When I was a young boy I noticed that something was different about me. No, it wasn't my unusually large penis, it was my left-handedness. As a kid I thought, 'why is it so damn hard to write in notebooks at school?'. Pencils always rubbed off and left a dark ugly streak down my pinky finger and the side of my wrist. The binder rings were always in my way too! Oh how I hated the first few lines on the page--I couldn't get my hand positioned correctly so my wrist was cocked way up high. The pen was almost at a 90 degree angle with the tip pointing at my chest. As a result my penmanship suffered terribly. Fuck the TROOPS! I'm in agony here; just an impressionable boy trying to learn his ABC's.
But there were benefits to being different from 85-90% of the gen pop. I struck out SO many batters in little league. For a skinny little runt I could whip a fastball harder than almost anyone in the league and right on the outside corner. Sometimes I would toy with the other team; during the warm up between innings I would lob bananas and lull the other team into a false sense of security. Then when it came time to face a batter I laced a fast one and you could tell by the kickback of the catcher's arm it was a stinger, like the kickback from a shotgun--he pulled his hand out of the mitt and shaked it up and down. I had the power. This is what it must be like to be a CEO. I could feel their attention and respect radiating through me. This pitch was dialed in straight from the hand of Jesus, if Jesus was a pitcher instead of a carpenter.
One night I was pitching an All-Star game. It was the final game of the tournament--our All-Star team against theirs for the championship. It was the bottom of the 7th--the final inning. There were two outs and the bases loaded. We were up 3-2. The game was in my hands. I was pitching the last 2 innings. I peed my pants. I wasn't nervous it was more of a physiological need to go. I HAD to pee! I didn't want to hold the game up so I soldiered on. After all it was the bottom of the 7th. I kept crossing my knees to find relief and some of the parents noticed. I couldn't hide it, I had to FLOOD a toilet. My Dad yelled from the stands, "TAYLOR, do you have to go to the bathroom?"
"No, I'm alright." I yelled back. With all the parents standing and everyone anticipating potentially the last pitch of the game I couldn't just say, "Okay guys, bottom of the 7th with 2 out, I'm just going to take a leak in the bushes." That's just not how I operate. I'm a professional. I'm an ALL-STAR goddamnit. So...I just let go. When waging a war against your bodily functions you can win a few battles but ultimately your body wins the war.
It wasn't a mere trickle but a fire hose stream down the leg of my all white pants. From the waist down I was drowning in adolescent pee. And NOW I have to somehow get this batter out and win the tournament? It was time for some real Angel in the Outfield type shit. I glared down this kid and chucked a fastball high and inside but still in the stike zone. He hits a weak grounder right at me. With my pants stuck to my legs I bent down and waited for an agonizing second as the ball rolled into my glove. While that was happening I was deciding if I should throw the guy out at first or go for the guy running from third to home. I caught a strong whiff of piss while my head was between my knees but calmly, and with great poise I might add, threw the runner out at home. The catcher made the play in the nick of time and the team went NUTS running towards me with their arms in the air screaming mad like they were martyred terrorists and I was the first heavenly virgin to grace their eyes.
No no no it's hazardous, there's pee everywhere! Why are you all HUGGING me? There was no time to react, my team was all over me and we all embraced as one and began jumping up and down in unison. Sadly, that was the first and only time a gaggle of young boys hugged me while I was covered in pee. Finally when the celebration ended I went to the rec centre across the street and had the best pee of my young life. That first piss after you win it all is always the best.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Roid Less Travelled: How I Spent New Year's 2010
Just before Christmas I made my way up north to visit my parents in Wasaga Beach. I daydreamed all the way up Hwy. 10 over the rolling hills and through the fog on a still, listless Winter’s day. I hit the gas, popped a Peter Jackson in my mouth and cranked the volume on Some Girls. It was going to be a nice peaceful Christmas with my Mom & Dad. Just swell thank you very much.
Christmas was nothing short of serene, my parents couldn’t have been more wonderful. Gifts and love and booze rained down up me. But upon arriving back at my apartment in Toronto (okay Etobicoke) I felt a tender swelling or generalized pain in my tuchus. At first I attributed this to my aggressive wiping tendencies; I tend to use a lot of toilet paper and occasionally I cut my rectum because of this. Doesn’t happen often but it can happen to the best of us. My general rule of thumb is to stop wiping when there’s more RED than BROWN. Everyone’s got a game plan, huh?
So there I am standing in my bathroom dumbfounded by this prickly little pain on my bottom that would not go away. I finally resolved to grab a chair, lug it from my living room and drop it in front of the bathroom mirror. Nude from the waist down I hopped up and bent over to give myself the old prison spread. I slowly turned around to face the mirror, my heart racing mad, savoring the last second before I consumed my fate.
What was this ANOMALY before my eyes?
I could hardly believe it; what was this thing, this growth protruding from the right side of the mouth of my donut door? It was a goddamn jelly bean on steroids. I nearly fell off the chair in shock like I was awakened from a deep sleep with a taser. I was convinced that I had anal cancer. What does anal cancer really consist of I began to think. Do I lose all the hair on my ass? I hope they give me some good pain pills. I always go right to the worst case scenario and then slowly try and rationalize backwards. Yes I’ll go to bed tonight and just deal with the anal cancer tomorrow. I mean just LOOK at this thing. It looks like my asshole is farming testicles fa krists sake! I have a third testicle!...Directly on my asshole! What in the fuck is this? I just kept saying Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Ohmygod over and over in my mind. AHHH! Yes just go to sleep and deal with the anal cancer tomorrow. How am I possibly going to sleep tonight? I always knew one day I would get cancer and lucky me I get ANAL cancer. This big, blue bulbous flesh balloon. 'Can I pop it with a nail and hammer?' I wondered as I prodded it with my finger. I thought at any second a tiny alien was going to pop out of it covered in gooey slim with gnashing teeth.
The next morning I confided to a friend that I have a massive growth on the wall of the right side of my anus:
"It's too bad because I read somewhere the ass is the face of the soul of sex. Now I'm definitely not getting any. I can't even thrust. This lump seems pregnant and ready to give birth to who knows what at any moment. It even has this blue to it, matches my eyes." Of course the whole situation is so goddamn funny at the same time we’re both laughing hysterically. I struggled to get out of bed and put on my pants. Another day beckoned along with unforeseen hurdles. Is this how handicap people feel? Adjusting to my new life was going to be difficult. Walking? Walking was fucking excruciating! I made it--although in a belaboured state--to the local Shoppers Drug Mart. I marched in slow rigid steps. My back was hunched and I couldn’t bend my knees. Actually I looked like I made a wrong turn and four black guys showed me the cruel inner city laws of the street. Like I was being raped with a tree trunk.
I waddled up to the pharmacist and just my luck there’s this beautiful young mother with her infant child in line with me; great now I have an audience to my embarrassing little saga. I tell the pharmacist that I think I have a massive external hemorrhoid on my rectum. Or at least that’s what I thought it was studying up online (and the INTRAWEB never lies!).
“I couldn’t even sleep last night, the pain was that bad. I just couldn’t get comfortable.”
“Ohhh you poor thing.” She sounded like my mother and I felt like she really cared about my dilemma. Good pharmacist. She directs me to some kind of ass pads that have witch hazel in them which soothes the itch and disinfects. I don’t have any itch whatsoever--just intense pain. The other product she recommends is the aptly titled Anusol. Anusol? That’s just great. It has a better ring than Preparation H.
Walking home was even more difficult than walking to the pharmacy. I almost expected someone to help me cross the street like I was a sweet old lady. I finally got home and with the excitement of a junkie about to fix I frantically unbuckled my pants and took out one of the round anal pads and rubbed it lovingly around the circumference of my new friend. Shit, this thing had it's own horizon. I squirted out some of the Anusol cream and rubbed it on; that was the gross part where I had to directly massage the hemorrhoid with my finger. It was my new bulbous ballgame peanut appendage.
For those of you who haven’t had a hemorrhoid you get terrible constipation. I couldn’t drop a hot one for the first couple days and it was driving me mental. I had to do something about this. I went to an herbal shop to get some Psyllium fiber. That's what the guy (pharmacist? guru? nut?) recommended. He looked like he knew what he was talking about; I put my faith in him. I bought this huge ziploc bag full of these little fibers that looked a little like wheat. The only goddamn things I buy in ziploc bags are coke and pot. That's what the little pharmacist in my head recommends. Psyllium fiber? Man I'm getting old.
It took until the next day and I finally had one in the chamber. But that walk to the bathroom was like taking my final steps down death row to the electric chair. This goddamn hemorrhoid hurt enough...now I’m going to have to stretch my tender little HOLE and force out the concentrated evil? And disrupt the BEAST?! Oh this cruel world! I’ve never been so scared to go to the bathroom in my whole life. I sat on the bowl and waited for the moment--the moment where the excrement frees itself from bowel tube. How am I going to wipe? Is the hemorrhoid going to burst all over the place? Is it going to get infected with my shit? Oh God why? WHY? Like an airplane nose-diving into the Atlantic I braced myself for impact. Amazingly there was no pain! There IS a God after all! Somehow my rectum expanded and accommodated the hemmorrhoid and the waste. I immediately pushed my head between my legs to check the bowl for blood, puss, unborn alien fetuses. Nothing! And still no pain. Ahh, the silver lining.
The company man that I am I actually made it into work the next day. It was the shortened week after Christmas but before New Year’s so business was slow. There was no hiding my uncomfortable dilemma, I still walked like a robot.
After talking with an older and presumably wiser gentleman at work he told me the sensible thing would be to go to the doctor immeidiately. Since the cream and pad routine was still having no effect I thought what the hell I’ll call the doctor. I made an emergency appointment with the receptionist. I had to explain the reason. I’m not one to pussyfoot around with receptionists so I just blurted out “I have a MASSIVE haemorrhoid!”
