their mouths).

No? Nobody?

ME NEITHER!

And neither does the whole of Britain, which just banned the movie from being shown there.

But that doesn't seem to have stopped this movie from slowly crawling its way to our shores and theaters. It's the upcoming sequel to The Human Centipede.

Come on man, really? A sequel? The first movie sounded like an unhatched idea: Doctor decides to sew people together. Okay... and then what? What's the story? Do those people escape and menace the earth? Does he take them on a world freak show tour?

Nope! He just sews them together, which you see in the original trailer. You don't even have to see the movie! You got to see the one shock value piece right there at your computer for free.

Well, despite the total idiocy of this entire film, the "Second Sequence" is coming soon. And the director of the movie stars in his own trailer, speaking to us via some sort of badly illustrated ESP. The story of the second film? Well, he had nowhere to go, since the centipede was made, which we saw in the trailer... so... we take a meta step backwards and instead follow a FAN OF THE FIRST FILM who loves it so much that he decides to MAKE HIS OWN HUMAN CENTIPEDE.

Yep. You get to see the same movie again, kids! And this one is being billed as 100% Medically Inaccurate (I guess its apparent accuracy was what sold the first one to the idiots who paid good money to see it). Plus you get the barbed wire cock ring rape scene and sandpaper handjob as bonus gifts!

Listen. I love porn. Torture porn, however, I do not love whatsoever. Ick. Ow. Ew. No.

I won't be seeing this movie, friends. Also, I will not be seeing anyone who goes to see this movie. That's right. The moment you enter a theater to see The Human Centipede full sequence Part Two, we will immediately cease to be friends. And I will not even need you to tell me you saw it. I will FEEL it in my heart, soul and bones. And we will no longer be friends.







<3 JL

Broadway Bottom Caught on Sex Tape!

About three weeks ago, I published my debut gay novel, Gulliver Travels... and the reception has been amazing! I wanted to thank everyone for their support, for buying the book, for writing me Amazon reviews, for telling their friends to grab a copy, and for welcoming me to their parties and shows.

But my job is far from done. Everyone keeps asking me: WHERE'S THE SEQUEL? Well, it's coming. Trust me: you love the characters from the original novel? Well so do I. They're all I want to write about... so I'm not fighting that urge one iota.

BUT before I release the sequel to Gulliver Travels, I'm going to have some fun first. I am in the process of writing a SERIES OF KINDLE SHORTS that will follow the characters you met in the original novel. These will all be available ONLY on Kindle (which isn't bad, since via a FREE Kindle app, you can read a Kindle eBook on anything including your phone, iPad, and computer).

And that first story, get this, will cost 99 cents. Yeah. Think of it like a sexy gay dollar deal. How can you NOT grab a copy? (Well, I'm hoping you'll want to lol).

And what better way to keep the ball rolling than by giving you a sneak peek into the FIRST short story in the Gulliver's Travelers series? This short follows everyone's favorite seriously unhinged pretty boy, Brayden Castro, who embarks on a crazy one-night adventure in pursuit of a particular brand of asshole who just so happens to also be his boyfriend.

I hope you like it :)

<3 JL

EXCERPT FROM GULLIVER'S TRAVELERS BOOK 1: Brayden's Sweet Revenge

... Floor 3. Still sprinting. Heaving and gulping air to fuel my feet of fire.

I knock a woman back into her room as she tries to leave it, her umbrella flying open and trapping her inside. Bad luck bitch. Go throw some salt over your shoulder, make a margarita with the rest while you’re at it.

I would be sitting at home all by myself, none the wiser of what was going on. That would have happened if I hadn’t heard about Brendan from Shane, who was tipped off by his fuck buddy Stefan who spied a text between his besties Adam and Hector about my “boyfriend” bagging some stupid Broadway fag on the side, the same stupid fag who just let me into his apartment building. Fuck! I’d probably be jerking off to something on Xtube. Well, Xtube would be on, but I’d be thinking about Brendan and his fucking pencil dick that until tonight I DIDN’T EVEN MIND but now I wouldn’t let near me, even if he swore he’d get me free drinks at Industry until I was too old to walk up to 52nd street.

SHIT! I’d be writing his name over and over again on the back of a takeout menu like I’m some fucking 5th grade girl drawing hearts around a fucking photo of Zac Efron. Dog-earing pages in my old copy of the New York Magazine Weddings Issue. I’d wait until he came back to my place with the copy of keys I made him last month, kicked his shoes off in the hallway, came to me with his arms wide and his smile even wider. And then I’d jump into his arms, asking him how his night was and kissing his neck like it had been days and not hours since I last saw him. And then I’d bottom for him like nobody ever will again. With lust and love swirling around us like we’re caught in a gay tornado. Stealing every breath and drop of cum from his body like a goddamn super vacuum. Like I had done for so many nights the past month. You DON’T use Brayden Jesse Castro. No. Not with impunity.

