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“Brian, the Power-Bottom Bear”
(previously published as “Brian the Poo and His PlayStation 2”)

from my forthcoming book of gay bedtime stories, Night-Night Sodomite

Brian was angry. “How could Teddy say no?” he wondered aloud. He looked at Jerry the Gerbil, sitting quietly in his cage, nibbling on a piece of arugula. Brian stared at Jerry, waiting for him to answer, but it didn’t happen. It never did. Sometimes Jerry made Brian feel more alone than he already was.

Brian went to his bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. ‘Why, there’s nothing wrong with me at all!” he thought to himself. “My head is tan and my hair is short, just like Teddy likes.” Brian turned around and craned his neck to see his behind. “Firm and fuzzy like always.” He leaned over and peered into the mirror from between his own legs. It was funny to see the world upside-down! “My woo-woo couldn’t be any cleaner,” he said, “so it’s not that, either!” Brian stood up too fast and got so dizzy, he fell on the floor. Whee!

Laying there on the shag carpet, Brian thought about Teddy. He remembered seeing Teddy at a birthday party the week before. It was a fun party–there was cake and ice cream and a pony and a sling! And then everyone went into the basement, and someone turned out the lights! Brian was sitting next to Teddy, and he got that funny feeling in his special area. He reached out to touch Teddy, but then someone turned the lights on again, and Brian saw Teddy kissing a girl! Ew!

“Maybe that’s it!” Brian said as he sat up. “Maybe Teddy wants me to be like a girl!” Brian ran to his mommy’s closet and took out one of her old housecoats. He put it on and pranced around in front of his bedroom mirror. Gosh, he looked funny! But he looked kind of good, too! After dancing a little while, Brian got that special feeling he sometimes gets. He knelt down and pulled an extra-large bottle of AstroGlide from under his bed and touched his ho-ho ’till it made a mess. Then he was tired!

In another minute or two, Brian had forgotten all about Teddy and how he slammed the door in Brian’s face that afternoon. Brian took off his mommy’s housecoat and rolled around on it until he was cleaned up. Then he played Space Channel 5 all afternoon, ’till his daddy called him downstairs to dinner.

THE END

Inspired by–who else?–the one and only Frank Green.

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Odes to Unlikely Lovers
or
In Praise of Gutter Love

There is a young artist named Bob

whose medium is wattle and daub.

His demeanor’s a dud–

he’s as exciting as mud–

but he knows how to slobber a knob.

An impoverished young lad on the dole,

tired of dining on Marmite and vole,

said, “Blast and confound!

I must earn a pound!”

so he learned to take poles up his hole.

A dental assistant named Young

had a queer fascination with tongues–

his own was so long

that some thought it a schlong

when he rammed his hung tongue up their bung.

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TRUISMS

  • Fischerspooner is okay, but the best part of seeing them perform live is knowing that 90% of the men in the audience want to be as fabulous as the dancing girls onstage.
  • That whole angsty-art-school-petulance thing is so very done.
  • House of Blues works much better as gay bar.
  • It would be interesting to create a line of underwear emblazoned with the words “3-inch cock.”
  • Photos of people covered in beads and wearing masks may be fine for Fleetwood Mac publicity shots or as the cover of the latest installment of Girls Gone Wild, but as art, they’re awful.
  • In semi-tropical climes, October is kinda like picking up a really hot trick, taking him back to your place for some non-stop erotic power-fisting, then waiting for his inevitably clumsy, abrupt departure.
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Obviously, the hack who wrote this article on the disappearance of the custom of “family honor” has never been to Mississippi. All through my life–even today–my dad’s had the same response to anything the least bit unconventional that my brothers and I might do: “Well, now, that won’t look good.” “To whom, dad?” we’d ask, “Who on earth is going to care if we stay home from church tonight to play a little Dungeons and Dragons? We’ll stay away from the windows….” “It just won’t look good, son.”