“Okay sir come right over you can meet with Dr. Graham,” she said. “Alright see you soon.” It was that easy.
I’m in the waiting room.
The nurse calls me in and I sit in one of the small doctors offices that are lined in a row. More waiting. Finally the doctor comes in and greets me. He sits down at his desk and pulls up my file.
“Last time you were in here it was for fleas?” He took his gaze off the screen and looked at me quizzically.
“Yeah, I stayed over at a friends place and had all these incredibly itchy infected bites when I woke up. They didn’t go away for months. You were on vacation and your replacement, a student, gave me some steroid cream.”
“Huh. Well why’d you come back today?” “I…uhhh…I have this massive growth right on my anus. It‘s big and bulbous and it hurts like hell.”
“Oh boy. You have a Thrombosed Hemorrhoid!” WTF? He can diagnose it just like that? Without even looking at it? Shit. This guys good.
“Alright here’s what we’re going to do: Drop your drawers and hop up here,” he patted the examining table.
“Oh my god, you’re not going to POP it are you?”
“You bet we are. I have to get the nurse to assist me. I’ll be back in a few.” What the fuck just happened? He’s going to pop it AND he has to get someone to help? This thing is so freakishly large it’s a two man job? At first the thought of my doctor and some nurse probing my anal region was unsettling; but then my exhibitionistic impulses took stock of the situation and my terror turned into delight. See, I like to get naked in front of people. Friends, strangers, I don’t discriminate. Somewhere deep inside it warms my heart to have people seeing all my naughty bits dangling about. I want YOU to watch ME tug on my slab of manhood. I want to punish you. I'm the judge and jury and your sentence is to watch me masturbate. But also the reverse is true: I spy on the pretty girls who walk by my apartment; as I watch them go by I’ll tilt my head and squish my face onto the window to get a better view as they disappear beyond the horizon. It’s quite embarrassing when someone is trailing the girl some ten feet and looks up to see my smeared face gawking shamelessly and touching my privates. It’s at times like this I think, ‘yes I am scum’.
Unfortunately there was one little snag in my exhibition plan at the doctor's office--There was going to be a lot of pain. Physical pain doesn’t factor into my exhibitionistic fantasies. Can’t the nurse and doc just sit there and watch me play with myself? I’m sorry I showed you my growth but can we BOTH just leave now unharmed?
There I was splayed out on the examination table with my pants off and undies pulled down to my ankles. I was laying on my side facing the wall while my ass was yawning at the audience.
“So how does this whole procedure work?” I somehow had the foolish notion that he would give me some kind of pill/cream and it would magically disappear like my infected flea bites. There’s nothing to prepare you for the moment right before an anticipated act of medical violence. You have to prepare yourself fast. They don’t sit there and sweet talk you. This isn’t your mother here, this is our strained and overburdened health system so it’s in then out as fast as possible. SWIFT medical justice. They just make you pull your pants down and they get in there quick. You only have a few seconds to ready yourself for this is going to be a new kind of pain and I can only imagine what it will feel like. I looked over my shoulder and saw the doctor putting on gloves and getting a needle ready. “We’re going to inject a freezing agent, the needle will sting a bit after that it's smooth sailing.”
It doesn’t happen in slow motion like the movies where there’s a close up shot of the eye of the needle and the doc squirts a little of the solution to make sure the droppers working. No he just does it. Nike and the Canadian health care both have the same catchphrase. Continuing a trend of helping others in times of need my hands were occupied spreading my own ass cheeks so the nurse didn’t have to. What I thoughtful young man I am.
“Taylor,” she was annoyed, “Move your hands so the doctor can work. Just relax, think of how good it will feel when it’s over.” I politely removed my hands and the nurse took over spreading my cheeks. There was the doctor about to inject his frosty serum and the nurse splaying my cheeks. Now that’s TEAMWORK.
Just as I was thinking about how nice it is to have these two folks staring right into the eye of my storm I felt a horrific sharp stinging pain…
“Ahhh-haaa-ahhhh-haaaa…” I started whimpering. This is what being anally probed by space creatures must be like.
“Don’t worry, it will be over soon.” The nurse reassured me. Surprisingly the pain subsided fast as the freezing agent nullified my nerve endings. He then used a scalpel to make an incision on the hemorrhoid to drain the blood and gore. As if this whole situation wasn’t awkward enough there was an awkward silence for about ten seconds as the doctor quietly pilfered all the evil spirits from my hemorrhoid. “And...we’re done! There was a TON of blood! Biggest one I‘ve ever seen! Biggest Thrombosed Hemorrhoid EVER!” The doctor exclaimed. He was elated. What was I? Some kind of sideshow freak?
“Now isn’t that relieving?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I said getting off the examining table, “Something like relief.” I looked behind at my ass and noticed the nurse lovingly folded some of these little square ass napkins into my butt cheeks and there was quite a lot of blood forming on them. Because I have such a skinny little pre-pubescent boys bottom my cheeks naturally squeezed the ass napkins together in a death grip and they would never fall out. I was worried about bleeding through onto my favourite pair of jeans though. Shit it looked like Iwo Jima in my underwear.
“So what do I have to do now? Keep rubbing on the cream?” I asked, prying the doctors brain for clues. He seems so busy that he can't even offer me some post-burst advice.
“Well after the incision and the amount of blood that came out you should be fine but keep using the cream for the itch. It will take 2-4 weeks to heal.”
“2-4 weeks? That long?”
And with that he was off barrelling down the hallway to assuage the next disaster. I left the office and made my way back to the office. I immediately went into the bathroom to see how much blood had accumulated on my ass napkins. Jesus it looked like I was having my PERIOD. I tossed the bloodied pads into the toilet and it looked like JAWS at a seafood buffet. I folded up some more ass gauze and wedged it between my cheeks. It was OH so difficult to walk. Getting up and sitting down was the worst part.
A co-worker, noticing my distress came up to me and chuckled, “So your new name is now Tayroids okay?”
“Right.”
It was the day of New Years Eve, the last day of the millenium and I was driving home after a half day at work. Today brother they only got HALF my soul. On top of barely being able to walk I am a part time recluse who spends as much time away from humans as possible (some friends excluded). Needless to say I didn’t have any plans this New Years. Me and my mortally wounded hemorrhoid were going to lay around, bleed from the anus, maybe play guitar, load up a bowl in my bong and watch Dick Clark MUMBLE his way through another countdown.
I lay down on my couch and thought what a way to end the decade. Alone and crippled both emotionally and physically; I’m depressed, consumed with anxiety and obsessive compulsive thoughts. What can the next ten years possibly hold? Got to be better than the last ten right? I’m going to battle through with some semblance of dignity. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. What else can a man do except put his head down, hold tight to a few hard truths and journey onwards with the promise that it gets easier, it gets better. There’s reason and purpose out there somewhere. The message will get through somehow no matter how muffled it sounds…
Dick Clark counted down the remaining seconds of the decade, “10.…9.…8.…7.…”
Christmas was nothing short of serene, my parents couldn’t have been more wonderful. Gifts and love and booze rained down up me. But upon arriving back at my apartment in Toronto (okay Etobicoke) I felt a tender swelling or generalized pain in my tuchus. At first I attributed this to my aggressive wiping tendencies; I tend to use a lot of toilet paper and occasionally I cut my rectum because of this. Doesn’t happen often but it can happen to the best of us. My general rule of thumb is to stop wiping when there’s more RED than BROWN. Everyone’s got a game plan, huh?
So there I am standing in my bathroom dumbfounded by this prickly little pain on my bottom that would not go away. I finally resolved to grab a chair, lug it from my living room and drop it in front of the bathroom mirror. Nude from the waist down I hopped up and bent over to give myself the old prison spread. I slowly turned around to face the mirror, my heart racing mad, savoring the last second before I consumed my fate.
What was this ANOMALY before my eyes?
I could hardly believe it; what was this thing, this growth protruding from the right side of the mouth of my donut door? It was a goddamn jelly bean on steroids. I nearly fell off the chair in shock like I was awakened from a deep sleep with a taser. I was convinced that I had anal cancer. What does anal cancer really consist of I began to think. Do I lose all the hair on my ass? I hope they give me some good pain pills. I always go right to the worst case scenario and then slowly try and rationalize backwards. Yes I’ll go to bed tonight and just deal with the anal cancer tomorrow. I mean just LOOK at this thing. It looks like my asshole is farming testicles fa krists sake! I have a third testicle!...Directly on my asshole! What in the fuck is this? I just kept saying Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Ohmygod over and over in my mind. AHHH! Yes just go to sleep and deal with the anal cancer tomorrow. How am I possibly going to sleep tonight? I always knew one day I would get cancer and lucky me I get ANAL cancer. This big, blue bulbous flesh balloon. 'Can I pop it with a nail and hammer?' I wondered as I prodded it with my finger. I thought at any second a tiny alien was going to pop out of it covered in gooey slim with gnashing teeth.
The next morning I confided to a friend that I have a massive growth on the wall of the right side of my anus:
"It's too bad because I read somewhere the ass is the face of the soul of sex. Now I'm definitely not getting any. I can't even thrust. This lump seems pregnant and ready to give birth to who knows what at any moment. It even has this blue to it, matches my eyes." Of course the whole situation is so goddamn funny at the same time we’re both laughing hysterically. I struggled to get out of bed and put on my pants. Another day beckoned along with unforeseen hurdles. Is this how handicap people feel? Adjusting to my new life was going to be difficult. Walking? Walking was fucking excruciating! I made it--although in a belaboured state--to the local Shoppers Drug Mart. I marched in slow rigid steps. My back was hunched and I couldn’t bend my knees. Actually I looked like I made a wrong turn and four black guys showed me the cruel inner city laws of the street. Like I was being raped with a tree trunk.
