112 DAYS TO GO: The Facts Of Life If Natalie Had Slept With Blaire’s Grandpa.

I ended up seeing Old Man River again tonight. I’m not usually one to say this, but I think he may be too old for me. My first clue came tonight when we were lying in bed together and he started telling me about his shoulder replacement and his bum knee.

Despite his tales of medical woe, I’ll probably stick with my geriatric manfriend for awhile. Unlike when I’m with guys my own age, I don’t feel like I’m going to suffer a massive panic attack just from being around him. Also, the physical aspect of the relationship is improving. Instead of lying in bed like a wooden plank, I’m actually becoming semi-participatory. I can now upgraded my metaphor for my performance in bed from a piece of wood to that of a stroke victim.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that this sort of relationship is extremely unhealthy for me.

Excuse me for getting all Carrie Bradshaw on you for a moment, but why is it that when I’m with someone my own age the sexual tension is about as hot and steamy as a bag of frozen peas, but when I’m with an older gent I have no problem being a whore? Why am I only attracted to relationships that are inappropriate? Was Aaliyah right when she said age ain’t nothin’ but a number?

And finally…

Will my daddy issues leave me reaching for a box of tissues? (Sorry, that was the best worst rhyming pun that I could come up with.)

My good friend Noah sent me a book called Love and the Facts of Life. It was written in the early sixties for “teen-agers” who are about to embark on that bumpy ride called puberty, and includes such helpful chapters as “What’s the Harm in Petting?“

Thankfully for me, all of my troubles (homosexuality, attraction to older men) are addressed in a section called “Love- Embarrassment or Blessing?“

The book gives the following example, which ironically enough was a constant masturbation fantasy for me in my teenage years:

“Harry worshiped the coach. He hung on every word and carried out every little suggestion the coach made with zealous devotion. He slipped into the gym early in the morning to get out the equipment for the coach. One day when the coach threw his arm over Harry’s shoulder in a gesture of friendly comradeship, Harry felt himself shiver all over. Was Harry ‘in love with’ the coach? Well, we do not call it that, do we? We feel that sometimes there is something not quite right in a boy’s being fond of an older man that way. And yet this is one stage of development that many boys like Harry go through during their teen years.“

So if this book is written for teenagers, and I’m 27, does this make it more than a phase? Also, does anybody else find it funny that the above passage used the terms “worship,” “hung” and “slipped into?”

113 DAYS TO GO: Reason # 751 Why Life’s Unfair.

God damn this fugly hoe. As if I didn’t already hate her enough for being the ex of my betrothen, she had to go ahead and score this deal. Worst part about it: bitch is only 25.

Tonight after work this 27 year-old wannabe writer (who’s probably doomed to be a pharmacy technician for the rest of his life), came home and went for another hour plus run. Forcing myself to do a torturous run like that is the only thing that keeps me from being totally suicidal about where I’m at in my life right now. This morning I had a dream that I was back in college doing summer stock theater. It made me realize that I graduated college 5 years ago. If my future-self had come to visit my past-self on graduation day, to reveal that 5 my year plan included still working in pharmaceuticals, I probably would have pulled the trigger then and there.

Am I being over-dramatic? Of course. Am I being too hard on myself? No. Yes, I’ve accomplished a lot of great things. But I’ve also slacked off a lot. Which means I have no one but myself to blame. I should be working on a new show right now. But I’m not. Because I find watching TV and being a drunk more rewarding.

I took one baby step in the right direction tonight by e-mailing my old sketch teacher, seeking his advice. But considering it took me 3 weeks to finally e-mail him, I can’t pat myself too hard on the back.

At this point, if I had her e-mail, I’d probably be desperate enough to ask this talentless slutbag for help too.

114 DAYS TO GO: Hangover City.

I had big plans for today. I was going to go for a run, get all the shopping that I’ve been meaning to do done, and maybe even write a little. But then I woke up.

