Heeeeeee-aaaaah OR Martial Arts Ass; Trouble in the Making

Howdy doody All,

My apologies on the blog delay…got a scathing email from one of my friends who thinks this thing is like crack…can’t go without a fix.

Let me detail what’s going on in a short list then I’ll give you a story:

Job is driving me crazy
Have a date with Dart Hotty this Friday
Gay Pride is this weekend (I think I’ll get plenty-o-bloggfodder)
I have quit drinking

On to the story…

Okay, so you know that I love my energy drinks (favorite is my namesake, Rockstar). Anyway, I pulled into a convenience store that has the energy drinks I like, when Rockstar isn’t available. I walk through the doors…

Hello Hotty, working the counter…I went and got my drink, and proceeded to the checkout. The guy is a blonde (don’t usually go for them, as a rule, but every rule has an exception), and has a worked out bod.

I set the 8 oz can down on the counter, and give him a little smile of “hola”, because I’m the only one in the store, figuring a good flirt never hurt anyone…

He smiled back and said, “Just the energy drink?”

Enter a little background information…
The name of the energy drink is Donkey Kick…Me, being me (as I only I could), got it mixed up with another “donkey” phrase.

I replied, “Yeah, just need a Donkey Punch,” and then proceeded to turn 18 shades of red, hoping…praying…wishing…that he did not catch that slip up (If you don’t know what a Donkey Punch is, go here www.answers.com/topic/donkey-punch).

Of course, the gods of luck are fickle (giving me the big thumbs down on this one), and he knows exactly what a Donkey Punch is, as evident by his obvious enjoyment at my discomforting embarrassment.

I pay and leave the store quickly…
Only to return a week later…
Guess who was working?

I enter the store, get my drink, and head to the counter, all the while chanting, “Donkey Kick, Donkey Kick, Donkey Kick, Donkey Kick.” There was no way I was going to mess that one up again.

He gives me a smile, recognizing me from my last purchase…

Trying to beat him to the punch I said, “Just the Donkey PUNCH today!”

It just flew out of my mouth, like vomit from a horrible case of seafood poisoning (it’s the worst…trust me on that one). My chanting hadn’t paid off…It just had made me concentrate on my past faux pas all the more.

“I can’t believe I just did that, AGAIN,” I said to the hotty…

“Me either...”

“Thanks...at least I’m 2 and 0,” I stated, red-faced…leaving the store…mentally chanting, “Donkey Punch, Donkey Punch, Donkey Punch…(Hello Rainman).” Maybe I would make the same mistake again, and say the right phrase the next time.

Now, when I go into the store (the hotty doesn’t work there anymore), and pay for it…I don’t care what I say… You only live once, and now it’s a PJ (private joke) with my friends.

I’ll take a couple of Donkey Punches any day of the week…the drink (potty minds)…

“Call Dr. Freud, you’re slip is showing”

deutschmarc

P.S. If you want email updates of my blog postings, email me at dmchronicles@yahoo.com

Rolling Down the River

When I was younger, a group of friends and I would “tube down the river”. Since that time (and many news stories about the cleanliness of the water), I haven’t raged the rapids, because there’s no way to top the last run.

It was a hellishly hot day, and there were four of us (two couples-Stef and Jerry, my boyfriend and me).

When we got to the river and settled into the tubes, Jerry asked me why I had four bags of jumbo marshmallows. I told him that he would find out.

I then proceeded to poke holes in each of the bags, and let them marinate as we lolled down the river at a leisurely pace. Once the white treats had swelled with the septic water, MARSHMALLOW WARS was on…

I begin beaning my cohorts of river travel with the frenzy of a tennis ball shooter, missing more than hitting.

Jerry took one to the face, leaving a shmear of white goo (hehehehe). My boyfriend (who was a bit high maintenance) had defensive “wounds” on his arms from dodging the puffy bullets, as did Stef.

With much giggling and yelling, it was WW III on the river. After all of the ammo was spent, we settled in, comparing our wounds (trying to wash dried marshmallow off was hell). Jerry and I were floating next to each other, when I saw his hand shot out towards my head, jamming marshmallow into my ear as far as it would go. IT WAS ON…

I am a Scorpio, and we are very patient people when it comes to getting back at someone. We will wait until the perfect opportunity and make sure that the party that has done the wrong-doing will pay to the fullest….my opportunity would come, and it did about 20 minutes later.

Jerry and I got separated from our significant others (the gals), and had taken a side rivulet. We were facing each other and talking (he knew me really well, and had that nervous look in his eye, wondering when I would sting). I reached down in the river to paddle along, when what should my hand close upon? A lot of people bring food to the river (EEEEEeeew, eating in a toilet), and sometimes their coolers tip over, giving the river a bounty of culinary delights…my hand happened to grasp an old subway sandwich bag. I reached in deep and made a soggy meatball of the remnants of the sub.

I smiled my wicked, evil smile and looked at Jerry, bringing up my hand to wing my luncheon missile. His eyes connected with my plan, and he screamed, “NOOOOoooooooo!” as he kicked up a huge wall of water.

With a prayer to the gods of revenge, I hucked the gooey, sloppy mess through the wall of white water, never expecting what would happen next.

Jerry was still screaming when I threw the glob of muck, “Nooooooooooo…ach..cough..hack.... cough.”

I had hit him right in the mouth, through the wall of water, as he was screaming. I, of course, started laughing so hard that I almost puked.

His last words, “Dude, that was nasty. I can still taste the pickle.”

Never mess with a Scorpio… or as I like to say, “Don’t bring Kool-Aid to a Beer Party.”

Have a good one….

deutschmarc

Shootin Deer in tha Hood

My friend Robbie and I went out last night to the local Country & Western gay bar that has disco boots dangling, turning, and sparkling over the dance floor for 2-4-1 cocktails.

We had just had dinner after dropping Seth off at the airport, so it was just 2/3s of the “Trio of Terror”, out on the town.

Robbie and I swaggered into the bar, got a drink, and did a quick and uneventful “love lap”, before settling on the “vulture roost”, which was one of our favorite spots (you get to see everyone that walks in the door—CAAaaw Caaaaw).

We perused the room with uninterested eyes, which eventually rested on the video game machines that were located in the corner. We noticed that they had been changed out for new ones. We looked at each other as we saw one in particular…

DEER HUNTER 2000 (it is a country bar after all)

Robbie quickly went to the bar to get change as we bee lined for the game. We figured if there wasn’t anyone in the bar to track, hunt, and throw over our shoulders, we might as well hunt poor, defenseless, digital mammals…

I have to admit, it isn’t the most humane game out there, but we couldn’t resist being twisted and enjoying ourselves like children opening presents on Christmas Morn. Our giggles quickly escalated, as we painted a picture of two hick hunters in the woods shootin them varmints to provide viddles for the family. We were almost crying as we took it one step further by adding a queer flavor to the comments…

“You kin call that thar one Boy George, cuz he tumbled for ya,” as the digital buck flipped forward from the shot to its “vitals”.

