General

Once a month the Guggenheim Museum has an event called First Fridays where they open the museum at night and have a dance party where you can drink, view art, and shake your ass to a fab dj spinning. If you are savvy you can also have sex in the bathrooms. They are huge private rooms that are labeled “Unisex”. It is almost like they are commanding you to do “it” in there. I went there with someone I was dating one summer, had him sit on the seat and ten minutes later we exited, red-faced and giddy from our super-secret liaison. 

 I returned several months ago with my friend Holly, but not to bang. We went there to meet people. I sorely want a nice boyfriend to lay in bed with, to win at Scrabble with and watch movies in the dead of the winter while snow covers the City. We figured the Guggenheim would attract at least men who were into art. That is a good start, right?

 We were in the Members’ Lounge and there was a group of three guys there that were purposely drawing attention to themselves. Hovering nearby was this weird flamboyant gay-type guy ensconced in velvet and wearing a glow-in-the-dark necklace. It wasn’t a costume party.

Holly got to talking to one of the guys, and it appeared they were there with the “flamboyant -type” guy as their trainer. We surmised they were doing some sort of class on how to attract women. Holly ended up going out on two dates with the guy she met there. He was boring and too aggressive, but fairly benign, and luckily for us, shared some details on the pickup methods he learned. How creepy it that these guys were paying mad loot to learn how to pick up girls from this repulsive guy?! But it gets even more harrowing when later we find out exactly HOW they are being taught to attract women.

The Velvet Teacher kept touching me and swore he wasn’t gay. He pulled his “girlfriend” to him and started making out with her in front of me, a contrived and very gross display of lips and gums. “See? Honey, how gay could I be?” he retorted. “Yeah, um, VERY because no straight guy would do that in public to make a point,” I fired back. [Read more…] about The Worst Man in New York City

Watching the thousands of people lined up to buy Sarah Palin’s book reminded me of crowds lining up to see Paris Hilton. The same question pops up: Why?

Just as Paris Hilton is famous for being famous,Sarah Palin is infamous for being infamous. In either case, there’s no “there” there. The only missing piece between Paris and Palin is a sex tape, and frankly, can that be far behind? They’re both beautiful, have accomplished nothing, and are revered for….what? Somebody tell me what?

The only real difference between these two icons seems to be which end of the banality pool they swim in. At least, Palin is in the deeper end. She was mayor of Wasilla, Alaska (population: 10,000) and governor of the state (population 686,000 give or take a caribou or two). Though even those accomplishments are forever tarnished by her decision to quit halfway into her term without a real reason.

But that’s about their only difference. Neither of these two women speak in full sentences (Paris, Palin, PLEASE! A verb!) and neither can recall what they read. Or rather, if.

They’re like two bookends in some feminist nightmare–unaccomplished women who left the true achievers in the dust (note to Palin: I wouldn’t be alone with Kay Bailey Hutchinson or Christie Todd Whitman). I’m scared to death that my 12 year old niece will look up to either one of these women. What, a quitter as hero? A bimbo as role model?

I think it’s the vacuousness of both princesses that annoys the most. Paris tip-toes past the medicine cabinet so she won’t wake up the sleeping pills; Palin does it so she won’t wake up the Russians. If we could just get one understandable idea out of either of these women, there’d be some purchase to their popularity. But with the one that truly matters–Palin–we’re left with a three-word energy policy (“Drill, Baby, Drill”), a two word health care summary (“Death Panels”) and a one word reading list (“Uhm.”).

Where is the “there” that keeps thousands waiting in line to buy a book by a woman who doesn’t read? I pride myself in “getting” what conservatives sees in their heros, even if I don’t agree with them. McCain? War hero, campaign finance reform, I get it. Mitt Romney? Governor of an important state, ran the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics, I get it. But Sarah? What’s there to get?

Why Men Relate to Governor Sanford

So one day you’re staring at your balls after sex (and really, who doesn’t?) and realized they were moving by themselves. WTF?! Was that an optical illusion or do the boys have a life of their own?

The movement is what experts call “testicular circulation”—blood coursing throughout the scrotum via the veins and arteries.

Remember, testicles are sperm factories and they’re heat sensitive. Sperm need to be kept at a certain temperature or they’ll start dying like flies in a jar—slowly and painfully.