I waddled up to the pharmacist and just my luck there’s this beautiful young mother with her infant child in line with me; great now I have an audience to my embarrassing little saga. I tell the pharmacist that I think I have a massive external hemorrhoid on my rectum. Or at least that’s what I thought it was studying up online (and the INTRAWEB never lies!).
“I couldn’t even sleep last night, the pain was that bad. I just couldn’t get comfortable.”
“Ohhh you poor thing.” She sounded like my mother and I felt like she really cared about my dilemma. Good pharmacist. She directs me to some kind of ass pads that have witch hazel in them which soothes the itch and disinfects. I don’t have any itch whatsoever--just intense pain. The other product she recommends is the aptly titled Anusol. Anusol? That’s just great. It has a better ring than Preparation H.
Walking home was even more difficult than walking to the pharmacy. I almost expected someone to help me cross the street like I was a sweet old lady. I finally got home and with the excitement of a junkie about to fix I frantically unbuckled my pants and took out one of the round anal pads and rubbed it lovingly around the circumference of my new friend. Shit, this thing had it's own horizon. I squirted out some of the Anusol cream and rubbed it on; that was the gross part where I had to directly massage the hemorrhoid with my finger. It was my new bulbous ballgame peanut appendage.
For those of you who haven’t had a hemorrhoid you get terrible constipation. I couldn’t drop a hot one for the first couple days and it was driving me mental. I had to do something about this. I went to an herbal shop to get some Psyllium fiber. That's what the guy (pharmacist? guru? nut?) recommended. He looked like he knew what he was talking about; I put my faith in him. I bought this huge ziploc bag full of these little fibers that looked a little like wheat. The only goddamn things I buy in ziploc bags are coke and pot. That's what the little pharmacist in my head recommends. Psyllium fiber? Man I'm getting old.
It took until the next day and I finally had one in the chamber. But that walk to the bathroom was like taking my final steps down death row to the electric chair. This goddamn hemorrhoid hurt enough...now I’m going to have to stretch my tender little HOLE and force out the concentrated evil? And disrupt the BEAST?! Oh this cruel world! I’ve never been so scared to go to the bathroom in my whole life. I sat on the bowl and waited for the moment--the moment where the excrement frees itself from bowel tube. How am I going to wipe? Is the hemorrhoid going to burst all over the place? Is it going to get infected with my shit? Oh God why? WHY? Like an airplane nose-diving into the Atlantic I braced myself for impact. Amazingly there was no pain! There IS a God after all! Somehow my rectum expanded and accommodated the hemmorrhoid and the waste. I immediately pushed my head between my legs to check the bowl for blood, puss, unborn alien fetuses. Nothing! And still no pain. Ahh, the silver lining.
The company man that I am I actually made it into work the next day. It was the shortened week after Christmas but before New Year’s so business was slow. There was no hiding my uncomfortable dilemma, I still walked like a robot.
After talking with an older and presumably wiser gentleman at work he told me the sensible thing would be to go to the doctor immeidiately. Since the cream and pad routine was still having no effect I thought what the hell I’ll call the doctor. I made an emergency appointment with the receptionist. I had to explain the reason. I’m not one to pussyfoot around with receptionists so I just blurted out “I have a MASSIVE haemorrhoid!”
“Okay sir come right over you can meet with Dr. Graham,” she said. “Alright see you soon.” It was that easy.
I’m in the waiting room.
The nurse calls me in and I sit in one of the small doctors offices that are lined in a row. More waiting. Finally the doctor comes in and greets me. He sits down at his desk and pulls up my file.
“Last time you were in here it was for fleas?” He took his gaze off the screen and looked at me quizzically.
“Yeah, I stayed over at a friends place and had all these incredibly itchy infected bites when I woke up. They didn’t go away for months. You were on vacation and your replacement, a student, gave me some steroid cream.”
“Huh. Well why’d you come back today?” “I…uhhh…I have this massive growth right on my anus. It‘s big and bulbous and it hurts like hell.”
“Oh boy. You have a Thrombosed Hemorrhoid!” WTF? He can diagnose it just like that? Without even looking at it? Shit. This guys good.
“Alright here’s what we’re going to do: Drop your drawers and hop up here,” he patted the examining table.
“Oh my god, you’re not going to POP it are you?”
“You bet we are. I have to get the nurse to assist me. I’ll be back in a few.” What the fuck just happened? He’s going to pop it AND he has to get someone to help? This thing is so freakishly large it’s a two man job? At first the thought of my doctor and some nurse probing my anal region was unsettling; but then my exhibitionistic impulses took stock of the situation and my terror turned into delight. See, I like to get naked in front of people. Friends, strangers, I don’t discriminate. Somewhere deep inside it warms my heart to have people seeing all my naughty bits dangling about. I want YOU to watch ME tug on my slab of manhood. I want to punish you. I'm the judge and jury and your sentence is to watch me masturbate. But also the reverse is true: I spy on the pretty girls who walk by my apartment; as I watch them go by I’ll tilt my head and squish my face onto the window to get a better view as they disappear beyond the horizon. It’s quite embarrassing when someone is trailing the girl some ten feet and looks up to see my smeared face gawking shamelessly and touching my privates. It’s at times like this I think, ‘yes I am scum’.
Unfortunately there was one little snag in my exhibition plan at the doctor's office--There was going to be a lot of pain. Physical pain doesn’t factor into my exhibitionistic fantasies. Can’t the nurse and doc just sit there and watch me play with myself? I’m sorry I showed you my growth but can we BOTH just leave now unharmed?
There I was splayed out on the examination table with my pants off and undies pulled down to my ankles. I was laying on my side facing the wall while my ass was yawning at the audience.
“So how does this whole procedure work?” I somehow had the foolish notion that he would give me some kind of pill/cream and it would magically disappear like my infected flea bites. There’s nothing to prepare you for the moment right before an anticipated act of medical violence. You have to prepare yourself fast. They don’t sit there and sweet talk you. This isn’t your mother here, this is our strained and overburdened health system so it’s in then out as fast as possible. SWIFT medical justice. They just make you pull your pants down and they get in there quick. You only have a few seconds to ready yourself for this is going to be a new kind of pain and I can only imagine what it will feel like. I looked over my shoulder and saw the doctor putting on gloves and getting a needle ready. “We’re going to inject a freezing agent, the needle will sting a bit after that it's smooth sailing.”
It doesn’t happen in slow motion like the movies where there’s a close up shot of the eye of the needle and the doc squirts a little of the solution to make sure the droppers working. No he just does it. Nike and the Canadian health care both have the same catchphrase. Continuing a trend of helping others in times of need my hands were occupied spreading my own ass cheeks so the nurse didn’t have to. What I thoughtful young man I am.
“Taylor,” she was annoyed, “Move your hands so the doctor can work. Just relax, think of how good it will feel when it’s over.” I politely removed my hands and the nurse took over spreading my cheeks. There was the doctor about to inject his frosty serum and the nurse splaying my cheeks. Now that’s TEAMWORK.
Just as I was thinking about how nice it is to have these two folks staring right into the eye of my storm I felt a horrific sharp stinging pain…
“Ahhh-haaa-ahhhh-haaaa…” I started whimpering. This is what being anally probed by space creatures must be like.
“Don’t worry, it will be over soon.” The nurse reassured me. Surprisingly the pain subsided fast as the freezing agent nullified my nerve endings. He then used a scalpel to make an incision on the hemorrhoid to drain the blood and gore. As if this whole situation wasn’t awkward enough there was an awkward silence for about ten seconds as the doctor quietly pilfered all the evil spirits from my hemorrhoid. “And...we’re done! There was a TON of blood! Biggest one I‘ve ever seen! Biggest Thrombosed Hemorrhoid EVER!” The doctor exclaimed. He was elated. What was I? Some kind of sideshow freak?
“Now isn’t that relieving?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I said getting off the examining table, “Something like relief.” I looked behind at my ass and noticed the nurse lovingly folded some of these little square ass napkins into my butt cheeks and there was quite a lot of blood forming on them. Because I have such a skinny little pre-pubescent boys bottom my cheeks naturally squeezed the ass napkins together in a death grip and they would never fall out. I was worried about bleeding through onto my favourite pair of jeans though. Shit it looked like Iwo Jima in my underwear.
“So what do I have to do now? Keep rubbing on the cream?” I asked, prying the doctors brain for clues. He seems so busy that he can't even offer me some post-burst advice.
“Well after the incision and the amount of blood that came out you should be fine but keep using the cream for the itch. It will take 2-4 weeks to heal.”
“2-4 weeks? That long?”
And with that he was off barrelling down the hallway to assuage the next disaster. I left the office and made my way back to the office. I immediately went into the bathroom to see how much blood had accumulated on my ass napkins. Jesus it looked like I was having my PERIOD. I tossed the bloodied pads into the toilet and it looked like JAWS at a seafood buffet. I folded up some more ass gauze and wedged it between my cheeks. It was OH so difficult to walk. Getting up and sitting down was the worst part.
A co-worker, noticing my distress came up to me and chuckled, “So your new name is now Tayroids okay?”
“Right.”
It was the day of New Years Eve, the last day of the millenium and I was driving home after a half day at work. Today brother they only got HALF my soul. On top of barely being able to walk I am a part time recluse who spends as much time away from humans as possible (some friends excluded). Needless to say I didn’t have any plans this New Years. Me and my mortally wounded hemorrhoid were going to lay around, bleed from the anus, maybe play guitar, load up a bowl in my bong and watch Dick Clark MUMBLE his way through another countdown.
