The following blog is a sex toy review that I am way past due on writing. I was distracted by my sweet new ice cream maker and the odd amount of smoosh faced dogs that keep moving in with me at random. But better late then never, so here we go…

I got my first real harness when I was 21 years old. My girlfriend at the time liked me so much that she had one custom made for me in San Francisco’s most famous leather shop, Mr. S. I had pretty much no queer sex experience and had come out as trans about two split-seconds before. I was really insistent back then that nobody knew I had never had a girlfriend or really any sex. For some reason I was paranoid that if anybody knew my lack of a queer past, they would assume I was just pulling a freshman year guinea pig phase and they wouldn’t take me seriously. I wanted everyone to think and know that I was Really Really Gay. The first dick I got cost 20 dollars, was a swirly blue/purple blend and was made out of some sort of jelly. My hot new girlfriend took one look at it, and immediately told me there was no way in hell I was going to put that thing inside of her. I turned instantly beet red, and reassured her that my normal one had gotten lost in a move. I won’t talk about the count-on-one-hand encounters where I fucked with jelly dick. I will instead just ask you to quietly think how a baby rabbit on meth would have intercourse, and hope your morbid imagination is less depressing than the actual acts that had occurred themselves.

Getting a harness seemed like a huge stepping stone into the gayest of worlds. Especially since I had already purchased several pairs of dickies, cut off my long, blonde hair and was now sporting a sweet tongue ring. I remember being so-fucking-thrilled entering the doors to this weird dungeon-like store. A heavily tattooed bear measured my waist and thighs while casually shooting the shit on strap-on styles. Not wanting to seem like the dick-wielding amateur that I, in fact, was, I pretended I knew what he was talking about and feigned a wise old butch daddy demeanor. That very same day, my two high femme faux sisters took me to goodvibes.com to get my first decent cock. I met them at the lexington Club a few months prior. I was shit-drunk and wobbling around while attempting to posture all by myself. They instantly took a liking to me and decided I was to be shoved underneath their busty older wings. To this day these girls have a huge piece of my heart. When we entered Good Vibes, my eyes literally almost popped out of my head. Lube and dicks and anal beads floated in and out of my periphery as I tried to soak it all in at once.  Feeling overwhelmed by the semi-hallucinatory dildo dance, I quickly tried to choose the smallest dick I could find. They laughed hysterically at me, grabbed a hefty cock from the top shelf and shoved it into my hands. Thank god for them. I loved it so much that it was my dick until three years ago, when I got the exact same size and style in a more realistic Vixskin coating.

My harness was a thing of beauty. After a year of so of using it, it had become like a second skin to me. While for years the act of getting up and putting it on felt awkward to me, it never did once I was in bed and fucking someone. All my nervousness and insecurities vanished with time and age, and my love for strapping grew until one day it was just a normal part of my sex-life. I could yank my harness on and buckle it up with one hand in the dark, and every stroke of my dick felt natural and right. This leather beast of a strap brought me through many relationships, hordes of filthy and not-so-filthy casual encounters and finally into the limelight of porn. I constantly get short and sweet messages in my inbox asking me where I got it. Happily and sadly (I like being helpful) I always have to say that it was designed just for me, and there was no other just like it. This fucking strap-on was such a god damn tank of a strap-on that I thought I would have it around my waist for all of eternity. It almost did. It lasted ten years.

Exactly one month into my brand new relationship, which was exactly two weeks after I discreetly moved to New York and right in with her, my harness passed away. I was fucking her with my dick for about the fifth or sixth time ever when suddenly I felt something pop, and the leather straps around my thighs burst open from their tight embrace. Immediately not wanting her to know, I pulled my dick out and started fucking her with my fingers instead. One of the biggest fears most people have about learning how to strap-on fuck is not knowing if their dick falls out. I remember being so petrified about it when I first started using one. I didn’t realize that something worse could happen. Having my harness actually crumble into pieces during sex was like my own sexual nightmare. It’s also incredibly difficult to become instantly horrified/traumatized/and maybe a bit hungry while continuing on with sex like nothing had happened. After we finished having sex, I showed her my miserable heap of leather wreckage. I felt an odd sense of shame in that moment. Almost like I had experienced some sort of transsexual erectile dysfunction. She luckily didn’t seem to notice my embarrassment, or at least pretended not to.

I’m a hoarder and a romantic at the same time, and the thought of never using my decade old strap felt so sad to me. Plus I like familiarity in a big way. I deplore throwing out things to the point that I realized that at 31 years of age I not only had a letter my best friend in third grade had written me, but I also 54 out of 56 hardbacks from the Nancy Drew series. If I wasn’t forced to, I would still probably be sporting the same pair of weird cargo shorts that I wore all through high school. But there was no more denying that it was time to move on, so I asked around to see what the cool kids were using.

Let me tell you. Shit has gotten FANCY. Technology and smart as shit homos have designed some seriously space age sex gear. It blew my fucking mind to browse all the options. Yet again overwhelmed by the choices, I decided to run a poll on twitter. The one that got the most votes was a harness called “Joque” made by SpareParts. Broke as fuck from my discreet jaunt to NY, and knowing I had a slight chance for free shit due to the amount of queer porn I’ve done, I wrote them and asked if they needed someone to review their product. They were so fucking sweet and replied almost instantly back asking me what size I needed. Two brisk e-mails later and they shipped it off to me. I spent the next ten business days going back and forth between the mailbox and fucking my girlfriend very poorly with my half-dead harness. Finally the day arrived and with an actual shout of joy I tore the wrapping off of it.

Putting it on felt so weird. It was like I was just wearing a pair of underwear. I have no idea what in the hell it’s made out of. All I know is it’s this sleek black fabric that is so lightweight it’s CRAZY. It literally weighs like one fucking ounce. Okay, maybe not literally, but it really seems that way. The Joque has straps that go around the thighs and the waist, just like my old one, except that this one has plastic buckles and velcro for the waist. Also I could probably gain or lose fifty pounds, and the extra strap material and the way it tightens would allow it to still fit me. It was so light in comparison to the leather beast of my heart that I had been sporting before that I was almost startled by the difference. I was really worried it wouldn’t support my cock properly due to the fact that it was made out of this soft fabric. My fears were thankfully squashed when I realized that it held my dick just as tightly as my last harness.

After so long of me doing my oddly-angled attempted strap dance on my girlfriend, she and I were both elated to try out our new friend. But even though it wasn’t broken into eighty pieces, and even though it fit my body like some sort of sensual sex glove, the first time using it was rather awkward and erratic. Because it was so light, and I hadn’t adjusted to the lack of heavy material, I kept almost flying into her at lightning speed with very little control. It was kind of like taking off ankle weights halfway through a run. The real surprise was how it felt on my tiny friend underneath. Without a thick chunk of black leather blocking me from my dick, it slammed into my little pal and caused a fruit basket full of enhanced sensations. I have always loved the way it feels to fuck with my dick, but I had no idea it could feel this sensitive and intense. It was confusing and hot as fuck and a bit distracting all at the same time.