At first I was feeling fine, until I tried to drink some water. That’s when my brain started swimming around in my head. I laid in bed for quite awhile until I was finally strong enough to stand. Knowing that greasy food would help my stomach, I painfully walked the three blocks down to the bagel shop near my house. I felt like a cross between Quasimodo and a vampire, walking hunched over and unable to look at the sun. Back at my place I managed to eat about 1/4 of my bacon, egg and cheese sandwich before giving up and just eating the bacon.

Luckily by 3pm my hangover had disappeared and I was able to rejoin civilization. Which is good because it was a beautiful day out and I didn’t have to work, and if I had spent all of it inside, lying in bed, I would have been really mad at myself. Instead I made my way over to the Chelsea Piers and enjoyed the sun and all the shirtless mancandy that the piers have to offer.

After I got my fill of sweets, I came back home and decided to spend the rest of my day in bed anyhow, watching more of The Wire.

It’s a sad, sad day when your only accomplishment is getting out of bed to ogle men, and you’re proud of it.

117, 116 & 115 DAYS TO GO: Too Busy Drinking To Blog.

Yes, I was in Boston for Memorial Day Weekend and no, I didn’t blog. No one’s perfect.

Here’s the recap:

117 DAYS TO GO: Friday
I snuck out of work early to hop on the Fung Wah bus, which was packed. I was worried about getting stuck sitting next to some annoying nut job, lacking social skills and a sense of common curtesy. The nut job, it turns out, wasn’t sitting next to me. Instead, he was sitting just across the aisle from me. Apparently, this d-bag thought that everyone else on the bus wanted to watch The Da Vinci Code with him, as he played it on his laptop sans headphones. Thankfully I had my headphones, which I used for my marathon viewing of The Wire, Season Three.

5 hours (and a shitload of Memorial Day Weekend traffic) later, I arrived in Boston. Since it was already late and the bars are only open until 2am, Nora and I partook in our tradition of bar hopping and doing tequila shots. That night, I slept like a baby. A drunk baby.

116 DAYS TO GO: Saturday
I was up at 10:00am and drinking by noon. Nora and I decided to tour both the Sam Adams and the Harpoon brewery. It was free, there was beer, and we’re poor alcoholics. You do the math. We did our best to blend in with all the straight, preppy, I-miss-my-fraternity breeders and their does-this-halter-top-show-off-my-rack-enough wives.

After about 7-8 mini beers and an afternoon of walking around in the sun, Nora and I were spent. We went back to her place to order in Indian food and watch HBO. After stuffing my fat face with saag paneer, I was really spent. Later that night we were meeting up with friends of Nora for more drinks in Harvard Square. I really didn’t think I had the energy to get up off the couch, nor the room in my belly for more frothy, malted liquid, but somehow I mustered up the strength to go on.

115 DAYS TO GO: Sunday
I left my beloved Nora and endured another crowded bus ride back to NYC. With my little weekend getaway suitcase still in tow, I headed straight to M. Fisher’s for a BBQ with some of the members of my improv team. After a few brewskies and some freshly grilled meat, Beta and I said our good-byes and made our way up to Harlem for Gayme Night at Jeffrey’s. I played lots of games that evening, but the game I played the most was the Binge Drinking Game. I had been drinking from 5:30pm-3:30am… you’d be surprised how much one person can drink in 10 hours.

I had considered spending the night at Jeffrey’s, but after 2 nights on a futon in Boston, I was ready for my own bed. By some small miracle I made it home without sleeping past my subway stop, or leaving my suitcase on the train. It was 4:30am when I finally arrived home, and by that point things were becoming a bit blurry. I wouldn’t say that I blacked out, but I can’t deny that I hadn’t remembered finishing up the Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream until the next morning, when I saw it sitting in the trash can.