I lay down on my couch and thought what a way to end the decade. Alone and crippled both emotionally and physically; I’m depressed, consumed with anxiety and obsessive compulsive thoughts. What can the next ten years possibly hold? Got to be better than the last ten right? I’m going to battle through with some semblance of dignity. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. What else can a man do except put his head down, hold tight to a few hard truths and journey onwards with the promise that it gets easier, it gets better. There’s reason and purpose out there somewhere. The message will get through somehow no matter how muffled it sounds…
Dick Clark counted down the remaining seconds of the decade, “10.…9.…8.…7.…”
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Hairadise City
The plight of the bald man, or the balding man in my case is a sad one indeed. You find yourself, albeit unwillingly, part of an exclusive club. This damn club that you didn't want to join in the first place and your membership becomes more apparent every passing day. I'm sliding on this downward spiral until what? BALD. In my mind I'm screaming it in front of my goddamn face in the mirror...BALD!
I'll be on the subway and all six guys on the train have full heads of hair...'ah fuck everything' I think. What are the chances? Every single fucking guy has all his feathers perfectly gelled into place. Six American Psycho wannabees and I want to kill 'em all! Then at the next stop, miraculously, a sad little bald man mopes his way through the sliding doors and I breath a sigh of relief; there is someone else to go through hell with me.
BALD.
I hate that four letter word. It's so offensive and dirty. I cringe at the mention of it. Unlike most any other word I never say 'bald' out loud. I only type it. In response to the question 'Are you losing your hair?' I always use a silly turn of phrase like 'Oh that? It's just my forehead growing. That's all'. To me, saying 'bald' is like a guy screaming out NIGGER! at the Apollo Theatre. It's plain offensive.
There are many ways to give the illusion of natural hair: Wigs, plugs, spray on hair, transplants, combovers (Have they no respect for the eyes of others?) and who knows what else. Why not surgically remove the hair on my ass and topographically apply it to my head? What a shithead they'd all think. The sad truth is that I would be a liar sitting here typing before you if I wrote that I haven't entertained the thought of all these options at least once. What with science nowadays who knows what they're capable of! Those crazy hair scientists are somewhere right now feverishly working away in their top secret underground hair labs, and guess what? They're this close to a cure for male pattern baldness. This fucking close I tell you! Jeremy Piven told me so.
Going bald really brings out the worst feelings; in the darker moments my mind turns to bitterness and vindiction. I'll be at a bar and some furry headed kid starts in with me, 'Look at you you fucking scum, can't even grow a faux hawk,' He'd say.
'Ahh you think you're a big man just 'cause you got all your hair? You wanna get knocked the fuck out? Let's go punk.' I'd say. We'd take it outside like real men and I'd pull a knife and slice off his scalp and don it on my head and wipe of the excess brain splatter and pretend like nothing happened and go back in for a Vodka 7. There we go--problem solved!
But really, me...I'm a sensitive guy. I feel a pang of empathy when I'm strolling down the boulevard of life and I see another bald(ing) man. We're part of a special club remember? We're both victims of circumstance. For the common man I have sympathy but I secretly wish baldness upon famous men. Brad Pitt wouldn't be Brad Pitt with a shiny ol' chrome dome. Ladies would Legends of the Fall be the romantic fairytale it is (or so I'm told I haven't seen it yet) without Brad's luscious locks waving in the breeze as he rides a horse to claim his woman? I can picture Stanley Tucci bouncing on his saddle and a bird lands a hot one right on his shiny head. Shit, if a bird dropped one on Brad Pitt's head it would just disappear into paradise. Would George Clooney be the suave gent he is in Oceans Eleven if he was bald? It would be like that fella in Powder trying to woo Julia Roberts. Don't think so. By the way I haven't seen Powder either. I simply must start referencing movies that I've seen in my blog! This is a professional endeavor here. Ya know I was just thinking in addition to 'bald' I hate the word 'blog' too. Especially losers who use the word 'blog' in their blog. I mean do you know anyone cool who writes a blog? Mostly just a bunch of internet predators (nudge nudge wink wink).
But I digress. I can't wait to see who goes bald out of the young pop stars like Justin Bieber or one of the Jonas Brothers. Let's see how many tween girls chase them through malls when that happens. How tragically ironic it would be if that Bieber kid could no longer recreate the very thing that catapulted him to international stardom. Ah well...nothing lasts forever boys, not even fame and hair! Since I'm going bald I'll try live vicariously through my dad and coax him into growing a white Bieber Bob. My dads hair is totally blanche so it'll be blinding! Can you spell Silver Fox? Never ending white lights. My dad will be the coolest retiree pop star. I hope I catch some of the pussy shrapnel.
I never equated baldness with old age; I've no problem growing old, I don't really fear it in the least. Well I fear it but it's not a crippling soul destroying fear. I've always felt older than my years anyhow. The problem is with physical attractiveness. I suppose the two go hand in hand but I certainly wouldn't dread growing old with all the wrinkles and erectile dysfunctions if I could do it with a thick thatch on top of my head.
But no matter how much I sit here whining and complaining I know that nothing compares to the pain of a woman losing her hair. Ah yes, the plight of the bald(ing) woman. My heart goes out to you gals. Although it's quite rare for a woman to lose her hair it just makes the sting that much sharper when you come across some hapless girl with a patchy scalp. I remember once being at an A & W in Georgetown, ON. This poor girl, barely out of her teens and her beautiful face was unfortunately adjacent to her hideous hair. Thin wispy strands fluttered as she walked back to collect my burger and fries. I still remember you balding burger girl! SEE I do care!
I like to think that no matter how bad my life gets, no matter how many times I scrape the bottom only to find there's more bottom underneath I know I don't have it half as bad as this girl. The irony is she's probably happier than me with a husband and kids. 'Who cares if I'm bald?' she says to herself, 'I've got my family.' And here I am wasting my time feeling sorry for her.
Or...maybe she's dead in a ditch somewhere, drove off the road into a lampost, killed herself--and I could have saved her, cut some random girls scalp off, given the burger girl a local anasthetic and carefully stitched the scalp onto her poor head. I'd water it everyday and then the hair would start to take root and we'd fall in love and get married and paint our picket fence white and have 2.5 kids.
One night I was out with a friend at an Indian restaurant on Bloor St (though after many a night its been turned into Blur St). My buddy was facing the outside window which is my seat of choice so I can watch the wildlife of Toronto pass by; I was stuck looking into the empty restaurant with its boring decor. After reacquanting ourselves my attention turned to the short unsteady busboy ambling towards us. There was something vaugely off about him. That was the subconscious conclusion I came to. Then I figured it out: He was an East Indian man with Down Syndrome! He started piling up the dishes from a nearby table. 'Have I ever seen an Indian guy with Down Syndrome?' I thought, 'Not that I can recall' came the answer. Here is this mongoloid with a goofy look on his face with hall of fame rockstar hair. Why, oh why must fate torture me so? What is he going to do with that beautiful thatch except give himself retarded haircuts in the dark? Now I on the other hand could use that hair. I would be on my knees pleasing Jesus every goddamn night if I had hair like that. I would kill ordinary men and famous men! I don't care anymore! That busboys jet black mane just flowed so suave and natural; way out of touch for his general demeanor. You could tell, this guy couldn't handle what he was packing. I shake my fist and curse at the angry hair Gods!
I wonder how someone with such an obvious genetic mutation can mature with such healthy follicles. It's the same thing with the homeless. The endless Toronto winters, the endless hits of the pipe followed by the endless swigs of the bottle, shouldn't that affect hair loss? Their bodies look withered but the hair is healthy looking, growing wild like a stubborn weed. I walk by a few bums almost daily on the way to the LCBO and they're grimy, foul creatures but guess what? Great fucking hair. Me bitter? Naw.
I'm sleeping, dreaming about having a full head of hair. I'm in a bar and I feel so secure, so alive like I can do anything. I can have any girl. The world is mine for the taking! Then the cold slap of waking life hits me in the face and it's back to the grind. I suppose I can do what a lot of bald guys do nowadays and grow facial hair. That seems to be the move, huh? But I question the raionale behind it: 'I'm bald so to distract everyones attention I'll grow ornamental hair on my face. That will divert their eyes from my head. I'll fool them all!'
I guess there's some validity to this for I'm currently sporting a goatee. Man I get bored and there aren't many hairstyles to choose from when the hair starts falling out. I've had the same bland style for the last decade. Should I frost the tips or something? Help me out here.
Maybe in the coming years when I'm totally bald I should grow the S & B (Sides & Back) long and put it in a ponytail a la Mick Fleetwood. Isn't that a look? Well I have to hand it to him he somehow pulls it off where most guys with the bald ponytail probably have a rape kit in the rear left quadrant of their trunk.
Or...I could sport the 'Skydome'. That's where you grow the hair on the Sides & Back (a.k.a The Horshoe) so that it looks like the Skydome--when open of course. I think that's a preferable alternative to shaving everything off like a cancer patient. Just keep it nicely cropped on the sides. What is with that anyways? Why does only the hair on the top of your head fall out and not the sides and back? Ahh just one of the many questions I'll have for your God when I get to the pearly gates.
The hair Gods don't just rob you of it all, they leave no evidence behind--the once lush scene of the crime reduced to a smooth rounded marble surface. No scars or bloody gloves. As you can tell I'm coming along nicely in my quest of coming to terms with hair loss. Over the years I've been forced to become a lot more comfortable or risk madness though I'm occasionally stabbed with pangs of insecurity. Going bald is part of the human condition, so many people go through it and even I can't escape it. The thought use to mortify me a lot more. When I was in university I would tell myself 'Well Nezbit you got about a year or so left with a decent amount of hair so enjoy it'. I've said the same damn thing with the same damn voice in my head every year since. Is this the end of HAIR?