“GoOOOooolly, looky thar, you just bagged a bigg-un. 197 lbs, we autta send over a venison roast to the Dawsons down by tha holler.”

These types of comments caused us to laugh so hard that Robbie almost blew beer through his nose, and we were slapping knees, holding stomachs, and generally making asses out of ourselves.

Of course, our hilarity led to people wanting to know what was going on…so they had to walk by slyly to see what was making us cut up.

To make Robbie laugh more (okay, so I’m a ham), between “huntin trips” I had to pose with the gun like one of Charlie’s Angels…I’m gay-wadda ya want???

So these guys walk up (again…slyly), and they were either appalled (okay, for good reason, I had selected a composite bow), or “quietly” whispered into their friend’s ear as they walked by, “Oooo my gawd, how butch” (which, I then couldn’t resist pulling a Lucy Liu pose from Angels Full Throttle---just to mess with them and their preconceptions of butch).

After dumping $4 into the machine, we decided to head out (our gay reps were taking it in the tight one), and go to our next stop of the night.

On the way, I turn to Robbie and say, “That (the bar) was pretty good tonight…I scored about 10 young bucks.”

If it were only that easy…

deutschmarc

This Could be Me...Funny Story

So, a friend of mine sent me this email, and I just didn't have the heart to delete it; it makes me giggle when I am mad, because it sounds like something I would do...

The story of my soul-sister... love deutschmarc:

The other night I was invited out for a night with the girls I promised my husband that I would be home by midnight. Well, the hours passed and the margaritas went down way too easy. Around 3 a.m., a bit loaded, I headed for home. Just as I got in the door, the cuckoo clock in the hall started up and cuckooed three times. Quickly, realizing my husband would probably wake up, I cuckooed another nine times. I was really proud of myself for coming up with such a quick-witted solution (even when totally smashed), in order to escape a possible conflict with him.

The next morning my husband asked me what time I got in and I told him "Midnight." He didn't seem pissed off at all. Whew! Got away with that One! Then he said, "Well, then we need a new cuckoo clock."

When I asked him why, he said, "Well, last night our clock cuckooed three times, then said, "Oh shit," cuckooed four more times, cleared its throat, cuckooed another three times, giggled, cuckooed twice more, and then tripped over the coffee table and farted.

Late Dining, Bone-In, Sawing a Thousand, Million Logs, and Ripping the Big One

If Dart Hotty (DH) ever asks me to spend the night again, he should get Sainthood...but I'm an optimist, so I didn't have my duel with Palm Lane this morning. It was the first time that I ever spent the night over at his place.

Let me give you the down low...

When I got off of work, I went right to DH's house, expecting mellow times; maybe some cuddling on the couch or in bed, then dinner, more lazing in each other's arms, some action, then bed.

Expectations aside, it didn't happen that way at all. I arrived at his house, and he was buzzing around like a bee that just scored an eight ball. He was cleaning, dusting, wiping everything in sight, which made me think that he might be anal-retentive, obsessive compulsive (but who am I to judge). I sat on the couch, trying to relax as I watched his maneuvers with the gusto of a spent cigarette.

After awhile, he invited me to his room to "relax", and let me telll you, if that's relaxing, my face would be in one piece...He had "stealth 5 o'clock shadow" (when he looks clean shaven, but has stubble like course ground sandpaper coated in diamond chips). Needing a facial exfoliant session, I didn't mind.

After 7:00, we get up to make some dinner...chicken on the grill and baked potatoes with a side of green beans. DH didn't have enough foil for the potatoes, so I offered to run to drugstore right down the way to pick some up.

Having a free moment, I called my friend Stef, to give her the play by play of my evening so far. I get to the store and cannot find foil to save my life (it ended up being in paper goods---retards--who would put foil in paper goods?).

I get back to DH's after the 25 minute fiasco of trying to find foil, which could have been made a 10 minute trip if I had only asked for directions (see, I am a man). I find out that the chicken is on the bone...(ISSUE). I admit, I am spoiled by America's food product (no bones, no faces). It makes eating meat...enjoyable. To have to eat meat with bones in it reminds me that the animal was once a "thriving" creature. I sucked it up, and with the surgeon-like precision that I had achieved at a very young age, I cut every tendon, ligament and otherwise "grody" chicken bit off. I ate all of it (dinner was around 9:00, by the way baked potatoes on the grill take a long time), and was ready to settle in for quality time with DH.

What ended up happening was that he buzzed around like he just had eaten crack-coated chicken and wiped everything in his kitchen down in a manner that would make a Health Department Investigator wipe a tear of joy away from his/her lashes.

I was tired, and a little cranky when we finally made the "jog" to his bedroom. We settled into bed, and started making out (face ouchies part deux)...we were enjoying ourselves, when his phone rang (around 11). He saw who it was (I could tell it was the ex), and he didn't answer (smart move DH).

We explored the male physique more until we reached the grande finale, and settled in for sleepy time, when it hit me...

I had to fart...BAD...while spooning. I knew that it was not going to be a one shot deal either (think of a massive earthquake and the after shocks that shortly follow). I was mortified, and could think of no way out of his arms...I could hit the bathroom, but it was right off of the bedroom (with a slatted door--no way I could "squeek a few out" without being busted).

I prayed to the Fart Gods that I would give them their due in the morning, if only they left it a quiet night...I think it worked...I was "fart free". Enter issue number 2...

I sometimes snore sooooooooooooooo loud that a woodshop seems like a hushed library. (DH has 2 dogs, so my nose was stuffed up, until my body adjusted to being around foreign animals -much like my deal with children).

As I was just about to fall asleep (hoping that I wouldn't warm the sheets), DH's phone rings again...THE DREADED EX. Now I'm annoyed...

I had put my body into a kind of bindhu trance, so I wouldn't blow the covers off the bed, which required a sense of concentration that someone with a hyperactivity disorder does not achieve often. I was ready to go to sleep, when the phone keeps ringing (voicemail).

I fall into a light sleep, so that I can catch myself snoring...It works, and I wake up 2 of the times I begin to start (and I can tell that I haven't ripped one yet, because the pressure is still there).

I go back to sleep, and proceed to snore so loud that I wake myself up, JUST AS, DH's phone goes off again!!! He is already out of bed, answering the phone and prancing off to the spare bedroom to try to get some rest and have a conversation with his ex, which I am 100% sure that he hasn't told him that he's dating. I go back to bed (whatever--can't handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen, which should actually be, "can't handle warm sheets...stay out of the bedroom.").

