Well, well. It looks as if Moesha is on her way to Memphis after all.
Author: Richard
Help! I awoke this morning to the realization that the fetish party at which Jonno and I agreed to perform is this Friday, not next Friday. And of course, being the professional procrastinators that we are, we haven’t the vaguest notion what we’re doing. I mean, yes, we know that we’re in charge of the “doghouse” room, but, well, we probably need more than just a couple of dog bowls and collars lying around, don’cha think?
The good news is that the party’s held in the glamorously run-down Audubon Hotel, which was formerly inhabited by aging junkies and prostitutes. (Actually, that’s the way it still is, more or less.) Management kicks guests out of the second and third floor rooms and turns ’em over to people like me and Jonno who have to redecorate ’em with a theme. Cool setup, no?
The bad news, of course, is that it’s a fetish party. Fetish parties may sound exciting and interesting and all, but as many of you know, in the end they rank among the dullest events you can ever attend. Why? Because after a while, as Perry Farrell once said, nothing’s shocking:
“Look, hon. Another flogging.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, Bob’s getting branded on the second floor. Wanna go watch?”
“Nah. I went with him to get his dick tattooed. I don’t like the way he moans when he’s in pain. Too fake.”
It’s a bit like preaching to the converted, you know. You think the idea is to shock partygoers with displays of wanton debauchery, but it’s pretty hard to get a rise out of anyone with more than 12 clit piercings.
Okay, so I think I may have recovered from this weekend. My eyes no longer have that delightful hepatitis-yellow tinge, and my hands aren’t shaking any more than usual. In short, it’s that weird transitional time: the one between “I never, ever wanna see alcohol again” and “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, who do I have to felch around here to get an Absolut/rocks/dirty?”
On a completely different note, I now seem to have two pals in the American Southwest (Albequerque, to be exact): first Corky and now Drioux. Historically, I’ve not encountered too many people from this part of the country, but what I see, I like….
After spending 24 of the last 48 hours at Lucky Cheng’s slinging parasol-type girlie drinks to heterosexuals who still think drag is funny, and after waking up feeling vaguely like I’d been gang raped by the LA Lakers (no lube), I come to work and spend the better part of my morning debating, essentially, whether our annual membership solicitation should be on regular letterhead or special letterhead. As Sarah Michelle Gellar once said, “Jesus-effing-Christ.”
It’s funny how dawn can make almost anyplace beautiful–with the notable exception, perhaps, of Elizabeth, New Jersey (but that’s another story). I, however, prefer to rise with the dawn than to see it on my way home from working an all-night party for South Beach pseudo-circuit, pseudo-homos. Maybe it’s the Protestant-work-ethic/Sunday-school side of me, or maybe it’s that vampire thing so prevalent in New Orleans, but I have to be home before the sun comes up. Staying out all night is something I just don’t do.
I’ve made it with 15 minutes to spare.
Someone’s done an update (though, sadly, it’s left the site much smaller than before). For jaded types like myself who tend to stay in on Saturday nights (in New Orleans, Saturdays are for amateurs), you might pass a pleasant half hour looking for the half-nekkid pic of Andrew Cunanan that Mr. Hawkins has left lying around. It’s hidden in one of the old galleries listed here. His own hint: “look for some of the only imagery on this site pertaining to Versace’s clothes and Miami Beach.” Happy hunting.
I can’t belive I forgot about this lovely page. Nothing better to do on Friday nights than play dress-up with your dolls. (No, that’s not a drug reference. Well, right now it’s not, anyway.)
Being the NAMBLA fan that I am (though not technically a chicken hawk), I just had to fire off a response to this irritating piece of drivel:
Dear Philip Guichard:
Thank you for your delightful article entitled “I Hate Older Men.” I thought it was extremely insightful for someone of your few years.
I particularly enjoyed your argument that man/boy relationships are inherently imbalanced. I have, indeed, found this to be true, but for slightly different reasons.
As a young lad growing up in the wilds of Mississippi, I was consistently drawn to older men–not because there were no boys my age who wished to knock the proverbial boots (there were quite a few, and quite a lot of hay in which to roll, too), but because these boys were lousy fucks. I got good head, good ass, and learned quite a bit of sexual technique from men three times my own age.
When I grew older, therefore, it seemed a matter of course that I would eventually have some sort of relationship with an older man. And I did. But in the end I found these relationships just as disappointing as the ones I’d had with boys my own age. The men’s considerable sexual prowess was entirely counteracted by their inevitable conservatism (these things happen as one ages) and, ultimately, vastly different life experiences.
So, I believe what I’m asking here is that you call a spade a spade: you’re simply not sexually attracted to older men. Point made. There’s no need to carry the argument any further and invalidate every man/boy relationship on the planet simply because you prefer to fuck your cohorts. In fact, given the chance to chat you up for ten minutes, I’m sure older men would find you to be very much like the article which you’ve chosen to share with the world: vapid, insipid, and terrifyingly limited in scope.
Cheers,
Richard
Did I take that too personally or what? What’s your take?
[NB: Due to the devastating coffee famine that has recently hit St. Roch Avenue, Richard has asked Lucy Pevensie to provide this morning’s blog.]
Hullo, there!
It’s me, Lucy! I’m so glad to see all of you. It’s been ever so long!
I’m currently hidden away at the back of a closet at my Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold’s. Edmund and I have been sent here for a fortnight while mum and dad and Susan go on holiday in America. It’s not too dreadful, really, except for our tarsome cousin Eustace. He’s always creeping about with his nose in everything. The other day, Edmund and I were having a jolly good time under the bedclothes when Eustace came in and bloody spoiled everything. Luckily, Edmund’s very skilled at taking on boys and gave him a good wallop to the noggin. Eustace fell over and hit one of Aunt Alberta’s favorite ceramic badgers, and now he’s on the outs with her! Huzzah! Bully for Edmund!
Sitting here right now, I can hear Eustace going through my dresser drawers. Blast! He’s got quite a thing for my underclothes, I do say. Edmund thinks that’s quite alright–in fact he rather likes it when Eustace prances about in my knickers. (Sometimes the two of them together can be more dreadful than anything.) Edmund will oft-times encourage Eustace in his tomfoolery, strewing my clothes across the bedchamber and forcing Eustace to dress up in them, after which follows an interminable wrestling match. With all the roughhousing, it’s a bit of a stumper why Aunt Alberta hasn’t locked us in our room and fed us naught but suet pudding.
Well, I do believe I must be off. I don’t really want to cross paths with Cousin E., but I’m afraid I’ve no choice. Edmund seems to think Aslan will be coming for us soon and he said he wants to play another round of physician with Eustace and me before we shove off. Cheers, then!
Your faithful servant,
Lucy Pevensie
P.S. Richard has just told me he intends to post this on the world-wide inter-thingummy. How exciting! Ta!
This, on the other hand….