Plus I use a special shampoo that seems to slow the whole process down. It cleans the DHT out of your scalp. The DHT--if you were wondering--chokes the follicles until they can hold on no longer and they are jettisoned from the head to land on a pillowy grave. We humans, worry worry worry about our dire little problems and then either accept them as inevitable or go insane. I've chosen both.
I'll be on the subway and all six guys on the train have full heads of hair...'ah fuck everything' I think. What are the chances? Every single fucking guy has all his feathers perfectly gelled into place. Six American Psycho wannabees and I want to kill 'em all! Then at the next stop, miraculously, a sad little bald man mopes his way through the sliding doors and I breath a sigh of relief; there is someone else to go through hell with me.
BALD.
I hate that four letter word. It's so offensive and dirty. I cringe at the mention of it. Unlike most any other word I never say 'bald' out loud. I only type it. In response to the question 'Are you losing your hair?' I always use a silly turn of phrase like 'Oh that? It's just my forehead growing. That's all'. To me, saying 'bald' is like a guy screaming out NIGGER! at the Apollo Theatre. It's plain offensive.
There are many ways to give the illusion of natural hair: Wigs, plugs, spray on hair, transplants, combovers (Have they no respect for the eyes of others?) and who knows what else. Why not surgically remove the hair on my ass and topographically apply it to my head? What a shithead they'd all think. The sad truth is that I would be a liar sitting here typing before you if I wrote that I haven't entertained the thought of all these options at least once. What with science nowadays who knows what they're capable of! Those crazy hair scientists are somewhere right now feverishly working away in their top secret underground hair labs, and guess what? They're this close to a cure for male pattern baldness. This fucking close I tell you! Jeremy Piven told me so.
Going bald really brings out the worst feelings; in the darker moments my mind turns to bitterness and vindiction. I'll be at a bar and some furry headed kid starts in with me, 'Look at you you fucking scum, can't even grow a faux hawk,' He'd say.
'Ahh you think you're a big man just 'cause you got all your hair? You wanna get knocked the fuck out? Let's go punk.' I'd say. We'd take it outside like real men and I'd pull a knife and slice off his scalp and don it on my head and wipe of the excess brain splatter and pretend like nothing happened and go back in for a Vodka 7. There we go--problem solved!
But really, me...I'm a sensitive guy. I feel a pang of empathy when I'm strolling down the boulevard of life and I see another bald(ing) man. We're part of a special club remember? We're both victims of circumstance. For the common man I have sympathy but I secretly wish baldness upon famous men. Brad Pitt wouldn't be Brad Pitt with a shiny ol' chrome dome. Ladies would Legends of the Fall be the romantic fairytale it is (or so I'm told I haven't seen it yet) without Brad's luscious locks waving in the breeze as he rides a horse to claim his woman? I can picture Stanley Tucci bouncing on his saddle and a bird lands a hot one right on his shiny head. Shit, if a bird dropped one on Brad Pitt's head it would just disappear into paradise. Would George Clooney be the suave gent he is in Oceans Eleven if he was bald? It would be like that fella in Powder trying to woo Julia Roberts. Don't think so. By the way I haven't seen Powder either. I simply must start referencing movies that I've seen in my blog! This is a professional endeavor here. Ya know I was just thinking in addition to 'bald' I hate the word 'blog' too. Especially losers who use the word 'blog' in their blog. I mean do you know anyone cool who writes a blog? Mostly just a bunch of internet predators (nudge nudge wink wink).
But I digress. I can't wait to see who goes bald out of the young pop stars like Justin Bieber or one of the Jonas Brothers. Let's see how many tween girls chase them through malls when that happens. How tragically ironic it would be if that Bieber kid could no longer recreate the very thing that catapulted him to international stardom. Ah well...nothing lasts forever boys, not even fame and hair! Since I'm going bald I'll try live vicariously through my dad and coax him into growing a white Bieber Bob. My dads hair is totally blanche so it'll be blinding! Can you spell Silver Fox? Never ending white lights. My dad will be the coolest retiree pop star. I hope I catch some of the pussy shrapnel.
I never equated baldness with old age; I've no problem growing old, I don't really fear it in the least. Well I fear it but it's not a crippling soul destroying fear. I've always felt older than my years anyhow. The problem is with physical attractiveness. I suppose the two go hand in hand but I certainly wouldn't dread growing old with all the wrinkles and erectile dysfunctions if I could do it with a thick thatch on top of my head.
But no matter how much I sit here whining and complaining I know that nothing compares to the pain of a woman losing her hair. Ah yes, the plight of the bald(ing) woman. My heart goes out to you gals. Although it's quite rare for a woman to lose her hair it just makes the sting that much sharper when you come across some hapless girl with a patchy scalp. I remember once being at an A & W in Georgetown, ON. This poor girl, barely out of her teens and her beautiful face was unfortunately adjacent to her hideous hair. Thin wispy strands fluttered as she walked back to collect my burger and fries. I still remember you balding burger girl! SEE I do care!
I like to think that no matter how bad my life gets, no matter how many times I scrape the bottom only to find there's more bottom underneath I know I don't have it half as bad as this girl. The irony is she's probably happier than me with a husband and kids. 'Who cares if I'm bald?' she says to herself, 'I've got my family.' And here I am wasting my time feeling sorry for her.
Or...maybe she's dead in a ditch somewhere, drove off the road into a lampost, killed herself--and I could have saved her, cut some random girls scalp off, given the burger girl a local anasthetic and carefully stitched the scalp onto her poor head. I'd water it everyday and then the hair would start to take root and we'd fall in love and get married and paint our picket fence white and have 2.5 kids.
One night I was out with a friend at an Indian restaurant on Bloor St (though after many a night its been turned into Blur St). My buddy was facing the outside window which is my seat of choice so I can watch the wildlife of Toronto pass by; I was stuck looking into the empty restaurant with its boring decor. After reacquanting ourselves my attention turned to the short unsteady busboy ambling towards us. There was something vaugely off about him. That was the subconscious conclusion I came to. Then I figured it out: He was an East Indian man with Down Syndrome! He started piling up the dishes from a nearby table. 'Have I ever seen an Indian guy with Down Syndrome?' I thought, 'Not that I can recall' came the answer. Here is this mongoloid with a goofy look on his face with hall of fame rockstar hair. Why, oh why must fate torture me so? What is he going to do with that beautiful thatch except give himself retarded haircuts in the dark? Now I on the other hand could use that hair. I would be on my knees pleasing Jesus every goddamn night if I had hair like that. I would kill ordinary men and famous men! I don't care anymore! That busboys jet black mane just flowed so suave and natural; way out of touch for his general demeanor. You could tell, this guy couldn't handle what he was packing. I shake my fist and curse at the angry hair Gods!
I wonder how someone with such an obvious genetic mutation can mature with such healthy follicles. It's the same thing with the homeless. The endless Toronto winters, the endless hits of the pipe followed by the endless swigs of the bottle, shouldn't that affect hair loss? Their bodies look withered but the hair is healthy looking, growing wild like a stubborn weed. I walk by a few bums almost daily on the way to the LCBO and they're grimy, foul creatures but guess what? Great fucking hair. Me bitter? Naw.
I'm sleeping, dreaming about having a full head of hair. I'm in a bar and I feel so secure, so alive like I can do anything. I can have any girl. The world is mine for the taking! Then the cold slap of waking life hits me in the face and it's back to the grind. I suppose I can do what a lot of bald guys do nowadays and grow facial hair. That seems to be the move, huh? But I question the raionale behind it: 'I'm bald so to distract everyones attention I'll grow ornamental hair on my face. That will divert their eyes from my head. I'll fool them all!'
I guess there's some validity to this for I'm currently sporting a goatee. Man I get bored and there aren't many hairstyles to choose from when the hair starts falling out. I've had the same bland style for the last decade. Should I frost the tips or something? Help me out here.
Maybe in the coming years when I'm totally bald I should grow the S & B (Sides & Back) long and put it in a ponytail a la Mick Fleetwood. Isn't that a look? Well I have to hand it to him he somehow pulls it off where most guys with the bald ponytail probably have a rape kit in the rear left quadrant of their trunk.
Or...I could sport the 'Skydome'. That's where you grow the hair on the Sides & Back (a.k.a The Horshoe) so that it looks like the Skydome--when open of course. I think that's a preferable alternative to shaving everything off like a cancer patient. Just keep it nicely cropped on the sides. What is with that anyways? Why does only the hair on the top of your head fall out and not the sides and back? Ahh just one of the many questions I'll have for your God when I get to the pearly gates.
The hair Gods don't just rob you of it all, they leave no evidence behind--the once lush scene of the crime reduced to a smooth rounded marble surface. No scars or bloody gloves. As you can tell I'm coming along nicely in my quest of coming to terms with hair loss. Over the years I've been forced to become a lot more comfortable or risk madness though I'm occasionally stabbed with pangs of insecurity. Going bald is part of the human condition, so many people go through it and even I can't escape it. The thought use to mortify me a lot more. When I was in university I would tell myself 'Well Nezbit you got about a year or so left with a decent amount of hair so enjoy it'. I've said the same damn thing with the same damn voice in my head every year since. Is this the end of HAIR?
Plus I use a special shampoo that seems to slow the whole process down. It cleans the DHT out of your scalp. The DHT--if you were wondering--chokes the follicles until they can hold on no longer and they are jettisoned from the head to land on a pillowy grave. We humans, worry worry worry about our dire little problems and then either accept them as inevitable or go insane. I've chosen both.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
I'm Going Straight . . .To Trannytown!