I wake up in the morning, and get ready to take a shower. DH's shower is one of those that requires you to be an engineer, alchemist, and borderline psychic with excellent problem solving skills. Each turn of the hot & cold caused an annoying screetch (imagine nails on chalkboard times infinity), which made me make a mental note to NEVER, EVER, spend the night (If I ever get another invite) if I am going to have a hangover.

I finally finish with my shower, give him a quick peck, as he hands me my coffee, and exit for work, trying to keep a straight face through my apologies about snoring...and silently hoping I wasn't his leg warmer through the night. As I leave, I take a look at my red-eyed, tussled hair, blue-eyed Dart Hotty and think, "Poor bastard...hanging with me will prove your mettle."

I get in my car with a quick wave, and begin my trek to work, ripping fart after fart, saying, "This one's for you Palm Lane. Eat that one," realizing that I may indeed need to seek professional help; I had just spent the night at a hot guy's house, kept him up with my incessant snoring, and possibly suffocated any bed bugs, and yet with my immature sense of humor, kept myself endlessly entertained by making Palm Lane eat my farts, knowing that our duel was off today.

Can anyone give me a referral to a good therapist?

deutschmarc

Designed to be a Stressful Life

Today I am wiggin out. I'm all "bajigaddy" from the news I received last night.

We had just kicked ass and took names from our dart games against the lesbians at the rival bar, when I found out that Project Runway is airing another season. As I had already applied for updates on casting for the show, I think I doodied my low-rise, straight-leg jeans. I was not ready to try out for the show...

Since I was a wee gay lad, I think that I've always wanted to be a fashion designer. All of my experiences in life have led me to this path, of starting my own business in the clothing industry. It is a burning desire and need for me to fulfill.

There are a few things that you need to know...

I hate sewing...HATE IT...When I took a class on apparel construction in college, I had to drop it for very basic reasons.

I almost sewed one of my fingers on the industrial Singer, and if you look close on the underside of my right forearm, you can still see the burn from my run in with the iron (I, of course, lost). I was a walking disaster in the sewing room.

Since that time, I have my own machine (shut up, I still smoke camels, beat straight guys at playstation, and love anime). I am able to sew basic garments, but there would be no way for me to be on the show with my skill set now.

But...I....Must...Be...On...That show... I love it so much, and it would be a terrific jumping point for the field that I want to devote my life. So with a twisted up stomach, I have decided to do the only thing a man in my situation can do...

Fly to China, kidnap a tailor, and torture her with Ashlee Simpson music until she teaches me everything she knows.

Sound good?

deutschmarc

Wipe Your Face

Okay, if you read yesterday's "haps" you know how famously late I am every morning (no exception this morning--didn't even have time to get my breakfast).

I have to bring up something that happened weeks ago.

I had taken a shower the night before work, laid out my clothes, because I played darts, and knew that there would be no way my hungover ass would have been able to pick out anything.

I, in typical deutschmarc manner, awoke late (are you shocked?). I jumped into the clothes and threw some listerine strips in my mouth as I ran out the door.

I get to my regular convenience store (the gals give me packs of smokes and cashback without even thinking anymore) and enter. I notice people are staring at me...whatever, they can tell I'm still a little typsy and hungover.

I pay for my stuff. The gals are staring at me wide-eyed (no cash back today, out the door in a flash). I dash to my car thinking, "What the hell...I can't look that bad."

I get in my car and look in the rear view mirror--------FUCKIN SURPRISE!

I had the whitest, crustiest, drool trail from the corner of mouth to the bottom part of my chin. I tried to scratch it off, but there was just no chipping it away. It had to have been an all-night drool "stalactite". Each gooo-ey drop of drool must have hardened into a super glue, snail trail down my face.

I even tried the grandma wash, using more spit to try to get it off. It just made it slimy...

I finally got rid of it by using some day-old water from a bottle that was in the car, along with the inside part of my shirt. it must have taken 5 minutes, which I may add, made me even more late...GREAT.

I take another look in the mirror as I was stopped at Palm Lane (DAMN THAT PALM LANE- I know it made me drool). Then, of course, I had a big red smear from scraping off diamond hard saliva (Nice).

I sighed as I drove into my parking place at work, and swear that I'll always take a quick look in the mirror before rushing out the door.

May you never have a drool trail in public.

deutschmarc

If I Were a Girl, I'd Always Be Freaking Out (I'm always late)

I hate mornings...hate them!

Those "early birds" and "morning pollyannas" make me want to hurl (or slap them). With their constant "SmiiIIIIiiile" and "Goodness...it's a beautiful morning." Seriously, it makes me want to pull out a shotgun and blow the bluebird that's warbling a duet with these (eeech) morning people to kingdom come.

Now that you know how I feel on the inside...let me fill you in on something...I am a complete zombie in the a.m. My roommate laughs at me because I constantly run into things when I wakeup (you know, like, let's say, something as well hidden as a doorjamb or hmmm, a wall or two).

I hate mornings so much that I'll take a shower before going to bed, so I won't have to get up earlier...even 5 more minutes of snooze is "Golden Time" for me.

Because of this lack of energy in the morning...I am always running behind schedule for work--ALWAYS. I like to get to work at 7:50...ten minutes before I have to start, so I can get situated...I think it's happened twice.

This morning I had to take a shower, because I was up late last night doing laundry (I knew I should have taken a shower before going to bed, but was too tired).

The alarm went off...I hit snooze and accidentally turned off my alarm--DON'T PANIC-- I know myself, so I set another alarm on my cell phone... I get up and into the shower with the speed of a geriatric turtle on downers. I actually start to wake up as I turn the water to scalding so that I wouldn't freeze when I get out (it didn't work).

I'm trying to get dressed when my 2nd alarm on my cell phone goes off (the one that signals I should already be in my car and on my way), and I can't figure out which of the short-sleeved, pique polo shirts I want to be seen in today. I am in a pissy mood--god I hate mornings.

Finally I get dressed and jump into the car, not caring that I'm way behind schedule, when I realize that I have to get gas (GOD DAMMIT). My delays are getting out of control. Then to top it off, I hear the telltale "knocking" that means oil change time.

I get gas, a quart of oil, and 2 Rockstar energy drinks (morning meal when swigged while smoking at least 3 cigarettes). Amazingly I am not that late...somehow I had made up time, but I knew that I would shortly meet my nemesis. The duel that existed every day, like two gunfighters in the wild, wild west (only, one of them would have a holster with matching belt and spurs). This arch rival and I have encountered each other every day...It was the inevitable battle that I almost always lost.

It was Palm Lane...a small, tiny little side street off a MAJOR street, and it was the bane of my existence as I ran late every day...

I don't know how it happens (did I have a microchip secretly implanted one night, keyed to make me stop at the intersection from hell?), but EVERY time I come to that damn light, it changes. What's worse is when I could've made it, but the associates of Palm Lane hinder me. This might be a little crazy, but I think Palm Lane gives a little kick back to the blue hairs that drive increasingly slower as I am behind them.