I’m not sure of the longevity of the velcro situation. I can’t imagine that it could last even half as long as my old one did with the same kind of consistent wear and tear I put on it. I envision that after a few happy sex-filled years the velcro will be coated in random bits of dog fur and lint and eventually the whole thing will start to peel off of my harness. I’ll probably sob and have a heart attack mid thrust again and then force myself to buy a new one. But I could be wrong! These fancy designers could be using some sort of super velcro and I would never know it. I’m under a serious rock when it comes to new products on the market. So that’s pretty much my only concern with it, other than the fact that I now have to wash it once in a while since it’s fabric. And by wash it, I mean pretend to wash it, so as to placate germaphobes and people that take showers.

Like a fumbling teenager I tried to find my comfort zone with my new harness. It took a few attempts, with several bouts of sadness over the loss of my old faithful, and several bouts of accidental rabbit fucking. But after about three days, something clicked inside me. My body had finally adjusted to the weight difference and it suddenly felt so natural to fuck with that I actually started smiling this weird happy grin. I was right there and then the Joque’s biggest fan. I hereby declare that I will never go back to the old ways of the leather. I really can’t go back to the chunk-fest after my dick felt what it was missing. My teeny dick is incredibly needy and I’m always having to reassure it and buy it gifts. So regardless of whatever the velcro life expectancy is for my new bestie, I fully plan on buying it over and over again. The design is so smooth and it works so well that shelling out cash every two or three years is worth it to me.

If you’re interested in checking out this harness or any of the others these brilliant people have designed, go to myspare.com and tell them I sent you. Maybe they’ll send me some more fun-filled, free shit. I want to swim in a bathtub filled with free things. If I opened the door to a pile of free stuff, I would be so ecstatic that I would probably ask a neighbor to take an instagram picture of me kissing said pile.I should probably become a creepy hoarder coupon clipping king to soothe this weird free fetish, but I’ll hold off as long as I can.
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p.s.I’m throwing up a few blogs over the next ten days, if anybody has any ideas, let me know!

But even if I were the worlds gayest dude, it’s still pretty shocking to people that I get harassed so much. My wifey prances his homo ass around in leopard print booty shorts and a fanny pack with a tiger on it, and rarely gets shit. There must be some sort of “douche whisperer” pheremone that emanates from my body. A good friend suggested that it’s because I walk the world looking incredibly approachable, which is a very realistic possibility. I am so fucking friendly that it’s almost obnoxious. I’ve developed close relationships with every barista in every cafe EVER. When I take my friends to the cafe by my house, they all mention that this one curly haired girl that works there and I seem to have an intense “thing”. I’ve been chatting her up while sipping coffee for months now, and I sometimes wonder if we are in a relationship (although I don’t actually know what her name is). And I can’t even meander into the neighborhood movie store without getting sucked into a ten minute conversation with one of my “pals”. My favorite dudely-friend at this video hole gets really excited to see me and pushes terrible anime movies into my tiny hand just because we once talked too long about my favorite japanese director . I’m such a people pleaser that even though I know I won’t watch these low budget flicks, I rent them anyway and just allow them to collect dust next to my tv. Which is probably for the best since I feel that tv is a soul sucking sack of shit activity that is only good for once in a while escapism and killing any kind of sexual life with your partner.

But I’m really dragging this story on far too long without actually getting to the point. I get fucked with almost every day of my life. Creepy mother fuckers will shout out homophobic slurs to me on the regular. And ninety percent of the time I turn an almost bored, blind eye to it. But sometimes it gets out of hand. This happened saturday night when I was working the door at a sex worker benefit for the Saint James Infirmary.

“Hi there, we are asking a 5-10 dollar donation”, I politely informed a strange-eyed straight bro that walked into the old-school dyke bar. His eyeballs bugged out a little bit and he got about one inch away from my face to begin his fun-times banter. “Why do you smell so much like sweat?”, he quietly and creepily asked me. I could smell the cheap beer he had been drinking and feel his rank breath literally breeze onto my skin and up inside my nostrils. I told him that most likely it was due to the heat, even though the real reason is because I’m a dirty jock douche that never remembers deodorant. He didn’t like my answer and asked about my sweat stench again, and then asked me if I had done pushups that day. I started to get really weirded out due to his inappropriateness combined with his uncomfortably close proximity to my face. I decided to ignore his sweaty beefcake questions and once again told him what the cover for the door was. That’s when he sneered at me and called me a faggot. That’s also when I thought to myself “not tonight, fuckface”. In an incredibly smooth and almost beautiful ballerina-style move, I picked fuckface up off the ground and swooped him right out the bar. With not even a tiny fidget or verbal protest from his angry and homophobic ass, I slammed the door shut behind him and pressed my foot against it so that he couldn’t come back in.

The old school butch dagger that owned the bar came over to check and see if I was okay. She told me that she has had to kick this guy out on multiple occasions, and then went outside to make sure he was gone and that I was safe. After my new butch daddy (I wish) made sure everything was clear from creepies, we all went back to watching the dolly parton talent show that was happening. A few hours later, which were all spent watching dirty queers tongue-fucking on the dance floor, I realized that fuckface had returned. The fact that F.F. had decided to come back to torment me hours later showed me that he was not just a fag-hating asshole (just) who maybe would punch me and move on with his day. No. Now he was someone who was obsessing and had something major against me. There was way too much thought about me going on in his head and I started to get freaked the fuck out. He stood outside the door and I stared at him for a minute. With a crook of his finger beckoning to me, he said calmly that he was back to kick my ass.

There were friends milling about outside that stood by me as I walked towards him. Now, a smarter man may have shut the door yet again and called the cops. Unfortunately, I barely cheated my way through my midwestern alternative highschool. So there I was, standing outside on the street, and interacting with the crazy.

I told him to go away and to stop harassing me. Tough as shit queers quickly flanked both sides of me like gay soldiers, and we asked him to leave. He just kept staring at me with his crazy pupils and going back and forth between calling us faggots, and saying he was going to hurt me. The situation escalated after he hunched down and made a motion like he was going to bulldoze right through my tiny transsexual ass. I watched him reach into his pockets and that’s the point when my heart pretty much pounded through my chest It was thump-thumping so hard and so fast that I wondered for split second if I would have a heart attack. I was worried he was so crazy that he would yank a weapon from his pants pocket and shoot me on the spot. We kept telling him to go home and to stop threatening us, when my friend put their hands up and he shoved them. And that’s when I lost my mind.