I’m a straight shooter. I’m talking pure heterosexuality here. But sexual identity isn’t as black and white as some think. On a chart where one is perfectly hetero and ten is perfectly gay I’d say I’m a solid three. Everyone has their creepy little sexual taboos that they’re into even though sometimes they try to hide it even from themselves. In the spirit of withholding nothing I thought I’d divulge some of my sexual fetishes.
Now at first glance they may seem strange but trust me if I sat down and analyzed your fantasies I’d find some weird stuff locked away in the dark recesses of your imagination. Don’t worry we’re just humans. See that’s just it: I don’t worry about it! I worry about a million other things but not this. I’m entirely at ease with who I am as a sexual person--bizarre sexual fantasies included. Hang-ups are for telephones man. I wish I was gay. I would have come out of the closet when I was a toddler. Could have hosted a preschool Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
I’m too goddamn honest, I wouldn’t be able to hide such an integral part of who I am unless I grew up somewhere like Uganda where my head could get lopped off for admiring another mans pectorals wishing they were mine and dreaming about all the dirty things I would do to this town with ‘em. I’m eternally baffled by gays in countries like Canada who have vast support networks and still feel inclined to stay in the closet. I know everyone has their reasons and my heart goes out to them--there must be a gnawing pain in their gut that makes them want to scream: “I LOVE COCK!” in the middle of some place entirely inappropriate like church or gym. I should start a support group for gay people stuck in the closet. A very clandestine group, like the Marines or the Seals. We’ll go around to sports bars and wait for the Leafs game to end and then we’d straight-bash the heteros with baseball bats emblazoned with slogans like Straight-Hate, or Gay Power or Fag Force One.
I detest macho behaviour. I detest small talk about the weather, I detest most humans, and I probably detest you…well not you but definitely you.
My sexuality will never be a problem for you so I’m going to pre-emptively tell you to STFU already and go suck a lemon. Stop being threatened. Look outside it’s a wonderful day, go and do something with your life.
(Note to the reader: From this point on I will refer to any and all transexuals as ‘she’ and not ’he’ just because I feel like it and it looks better in print to just pick one or the other. Biologically speaking yes a tranny is a ‘he’ but for these purposes it makes sense to use ‘she’ out of respect for the trannys because after all wouldn’t they want me to use ‘she’?)
I suppose that technically speaking I’m bi-sexual but as I stated at the beginning (remember I’m a three) there is a continuum on which to judge sexuality. I like to occasionally sniff cocaine and for those of you who do not partake in the devils dandruff it can make you do things of a sexual nature that you wouldn’t do while sober. Me? Among other things I like transsexuals. Yeah I said it, and what the fuck are you gonna do about it? Tell my mommy? I’ve jerked off to tranny porn on the internet. Ahh…I feel so much better. I just want to scream it from a mountaintop: “I”VE JERKED OFF TO TRANNY PORN!”
But I’m very particular about which trannys I like. I mean come on I don’t like just any guy in a dress with tennis ball tits. What am I a fag? Hell no! I like refined trannys; the more fem the better. Particularly I like Asian trannys because Asians it appears have the softest most womanly features of any race I‘ve come across. I swear, some of them are so fem that it’s difficult to tell if it’s a man or a woman. And just so we’re clear I definitely don’t want to do any gay stuff with a tranny. I want to think of her exactly as a girl. I’m not going to be S’ing any P or getting F’d in the B. The way I see it is I’m so straight and I love women so much that I even like men who are dressed as women. Maybe I’m really a One masquerading as a Three?
I’ve only had one encounter with a transsexual. It was five in the morning and I was high and drunk out of mind downtown Toronto (Isn‘t that how every good story starts?). Actually it was a mistake. It should have been an encounter with a female prostitute but through my drunken wandering I ended up, after walking for kilometres in what is branded as--wait for it--Trannytown. The wrong side a’ tha tracks Jack. I wasn’t looking for a tranny per se but I thought what the hell I at least have to see what I’m missing. Now you have to understand that by this point I was hell bent on making it with a prostitute (a female one) and I was so horny that I just wanted to get it on with someone, anyone. Doesn’t anyone love me? I didn’t even think anything was non female about this neighbourhood until I got closer to one of the girls. Shit I saw one that looked like Gene Simmons with shaved legs.
I went up to the first passable tranny and said hi. She was white, about twenty five, blonde blue eyes, the whole package huh guys? Take her home to meet the parents and everything.
“Take a walk with me honey. You wanna get a room?” She said in a semi-fem cigarette stained voice.
“Yeah but I don’t want to pay for a room let’s just go into this alley. I just want a blow job, no sex.” I didn’t want to go all the way with this tranny, somehow I thought that would be too gay if I fucked her. If I’m just sitting back, relaxing and getting a blowjob, how gay can that possibly be?
“You sure you don’t wanna fuck the shit out of me?”
“Ah yes I’m quite sure.”
She begrudgingly agreed with a sigh and we went into a nearby alley. The sun was coming up and it was turning into a beautiful July morning. I grabbed her tits and gave them a good squeeze--what were they made of? I was like a detective. I was about to ask her but thought it would kill what constituted as a mood. At the same time I felt a pang of guilt for the people in the house right by the alleyway. What if they look out their window? They get to see a guy whacked out of his mind on booze and drugs about to get his dick sucked by a man masquerading as a women. What a world.
She unzipped my pants and got on her knees. I was starting to get excited. At this point I had long abandoned any care that this is indeed a man--I just wanted a human being to suck the poison out of my system.
She took me into her mouth and began expertly jerking and sucking my penis. Something was up though because she kept stopping and looking around nervously. Christ another tranny whore dope fiend.
“Ya know I really think if you want to continue we have to get a room.”
Again with this fucking room. I was out of my head but had enough sense to know that going to a slime ball tranny hotel full of gender bending debauchery with two grams of cocaine tucked into my sock was a bad idea.
“I am definitely NOT going to a hotel with you!” Geez what’s a guy got to do to get his rocks off in this town? And with that she got up in a huff and started to walk away. I made some futile attempt to make her stay, an “Aww shucks come on” or a “Please baby don’t leave” but what could I do but watch her walk out of my life. Parting is such sweet sorrow. In the end I was out eighty bucks and an orgasm.
Memories!
After getting that horrible quasi-gay experience out of my system I feel a need to restore my impoverished masculinity. As gay as that last story was you must know that I’m incredibly hetero when it comes to my non human species relationships. I would never in my life consider getting a male cat. Ewww…that’s disgusting! And totally gay! How could I cuddle up at night with a manly furry animal? It has a penis no less! I couldn't hug and lovingly shake a male cat. No! Cuddling and kissing are for fags and grandmas.
Except…
I have French kissed some of my male friends while extremely drunk. I really only did it for shock value--it’s not like we were all alone. We were at a bar--yes, a straight bar. It seems perfectly normal to me to engage in behaviour that is repulsive just to see what’s happening on the other side of the fence.
People say that your true intentions come out while you’re drunk but that’s not true. I've dry humped a fat old bearded man while singing Dancing In The Dark during Karaoke Friday at the Jekyll and Hyde. It was not my true intention. Anything done while drunk is excusable; shit I stuck a wine bottle up my ass sans lubrication. Though I was quite intoxicated I remember the bottle incident quite well. There was a group of us in my basement after a night of boozing at the bar. It was mostly just us guys but there was one girl there--a beautiful Iranian with pouty lips and a great ass; definitely not the niqab type. She was passed out on the couch and awoke to the drunken guffaws of our rowdy gang laughing like only you can when someone spontaneously tries to stick an empty wine bottle up their ass. She had the most distinct look of horror as she awakened from her deep drunken slumber to the sight of this skinny white guy cringing as he gets a good two and a half inches of glass up his butt.
It almost became a macho thing--like fast cars or arm wrestling. All the guys were rooting for me, egging me on. “Get MORE up there Tay! Get more up there!”
Without their support I don’t think I could have forced that last half an inch up there.
Now at first glance they may seem strange but trust me if I sat down and analyzed your fantasies I’d find some weird stuff locked away in the dark recesses of your imagination. Don’t worry we’re just humans. See that’s just it: I don’t worry about it! I worry about a million other things but not this. I’m entirely at ease with who I am as a sexual person--bizarre sexual fantasies included. Hang-ups are for telephones man. I wish I was gay. I would have come out of the closet when I was a toddler. Could have hosted a preschool Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
I’m too goddamn honest, I wouldn’t be able to hide such an integral part of who I am unless I grew up somewhere like Uganda where my head could get lopped off for admiring another mans pectorals wishing they were mine and dreaming about all the dirty things I would do to this town with ‘em. I’m eternally baffled by gays in countries like Canada who have vast support networks and still feel inclined to stay in the closet. I know everyone has their reasons and my heart goes out to them--there must be a gnawing pain in their gut that makes them want to scream: “I LOVE COCK!” in the middle of some place entirely inappropriate like church or gym. I should start a support group for gay people stuck in the closet. A very clandestine group, like the Marines or the Seals. We’ll go around to sports bars and wait for the Leafs game to end and then we’d straight-bash the heteros with baseball bats emblazoned with slogans like Straight-Hate, or Gay Power or Fag Force One.
I detest macho behaviour. I detest small talk about the weather, I detest most humans, and I probably detest you…well not you but definitely you.
My sexuality will never be a problem for you so I’m going to pre-emptively tell you to STFU already and go suck a lemon. Stop being threatened. Look outside it’s a wonderful day, go and do something with your life.