The one detail, of this little side street with a light, that curdles my milk the most, is that it doesn't change for 5 minutes. Today I thought for sure that I would win the duel... I might make it to work on time...SCREECHING HALT.

I threw my hands up in the air after hitting the steering wheel, and yelled, "WhhhhhhhhhHHHy," at the top of my lungs, much to the chagrin of the other motorists. I shook my fist at the light, knowing it would taunt me for at least 3 more minutes.

So, I finally get to work (only 4 minutes late), when I notice my ashtray smouldering like the gaze of Dart Hotty. I then have to spend valuable moments trying to put out every butt that has somehow ignited...causing me to lose more face in my boss's eyes (it was the pyrokenisis of Palm Lane--it had to be-I KNOW IT. DAMN THAT PALM LANE!).

So here I am, "working" away...still tired, and hating Palm Lane.

Hope you all got to work on time, and if not...you know who to blame it on.

deutschmarc

Un-Regrettable---in every way

I went to a party tonight, and I was the only gay guy there....totally cool (not really)...

I was surrounded by a ton of straight people that were military drivin (hello holy uncomfortable---babies and husbands away at war---fuckin hate GB even more, but the alcohol was flowing and everything was all good).

I met a lot of very cool people, that I would entertain (hopefully), while their husbands were away (I can't imagine worrying about my sig other being away at war).

Babies and toddlers were only a stone's throw away, and if you knew me--- eeeeeeeeew). Until small arms wrapped around me in some unknown psychic way that really showed how much I loved children.

They are joy.

They are life.

They are unconditional love, wrapping their arms around you in bold-faced innocence.

I don't like children...LIE...they remind me that life is fleeting....LIE...They show that the world is beautiful...TRUE...because when you feel little arms around your neck, with a head on the shoulder...that is life...

Someone is holding you, in your arms...wanting to be near you, without any agenda or issues...wanting to be near you, for you. Holding all of their trust in you...without any expectations. It is overwhelming and wonderful. An experience that everyone should feel (maybe it would provide more humanity in this world) AND NEVER BE TAKEN ADVANTAGE OF.

They are the children...They are our life. They are tiny, and beautiful...

They are unscathed, unbothered (except by temper tantrums AND un-mercifully high-pitched temper tantrums), and they are the coming of the next generation , who I can't identify with, but I don't care...life is amazing...

And if you ever tell anyone I told you about this I'll have to state that I've never said such a thing ( I have a cool, gay rep you know)...

Always,

deutschmarc

She's One Cool Mama

Okay, so my mom called me today to see how I was doing... Irony, because I moved back here because she has stage 3 cancer, and I wanted to be as close as possible (hence my reason for being in this hell hole), and I should be asking how she's doing...

I have to tell you (even though Nancy Boys tend to have a thing about being a "Momma's Boy") that my mother is by far the coolest mom on this earth! You may think that your mom can kick my mom's ass, but read this story and I dare you to say so...

So there I was, in high school, with my first boyfriend over, "watching" MTV and making out like two kiss bandits holding up the makeout bank. My mom worked nights, so there was no danger of being caught without prior warning.

I have to tell you, we were going at it..heavy duty..when we see my mom's headlights pulling into the driveway. We immediately separate, miming endless TV enjoyment, with both hands in our laps like good christian boys.

My mom comes in and says, "Hey boys, what have you been up to?"

My boyfriend replies, "Nothing...just watching some MTV."

My mom walks right over to us, grabs my face in her hand, squeezes my cheeks so hard that I look like a hamster and yells at my boyfriend, "LIAR...YOU'RE A LIAR!!! LOOK AT MY SON'S FACE!"

What we didn't think about is that we were making out for an hour...My boyfriend would get 5 o'clock shadow 2 minutes after he shaved.

My face had to have been redder than a fire truck that's been newly painted...

Still having my face in her hand, and shaking my head rapidly, she continues to dress him down, "NEXT TIME YOU MAKE OUT WITH MY SON, HAVE THE DECENCY TO SHAVE."

She then let go of me, walked to her bedroom saying, "I'm going to bed, you boys have a good night and stay out of trouble."

My boyfriend looked at me, smiled, and said, "You're mom is the coolest person around."

Don't I know it, Kid. Don't I know it...

My Pot-o-Gold Runneth Over

My lips are chapped this morning...

Chapstick isn't going to help; I am going to have to bust out the good stuff (maybe even the balm I'm product testing for a close friend of mine. If it works, she'll be rich).

My lips are the victim of an extended makeout session with DH (his 5 o'clock shadow was like razor wire...I didn't care. He was hot).

After I got off work, I gave him a call and headed over to his place for dinner...(P.S. I got my wish...we didn't leave his house). One of turns I had to make to get to his house was on NANCY WAY (I about fell out of my seat when he gave me directions, thinking, "God does have a sense of humor.").

He made what he called goulash...actually it was a flavorful Shells with Bolognese. He poured the wine and we talked as he finished making dinner (burning the garlic toast a bit, but I like a little carbon flavor---except on popcorn). His roommate was going to join us until we found out he had plans for the evening...PERFECT (enter porn music).

He put me at ease with his country charm...dark hair...piercing blue eyes and casual conversation. Before I knew it, dinner was over.

After helping him take the dishes to the kitchen, he asked what we should do (ME). We decided to stay in (insert porn music here), and watch some TV. His couch was a wonderfully comfortable, huge and pillowy, leather couch that both of us sprawled across, casually touching jean clad thighs. Eventually hands found one another and we caressed while watching Dateline (Eagle Scout kills guy for no reason). Not the best show to set a mood, but was kinda into the fact that this guy was trying to make a move during this type of show (he wasn't all horses, flapjacks, and life on the ranch).

Before I know it we are going at it like two guys, dying of thirst, at a makeout oasis. We barely came up for air. My jeans were getting uncomfortably tight in certain places.

After casual banter, we end up in his bed room, making out with shirts off (Hey how did that happen? I'm a nice boy...). I take a good look at him, hoping he doesn't notice the zit on my upper arm (I was sprouting Athena, call me Zeus). He was right off a romance cover.

He was lying on pillows with one arm casually thrown above his head (HOT). His dark hair was slightly tousled from my fingers (HOT). His perfect chest moving up and down, drawing your eyes to his unbuttoned jeans, still covering his "manhood" (how's that for a romance novel). Gazing at me with his azure, steel eyes, I knew that I was sprung.

We go at it again, he gets up to get more wine, after I had put my hands down the back of his jeans to cop a feel of his bum, and found out he was going commando (HELLO HOT).

I stand up to get the glass he hands to me; we both put our glasses down and start to make out again.

Before I know it we had both dropped trou and I felt like the luckiest guy in the whole USA. I found out where Osama had hidden one of the WMD's...in DH's shorts.