My fear and anger rose all the way up and out of my throat and I thought I was going to explode or burst into flames. Up to the moment where he touched my friend, I was merely petrified that the guy was crazy enough to do some serious damage on me. But when you touch someone I love, I will flipthefuckout. I immediately rushed towards him, but luckily someone grabbed me tightly around my waist and held on for dear life. I screamed a chorus of “I’m going to kill you’s” combined with “You homophobic psycho” over and over again for about thirty seconds. Then my senses came back because a few people had dragged him away, and I was rushed back inside the bar. Wifey and another pal sat there and held my hands, calming me down as best they could. I was scared-angry-helpless and so full of adrenaline that I was visibly shaking. Just another saturday night in gaytopia.

The next day an old friend from highschool called and I mentioned my shitshow of a night to her over the phone. Instead of pretending to be sorry for me, she immediately talked about how non-violence is imperative in her mind.  And then informed me of what I should and shouldn’t have done in that situation. “I just don’t understand people who identify as queer, and respond with violence. They should know better”. For a split second I felt shamed. From her words I knew she was implying that I had fucked up. I felt like a starved attack dog with a hot dog looming in front of me. But a split second later I remembered that she hadn’t even come close to experiencing one ounce of violence in her life. The reality is, until you are in this sort of intense position yourself, you have no idea how you will react. You can tell yourself all day long what you would do. You could have a well-formed plan of action that involves high kicks or fleeing the scene or pissing yourself in an attempt to weird them out. But until you are there, in that intense as hell moment, you will never really know just what you will do. And no matter what anyones opinion is, in my mind, there is no right or wrong way.

I’ve had my ass kicked so many times that a fist smashed in my face is almost a familiar feeling. My skin welcomes a closed hand like an old friend, and I rarely even bruise. Out of dozens of street brawls, I have won a total of one fight (Unless you count the asshole I sparred with in my boxing class, but he was probably thirty years my senior and walked with a distinctive limp). I can wrestle decently and have a magical superpower of being able to headbutt. But since wrestling doesn’t work with street fights, and I never remember to use my skull of steel for the greater good, I consistently lose. And I am still unashamed/unafraid to fight back. In the probably close to 27 years of getting the shit kicked out of me, I have not once thrown the first punch. And I can’t think of a time when I ever would. But if I want to fight back, if I want to defend myself, or my loved ones, or in one case two elderly dachsunds on the street, that is my fucking business. I’m not required to adhere to anybody’s ethical standards but my own. And until you have been gaybashed over and over again, until you get so used being punched in the face that it doesn’t even wreck your day, I don’t want your opinion.

You know what I’d like to see happen? Instead of queers shaming each other and creating books of rules for one another, I’d like to see more action done on how to protect ourselves. The one lovely bit from my almost fistfight last saturday was that I got to see homos banding together. I feel so loved and protected and grateful about the people that lined up next to me. I wondered to myself if this was a small taste of what stonewall felt like. Why has some of our community grown so vapid that fashion and dance parties have moved up to the top of the list? It sometimes feels as if people forget that we are still discriminated against. Our complacency due to slightly less visible abuse has created a problematic stagnancy. We are tolerated, but we are still not equals. It’s almost easy to forget that we don’t have legal rights and that transsexuals are being murdered, when we get to see episodes of Ru Pauls Drag Race on tv. The reality is that we are still being harassed and beaten and raped and treated as inhuman every single day.

I’m tired of being called a faggot. I’m really over fighting random dudes that are threatened by my soft face and prancing muscular jock douche body. I’m sick of hearing about my community getting shit on in a thousand different ways. But I’ve grown used to it. What I’m more concerned with is that we have created such a stockholm syndrome around ourselves, that we don’t even realize just how poorly we are still being treated. I wish everyone would remember that we have a huge fucking brawl looming around every corner. That we are not equal, but merely tolerated and objectified. And it’s not that we can’t enjoy skinny jeans and skinny ties and all sorts of flufftastic amazement. I truly adore shit talking the dude wearing toe shoes in the gym just as much as anyone else would. And I’m not ungrateful to the person who got me to stop wearing baggy camouflage cargo pants ten years ago. Believe me, I will forever be indebted to her keen eye, for she is the reason I actually get laid once in awhile. And to the people that suggest I attempt at using hair products once in awhile, you also have my sincere thanks. You too get me laid. Which helps make my world a better place). But besides helping me get drilled while simultaneously looking stylish, we are far from the end in our struggle to be recognized as humans. So whether or not as a community we slam the bar door and call the cops, or we use our god damn gay fists to protect ourselves, we should know that we still have one hell of a fight in front of us. And I hope we all can line up right next to each other just like those queers did with me the other night. While wearing tiny shorts and fanny packs.

I attempted to have a very nice date with a very nice girl. She was foxy as hell and had an ass that made you jerk your head fast as fuck to the right and think to yourself “WTF is this shit?”. The tiniest creature with a booty like a shelf, and I couldn’t stop staring in mild shock. Because she was so slight, I spent a large amount of the time we spent together wondering where this ass actually came from. I do indeed enjoy body parts that are kind of disproportionately shocking. I once was in love with a with a short girl with oddly large hands and feet. She was very self-conscious about her lovely hands and would often complain to me about how much she hated them. I would reassure her that her hands were beautiful, and then stare at them with the worlds most massive boner. And by massive, I mean in comparison to a baby carrot cut in half. And perchance that half would also be halved, if you wanna be a dick about it. When I find someone with a mouth full of crooked, fucked up teeth, a gigantic ass and possibly one leg substantially longer than the other, I’m throwing in the towel and getting hitched.

But back to the almost nice date. Even though she was a sweetheart and a great conversationalist, our time together was quickly tainted by the perversions of a deaf bull terrier. He is a very sweet, cuddly creature that I am currently dog sitting, and we have become the best of friends already. But after a few days of our new bestfriendship, I realized that he also happened to have a slight humping issue. Slight is a bit of an under-exaggeration. The awkward reality is that my bff is obsessed with trying to have sex with me. And don’t try to cesar milan my ass into thinking it’s a dominance thing. Bullshit. I see the lust in his eyes every time he watches me get dressed. His lip curls everytime I smile at him. This dog wants me. I’ve started going into the bathroom just to put sun block on, for fear he may see my glistening, lotioned up scar-nips and become overly excited. So after mildly asking him to please stop riding my leg and trying to crawl up my dates shirt for about 30 minutes, I finally remembered that he had arrived with a spray bottle. Worked like a charm! For about ten seconds.

best friends

Once I grew accustomed(stockholm) to a large beefcakey dog velcroed to my pants leg, I then put my focus into impressing my date with my superior eating contest skills. I was born to ingest copious quantities of food in lightning speed time. I really should travel around the world entering myself in eating contests, but I’m too busy swallowing without chewing to get around to it. I laid in my bed and chomped ever so casually an entire box of Captain Crunch while we watched videos on youtube. I used my right pec as a table top for my bowl, and my left pec as a pillow for her head. She kept making tiny hints that she wanted to share my cereal, but I was unable to understand them. Her hints, btw, involved actually saying that she wanted a bite and gesturing with an open mouth. I was very hungry.