(Note to the reader: From this point on I will refer to any and all transexuals as ‘she’ and not ’he’ just because I feel like it and it looks better in print to just pick one or the other. Biologically speaking yes a tranny is a ‘he’ but for these purposes it makes sense to use ‘she’ out of respect for the trannys because after all wouldn’t they want me to use ‘she’?)
I suppose that technically speaking I’m bi-sexual but as I stated at the beginning (remember I’m a three) there is a continuum on which to judge sexuality. I like to occasionally sniff cocaine and for those of you who do not partake in the devils dandruff it can make you do things of a sexual nature that you wouldn’t do while sober. Me? Among other things I like transsexuals. Yeah I said it, and what the fuck are you gonna do about it? Tell my mommy? I’ve jerked off to tranny porn on the internet. Ahh…I feel so much better. I just want to scream it from a mountaintop: “I”VE JERKED OFF TO TRANNY PORN!”
But I’m very particular about which trannys I like. I mean come on I don’t like just any guy in a dress with tennis ball tits. What am I a fag? Hell no! I like refined trannys; the more fem the better. Particularly I like Asian trannys because Asians it appears have the softest most womanly features of any race I‘ve come across. I swear, some of them are so fem that it’s difficult to tell if it’s a man or a woman. And just so we’re clear I definitely don’t want to do any gay stuff with a tranny. I want to think of her exactly as a girl. I’m not going to be S’ing any P or getting F’d in the B. The way I see it is I’m so straight and I love women so much that I even like men who are dressed as women. Maybe I’m really a One masquerading as a Three?
I’ve only had one encounter with a transsexual. It was five in the morning and I was high and drunk out of mind downtown Toronto (Isn‘t that how every good story starts?). Actually it was a mistake. It should have been an encounter with a female prostitute but through my drunken wandering I ended up, after walking for kilometres in what is branded as--wait for it--Trannytown. The wrong side a’ tha tracks Jack. I wasn’t looking for a tranny per se but I thought what the hell I at least have to see what I’m missing. Now you have to understand that by this point I was hell bent on making it with a prostitute (a female one) and I was so horny that I just wanted to get it on with someone, anyone. Doesn’t anyone love me? I didn’t even think anything was non female about this neighbourhood until I got closer to one of the girls. Shit I saw one that looked like Gene Simmons with shaved legs.
I went up to the first passable tranny and said hi. She was white, about twenty five, blonde blue eyes, the whole package huh guys? Take her home to meet the parents and everything.
“Take a walk with me honey. You wanna get a room?” She said in a semi-fem cigarette stained voice.
“Yeah but I don’t want to pay for a room let’s just go into this alley. I just want a blow job, no sex.” I didn’t want to go all the way with this tranny, somehow I thought that would be too gay if I fucked her. If I’m just sitting back, relaxing and getting a blowjob, how gay can that possibly be?
“You sure you don’t wanna fuck the shit out of me?”
“Ah yes I’m quite sure.”
She begrudgingly agreed with a sigh and we went into a nearby alley. The sun was coming up and it was turning into a beautiful July morning. I grabbed her tits and gave them a good squeeze--what were they made of? I was like a detective. I was about to ask her but thought it would kill what constituted as a mood. At the same time I felt a pang of guilt for the people in the house right by the alleyway. What if they look out their window? They get to see a guy whacked out of his mind on booze and drugs about to get his dick sucked by a man masquerading as a women. What a world.
She unzipped my pants and got on her knees. I was starting to get excited. At this point I had long abandoned any care that this is indeed a man--I just wanted a human being to suck the poison out of my system.
She took me into her mouth and began expertly jerking and sucking my penis. Something was up though because she kept stopping and looking around nervously. Christ another tranny whore dope fiend.
“Ya know I really think if you want to continue we have to get a room.”
Again with this fucking room. I was out of my head but had enough sense to know that going to a slime ball tranny hotel full of gender bending debauchery with two grams of cocaine tucked into my sock was a bad idea.
“I am definitely NOT going to a hotel with you!” Geez what’s a guy got to do to get his rocks off in this town? And with that she got up in a huff and started to walk away. I made some futile attempt to make her stay, an “Aww shucks come on” or a “Please baby don’t leave” but what could I do but watch her walk out of my life. Parting is such sweet sorrow. In the end I was out eighty bucks and an orgasm.
Memories!
After getting that horrible quasi-gay experience out of my system I feel a need to restore my impoverished masculinity. As gay as that last story was you must know that I’m incredibly hetero when it comes to my non human species relationships. I would never in my life consider getting a male cat. Ewww…that’s disgusting! And totally gay! How could I cuddle up at night with a manly furry animal? It has a penis no less! I couldn't hug and lovingly shake a male cat. No! Cuddling and kissing are for fags and grandmas.
Except…
I have French kissed some of my male friends while extremely drunk. I really only did it for shock value--it’s not like we were all alone. We were at a bar--yes, a straight bar. It seems perfectly normal to me to engage in behaviour that is repulsive just to see what’s happening on the other side of the fence.
People say that your true intentions come out while you’re drunk but that’s not true. I've dry humped a fat old bearded man while singing Dancing In The Dark during Karaoke Friday at the Jekyll and Hyde. It was not my true intention. Anything done while drunk is excusable; shit I stuck a wine bottle up my ass sans lubrication. Though I was quite intoxicated I remember the bottle incident quite well. There was a group of us in my basement after a night of boozing at the bar. It was mostly just us guys but there was one girl there--a beautiful Iranian with pouty lips and a great ass; definitely not the niqab type. She was passed out on the couch and awoke to the drunken guffaws of our rowdy gang laughing like only you can when someone spontaneously tries to stick an empty wine bottle up their ass. She had the most distinct look of horror as she awakened from her deep drunken slumber to the sight of this skinny white guy cringing as he gets a good two and a half inches of glass up his butt.
It almost became a macho thing--like fast cars or arm wrestling. All the guys were rooting for me, egging me on. “Get MORE up there Tay! Get more up there!”
Without their support I don’t think I could have forced that last half an inch up there.
Monday, July 5, 2010
MY 29TH BIRTHDAY PT.1
When I told my mother that my trip up to Wasaga Beach would have to be put on hold for one more day I had to divulge the naughty bits. 'Yes mother I'm going on a date with someone. I met her at a strip club.'
'Oh no don't tell me she's a stripper is she?'
'Yes mother fortunately she's a stripper.'
'Oh you must be careful with her. Use protection and all.'
I always liked the way my mom used the word protection, she does it with words and without.
'Oh no don't tell me she's a stripper is she?'
'Yes mother fortunately she's a stripper.'
'Oh you must be careful with her. Use protection and all.'
I always liked the way my mom used the word protection, she does it with words and without.
MY 29TH BIRTHDAY PT.2
One day you get to a certain age and realize your birthday just doesn't have the same old gusto that it did when you were young. I woke up on my birthday this year feeling tired and vaguely unnerved. It was hot and sticky like I was covered in flytraps.
That's the one thing I remember from my birthdays of the past. It was always such a hot, humid, hazy summer day. Today was no different. A 'Triple Threat' as the Star called it. While we're on the topic of headlines I must note the Sun's brilliant monosyllabic summation of the G20 protests--'THUGS!". Almost as good as 'BASTARDS' after 9/11. But back to me...I'm so glad that my birthday is tucked nicely into summer because I wouldn't be caught dead with a toque in any of those photos thank you very much. I have a small little pea sized head and though my hair is slowly but surely jettisoning itself in a suicide pact against my beauty I still look dumber in a toque. Go figure.
So on the day of the old B-day I got up and brushed my teeth and decided what the hell I was going to do with my birthday and by extension, my life. Just fucking get it over with man make a decision and get on with it. Yeah yeah yeah I say to myself it'll happen just be patient. You know you're getting older when you just don't care about having fun anymore. Shit. You wake up and haven't got a good goddamn thing to do on your birthday. A tragedy really.
I resolved to have a few drinks at a couples place. After all, I didn't need the pageantry of a big parade just the intimacy of a couple good friends. We sat around deciding what to do with the night and then since our female companion had never seen the enirons of a strip club the two boys thought what the hell, she at least has to see what she's missing. Truth be told she was probably more excited about going than me. I don't care much for strip clubs and I've only been a handful of times in my legal aged life. I approach these establishments with an indifference; there's no romance in here! Absolutely no chance of meeting my future ex-wife in here. Or is there? I'd rather go to a shitty bar and shoot the shit.
I can't clearly remember if we went to The House of Lancaster or Club Paradise. They're both just a few steps away on Bloor St. Once inside I it doesn't matter much which place you're in though. I always hated the atmosphere in strip clubs and there's only two types of people roaming the floor...strippers looking to make a buck and crusty perverts. My sexual instincts took hold of me, eyes scanning the scantily clad ladies for a slice of heaven. Out of the strippers half were probably crack-head babies; half were normal. Who was I to know the difference? Isn't it like that at every job?
I laid eyes on this beautiful girl sitting aimlessly on a barstool staring out into the nauseating view of the club. It could be a vista of Hollywood, or a shot of some lions grazing in the Serengeti. But it wasn't. I boosted the courage to go and talk to this beauty--blond, petite with a cute face. Kind of like the singer Jewel. I assure you I could see my unborn babies in her eyes.
'Could I trouble you for a dance?' I said non chalantly.
'Sure'.
I was led to the private dancing area. A series of three sided black boxes where the empty space of the fourth wall had live action dancing human flesh. I liked what the decorator had done with place. Even though by this point I was nearly seeing double Gia (I had my doubts but she insisted it was her real name)--was being seen in high def believe me.