One time would be unforgivable. One cheat would earn him a bitch slap and me screaming at him until he ran from Hell’s Kitchen back to his Upper East Side studio. Fuck! I’d chase the asshole down as he ran for a cab, making sure every fucking tourist and neighborhood whore knew to stay the fuck away from him. That’s he’s mine and anyone who covered him in their sweat and cum would have their throat ripped out.

But I’d let him back after he apologized… came to my apartment with a bouquet of flowers (the expensive kind, not the bodega value shit they peddle in cellophane) and begged me to give him another chance. I’d look at him like he’d broken my heart and shake my head until he was drowning in his own tears. And then I’d take him back.

But a fuck buddy on the side? Someone he may have even been fucking more than he fucked me? Oh FUCK no. Dumping him would be charity; I’d be a goddamn saint. No. I’m going to explode him. Leave him like Hiroshima and Nagasaki – burned out craters everywhere, women and children mutated and puking blood and screaming through chapped lips. I’ll eviscerate him. He’ll be out on his ass wishing he didn’t fuck up his shot at the one good guy he’ll EVER meet in his public bathroom floor of a life.

No. Better still. He won’t be able to live his life until he packs up his shit and runs back to Texas with his pencil dick firmly tucked between his legs. I’ll chase that bitch right out of town like I’m Dog the Bounty Hunter. He’ll never have a shot at ANY NEW YORKER again. EVER.

Floor 4.

I am lightning shooting down the hall to Grant’s apartment. But I muzzle my fist with a silencer, gently tapping on the door. Because if I didn’t, I’d pound the fucking wood down into pulp.

HERE’S JOHNNY!

The door opens. I am no doubt a heaving, wet, staring, drunk-looking psycho. None of that is necessarily untrue. Wordless. I peek past him into the warm light of his apartment, looking for movement, listening for breathing.

“Hey, Brayden you okay?” Grant is fully dressed. Cute and all done up to go out in tight designer clothes that show off his many musical muscles. On Monday nights Broadway takes a night off, so Grant has off and is prepping for some party. Most likely a place where the swishy tenors are bragging about their motivation and whining about their expiring equity contracts and gossiping about who’s got photos of which chorus boy taped up next to their dressing room mirror, all while appetizers are passed around on doilies by community theater lead losers who think they stand a chance at getting a part in a great big Broadway show just by rubbing elbows with the theatrical elite. Gulliver Leverenz would have been there too, probably, if he hadn’t disappeared two months ago. He was the last guy who fucked with me. If you ever find him, be sure to ask him how THAT worked out.

Grant’s hair doesn’t look any more messed up than it normally does. No sweat or post-fuck sheen on his skin. I take a big sniff for a hint of recent sex stank. I come up with nothing more than the spectre of burned popcorn. Making out during a movie? Brendan reaching over and getting Grant all hard and shit, then moving to the bathroom while the popcorn they put in the microwave goes up in flames?

No. Brendan isn’t here.

“Brayden? You okay babe?”

And we’re back, kids.

“No, I’m fine. Just soaked to shit. Do you have a towel I can use?”

“Why did you ask if your boyfriend was here?”

Time for a scene change. I push Grant up against the door. His face flinches. He must have heard some stories of the lethal behavior of a scorned Brayden Castro – each of which I’m proud to say are one hundred fucking percent true.

His eyes are squinted shut, his face turned away, and I can smell the fear on him. Bruises and cuts won’t look good under the spotlights. How will he explain it to HIS boyfriend? I love this fear. I hunger for it. It calms my heartbeat, slows my breathing. His chin feels stubbly between my thumb and pointer finger, as I stroke the sides of it, and then open his eyes with my other hand.

“Peekaboo.”

He laughs awkwardly, looking around like he’s wondering if I brought the crew from Candid Camera along with me.

“Your eyes are so blue,” I whisper.

He could be cute, if you’re into that over-buff Theater Queen thing. But this isn’t about attraction. It’s about reconnaissance. I’m on the hunt, and this Dancing Queen has valuable intel. And time is of the essence. So I kiss him, jamming my tongue in between his lips. No fight from Grant, as he kisses me back with double the force.

“Brayden,” he says, breaking away, “I didn’t know…”

“Is there a problem with this?” I ask him, backing off and smiling just the slightest bit.

Grant doesn’t respond, only smiles and backs into his apartment. “You said you needed a towel?”