The next night I decided to be mellow and just go to a short performance to take my mind off things. I did my usual routine and got cracked out on black coffee and went to this show alone, as I prefer to do. That is when I can actually tear myself away from my hermits den and pretend I’m a semi normal human being. Some people wouldn’t be caught dead going to a dance club or a party by themselves. I am the exact opposite. I can think of maybe four people out of a shit ton of friends that I would go to a party with, and those four are so thankfully RUDE that they couldn’t care less what I do at said party. Flying solo allows me the option to flit about all night long without being obligated to check in with people throughout the night. And to real talk, going alone also allows me the much more frequently used opportunity to ditch out at a moments notice. I love a good old fashioned slip away. Without even so much as a faretheewell, I often discreetly dance myself right out of a club and back into my dark cavern of too-much ice cream and reality tv.

Said performance turned out to be a live sex show, and I soon was lost in the abyss of filth. Admittedly, with a name like “Cum And Glitter”, I was pretty well aware that gay sluttery would somehow be involved. And no matter how tired I am, that sort of entertainment rarely ceases to be interesting for me. I lip-flapped to my porn wife Courtney Trouble while scoping out the the crowd, which was an intriguing mix of hotshit porn babes, old-school fetishists and weird straight dudes in renassaince outfits hoping to find their inner sex nerd. I liked it. Once the show started and the few people I knew settled in to work their assorted jobs, I snuck awkwardly backstage to see if I could get in the way somehow. Several of my pals were already busying themselves with pouring fancy made up drinks for the patrons. And regardless of the fact that they obviously had it covered, I decided that I was somehow useful to them. I deemed my sober ass “head bartender” and haphazardly filled cups with cheap champagne while shouting orders to nobody listening. I was later rewarded for all my unnecessary work with a pair of mystery panties that now lie quietly on my nightstand in hopes of creeping someone nice out.

A cute acquaintance of mine came up to me and offered to drink my piss out of a glass. And no, we were not in the bathroom, and no, my pants were not down. I immediately felt extremely special and attractive, like my pee must be so amazing that people would just randomly look at me and desire it. But then I observed that she was drinking something suspiciously yellow out of a glass. Knowing that we were not currently serving lemonade, I quickly realized what it was. Not only was she guzzling somebody elses god damn piss, but the also-cute piss giver was drinking her own glass of it as well. It’s a very interesting sight to see someone sip their own urine ever so casually out of a plastic cup. Again, I like it. But I no longer felt special. My urethra was just one of many urethras to be added to her collection of urethras. Heartbreaking. Not that I’m even into pee fun. In fact I’m completely indifferent to any bodily fluids besides ejaculate (do not spit on me, I will be annoyed). Although I will say I did once yank my most likely tattered briefs to the side and urinate all over my ex girlfriends bed just to shock her. After I marked her bed that day, we started randomly peeing on one another to torment/crack each other up.

But back to the show. I FLUFFED someone for my very first time! A fluffer is somebody that gets the performer turned on before they have sex. When requested as a fluff, I excitedly made my way over to where the performer was. I had never fluffed anyone before, and I felt as if this was a brand new role for me. It was like I was born to fluff. I imagined to myself that the stars aligned when I was born, and spelled out the word “Transsexual Fluffer Dude” across a creeped-out moonlit sky. I almost wanted to add that title to my resume but then thought better of it when I remembered that the companies I tend to work for would most likely not be amused. I would like to say to non-porn people that this is not typical, and queers do not get fluffers, we are lucky if we get a god damn fruit plate. But since I was born to fluff I happily obliged anyway. She laid herself down on a massive pile of colorful costume clothing and beckoned for me to come closer. Because I am a slutbag that is respectful of those that prefer safe sex, I had handy a wad of black latex gloves in my back pocket, and quickly snapped one on and we began our fancy fluffy finger session(that phrase just grossed me out). It was a very short, anti-climactic fluff. I’m surprisingly shy and awkward as hell and there were people milling about that were being less fancy and not getting fluffed. I’m not even sure she even needed one anyway, as her role in the performance was to ram a strap-on into a guys asshole. But I won’t complain, as I finally learned of my lifes destiny. Also, we maybe just wanted to fool around backstage for a minute, and she just referred to it as fluffing so we had a good excuse.

In the week since my girl has passed I have eaten total of twenty-two late night pancakes and one order of chilli fries (I only regret the chilli). I allowed a deaf bull terrier to molest myself, a date and at least several friends while half-heartedly whispering “no, stop, bad dog” and spraying him with a water bottle. I have fluffed and almost peed in a cup. I have had fun times, and I have sobbed hysterically while listening to the same god damn Adele song on repeat. But mostly I have spent my free time being a sad boy and writing about intense shit. I have decided to write a book, so have been really digging into my past as of late, and it’s been really emotional for me. Which is obviously not in this ADD inspired blog. I am lucky that if I want some distractions, this city has a million to be had. Be it fun, enlightening, fucked up or just weird. Sometimes I just need to leave my mind for a bit and lose myself to the land of strange entertainment. And if I don’t need an escape, I can sit in front of my laptop at 3 am like a creep and post a video of a dog molesting me.

Meatloaf Molests Me from tuck mayo on Vimeo.

How We Met

It was the summer after I turned sixteen, and I was living in the backwoods in a two bedroom mobile home with my bestie, her three siblings, their very young/fun mom and a random creepy 30-something dude who lived in a shanty on the side of the house. My pal and I would spend our days finding cigarette butts in in the Dairy Queen parking lot and talking about traveling the world together or becoming strippers. I had been shifted from town to town over the last two years thanks to my fickle mama and my unreliable pappy, and when my buddies mom met me, she decided to actively try and adopt me. My own mega jealous mom residing in the midwest was not enjoying the prospect of being presumed a “bad mother” and the two of them would get into screaming matches over the telephone. I felt special. My mom would call her a trailer trash whore, and fake mom would tell her that I was now her child, and that her abandoning ass would never see me again. They would then pick apart each others looks without ever having even seen a picture. “No man in his right mind would ever fuck your skanky old ass” or “You broke betch, I bet your dog don’t even like you” could be heard pouring out of their mouths. Classaganza.