It took everything not to drop to my knees, and wipe the tear from my eye, thanking God, and telling him/her that he/she does exist. I had recently had a series of "puppy with parvo" experiences. You know you like a guy, and then you get to the intimacy part, they drop trou, and it takes you everything not to say, "aaaaaww man." Not that I'm into "huge" (can we all say ouch). You know you can't just ditch the puppy (it's not the puppy's fault it has parvo), you've already become attached...

The porn music played in my head as we settled in, and we had fun "playing" around (No, we did not go for the gold...not on the first hookup).

Once we cleaned up, I took off, not before gazing at his nude form one last time, as a ray of light seemed to descend from heaven and strike him perfectly---OH MY GA.

He doesn't think I'm going to call him again. I told him I would.

He's a nice guy...He's a real hotty...I got lucky...on St. Paddy's Day.

With him...I wanna get lucky again and again.

Too bad I have poker tonight, but not really...let him wait a day or two.


Hope you gotta shag on green day.

deutschmarc

Setting the Date-Lucky Me

A little nervous today...about tonight.



I have a date (hit the confessionals everyone-it's one of the signs of the end of the world. The 4 horsemen of the apocolypse are saddled up and ready to ride).

If you remember, I gave Dart Hotty my number 2 days ago...he called (got my voicemail).

I called him (got his voicemail).

He called me again last night (and AGAIN got my voicemail, because I was so tired after working all day hung over and tired. Didn't even hear the phone ring).

I called him this morning, hoping to god that he wouldn't hate me for calling around 9:00 am, and got his voicemail (this was getting to be one ridiculous game of tag).

As I was pushing paper furiously for my job, I mean, I was up to my elbows in files, my cell phone rings, and my boss is hovering over my shoulder requesting information.

I have to get the call...I see his name winking at me on the display. Have.. to.. get phone. Must... pick... up call. Phone tag... has to... end..

My boss looks right at me as my ring tone annoyingly keeps going. I pick up the phone faster than greased lightning, say, "Hi...can you hold on for a sec?" and answer my boss's questions in record time.

I pick up my cell and have the conversation that should have happened days ago. We can't decide what to do tonight (I can't focus because I'm at work...and this whole dating thing is brand new to me again...AND I am surrounded by co-workers). I tell him that I'll give him a call after work and hang up.

I go outside to partake in my nasty habit of inhaling nicotine in lung bucket fulls, and call my roommate to tell him I'm not sure what my plans are tonight (there was a tentative dinner plan with Robbie and Seth tonight). Not sure if DH (Dart Hotty) wants to make it a full blown (hehehe) date, or if we were gonna meet up somewhere for a little rocktailing and maybe the eventual drunken hookup.

I was hoping that a drunken hookup wouldn't happen, so I took the bull by the horns and called DH back to finalize plans. If we were gonnna hookup I didn't want it slobberingly clumsy with a headache in the morning (if I even stayed the night-horrible snorer that I am, I like to get them hooked on the deutschmarc before disclosing that I can snore at deafening decibles).

He suggested that we have dinner...Great...

AT HIS PLACE...

I said yes, of course, after he asked me if I couldn't eat any particular food (bell peppers-highly allergic). I have a date...a real date (I think). My mind is still reeling and I'm wearing a goofy smile. Maybe we wouldn't even leave his place....(insert porn music here).

I call Seth back and tell him that I wouldn't be able to have dinner with him and Robbie. I had a dinner date. My roommate was shocked at the fact that I got an invite have dinner at DH's place (it is almost unheard of to see the pad of someone that you hadn't hung out with before-on a one on one basis).

The thing is:

1. Is it reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaallllllly a true date?
2. I don't know if it is just going to be the 2 of us (who knows? he might invite friends).
3. I will be there alone (what if his conversation sucks?).

Now I'm full of these questions...We were a little toasted when we met. Am I reading too much into this dinner thing? What should I wear?

• Something tight? (johnny collar v-neck with retro print, black pants or low rise jeans, docs)
• Something demure? (sweater with wide neck that shows off collar bones a smidge, low rise jeans, and sensible black track shoes)
• Boy next door apparel? (b-ball hat, ringer, jeans, sandals)

These are the kind of difficulties a gay guy faces when starting something up... He has already seen me in something tight...maybe demure...boy next door should be for a movie or something casual.

I guess I'll figure it out later...after I call 6 of my friends for their thoughts.

I'll let you all know tomorrow how it goes.

Happy St. Patty's Day!

deutschmarc

I've Got 10 Digits---YAY

So, last night was my gay dart league night (no snickers behind your hands). Gay darts, who knew...Anyway, we were playing at a host bar (which is notoriously known for the "going ons" in the dark corner at the backside (he he) of the bar. It is one of the few leather bars where I live, and I was not sure I would feel comfortable in a bar with a bunch of leather daddies (hot, muscle leather daddies would have been a different story-but they are mythical beings, I have decided, much like the unicorn or pegasus).

We (my roommate Seth and I) arrived at the bar to begin warming up with the rest of the team, who was already there. It wasn't too bad in the bar (they had $1.75 bottles of beer-which makes any bar a good bar in my book). The bartender had a mohawk, and was tattooed on his wrists with flames, and remembered my Bud Lights all night.

When we had to draw cards to see who we would compete with, I hoped that I wouldn't be paired up with the hotty that I had tried not to look at too often. He would distract me mercilessly with his rockin bod.

It ended up that I didn't have to play him...Whew...

I kind of felt uncomfortable, because all the guys would check out my ass when I started throwing. Usually it doesn't bother me if someone wants to take an appraising look at my back porch...it was the commentary that kinda threw me. I guess it was my own fault in a way.

I wore jeans so tight that my boxer briefs became a thong...my butt was hungry for underwear. Every time I stood up to throw, I would have to pull my low-rise, boot cut, tight-ass jeans down so I could "walk" to the board.

We played close games with the team, and we ended up winning by one point. As they congratulated us with handshakes and hugs, I was told that I should stay for underwear night (1/2 price drinks if you drop trou). I giggle like an asian schoolgirl and flirtingly decline.

One of my teammates and I decided to stay a little while later, before going to our home bar, and throw more darts with these guys, because they were a ton-o-fun. My teammate and I entertained three guys on the other team so much, that they decided to meet us at our bar.

We drive over after kicking ass and taking names in 4-team cricket (my partner and I were unstoppable--I took out the first game with a hat trick and won the 2nd with a single then double bull). We were on top of the world, looking down at creation, when we staggered through our bar's door. I stood in shock...Hotty was there...

Thankfully I recover quickly and turn on my Scorpio charm (flirty yet intense). We all laugh, tell stories, and drink a few more beers.

Long story short kiddies...I gave Hotty my number after flirting with him for the rest of the night.

Much like Cher in Clueless, I know guy time (I was expecting a call Thursday or Friday-if he was still interested).