118 DAYS TO GO: Ain’t Got Much.

All in all, today was a pretty unblogworthy day. I didn’t even realize how nice it was outside until I finally left the dungeon at 3:30 for lunch. I ended up working until 8:00pm, which I will try and use as leverage for getting out of work early tomorrow, to head up to Beantown.

Here are the very few highlights from my day:

1. Mary Kate has once again proved herself to be the far superior Olsen twin by scoring this deal.

2. This lady came into the pharmacy today. Of course I can’t tell you what she got. But let’s just say that this lady would be jealous.

3. After dinner I pigged out on this while watching Mommie Dearest. I know that M.D. is supposed to be a classic amongst gay men, but honestly I was more into the ice cream.

119 DAYS TO GO: Penetration-Station.

WARNING: If you read this blog and you are related to me, you should probably skip over this post. Or, if you read this blog and you have no interest in reading about my S-E-X life, you might want to stop reading. And finally, if your name is Kate and you’re still in love with me, even though I’ve told you a thousand times over that I’m gay… read on only if you want your heart broken again.

I know that it might be a bit inappropriate for me to blog about my sex life, or lack there of (wocka, wocka, wocka!), but I really have nothing better to write about, especially since I don’t watch American Idol.

Sex is such a funny word. It means different things to different people. From my experience, if you ask someone from an older generation (and believe me, I have lots of experience with people from older generations) they will tell you that sex can be classified as anything from penis and vagina (or penis and mangina, for us gays) to dry humping. However, if you ask someone from my generation they will probably tell you it ain’t sex if there ain’t penetration. We classify dry humping and anything else that doesn’t involve a penis entering a vagina or a butthole as “fooling around,” “messing around,” or “ways to pay the rent without penetration.”

For me (and this is where you should stop reading if you don’t want to know) I fool around on a semi-regular basis, but rarely do I have sex, or intimacy with penetration as I like to call it (not because it sounds romantic, but because it sounds ridiculous.)

When it comes to sex I’m like a camel, I can spit really far. Just kidding. I’m like a camel because I can go a long time without water. And by water, I mean sex.

Tonight, I refuled on water. And judging by the schedule that I’ve been on, I won’t need to refuel again until October.

Honestly, I.W.P. (intimacy with penetration) doesn’t do that much for me. Well it does, for about 5 minutes. And then I’m all “Can you hurry up and finish, I’m ready for this to be over.” Which I guess makes me a bad lay.

Maybe it’s because I.W.P. is still kind of funny to me. After it’s all over and done with, I really have to work hard at not laughing. It just seems so absurd to me. (Also, I think laughter is my body’s defense for when someone tries to cuddle with me.)

Tonight our post-cotial was extra funny to me because of the music that was playing. My manfriend had randomly flipped on one of those radio stations that you get through cable tv, and it just happened to be 80’s music. My money shot came during Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam’s Head to Toe. Which is hilarious, especially since I’m obsessed with Lisa Lisa right now and I just downloaded that very song from YouTube this morning.

But I kept my girlish giggles on the inside. Because otherwise your partner might think that you’re laughing at them… especially if they are a stranger and you don’t know them that well.

I.W.P. with strangers sometimes makes me feel like a whorish slut. But tonight I came home and watched Sherrybaby starring Maggie “I’ll show my tits for a Golden Globe nomination” Gyllenhaal, and felt much better about myself. At least I can rest easy knowing that I’ve never sucked dick for a job or let some man with a heinous mullet fuck me up the ass in the basement of a halfway house.

120 DAYS TO GO: That Which Does Not Kill Me, Only Kills My Legs.

Tonight I went for a very long run. 70 minutes and 4 seconds to be exact. That’s my entire running playlist, minus Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam’s All Cried Out, which was too slow of a jam to run to.

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the power of the Nano. Maybe it was my guilt, knowing that thanks to the free catered lunch we got at work today, I ate a cookie, a brownie and a slice of crumb cake. Or perhaps it was just the feeling that I’m 27 and I’m wasting my life away, that made me run like a madman.