Previously, I’d been living with my kind-of-douchey brother in his ramshackle trailer. My dad had casually dropped me off with him after deciding that “it would be a great place for me to grow up”. A few months after getting shit-faced with my brother, he smacked me hard across the face one night. Even though I didn’t actually care, that was the excuse I gave for moving out. The real reason I left was because ever since I was a wee young lad, I had been begging anyone who would listen for a dog of my very own. Every year it was shoved immediately into the #1 slot on my christmas list. And every year I would end up with some sort of scented lotion and clothes that I would rather die than wear. When I lived with kind-of-douche, I actually brought a dog home one time. I named him Smokey and I almost loved him. But he was my dog for less than 24 hours before brotherman made me give him back. It was around that time that I realized I had no choice. I had to get the hell out. And my best friends house was the only possible option because of the following…

1. They would let me have one.
and
2. They conveniently had a preggo dog on hand.

After two-ish months and four hours of waiting around the trailer, their mangy looking dog Shania Twain  gave birth to ten fresh-faced mutt puppies, and I finally got to pick my girl out from the heap. Admittedly I chose her sister first, until two hours later when I noticed that Shady’s coloring was the most striking hue of golden-brown. I pulled an immediate flip flop and traded in Sady for Shady. I was ecstatic! I couldn’t get enough of this teeny ball of brown country dog and spent every moment I could literally just creepily staring at her (I really have ever only dabbled in school). My wannabe family was broke-as-shit, so I’d sneak Shady into the garage and feed her tiny bits of stolen kibble while I would feed myself tiny bits of stolen bologna. I would whisper over and over into her ear that I loved her. Shady would also hang out with me in the creepy dudes shanty, wagging her tiny tail furiously and watching me sit awkwardly on his lap while he begged me to move to a state that allowed underage marriage while going up my shirt.

It was a bit rough-times during those days. All the pups but Shady died of a dog disease called parvo, which is usually passed on through the dirt on the ground. Since we were so fucking poor, there was no way we could afford to take them all to the vet. Instead we just watched as each puppy dropped one by one like flies. Horrified we kept making the eight year old brother bury them, but we would always have to redo it since he was so young and could never dig deep enough. Luckily for me, I had a generous and jealous mother that paid to keep Shady in the vets office for  two weeks while she tried to seduce me into moving back home. I will forever be grateful to my mom for doing that, and saving Shady’s life. She made me trade a visit home in exchange for the vet bill. This was in hopes of wooing me with See’s candy and promises of a better life, but once there we began arguing as usual and she actually shipped me back on an early flight.

To top off the trauma of this dog family, Shania Twain herself came to a very untimely end. We were watching Billy Ray Cyrus singing that embarrassing Achey Breaky Heart song on the tv one night when we heard something. It was a very loud and distinctive thump right outside our front door. Tormented little brother (who p.s. now resides in prison) opened it and began screaming in a high pitched child’s scream that sent us all running over. It was Shania Twains head cut clean off, with no hint of her body in sight. I stood there in terror as my friends all decided that it must have been “wolves”. I’d like to take this moment to beg to differ. Mostly due to the fact that we lived a mile from the KKK and they happened to be the only Mexican family in this extremely racist and hillbilly town. Nobody liked me and my fake family much around those parts, but I had always thought it’s because we were known as the slutty, poor girls.

When my mom finally worked her manipulation-magic and had me literally banished from this shitshow of a town, Shady and I were then shipped off to Rosarita, Mexico to enjoy a romantic stint with my ancient and highly eccentric pappy. My pop had moved to mexico when I was 8 years old because he “enjoyed the warm weather”. My mom told us that he was really just avoiding paying taxes. It was probably a nice mixture of both. Weeks quickly became months as Shades and I spent our days jamming to the one English music station on the radio. We would wander the streets of Mexico together to pass the time, inhaling pineapple popsicles and collecting hobo dogs as pals. People would stare at our motley crew as we meandered about. My long blonde hair and the sheer quantity of odd-looking hounds were rather a bizarre sight. We often collected five or six dogs, and they followed us everywhere. It was always a bit depressing when I couldn’t let them into the dingy apartment building I was living in, but at least they got an adventure and a shit ton of affection from me.

My pop couldn’t quite get it together enough to put me in school, so I would just daydream about being famous, or a becoming a Montana horse ranch owner. He was a sweet man, but didn’t know how to care for a kid and would leave me alone for days at a time. He would give me a twenty for food and I would buy plain cheese pizza and cheap mexican candy and gorge until I was sick. I also would watch that gay as hell Angelina Jolie movie, Firefox, on repeat. Actually, to be more specific, I really just watched the scene where Legs kissed the plain faced prudish girl, over and over. I would tell myself that it was “just a cool movie about teens who took charge”. But really I was feeling turned on imagining I was the prude babe while simultaneously denying to myself that I was a Mega-LESBO. My high school years were incredibly isolating for me, with Shady being pretty much my only friend for what seemed like an eternity. We were incredibly close, and I rarely left her at home

How We Became Soulmates

She was six months and I was sixteen years when we were kidnapped. Taking her out for a late night walk, we were suddenly and abruptly shoved into the back of a beaten up yellow taxi cab. I barely protested it because in my immediate thoughts, I decided to just casually open the other door the moment I was fully in. My brilliant plan was to basically hop in, and then hop right back out and fucking RUN. Unfortunately, once the car door slammed behind us, I realized that he had rigged the locks, and we were stuck. I was never able to describe to the police what he looked like. His face was always just an angry blur to me. His eyes stood out though. They were furious and crazy and frantic and his pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked almost entirely black. The other thing I remembered was there there were “101 dalmation” stickers plastered all over the dashboard. I kept telling myself that this would be a good clue, and tried to memorize every dusty and peeled part of them.

He drove for over an hour, hand leaned back and pressing my head down in the seat while he shouted threats in a language I couldn’t understand much of. I was in a state of panic, and kept trying to think of ways to flee. I could see blurry street lights as we flew far from the town of Rosarita, and then only darkness as he drove up the country roads. After what seemed like an eternity we slowed to a stop and he yanked me up front with him. He pulled my clothes off and started groping me while I sobbed hysterically. After a few minutes I noticed that the lock in the front wasn’t rigged. I suddenly screamed so loudly that he actually backed away for an instant, jumped out, and started speeding down the road with Shady flying even faster a bit ahead of me.

My legs weren’t quick enough and within minutes my head was being slammed over and over into the gravel rocks that coated the ground. To this day, I am still in awe on how it is possible for my head to have taken that much abuse, and to still be standing. I felt nauseous as he started dragging me kicking and screaming back into the car. Once in, I began shouting in desperation for Shady after he slammed the door shut. Even in my beaten state, all I could think about was if I didn’t get her back, I’d never find her again. He turned the key and started the motor and I felt like my mind was literally going to explode. Some magical force must have been watching over me that night. Almost out of nowhere Shady had decided to come back to us, and thank fucking god, he let me bring her back into the cab.