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN I GOT A CALL AN HOUR LATER!!!!

Ladies and gentlemen...I think that is a record for me. I saved his number in my cell, because I missed his call-very cute message though...

Looks like I might get Lucky on St. Patrick's Day!

deutschmarc

The Dark Gift or "Luke...Come to the Dark Side."

Greetings Disco Citizens!

So every now and then something happens that makes me furrow my brows and think, "What the hell????"

It used to happen to me a lot when I was younger, but every now and then (more during Spring), something strange happens.

I get cruised by straight guys (yeah right....straight to bed is more like it). These guys can be married, bi, whatever...it still happens.

It has occured so frequently that my friends and I have called it---THE DARK GIFT (I know it sounds like it was bestowed as a secret power from the lower recesses of hell). Today was a prime example of it...

I was getting my lunch at the local cafe which is in the office complex where I work. It was crazy busy. I walked in and stood in line. I glanced at all of the people and knew that it would be a long wait. As I perused the crowd casually, I saw a good looking guy (pretty built, but not overly so). He was looking at and talking to a female co-worker, and then I noticed his wedding ring.

After seeing the shackle around his finger, my attention immediately was diverted, until I felt that curious feeling of someone staring at me. I, again, casually looked around, safely hidden behind my lightly-tinted, black framed glasses (I feel like a beatnik spy wearing them). I catch the culprit, and to my surprise--Married guy.

His co-worker was still chatting him up as he looked me up and down (I was using perepheral vision, so he didn't know I was checking him, checking me out). Wanting to catch him in the act, I looked right at him with one of those fast head snaps that usually freak people out (I love doing that). He was completely nonplussed, and not only that, he smiled at me, all the while, his co-worker was still chatting...until...she asked him a question, and he didn't answer.

If you knew me well, you would have an inkling of my next action.

With complete understanding that his co-worker would soon figure out that he was smiling at someone, and follow his gaze to me...IT WAS TIME TO FUCK WITH THE STRAIGHT GUY...

Just as she saw that her friend's attention was diverted, and started looking in my direction, I flashed "the dazzler" (the one from my last story), then I coyly looked down so he could see that I was shy and had cute dimples.

I looked up again, right into his eyes after the mandatory 3 second "eyes downward cast" move, and looked him straight in the face, knowing full well that his co-worker was watching the interaction dumbstruck.

He gives me a great smile in return, which I emulate while looking "straight" into his eyes.

At the perfect moment, I looked right at his co-worker who happened to be looking at him still smiling at me and slightly motioned my head in her direction (you know, the casual head point that is subtle enough to direct someone's attention).

He immediately realizes he was been super-uber-mega busted by one of the office hens.

I grab my lunch from the nice lady, turn around, and leave...thank god I ordered it to go, not for one second feeling guilty about calling his shit out...If he's stupid enough to flirt with me wearing a wedding ring, I am twisted enough to make sure he gets caught.

Lunch was good. Hope yours was too today.

"Luke...I am your father"

deutschmarc

Kissing on Jose

One thing my friends know about me is that I love to drink tequila...Lots of it.

Jose Cuervo is my equivalent of spanish fly, oysters, chocolate, and another aphrodisiac that you can think of, with an interesting twist-I am on the prowl to make out. The problem is, I usually don't make-out with just one person (that would be just plain boring).

One night one of my guy friends and his girlfriend stopped by my pad before going out to the local 'mo hangout. I decided that Papa was on a budget so we would do a couple of chilled cuervo shots out of my 50's style glass pourer (it's really cool, with a spattering of quintessential stylized stars). Anyway, so I'm telling a story, while chilling the nectar of the gods (as I like to call it), all the while, pouring shots and continuing.

Telling story...
Adding more cuervo...
chilling shots...
telling story...
doing shots with friends...
telling story...
adding more ice...
adding more cuervo...
chilling shots...
telling story...
doing shots with friends...
doing shot alone because friends can't take more than 2 shots (pussies)...
adding more cuervo...
chilling shots...
telling story...
partaking again in a solo tequila imbibement...
telling same story, without missing a beat of...
adding more ice...
adding more cuervo...
chilling shots...
doing another shot solo...
doing another shot solo...
Finish story.

At this point, my friend and his gal are staring at me like I have 3 noses and 13 eyes...
I stop my story and say, "What."

Gerald says, "Dude, you amaze me...you just did 5 shots of tequila in 10 minutes, making sure that they were chilled, and telling a story like you do this professionally."

I reply, "Man, I'm gay; we're drinkers you know."

So we end up hitting your run of the mill the gay bar. I get good and shitty...but not sloppy, because Papa can hold his liquor (I have amazed people with my alcohol consumption, frat guys, military guys, any guy really, who thinks he can outdrink me).

So, I in full blown party-boy mode, with a impish grin on my face and a devilish twinkle in my eye am ready to have fun. Before you know it, I am playing tongue hockey with some random's uvula in the furthest corner of the dance floor. One down 6 more to go...

I walk over to my straight friends, and Jen says, "Okay make-out King, do you even know that guy?"

I smile, "Do you have to know someone to make-out with them... I never read that rule in the gay handbook." I grin wider, order another drink (it never takes me longer than 30 seconds to get a drink, even when it's busy. I have a secret move, called "The Volleyball Bump"-it makes the boys swell), and start to walk out to the patio, when what do my come-hither eyes see? A hottie next to the door leading to the patio...

I heave a tequila twinged sigh of longing as I start to move in his direction. We would make out...Oh yes we would...as God is my witness...I will never be kiss-less again (at least that night).

With my friends in tow, I start to pass the guy. He looks me up and down (trying to be sly...), and he gives me a winning smile (it was ON at that point). His teeth were mesmerizingly perfect. The kind you could lick for days...I only wanted 5 minutes...ten if he was good.

I, in turn, give him "the dazzler" (a smile that isn't too wide in the lips, and shows just enough teeth and dimple). He grabs my arm as I pass by. I look at my friends, who keep walking, knowing what's coming next. Before you could say, "Chick a pay, blo-in lik a tay inna weeeEen," I was making out right by one of the most heavily trafficked areas in the bar, and I didn't give a shit...Number 2 was hot, unfortunately, his kissing-not so."

I push him away, look around as he asks, "So wanna go to my place."

"Maybe next time champ," I reply sliding through the crowded area smoothly in seconds, leaving bad kisser scratching his head.

I find my friends on the patio, next to the bleachers in front of the volleyball court. Before I know it we are cutting up and laughing, and they are making fun of me for making out with 2 guys in 20 minutes.

I wasn't done yet...When Papa has the urge to make out, he makes out.

So where was I? Oh yeah, on the patio talking to friends, facing the bleachers, looking up, and what do I spy with my little eye?