I never end up getting that towel. I do end up getting him out of his clothing with no resistance.

But, shit, I’m distracted. That’s bad. Need to keep my focus. Think like a fucking lion a cougar a wolf, yeah a wolf. A wolf catching a sniff of something dead or dying. Dinnertime. All the red and anger is blinding me so bad that I space out while this self-professed Broadway God Grant Majors is doing his best to make me cum, riding my cock like it’s a pogo stick.

That’s a surprise too – that I’m the top in this show-stopping duet. Word among the theater queens and sluts is that Grant Major, Broadway dancer with the ass you could time your watch to and the smile to pull a million spotlights was a total top. That’s what I heard from Shane-Stefan-Adam-Hector. At first when he was grinding into my dick I thought maybe he was just teasing. Then when he stuck me in him, I thought maybe he was versatile. But now, watching him bounce up and down with a look of pure pleasure-joy etched on his face, there’s no question: she’s a card-carrying power bottom.

Grant stops short and asks me again: “Are you sure you’re okay?” What is he worried about? That I’m guilty? That I’m sick? That he’s not good enough?

I snarl: “Don’t ask me questions you fucking whore. Ride my dick and if you’re lucky I won’t tell your boyfriend I fucked you behind his back. Would he like knowing that?”

The bad-cop talk is all it takes to push Grant over. His edging fails, and he shoots everywhere, squealing like a puppy run over by a pedicab. He’s gasping and grinding his teeth. I’m trying to pull out. I don’t need to get off. I need to get out. But Grant’s hand secures me inside of him – the first bit of force he’s used tonight.

“I’m not done til you get off, sir,” he says.

“Does your boyfriend know you like calling the guys you cheat on him with Sir?” I ask him, my chest heaving as he redoubles his efforts.

“No sir! He’d kill me!” He’s smiling. He’s licking his lips. “He thinks I’m a top, sir!”

I feel like a fucking army general. Ridiculous.

“He’d kill you, huh? And what if I told everyone at your show that you’re some fucking nelly bottom queen who begged me to seed him bareback? What if I put videos of this up on the Internet?”

Grant pushes his face against mine, kissing me and talking on top of my mouth. “What if I told Brendan you fuck around behind his back?”

Cute. From the bitch who has been giving it to (or with today’s revelation, maybe getting it from) my boyfriend since they met at an after-party for the opening of his new musical. But, still, not something Brendan needs to know. Then again, it’s not like it will matter when I find him tonight. We’re already over, I am free of guilt.

“You wouldn’t dare you little cunt.”

He’s hard. “And what if I did?”

“I will ruin you,” I play along.

A smile overtakes his face; the show-down fizzles to a false alarm. He’s not telling anyone. All the sub-slut wanted was another three notches on the dial. That the Wolf can do. Now we’re going at 13.

“Oh God YES Brayden. Yes! Ruin me! Destroy me!” He’s rock hard all over again and I’m pumping into him harder and faster as his head tilts back. Not far enough back, though, to see my iPhone perfectly positioned on a dresser right past the bed, perfectly aimed to capture every second of our fuckfest. There’s over twenty minutes of tasty footage on there already and we’re still rolling.

“I’m close,” I gasp. Because I actually am. This bottom boy knows what to squeeze and how to swivel. He locks his mouth on mine, pumping harder, bouncing up and down and whining through his clenched teeth. He shoots again. I shoot too. And my iPhone’s video camera continues to shoot.

He turns to kiss me, but I’m already up and walking to the bathroom, snatching my phone as I go to wash his shit and cum off of me. For a bottom, he could do a better pipe-cleaning job.

The Broadway Bottom is ready to go for round two, right up until the moment I spin my phone around and show him his first stage-to-screen transition. The curtain call comes quickly after. I tell him there’s already a copy of this ovation-worthy performance in the email box of a friend. (Shane to be specific, none of the rest of the crew would get or help me with what I’m doing). And that this unnamed friend is ready to upload the video to XTube and spread it across Facebook quicker than one of those “See Osama Bin Laden’s Corpse” viruses. (Shane probably wouldn’t do that.) Imagine the damage! He’d lose his rich Daddy boyfriend who bankrolls him so he can audition when his shitty shows shut down after 15 previews and 10 performances. He might even lose his current job, his character permanently assassinated by a high-definition video of him taking it up the chute better than Brent Corrigan could ever do.