He began driving around again, this time pressing my face harder into the dirty leather seats for fear that I would escape again. I was so scared that my heart was racing a mile a minute. I started imagining getting locked away in a cage for the rest of my life, being taken out only to get violated in terrifying ways. I knew that most people that are kidnapped never get away, and this fact had my body tensed up in such an extreme way that I felt like a piece of petrified wood. I literally couldn’t stop trembling intensely the entire time, to the point where I thought my bones would vibrate out of my skin. It’s insane what our bodies go through, and the reactions they have to fear. We finally arrived at a strange looking one room shack, and after he took a lengthy leak while holding my throat with his huge hands, he led both Shady and I inside. The room was decorated in such a fashion that I can only and forever describe it as a “Love Shack”. Bright red comforter on a rickety old cot, pink curtains, a tiny, flickering red lightbulb and dirt floors. I knew once we were in there that this place was specifically designed for raping young women.

I was in the Love Shack for over six hours.  At first I was worried about losing my virginity to rape. After a bit, my innocent and childish fears wisened up and I started to worry about being killed. I kept glancing all around me looking for ways to escape. I made a million plans that never went to fruition. I remembered a ghost story told by a schoolmate that involved someone saying “I love Jesus” three times in order to live. I began saying that over and over again, out loud, in hopes that it would save my life. He kept telling me to shut up, but I ignored him. I made promises to God, my dead grandmother, the Virgin Mary (I’m not even catholic) and pagan saints whose names I didn’t even know. I swore that I would be a perfect person if I could only live another day. I frantically cried and told him that my incredibly impoverished father was a wealthy man and would pay him. I also told him that I was only 12, because I knew that I looked much younger than my age.

He never raped me. I won’t go into detail why, after all those hours, he was unable to, as it’s a bit too graphic. Lets just say that his tiny coked-out dick will probably never work the same, and one should never underestimate the potential survival instincts and raw fury of a pissed off teenager. After I unleashed some serious CBT on him, he finally overtook me yet again. He started punching with heavy fists over and over on my head and face until it was swollen to almost twice its size. Laying in a daze, with blood draining slowly down from my left ear drum and into sticky red streaks in my hair, I stared into Shady’s eyes. I felt like the only way I was able to breathe right then was because she was with me. This tiny puppy was visibly upset and shaking, and I tried to comfort her. I told her it was going to be okay, over and over, in a then weak voice. After broken-dick-dude had tired himself out beating me, he lay next to me for a bit, his chest heaving from exertion.

I thought I was dead already. But with one of the most bizarre streaks of luck, he decided not to kill me. The cocaine and whatever else he was on may have also worn off at that point. He shoved both Shady and I back into his car and drove us home. In the car ride he kept saying in spanish “no sex, no sex”! I pretended to be happy and that everything was grand on my end, and just kept telling him in broken spanish that it was okay. I was afraid he would change his mind and take us back to the shack, or just outright murder us. He dropped my dog and I right back off at the exact same corner he had taken us. Beaten and bloodied, I somehow made my way back to my pops apartment. It was almost surreal, that night. Thinking I was going to lose my dog. Thinking I was going to lose my once sacred virginity. And then thinking I was going to die. And then I was just back in my living room almost like nothing had happened. Minus of course, my new fun minor hearing loss and the last of my barely-there innocence.

We caught Broken Dick Dude. My mom flew in and both parents and I drove the countryside for days until we found landmarks near the Love Shack that I recognized. The police were incompetent, but friendly, and locked him away for years. It turned out he had a young wife, and I felt sad for her. I saw her at the police station, and looked beaten down herself. She was very young and embarrassed. And don’t bother crying for me. Not only am I one of the toughest mother fuckers out there now, Shady and I became so close that night, that I walked away with the greatest love affair of my life. You don’t go through hell and back with someone and not develop a special connection. We will forever be bound by the pain, the happiness and the life we ended up sharing.

Our Life Together

Over the next fifteen years Shady meandered about with me, always walking by my side. She watched me as I became a jolly/sloppy alcoholic, and adapted easily by becoming a superior bar dog. She would follow me to each dive bar and let herself out to pee by waiting for someone to open the door. As I got drunker, she would walk around to random tables begging for food and affection(slut). One time, while romping free in SF, some cops tried to pick her up and my brilliant, escapist dog ran from them all the way home. They managed to drag her out of the warehouse I was living in, and took her to dog jail. Telling me I needed proof to bust my dog out of the pound, I brought a bizarre professional photograph taken of her with Santa Claus from the year before. It worked, and she was free once again to be my constant sidekick. I have no idea how she put up with me all those years, as I was so fucking wasted. I suppose her love and the pizza I drunkenly shared with her kept her loyal. I think in a way my party times must have been kind of exciting for her. Roaming around everywhere and constantly being fed stale tortilla chips and cheeseburgers isn’t actually that much of a bummer for a very social and insatiably hungry dog.

She watched me as I went through a sex change, and as encouragement, oddly began lifting her leg up to take a piss. Ten years on testosterone and I still can’t do that. She would run next to me as I raced in parks in the middle of the night and through the roads every day. Each girl I loved became her mama, and each girl that broke my heart suddenly got the cold shoulder from her. She’s been awkwardly on porn sets, modeled for both photographers and painters, had a lesbian romance with an old black lab. Shady stole the hearts of everyone that met her. She disapproved of my casual encounters, and would insert herself in between us on the bed. I would tell them that she “must really like them”, but I knew she was just being cheeky. We both shared stomachs of steel and would attempt to out eat each other quite frequently. Among her favorites were vanilla ice cream, pizza and salami. I was less selective.

Years ago she became an adopted mama to two very tiny kittens. One day I caught her carrying one of them by the scruff of its neck. I’d like you to just stop and think for a moment about just how strange it was to see a 55 pound dog walking past me with a cat in her mouth. It was fucking weird. Often, my mother’s bizarre pug would lay down and suckle on shadys non-lactating nipples for so many hours that nonconsensual viewers would begin to feel uncomfortable. A few years back, I woke up in the middle of the night to find that she had somehow ended up with a funky hat of mine on her head. My friends insist that this was a dream. I’d like to go ahead and insist right back that it was not a dream. I laid on the ground and kissed her face in the moonlight. It was both romantic and familial, and she was wearing a god damn hat.

After many years passed, we no longer even needed verbal signals between us. We were so in tune that somehow she knew exactly what I wanted her to do. She would put her paw on me when I cried, and jump around happily when I got excited. She watched me grow up from a wild teen girl, to a fucked up young boy and finally helped raise me into the man I am today. I am by far a better person because of my dog. I can’t write anymore about my experiences with her, as it’s been almost fifteen years and it would take an entire book. So I’ll sum up this story with a letter to her.

Shady,
I miss you so much already, sweetheart. I keep walking down the street feeling numb and imagining that you are walking next to me. Your grey muzzled face is starting to get fuzzy in my head already, and it’s making my heart feel even more broken. I want you to know that I will never love another more than I have loved you. You were so wise with me. You were so calm and patient with me. You were always so happy your entire life, and this in turn made me so happy. I am honored to have called you my wife, my mama, my daughter and my best friend. I wish it hadn’t been so hard for us this last year, and I’m so sorry my love. I will never, ever forget the lessons you taught me with just a look in your sweet brown eyes. And I want to thank you for giving me what I have always wanted, your unconditional love. You gave a broken child the tools to become a happy man with an open heart, and I am forever grateful. Please watch over me, and I’ll pray every day that we will be together again.