Now taking number 3...Number 3, there you are; welcome to make-out night. I'll be your host this evening in the kissing festivities.

He smiles. I smile. My friends turn to see who I am smiling at, and they smile (and shake their heads).

Number 3 was blonde (normally don't like blondes-I know, what man doesn't...me), but very cute nonetheless. He was shortish-tall, skinny-muscular, blue-brown-greenish eyes (you get the point, I was tanked and he was available. Thankfully, he was cute. It was confirmed for me the day after).

Somehow I made it to the top of the bleachers where he was sitting, beckoning me with those blue-brown-greenish eyes. We started making out like two teenagers from Sweet Valley High at a football game. It was hot, he was the kind of kisser that sends tingles to my special places, that was, until, I heard a song that I loved to dance to begin its tribal rhythms from inside the club. I dash off with my friends, leaving Number 3 in no condition to follow us without embarrassing himself (you get the gist).

Gerald says to me as we're walking in, "Dude, you're outta control, and you should wear a tight shirt that says, 'TEASE'."

I drag them out on the dance floor, as I state, "Hey, if the shirt fits..."

Now we're on the dance floor. I am shakin my money maker. Hips are moving. I am a dance king. We are having a blast. With a quick turn, I survey the crowd, noticing a guy with a rockin bod checking me out. He looks at me. I look at him. He wants to rock my jock. Before I know it, we're dancing together. I get a close look-Butterface (nice body, "but-her-face").

The tequila was flowing through my veins like wildfire. I was in the moment, and I loved his body with my eyes, doing things in my mind that I couldn't tell my mother about. His arms pull me in, I feel his biceps, and before I know it, Number 4 and I were making out on the dance floor.
My friends look at me in utter disbelief; I usually don't make out in bars, and in the past I was known as the Ice Princess (people would say that when I walked in the temperature dropped). They couldn't believe that I was making out hot and heavy with this guy, and it got worse.

Our impromptu dance-floor, tongue-tango came to a screetching halt when Number 4's boyfriend tapped him on the shoulder and yelled that he was ready to go. Oops, hey I didn't know he was taken. No foul on my part.

I raise my eyebrow and go back to my friends who are ready to exit the dance floor. We move to the bar on the far side of the club to cool off from "dancing" and grab a quick liquid refreshment with agave in it.

I sat down on a stool (my height tends to intimidate people), and get a lecture from Jen about how I need to screen my make-out partners before going for the gold. I smile and nod, looking around like a starving man in an all you can kiss boy-ffet. We sit and talk for awhile when a guy takes the stool next to me. My friends look at him, and turn to me, wondering when I was gonna check him out. They didn't have to wait long.

Faster than you can say, "Lime and salt," Number 5 and I had done a shot and were getting to know each other. Jen butts in and asks, "So do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife?"

The guy laughs and says that he doesn't-GAME ON-We chat for a little while until he smiles at my smile and asks, "What are you thinking about wearing that smile?" (usually a question like "what are you thinking" would make me run for the hills, but his smile was as much trouble as mine).

I say that he's hot, and I've been dying to make out with him since he sat down. Well, he stands up, nudges my legs apart, drapes his arms over my shoulders and plants one on me that makes my toes tingle. Little did I know that the bartender who hooks me up with my "rocktailing" lifestyle had a wild hair up his ass, and he decided it was time to throw a little cold water on my bar-side makout extravaganza.

He taps my shoulder...Number 5 and I stop so that I can turn around and see what's up. The bartender then says, "Hey your mom has been waiting outside for 30 minutes now. She wanted me to let you know that she is tired of waiting for you all the time when she has to pick you up."

THEN.... He turns to Number 5 and says, "I'm sure you could follow them home. It looks like a match made in heaven the way you guy's were making out."

I HAVE NEVER SEEN A MAN RUN SO FAST IN MY LIFE.

My friends almost choked on their drinks from laughter...

I turned to the bartender and said, "Thanks for that...you bastard. Can I get another shot?" I can't help but laugh, and put that one in my mental notebook-you mom's outside-that's twisted.

Anyway, this story is getting too long, so let's finish up with the speed round...

Make out with 3 more guys.

Friends want to leave.

I want to stay.

They wont let me because they think (okay, know) that'll I'll get into more trouble.

They kidnap me to their place, feed me some slammin pot roast, and put me to bed.

I wake up hating Jose for punishing my head and stomach, but still manage to function (amazingly), and know deep down that Jose's a lover I'll always have.

I was hungover and suffering from make-out remorse.

They drive me home, and I give them big hugs and Gerald says, "Next time warn us when you are in make-out mode. We were horribly unprepared for your level of cockteasing...Man you rock."

That's why I love my friends. We take care of one another when it's required, especially if I'm hooking up with Jose for the evening.

Needless to say, I didn't go back to that bar for about 3 weeks... Luckily I think everyone was so wasted that my reputation didn't take it too hard in the shorts, and I could still show my face, although my bartender did give me shit everytime I saw him for a month.

So next time you want to get your make out on, boys and girls, never do it in front of the bartenders (or doormen). They are sober and never forget.

All my love sweet spirits,

deutschmarc

Las Vegas Porno-Girl--Hey, that's me....

After much discussion about my next entry with a friend of mine, I have decided that my "porno girl" impersonation (most embarrassing moment of my life) should be the next entry.

It was a warm breezy night in Las Vegas, and unfortunately, unlike the commercials, not everything done in Vegas stays in Vegas...

I had worked as a waiter in a 50's diner that required the employees to have characters (much like the Friends episode where Monica is waitressing and hooks up with the Billionaire/Millionaire-Whatever). Anyway, a close friend, who I had met at the diner was getting married in Vegas, so we all went for the happy occasion.

Another former co-worker and I had driven out there so that we had transportation while in the city of tacky signs and state-fair-hair; we were ready to party like rockstars. After checking into "The Manor" at Circus Circus (which was like The Shining gone 70's circus-I still have nightmares about that place) we were ready to spank the town and make it our bitch.

That night I was sensibly dressed in a pair of jeans, and a tight navy blue v-neck that showed off my chest (the boys). There were four of us in the beginning, and we trekked over to The Silver Dollar Saloon (or something like that) for its famous $5.00 you-call-it, huge-ass, plastic cocktail containers (you know which ones I am talking about). Our poison(s) that night were a horrible combination--One hand holding a long island, the other holding a midori sour (I know okay, but we needed something to wash down the long island). After 3 rounds of double fisting, we were lit.

We had grabbed a quick bite to eat earlier and molested the statues in front of Circus Circus (who doesn't do this when they're wasted in Vegas-those statues get more action than I do). Amazingly, our party had grown, because the Bride and Groom were doing their own thing, so we were up to 8 (I think, it kinda gets fuzzy at points in this story).