The closest I ever got to making my father realize the foolishness of worrying over our family’s (meager) reputation came in the early 1990s, when my then-boyfriend, Martin, and I moved into a kick-ass swankster pad in the middle of the Quarter with our friend Victoria. Dad’s admonishment came right on cue: “What on earth will the neighbors think? Living with a woman!” And of course, he wasn’t just talking about my neighbors, he was talking about his.

My response went something like, “Well, dad, my neighbors are really too gin-soaked to give a damn about how I carry on. And as far as your neighbors are concerned, considering that I’m living smack-dab in the middle of the French Quarter, in the middle of what Baptists like to call Sodom on the Mississip’–aka New Orleans–with my boyfriend, the fact that I’m living with an honest-to-goddess, biological woman is kind of a saving grace. I mean, who knows–maybe the Sauciers and the Bushes will think I’ve moved down here to be a closet heterosexual, which might reflect well on all of us…. Of course, that begs the question how on earth they’d find out in the first place: are you planning to take out a classified ad in the paper? Does the Baptist church have an army of robot rats, mounted with high-tech spy cameras? Or maybe Brother Billy tagged me with some kind of tracking device when I got dunked in the baptismal font?” Though Dad didn’t admit defeat, he didn’t try to argue with me either, which is kind of the same thing.

I should point out that the notion of “family honor” doesn’t depend on money: my family isn’t particularly wealthy, just genteel. And I should also point out that I’m not the only one who’s been through this. Throughout my childhood, I overheard similar conversations murmured at friends’ dinner tables, hissed to children at the mall, and shouted in cars that passed me by in the school parking lot. There were many others with me–many others intent on following my teen idol, Princess Stephanie of Monaco, down the path of bad behavior, sleeping with an army of gardners, carpenters, and circus freaks along the way.

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“The best writers won’t want to bury themselves beneath a weblogsinc.com subdomain,” he wrote at nickdenton.com. “Writers take satisfaction, not in the paltry recompense for Web writing, but in the boost it can give to their personal brands and the freelance income that comes from a strong Web profile.”

— CBS Marketwatch

Not that, based on my recent output, anyone would consider me a writer or anything.

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What on earth are we ever gonna do with Ms. Wainright? Sweetie, we love your music–really we do–but in all honesty, you shoulda been an actor, ’cause we ain’t never seen a drama queen that could hold a candle to you.

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They’re here. I can smell them–the heady, noxious aroma of tanning oil, Kiehl’s “Creme de Corps,” Aveda Rosemary Mint Shampoo, and day-old Ketamine sweating from pores.

I can hear them, too. Their music is loud, booming from convertible Volkswagen Beetles and Miatas and other god-my-penis-is-small cars in 4/4 time. It’s called High-NRG, but it puts me to sleep. Above the clash of artificial percussion instruments, I can hear only their sibilant tongues as they coil and unfurl around words like “Balenciaga,” “Anna Sui,” “Versace,” and of course, “ecstasy.”

And now, at last, I can see them. The sun glints off glossy, glabrous abdomens and triceps as though they were ripples on a dead lake. I see waves of identical armband tattoos, snap-and-glo bracelets, and cheap necklaces of Puka shell.

I sound bitter. You’re waiting for me to say, “Damn, Decadence didn’t used to be this way, with all the circuit faggotry and shit.” But to be fair, it’s been like this for a long, long time. And to be fair, I kinda like it–not the crowds and the crackwhores and the prissies and the general stupidity of your average tourist, but the stoop-sitting and people-watching and socializing with friends I haven’t seen all year. I may not don a wig on Sunday like I used to–I mean, it’s fucking hot out there, Mary–but I’ll do my thing, say my piece, cut my rug.

Anyone wanna join me?

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Uh, I don’t know if some search engine went haywire or what, but to the sudden deluge of folks who’ve wound up here looking for information on you-know-who: you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.