I was too drunk to get an erection but that didn't stop my wallet from ejaculating all over the place. I kept paying for song after song. We got to talking and she filled me up with fake stripper charm. But you know what? I was pretty lonely and fully loaded; plus fake charm feels better than no charm at all. Gosh, at some points I was staring into her eyes and professing my need to take her out for dinner atop the 360 restaurant at the CN Tower. We'd revolve over and above the entire city and marvel at the endless human madness. I get so bloody emotional after a few too many don't I?
I told her to slap me lightly and talk dirty. She served them both up to perfection. I just couldn't pry myself from this sensuous encounter. It was like she had an instant spell on me.
After $140 I decided finally that enough was enough so I went to the bank machine to get her the money and swiped my card about 7-8 times because I was too drunk to get the damn thing to work. Jesus fucking Christ I'm swiping the thing backward forward, slow then fast then flipping it upside down then using my other hand and reversing it. It's still not working!
Finally I get to the prompt where I enter my password. Shit. What's that again?
I recovered my wits and out spewed the money. We proceeded to sit down and have a couple drinks. We were talking and having quite a good time. I got her to agree to a date. Hell I don't get these strippers, these women that straddle the line between upstanding girl and downright prostitute. She's giving me her attention and her phone number. What is this game she's playing? I know strippers are paid to be nice and make you feel special but she was letting me touch her breasts and spank her and kiss her neck. And yes it was really her phone number because I didn't believe it and called her when we were standing together towards the end of the night.
Then it was her turn to dance.
'As soon as I'm done I'm going to come back and hang out with you, okay?'
'Yeah I hope so.'
I was starting to think leaving and going back to my friends house was the best idea.
I'm sitting there alone at some B- strip club on my birthday but at least I've fallen in love with a stripper. Can you spell sucker? What ever shall I do? I'm just going to sit here and text my friend and vaguely watch her dance out of the corner of my eye. Grab the odd peak at those sweet flanks. I felt oddly powerful sitting there looking about the crowd thinking, however deluded, 'Go ahead boys, get an eyeful she's coming home with me.'
Sure enough she sat down with me after her dance. The erotic dance, which by the way, is hilarious. First of all the girls slowly levitate up out of the undergound on a rising circular disco platform. Then they go to the pole and do their dance for the hungry masses. 'Could I live with this as a boyfriend? The answer came swift and abrupt: 'Yes, if she looked like her,' I thought as I watched and texted my friend to come back to the club and have a nightcap.
We had some more drinks and some more dances, maybe $60 worth for a grand total of $200. That's a lot in my world but really how can you put a price tag on love?
The final cue came; the lights in the club were turned up, the universal sign of closing time. I worried about how my thinning hair would look in this bright intense light. Shit, nowhere to hide. She didn't seem to mind and I left with the promise to call Gia on Monday which was an agonizing 2 days away.
I woke up much more hungover than the day of my birthday and couldn't stop thinking about Gia's body and calling her the next day. How to slice up 24 hours into neatly tolerable intervals? Buy an Iced Cap and read the paper, fuck me 22.5 hours left. Slowly but inevitably the next day came and I still I couldn't get her out of my mind, the little freckles about her nose, the thighs which were smooth as butter. She had a white trash tattoo of a lurching serpent or something or other on her back. I was too drunk to remember anything worth remembing of it.
I never did get the courage to actually call but in the spirit of the times I texted her twice, once at 11:30 and once at 4:30 and she never got back to me. I employed the 5 hour text rule.
Being sober from the allure of the situation I find it so difficult to actually call her. I feel like a different person now. What is a boy to do? I simply go on like a cork bobbing on the surface of another day.
That's the one thing I remember from my birthdays of the past. It was always such a hot, humid, hazy summer day. Today was no different. A 'Triple Threat' as the Star called it. While we're on the topic of headlines I must note the Sun's brilliant monosyllabic summation of the G20 protests--'THUGS!". Almost as good as 'BASTARDS' after 9/11. But back to me...I'm so glad that my birthday is tucked nicely into summer because I wouldn't be caught dead with a toque in any of those photos thank you very much. I have a small little pea sized head and though my hair is slowly but surely jettisoning itself in a suicide pact against my beauty I still look dumber in a toque. Go figure.
So on the day of the old B-day I got up and brushed my teeth and decided what the hell I was going to do with my birthday and by extension, my life. Just fucking get it over with man make a decision and get on with it. Yeah yeah yeah I say to myself it'll happen just be patient. You know you're getting older when you just don't care about having fun anymore. Shit. You wake up and haven't got a good goddamn thing to do on your birthday. A tragedy really.
I resolved to have a few drinks at a couples place. After all, I didn't need the pageantry of a big parade just the intimacy of a couple good friends. We sat around deciding what to do with the night and then since our female companion had never seen the enirons of a strip club the two boys thought what the hell, she at least has to see what she's missing. Truth be told she was probably more excited about going than me. I don't care much for strip clubs and I've only been a handful of times in my legal aged life. I approach these establishments with an indifference; there's no romance in here! Absolutely no chance of meeting my future ex-wife in here. Or is there? I'd rather go to a shitty bar and shoot the shit.
I can't clearly remember if we went to The House of Lancaster or Club Paradise. They're both just a few steps away on Bloor St. Once inside I it doesn't matter much which place you're in though. I always hated the atmosphere in strip clubs and there's only two types of people roaming the floor...strippers looking to make a buck and crusty perverts. My sexual instincts took hold of me, eyes scanning the scantily clad ladies for a slice of heaven. Out of the strippers half were probably crack-head babies; half were normal. Who was I to know the difference? Isn't it like that at every job?
I laid eyes on this beautiful girl sitting aimlessly on a barstool staring out into the nauseating view of the club. It could be a vista of Hollywood, or a shot of some lions grazing in the Serengeti. But it wasn't. I boosted the courage to go and talk to this beauty--blond, petite with a cute face. Kind of like the singer Jewel. I assure you I could see my unborn babies in her eyes.
'Could I trouble you for a dance?' I said non chalantly.
'Sure'.
I was led to the private dancing area. A series of three sided black boxes where the empty space of the fourth wall had live action dancing human flesh. I liked what the decorator had done with place. Even though by this point I was nearly seeing double Gia (I had my doubts but she insisted it was her real name)--was being seen in high def believe me.
I was too drunk to get an erection but that didn't stop my wallet from ejaculating all over the place. I kept paying for song after song. We got to talking and she filled me up with fake stripper charm. But you know what? I was pretty lonely and fully loaded; plus fake charm feels better than no charm at all. Gosh, at some points I was staring into her eyes and professing my need to take her out for dinner atop the 360 restaurant at the CN Tower. We'd revolve over and above the entire city and marvel at the endless human madness. I get so bloody emotional after a few too many don't I?
I told her to slap me lightly and talk dirty. She served them both up to perfection. I just couldn't pry myself from this sensuous encounter. It was like she had an instant spell on me.
After $140 I decided finally that enough was enough so I went to the bank machine to get her the money and swiped my card about 7-8 times because I was too drunk to get the damn thing to work. Jesus fucking Christ I'm swiping the thing backward forward, slow then fast then flipping it upside down then using my other hand and reversing it. It's still not working!
Finally I get to the prompt where I enter my password. Shit. What's that again?
I recovered my wits and out spewed the money. We proceeded to sit down and have a couple drinks. We were talking and having quite a good time. I got her to agree to a date. Hell I don't get these strippers, these women that straddle the line between upstanding girl and downright prostitute. She's giving me her attention and her phone number. What is this game she's playing? I know strippers are paid to be nice and make you feel special but she was letting me touch her breasts and spank her and kiss her neck. And yes it was really her phone number because I didn't believe it and called her when we were standing together towards the end of the night.
Then it was her turn to dance.
'As soon as I'm done I'm going to come back and hang out with you, okay?'
'Yeah I hope so.'
I was starting to think leaving and going back to my friends house was the best idea.
I'm sitting there alone at some B- strip club on my birthday but at least I've fallen in love with a stripper. Can you spell sucker? What ever shall I do? I'm just going to sit here and text my friend and vaguely watch her dance out of the corner of my eye. Grab the odd peak at those sweet flanks. I felt oddly powerful sitting there looking about the crowd thinking, however deluded, 'Go ahead boys, get an eyeful she's coming home with me.'
Sure enough she sat down with me after her dance. The erotic dance, which by the way, is hilarious. First of all the girls slowly levitate up out of the undergound on a rising circular disco platform. Then they go to the pole and do their dance for the hungry masses. 'Could I live with this as a boyfriend? The answer came swift and abrupt: 'Yes, if she looked like her,' I thought as I watched and texted my friend to come back to the club and have a nightcap.
We had some more drinks and some more dances, maybe $60 worth for a grand total of $200. That's a lot in my world but really how can you put a price tag on love?
The final cue came; the lights in the club were turned up, the universal sign of closing time. I worried about how my thinning hair would look in this bright intense light. Shit, nowhere to hide. She didn't seem to mind and I left with the promise to call Gia on Monday which was an agonizing 2 days away.
I woke up much more hungover than the day of my birthday and couldn't stop thinking about Gia's body and calling her the next day. How to slice up 24 hours into neatly tolerable intervals? Buy an Iced Cap and read the paper, fuck me 22.5 hours left. Slowly but inevitably the next day came and I still I couldn't get her out of my mind, the little freckles about her nose, the thighs which were smooth as butter. She had a white trash tattoo of a lurching serpent or something or other on her back. I was too drunk to remember anything worth remembing of it.
I never did get the courage to actually call but in the spirit of the times I texted her twice, once at 11:30 and once at 4:30 and she never got back to me. I employed the 5 hour text rule.
Being sober from the allure of the situation I find it so difficult to actually call her. I feel like a different person now. What is a boy to do? I simply go on like a cork bobbing on the surface of another day.
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