Most likely, it was the Nano mixed in with a little self loathing.

Here are some of the musical highlights from my run:

I Wonder If I Take You Home Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam:

This song came in at the end of my run, right when I needed something pop-y and 80’s fab to distract me from my legs, which felt like they were going to snap off at any moment. Only downside: the song is 6 minutes and 45 secondes. Damn you Lisa Lisa! (Sidenote: Love her outfit in the video.)

Lovin’ You Minnie Riperton:

I listened to this one towards the begining of my run, when my lungs were still functional and happy to be breathing in the fresh air. I also listened to it again during my post-run cool down walk. The chirping birds were the only thing to keep me from crying/vomiting.

Glamorous Fergie:

This song wasn’t actually on my playlist. But I listened to it during my pre-run stretches and my post-run sit ups. And yes, I am ashamed of myself.

121 DAYS TO GO: Tuplis & Pansies, Or Faggots & Rum.

Today was another 17 hour day away from home.

After work I went to an AIDS benefit dinner with some of my coworkers. It was called Tulips and Pansies, but considering how gay the name was, I was a little disappointed in the turn out. Too many women.

It was a fashion event, so most of the women were poorly dressed too. Except for the old lady in the way-too-pink power suit with the lipstick to match. Loved her.

I was probably one of the youngest people there, which was fine because I was hoping to pick me up a Sugar Daddy. Unfortunately, none of the daddies looked very sweet, and the only one who tried to flirt with me was some flaming mo’ who was working the party, dressed in a red blazer and a crown, with his drag queen at his side.

At one point there was a rumor that Sarah Jessica Parker was there, but it turned out to be just some big-nosed woman wearing a beret and a puffy dress.

The benefit ended with a fashion show that left much to be desired. The guy in front of me was actually taking notes on the outfits (and the ridiculous floral headdresses that were bigger than the models), but all I could think was, “I wonder when season three of Project Runway begins?”

The best part of the benefit was the open rum bar. By the time my coworkers and I left we were pretty blitzed, so naturally we decided to continue drinking at a bar down the street.

Two watered-down vodka Sprites later (the rum bar was much more generous with their alcohol), and I was running late for Beyond Improdome, where my improv trio had to defend our championship title from last week as “Least Crappy Team.” I hopped in a cab and made it just in time to perform.

We didn’t win this week, but I didn’t care. I was more upset when I realized that I left my free gift bag from the benefit in the cab. I was really sad because one of the items in the bag was a moisturizer, something I would never spending money on buying for myself, but would like to use if given it for free.

After our defeat, Beta (and her roommates) and I went out for a nightcap, which means that a certain someone is probably still going to be drunk when he goes to work tomorrow.

122 DAYS TO GO: Family Matters.

Today was one of those extremely long days where you leave the house at 8am and don’t get home until 1am, 17 hours later.

I got up waaaaay too early for a Sunday morning, after a night of partying with my Boo and his new BF in Hipsterville, USA, in order to do the AIDS Walk. The walk was nice and sunny but I was very disappointed in the lack of eye candy. My co-workers and I got stuck walking along side the sassy latina sisters of Sephora and a bunch of annoying high school kids. Even the Jersey Boys team walking in front of us did not have much to offer.

After the walk I had my first session of my new improv class. I’m totally in love my teacher. (She’s a female, so it’s not that kind of love.) She told us to figure out why we love improv enough to spend as much money and time on it as we do. I’m struggling to find an answer that is worth $3,000 and a six month internship that I often loathed.

Once class was over I accompanied my classmate-friend to the fine dining establishment of Subway, where I didn’t eat because I was still full from my post-AIDS Walk lunch… only to meet up with the Blunts (Jeannie and her roomsie Edith) afterwards and go out to dinner with them. And just like the last time we got together (Indian Food Restaurant Disaster ‘07) we promised to order small and just nibble, but ended up pigging out on a shitload of Mexican food.