I love you,
Daddy

`

It was fun. Extremely fun. So fucking fun in fact that it felt like I should have paid twenty-eight bucks for an all-day pass of it. I wanted a strip of cheap neon plastic clipped around my tiny, transsexual man-wrist as I feet-beat the pavement in search of more of that FUN.  I could have spent an eternity in that ass. Eating over-priced beef jerky and sipping on a frozen lemonade during my breaks, I would stare at this great set of round town in wonderment. But happiness always has to end at some point, and this time it was a three-fold, mega-helping of cheap delivery that eventually would send me stumbling on my way back homo.

After the first round of my “welcome back to the fuck-club”, we decided to regenerate with some lemon chicken and two quarts of chow mein. And by we I mean me. And by me I mean I ate the HELL out of that delivery. I ingested so much dirt-cheap funky delivery grub that it was almost inhuman. I actually impressed myself with the speed and accuracy that my body dished out on those paper plates of food-poisoning. I’m also fairly certain that I chewed a total of three times, and would like to request that you please stop judging me and my gluttonous behavior.

About three seconds after I had finished testing the boundaries of my stomach, I suddenly felt so nauseated that I was floating on a filthy cloud of holy-shit-im-going-to-fucking-hurl. Writhing in what I can only assume was hell, I NON-CONSENSUALLY spent the remainder of the night trying not to vomit all over my poor date. And to top it all off, after just a few precious moments of me waiting for my stomach to stop screaming, my dates’ own gut jumped into the land of regretsville, and decided that our newfound illnesses should become twins.

Since I hadn’t had sex in almost thirty years (two months)(maybe one month), we decided against our better judgements to push forward with our gey fuckaganza. Simultaneously trying not to hurl and not to cum, we had such a please-don’t-puke-mega-fist-fest that it was worthy of an award. What kind of award I am still unsure of, but an award nonetheless. If I absolutely had to take an educated guess, I think said award would look like a dolphin-shaped dildo glued onto a piece of cardboard. But again, that’s just a guess.

So yeah, it’s been about two months. Two long-as-hell months since I’d fucked anyone. Minus a maybe incident that appeared to be sexual in nature (if getting drilled inappropriately by your ex after you ran into them at a friends holiday party is considered sexual). But I chose to ignore that, as I was staunchly CELIBATE. It had been so goddamn long that I had started to linger in the vegetable aisle every time I went grocery shopping. Friends would have to tear me away as I eye fucked the 2 for $1 cucumber section. People should really try to not underestimate the sensuality of a jumbo-sized cucumber. But I digress. I had made the decision to transform from a total transsexual slutbag to a weakly bearded, hermit-like nun creature, and stuck to it. I’ve been such a slut for so damn long that literally nobody believed me when I said I was celibate. People actually would crack up when I told them of my newfound virginity. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or amused, so I just chose indifference and carried on.

horny

I’ve spent YEARS in the porn industry. Eight hour days of skimming hundreds of hardcore videos and writing descriptions for them. Phrases like “cock swallowing granny” and “spunk guzzling meathound” rolled as easily off my tongue as “hello.” I’ve been a porn blogger, a one-hit director and plowed my way through plenty of queer flicks. I’m such a pervo that recently I very casually went to an arcade-style glory hole for a boys night out. I “watched” on as three of my pals expertly nursed on mystery-cocks thru a raggedy hole in a wall of a video booth. The floors were filthy, the walls that I shouldn’t have been leaning on were SCARY and the air reeked of feces. The not so hot porn that played was over a decade old and kept flickering on and off at random. My favorite part was the very tweaked out senior citizen who kept offering to share his “party” with me. And then some serious fucking soul jams started playing and we all raced into the dimly lit hallway to dance like maniacs with our new arcade friends.

I’m basically trying to say that ever since I quit drinking five years ago, and finally became comfortable in my own skin, I have literally had such an insane personal sexual revolution that it’s almost astonishing. I finally became aware of what I wanted and how things actually felt and who the hell was laying next to me. And never once did I burn out. Not for one second was I bored by sex of any kind. Until now. After a shocking series of events, I had suddenly stopped wanting to fuck. And I felt lost. I felt myself disassociate from my body and slowly float above to watch as life continued on. I had become completely and utterly detached.

My sex drive crept very slowly, and very quietly away from me. It took six months of complete and utter skankery to accomplish this horrifying new truth. After my ex and I broke up, I was completely devastated. I loved them so fucking hard that my heart crumbled into a million tiny tear-shaped shards of sadness when we stopped dating. And besides the fact that I was then walking under a perpetual rain cloud of misery, I had also lost some of the best sex in existence. The way we fucked was so incredibly intense and powerful that I actually felt enlightened. It was a constant give and take of the purest form of an animalistic lust like I had never experienced before. They couldn’t keep their hands off of me, and it was never a question that both our bodies were a filthy-romantic playground for eachother. She wanted me so damn badly that even I could fucking taste it. It was through her that I realized that I was a power switch. And it was through her that I realized that I really need somebody to want to fuck me. Not just to “service” me, like so many dates had done in years past. Not just because it made me happy. But because they NEEDED to. Just as badly as I needed to fuck them. Is it that strange of a desire?

So after we ended things, I decided to distract myself by drowning myself in a sea of sex. Soon I found myself on a different date almost every night of the week. Some fun, others awkward as hell (fuck you OkCupid), and some that made me run screaming in a sweat-soaked panic. Exhausted and spread so thin it was scary, I chugged black coffee late into the night and pushed forward in my quest for sad-times relief. Soon, though, I was frustrated, as I realized that almost all of my new “friends” appeared to be stone bottoms(not to be confused with regular bottom identified folk).

A stone bottom is a rare bird that apparently only a dandyboy like me can attract. Unsure on why in the world anyone would think my horny, goofball ass would be a stone top, I went ahead and filled the role anyway. The reality is, I do indeed LOVE topping the shit out of someone. Treasure the hell out of it really. Nothing makes me more excited than shoving my hands and cock inside someone. And if I really HAD to take a pick, I would probably pick being the strap-wielder without hesitation. Admittedly, just being called daddy(or grandpa, or mr mayo) sends me so fast over the edge that it makes my tiny friend hard in a split fucking second. But I don’t want to fucking pick. I refuse to. I’m not going to jump back into my joyous youthful days of hating my body and not getting my needs met. Fuck that.

My piggy switch hungry boy ass wants variety. I could care less if you identify as a bottom or a top or a switch, as long as you’re down and excited to fuck me too. I love getting drilled as much as the next person, and am not in the least emasculated by this fact. I’m a dude. I have what I like to call a pussy. It likes to get fucked. I am comfortable with this story. And by fucked I don’t mean some sort of gentle fingerbang like I had in seventh grade with that quiet boy whose name I can’t remember. I mean fucked.