We were back at the $5 buck drink saloon for cocktail freshening, when I look across the tables and see a hotty, with a body, with whom I'd like to be naughty. I, of course, have the intense urge to BJ it (Black Jack...Potty Minds), because there's a seat next to Mr. Right Now.

I sit down, give him a quick, "Hey, how's it going man," and get colored up. So, here I am playing blackjack, cocktails in hand, sitting next to a hotty and winning some cash. After about 30 minutes, my friends couldn't leave well enough alone, because they were hungry again and wanted to go to the Westward Ho for the $.99 foot long hot dogs. They were yelling across the casino for me to come with them...I look at the guy, look at the cash, and yell, "I'll meet you there in a minute." I play a couple more hands...

I guess that my time schedule didn't accomodate them, because before I knew it Patricia and Warner run over (a guy who had shown me his tattoo on his bum. I wanted to lick his teeth; he had a perfect smile). Patricia licks my neck, Warner licks my face, and they cash me out. I am then dragged to the Westward Ho to eat a big weanie.

Once there we all have our hot dogs (mind you, it has to be around 3:30-4:00 am), and of course, the cameras were out and flashing. Who can't resist taking a picture of your friends shoving a huge hot dog in their mouth? One of my friends decides it's time for me to entertain them with a piece of my performance art entitled, Porno Girl.

I respectfully decline stating that I did not have the necessary materials. Another of my friends, who had seen the piece before, became the flash, and before I knew it, he had props in hand to give to me. Once again, I say, "No way Jose," because there were a ton of blue-hairs playing slots around "the cafe".

All of them begged, pled, threatened, and finally cajoled me into performing my art. After their assurances that they would provide a curtain of people-dom around me for the private show, I was ready...

Now let me give you the mood and theme of my art... Imagine the ever-present, bleach blonde porno star, with the fake boobs, the white g-string, landing strip, clear platform shoes, and long acrylic nails (because she doesn't do girl on girl--eeeeeeew gross). You know the one I'm talking about, and I am a gay guy who has seen it countless times.

I begin the impersonation with only the finesse and attention to detail that a 'mo can do. I twisted my nips with my imaginary nails pointing out (using the inside of my fingers), while ooo-ing and aaaah-ing. I pushed the boys together and tried to lick them, just like the gals of the xxx medium. My friends were hootin anda hollerin. I gave them more.

For a guy that was standing up, acting like a woman being given the time of her life, I should have won an award. The tears were forming in my friends' eyes from laughing so hard. I let out the squeals that signaled orgasm, and thrashed my head before saying, "No don't shoot it inside of me! Shoot it all over my face."

Enter props....

Behind me on a table was a creamer in those little plastic containers that I had poked with three tines of a fork through the papery-foil top. I then brought it out and held it about a foot and a half away from my face as I said, "OooooooooooooooOOOOoooh Yeah all over my face. Shoot it baby. OOOOOhhh yeah. Ah-Ah-OOOOOoooOOOoo, uh huh, give it to me." Then, I squeezed the creamer (twice-I find it gives more realism) right into my face.

My friends who were laughing went dead silent, as the shock of the happy ending hit them full force. I continued the scene with the only natural ending portrayed in hetero-action-packed-love stories.

I smeared the half and half all over my face with two fingers, and brought as much of it to my lips and tongue, all the while cooing like a baby, saying, "ooooh yeah, baby. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, uuuuuuhh, uh-huh."

After 20 seconds of silence, my friends erupt into thunderous applause, whistles, and general well wishing. I take a bow and look up... into the faces of every senior citizen in the place that could have possibly seen me (they didn't care too much for it...I might add). To this day, I remember seeing their aghast faces, mouths dropped open, and laboured breathing of those on oxygen...

And that my friends is why you should never trust friends to make a people-wall around you when you're all jacked up on Long Islands and doing a piece of performance art that is potentially embarrassing.

All my love (seriously),

Deutschmarc

He's not Nelly; He's my brother...sort of

I guess it's always been weird being the black sheep of the family (or 1 and 1/4 black sheep if you count being gay as a strike against you), but LITERALLY, I am the only person in my family with a little "fla-vah" if you so want to deem it.

So, growing up with a german mother and older 1/2 brother, who took sadism to a level that the Marquis de Sade would've given him a little pat on the back and a light chuck under the chin, probably drove me to person that I've become.

Other than being a little "spicy" as my friends like to say, I think that I'm a pretty well adjusted person. Of course my friend "Robbie" (to protect his anonymity) constantly asks me if I am taking any meds or seeing a shrink. I do not know where he could ever get such an idea...

Maybe it was from the other day when he came over to our place (My roommate's really-we'll call him "Seth"). Seth was getting ready in the bathroom...take's him at least 35 mins (I've timed him), although Seth constantly states that he can get ready in 15 mins....Yeah right. Anyway, so Robbie comes over, and says that he has to use the bathroom (Okay "Take a piss"), but Seth is in the bathroom getting ready.

I, in my twisted brilliance, turn to him and say, "Pow Pow, Chick-a-pay gotta pay like a tay inna weeeeEEEEnn."

Now I realize that you won't get the full affect from reading it, but Robbie turned to me and started laughing, saying, "Chick-a-pay blowiiiiin like a tay inna weeeeeeeeeeeeeEeEEn." Then he says that he can't believe that I saw the movie Nell (Starring Jodie Foster); if you don't know about the movie, research the story really quick in another browser.

Robbie and I immediately start having a conversation in Nell speak, understanding each other fluently through laugher reminiscent of 2 teenage girls at a slumber party. Meanwhile, Seth comes out of the bathroom and looks at us like we just stepped out of the short bus, asking us what the f#uc we're speaking. He has never seen the movie, so he was out of the loop for the rest of the night. What this means, is that the "Nellspeak" continued for Robbie and me for the remainder of the evening.

Fast forward to the bar, which has drink specials until 9:00 PM (75 cent well and bottled beer). We arrive around 8:30, so our "rock-tailing" (partying like a rockstar while cocktailing) has to be done cliff's notes style. The bartenders, who know us as the "trio of terror", know that we double up or each of us orders a round at once...HEY, you really can't pass up $2.25 for 3 cocktails...

By 9:00 we are officially cocktailed and ready to play, of course, Robbie and I are speaking "Nellanese" all during this 30 minutes. Robbie, a Coors Light drinker (I know, what self respecting gay man drinks Coors Light...but we were at a country gay bar--don't get me started on this one), so I would ask him, "Wabbie wanna nutta kor lye?" He would reply, "Ya Wabbie wanna kor lye," and everyone in our immediate vacinity would look at us like we were crazy.

Mind you, all of us were in the mood to "get a little action" that evening, and Robbie and I were shooting ourselves in the foot with our "Nelly" conversations (couldn't resist...sorry). So we really didn't get any action for the evening...

Long story short....Don't act like you have a twin that died, who spoke a special language with you, if you're looking to score.