So now he’s bawling. The Great Grant a melting pile of tears. What do I want? He’ll give me anything. Blah blah blah. Fuck, I could have him cut me a fucking check from Daddy-Boyfriend’s account. But no. Can’t be distracted. One mission tonight. He still swears, as he bawls, that he never fucked Brendan, top OR bottom. But anyone who cheats like he just did with me can’t be trusted. Just like Brendan can’t be trusted. After another very serious threat, Grant does admit that Brendan came by tonight, albeit only briefly, to drop off the tie he’s wearing to his Broadway party, assuming he still goes. I’m sure that’s all they did.

I issue his marching orders: one, he tells me where my boyfriend is, and two, he doesn’t tell him that I’m on the hunt. He sends some texts, apologizing that it’s taking so long for his friends to get back to him, it is a Saturday night after all. A text comes back with an address, and I make him check with another friend to make sure. Confirmed, I am satisfied, dressed, and deleting the video from my phone (though I may jerk off to it at a later date, especially since I won’t be having sex for a while after Brendan is done away with). On my way out I tell him to invest in some fucking enemas next time he wants his hole ravaged...

The Problems That Come with Being An Unbelievable Hottie

No, this isn't an ego-maniacal post. In fact, I wouldn't even go as far to call myself an Unbelievable Hottie. On a good day, you might get me to bashfully admit that I'm "kinda/pretty/sorta cute" or that adjective used by mothers and older ladies everywhere, "handsome." 

No, this post is inspired by an ACTUAL hottie boom-ba-lottie, sexy Gorgeous, Gay and Twenty-Something member Ant Druyan. Drop him a line, especially if you like hotties.

Being hot. Ah, it's something everybody wishes. Aside from a few cocky douchebags, most people wish they were hot. Funny enough, people that I think are smoking hot even wish they were hot. Their ass is non-existent, they whine over their six pack abs. Or their abs aren't six-packin' enough, they cry through their model-glorious face and dick sucking lips.

We all want to be hot. Gorgeous. Show-stopping sexy people who are kidnapped by model agents as we walk the street to buy organic eggs at Trader Joes.

Or do we?

The inspiration for this post, Ant, was in a text exchange with someone who was being a Debbie Downer party of one about his own looks. Ant, who is quite a looker himself, sent back this message to the guy:

"I'll put it this way. I'd rather not have looks. Having looks, gives you a lot of people that like you more than friends. When that happens, you'll have to make decisions. You'll eventually have to choose who you're going to hurt and who you're not. I have to live every day with people who hate me, who once liked me, because I chose not to go out with them, or meet them. 

Do you realize the burden and stress that weighs on a person? It sucks. Not only that, but having looks also brings along the shallow people. People who only talk to you, or like you, or want anything to do with you, because you're attractive. When you're "good looking" it's hard to find people who will care to care about how you are on the inside. It's painful and it's not right."

I know, I know. Don't you want to roll your eyes? Oh please Ant, cry me a river over your skinny toned frame and Greek God cheekbones. Right?

Well, maybe we're wrong. It's easy to have the grass be greener on the other side, especially when you think your lawn is brown, wilted, and has too much back hair. But if we look at what Ant said, it almost makes sense. I said this to a friend of mine (a model, go figs) who was telling me he only gets assholes when he dates: of course you do! You're hot as all fuck. Naturally you're going to attract all the d-bags who go for that "God I wanna fuck your face right off sorta thing."

Think on it. A hot guy automatically attracts cocky assholes, cheaters, and shallow Sams, meanwhile their good looks could potentially scare away anyone with a lesser view of themselves, so beaten into submission are they by shitty hot guys who made them feel like they'd never get someone as cute as you.

This almost happened to me with my boyfriend Joe. I'm still convinced that if I was not as drunk as I was the night I spied him across the bar at Splash, I never would have thought he'd give me the time of day. The guy was just beautiful (at that point, only externally, now, two years later, on many, many more levels). I could have missed out on this amazing guy if I had just assumed he wouldn't be attracted to me.

And in the end, aside from even what Ant said, the truth is: none of us are totally happy with ourselves. I know many MANY gorgeous guys. Guys I would slice open and wear their bodies like suits if it weren't crazy and criminal. And guess what? They aren't happy with themselves either. Their chest could be nicer. Their eyes are off-center. Their asses don't exist (always with the invisible asses, these guys).

And just because you or I feel less attractive than them doesn't mean that we have more of a right to suffer than they do. If you think in this manner, that guys you see as hot can't complain about being unattractive, well then you've just given every homeless person and third world country citizen the right to tell you you don't have a right to say you're poor when rent is tough or you can't afford to take cabs like your friends.

It's all levels and it's all relative. Let's all just agree that we're all hot, and all ugly, all at the same time. It might not work, but it's at least a new approach to the issue.

<3 JL