When the “boys” get cold, they snuggle up and get warm. When they’re hot they hang lower than the scruples of a sex columnist looking for his next bump.

Want to try a cool experiment? Make the boys dance. Next time you’re in bed with a girl (or a guy)–and if you’re like the rest of my readers, that should be in about 10 minutes– have your partner touch the upper inner portion of your thigh.

Watch closely as your testicles move in the direction away from where their hand is touching! It’s like your balls have a mind of their own. You know, like your dick. It’s called the cremasteric reflex. It keeps the boys out of harm’s way. When the “threat” is over, the testicles will come back to whatever position they feel safe in.

Dear Sexorcist:
Condoms sometimes make my boyfriend go limp the second he puts them on, so he’s insisting I go on The Pill. I’m like, no way. Why should I take something that’s going to fuck up my hormones, make me gain weight and possibly put me at risk for cancer just because he can’t get used to a little rubber? He’s pissed off that we’re not having much sex and I’m resentful that all of the burden falls on me. On top of that, he thinks he’s being fair and balanced. How do we settle this?

– Stumped in Stockdale

Dear Stumped:
He thinks he’s being fair and balanced? I’m more balanced at 2 a.m. after last call. Your boyfriend’s being a prick. He needs to put a condom over himself and go limp.

I agree with him on one point, though: Nothing gives your dick a flat tire faster than a condom. But he’s acting as if he can’t do anything about it. Not true. If you guys try my Condom Immersion Program his fear of going limp will shrivel up.

Read more…

In his “Biology of Technology” blog, my friend Rick Howington notes how one intrepid singer discovered how to clone himself into an entire boy band singing Michael Jackson songs. Pretty amazing:

At dinner with a friend this week, I heard the most darkly funny sex-related story. My friend–we’ll call her Ellen–took a work colleague out for drinks to thank him for doing a good job on a project she hired him to do. He was a consultant, strapping, amazingly gorgeous and young. She said what made him even hotter was that he had two beautiful kids and a pretty wife who he seemed so into.

At lunch, the first thing he ordered was a vodka straight. Ellen thought it was odd to kick back that much at noon, but went with it. After pounding a few more back she realized that he was excited to have a day to be a guy where he could throw caution to the wind in the City and drink and relax. No problems with that. It was a Friday after all and he wasn’t expected back in NJ until at least 10pm.

After a liquid lunch, Ellen and the consultant, along with a few other co-workers, met up with a bunch of other friends for happy hour. At happy hour Ellen’s closest and very gay friend, Ed, came by the bar. He and Rory had known each other also for some time because they had also done some projects together. Ed brought Simone (otherwise known as the pre-op tranny, formerly known as Simon.)

Simone was from Thailand and working as a woman in fashion. Ellen said she had met “her” several times before and that she looked enough like a girl because she was small and dainty, but that at the end of the day there was a bit of shadow on her face and because she was pre-op she still had no real tits (padded bra), a bit of an Adam’s Apple and a cock. [Read more…] about Male Fraud: The True Story of a Guy Who Had Sex With a Tranny and Didn’t Know It.

If I hear one more HIV+ man tell me he’s “grateful” for the disease because it made him a more peaceful, loving, open, honest person I’m going to scream. Those afflicted by disease —whether it’s cancer or HIV– have taken a pernicious slide toward rationalizing their conditions as something “necessary” for them to achieve some kind of enlightenment. And we can lay that awful trend on the likes of Louise Hay, Deepak Chopra and that whole positive thinking guru crap that passes for spiritual insight.

I don’t want to be mean to my friends and acquaintances that have the burden of a terrible condition, but I just can’t be silent anymore. I simply can’t listen to anyone who tells me he’s embraced the virus as a gift because it’s made him a better person.

Just last week an acquaintance said, “HIV has given me a new life. I needed it to open my eyes to the joy of living. I’m emotionally stronger and I have a new sense of priorities.”

What a crock of caca. HIV as the path to God? The virus as your friend? This is the kind of fertilizer the fields of Ireland long for. [Read more…] about Why Are Some Gay Men Grateful They Got HIV?

I can honestly say I’ve never seen such a STUPID BITCH. Although, I must say, it’s riveting TV. Especially when the caller’s question was, “What advice would you give two gay men who wanted to marry?”