It’s so strange that people assume that because I’m a man that digs topping, that all I want is a blowjob with submissive, adoring eyes staring up at me. Wrong.com. I want what every married straight bro wants on craigslist. I want to get violated. And I want to violate YOU. I want to get my chest punched over and over until I see bright red while you call me your dirty boy. I want to smack someones ass and thighs so hard that my handprint is left behind so many days that it makes wearing shortshorts awkward slash exciting. And you can go right ahead and cross my barely there boundaries in so many ways that I need therapy for three highly expensive and useless years. I want a hot as shit fuckfest. Then I want to end it with the world’s sweetest spooning session.

It’s not sustainable for me to service the world and never get off. It actually began to give me issues. Does being trans make me a freak? Do people not like fucking guys with numerous holes? Am I so hideous that someone wouldn’t want to touch me? After several dates showed complete disinterest in fucking me, I became wild eyed in my search for an orgasm. Wandering the streets, I drifted in and out of so many random holes it was almost astonishing/gross/impressive/mentally ill. I remember my favorite OkStupid date that stood out above the rest. It was about one am when I walked her to her door, and I was tired as hell and ready to head home. But when I tried to say faretheewell, she grabbed my hand, wrapped it around her throat and said “I want you to hurt me”. Not one to back down to a non-subtle challenge, I decided to oblige her request and follow her inside. Let me tell you, it got DARK PLACES real fucking fast. I haven’t had that kind of twisted fucked up and dark role playing/abuse in years, and this was a one night stand. Originally I had just intended on getting to know one another over coffee, but then it was like we reenacted a lifetime movie in her room. And her bed, btw, was coated with so many fucking teddy bears that I began to doubt my own moral fiber. Feeling cozy after we had just jumped into the depths of we-are-going-to-hell together, I told her that she could fuck me too, if she wanted. No thanks, she promptly replied. What!?! WHAT?! I hate my life, I whispered quietly to myself.

I finally started to hook up with my foxy friends, because I knew they were switches. Eventually I had managed to completely horrify one of my besties by literally fucking every buddy of ours. I had to placate him by babybirding bites of caramel ice cream until he forgot that I had plowed pretty much the entirety of his two-story dirty queer punk household. It took a lot of ice cream. In another situation I had to ask an out of town date if I could meet her at a coffee shop, because I awkwardly realized she was staying with two people I had already slept with. One has to wonder what the poor dear thought of me, knowing that I had pretty much run naked throughout every single room in the house she was crashing at. I had become a horned up Kimmy Gibler from Full House, and It just felt like way too much. And once I had found this queer switch group of horned up lovelies, I was desiring something more than just an orgasm. And so my sad story gets even sadder.

I had now decided that I wanted a CRUSH. I wanted just a moment of some sort of intimacy. Or maybe even an actual sleepover? So I started asking people out that I thought were cute. But anyone that I was even remotely interested in held the notsoshocking title of emotionally unavailable. I would get random facebook messages from hot queers asking me out for “dates”. Quickly becoming excited at the possibility of a fun new person to get to know, only to realize that they did indeed want me, but for only one thing. I apparently had become San Francisco’s Walking Strapon Service (check your local newspaper for weekly specials). A robot fucker with a key on my left ass cheek, and if you turned this invisi-key, I would fly about servicing the world in exchange for thai food and sometimes a milkshake. And regardless of whether I asked them out or they asked me out, below you will find the variety of options offered up.

I would love to go on dates with you! I should let you know that I am partnered and we are looking to spice things up in our marriage! (cute!)
I would love to go on a date with you! I just got out of a relationship and really need to get PLOWED. (cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I can spend one hour every two weeks, because I am busy getting over my recent breakup and am highly emotionally unavailable. (super cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I’m actually a lesbian, going through a breakup, but have always wanted to try fucking a transguy. (cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I’m dating ten people from fetlife, and would love for you to join my list! p.s. I recently went through a breakup! (fuck you fetlife)(cute!)

Charmed, I’m sure…

What the fuck!?! It was like a choose your own adventure game, except all of the routes were the exact same. That being said, I went ahead and just fucked them anyway. All of them. Every last inappropriate person. And it was the wrong move. I had finally pushed myself too far. I had actually creeped myself out. A hard thing to do when you are a total creeper, which I am. But the lack of emotion, the lack of sweetness and the lack of interest in getting to know me finally shut down my body and mind so badly that I became suddenly disinterested in anything sexual. When a sex-positive pervert no longer wants to fuck, the only thing that can be done is to take drastic and immediate measures. So I did. I went celibate. Cold turkey, I let everyone know that I was no longer available for anything remotely sexual, but that thai food and shakes were always lovely. And I’m so fucking glad. It was the only way to feel like myself again. The thing is, as much of a slutbag as I am, I’m actually incredibly romantic. I can’t live without tenderness. I cannot fuck so much and never have the sweetness of a spoon. I love the spoon. I’m so affectionate that I’ve made the coldest of new friends used to getting kissed square on the mouth. Or in the mouth. I can’t help it, it’s just the way I am. I’m a perverted romantic and nothing will ever change that. It is a possible combo, and I would like this identity to be respected, please and thanks.

After a few weeks of celibacy, my soul climbed right back into my body and I felt more alive than I had in years. A smile plastered itself onto my face for no reason whatsoever. I started taking long walks just to enjoy being alone in a city full of people. And soon after that, my sex drive came back like it had never left. I felt like a young boy that really wanted to lose his virginity asap. In my fantasy of being said young boy, I am carrying a book satchel and wearing knee socks. I kept steadfast in my celibacy though, because I had set a date and I wanted to stick with it. Not because I really gave a shit about being timely, but because I knew it was what I needed. I even went on a date during my prude stint. We wandered around San Francisco on a search for the best baked goods and I mayhaps ingested four pounds of these sugary-laden delights. She was so charming and graceful and had the sweetest face. And even though I didn’t fuck her, it was the best date I’d had in ages.

So now my celibacy is over. And I’m so god damn excited about it. I have an always-hard detachable cock, I’m single and I live in a city full of hot as fuck homos. I almost feel like I have a new lease on life. But I’m only interested in going out with people where the story isn’t already written. I want to get to know people. To see if we actually like each other. I want to crush out on someone sweet and new and fine as hell. I want that flushed excitement and chemistry, whether it’s with a hot one-night stand or someone I really dig. And maybe that means I’ll be having no dates for an eternity. And maybe that means having to go on seven chaotic dates a week again. But for now at least, my romantic and newly slut ass wants the mystery of the unknown, and that’s all I’ll accept.

sidenote-casual encounters can and will still happen in the future, but not until I get my spoon-on.