After we feasted like swine, all I wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed and fall asleep with my beloved Netflix. But alas, S-Class was having a going away party for one of her roommates, and even though the party was way the fuck up in Harlem, I am never one to turn down a good excuse to get drunk on a Sunday night.

Unfortunately, the 1 train was being a bitch. For some stupid reason, which I couldn’t make out due to the conductor’s grabbled announcement crackling overhead on the speaker, the 1 decided to stop at every station for a good 5 minuets from 14th to 42nd. Needless to say, there was a lot of scowling and head shaking going on between the trains passengers, yours truly included.

Once I got sick of watching oncoming commuters running for the train like a madman/woman, thinking that it was leaving, only to get on and find out that they were going nowhere soon, I turned my attention to the family sitting across from me. It’s so rare that I see an actual family on the train. I was studying them like they were caged animals in the zoo. The mom was knitting at a fierce speed, the daughter playing with some sort of pen/glowstick/sparkly thing, the son was reading Malcom X (pretty impressive for a 12 year-old), and the dad was being a dorky dad, making funny faces and trying to do an Australian accent.

At first I found myself annoyed with this family as well. I envied the children for having the opportunity of growing up in New York City, and I was convinced that the partents where rich bitch a-holes with a nice apartment on the Upper West Side. But as the train ride went on, and we passed the UWS and moved into Harlem, they proved me wrong. They were a nice family, having a good time teasing each other and talking about important family issues such as who liked the pumpkin cheese cake they had the other day. (The mom thought it was too sweet.) I became so entranced with them that I turned off my iPod in order to eavesdrop some more. By the time they tried to synchronized doing the worm with their arms (except the son, who was having none of it) I was in love with them. They were all laughing and I couldn’t help but laugh as well. They made me think of my family, who I haven’t seen in almost 6 months now.

As I got up to exit at 136th St. the mother caught me laughing with them. Instead of looking away and acting all stony faced, like I normally would, I looked at her and smiled.

I guess I do have a heart afterall.

123 DAYS TO GO: iLove, Part II: Running Man

Today Dolly and I went for our first run together.

In honor of our first run, I had planned to download LCD Soundsystem’s “Nike running song.” (I guess Nike paid different artist to create 45 minute tracks geared towards runners and other workout enthusiasts.) However, when I looked for it on iTunes today, it was nowhere to be found. Originally I was a bit peeved at LCD Soundsystem for selling out to Nike. And now I’m peeved that they had a change of heart before I could download it.

But I guess on the bright side, I saved myself $10 by creating my own playlist of running music:

1. On and On and On ABBA: I like to feel as gay as possible while running.

2. Big Wheel Tori Amos: I’ve never been a huge Tori fan. But I freaking love the video for this song.

3. This is Acid Maurice Joshua: A cheap Technotronics rip-off. It’s pretty much a guy with a rockin’ Casio keyboard, repeating over and over “This is acid,” while a siren goes off and a woman moans like she is have really bad sex.

4. Make Me Sweat Basement Jaxx: I was first introduced to the Basement Jaxx in college. My roommate Bobby and I used to get high and then listen to their CD. It’s ironic that at the time, our codename for smoking pot was “running.”

5. Buttons Pussycat Dolls feat. Snoop Dogg: This song has been slightly “tainted” for me, ever since I watched a stripper give one of my coworkers a lap dance to this little ditty.

6. Go Deep Janet Jackson: This song was oddly enough on Stevie Nicks Celebrity Playlist on iTunes. However, Steve Nicks used to pay someone to blow coke up her ass using a straw. So I guess it’s not that odd.

7. Welcome to Hollywood Beyonce feat. Jay-Z.: Natch.

8. It’s My House Diana Ross: This was on Diana’s Celebrity Playlist. I don’t think she understood that you were supposed to pick artist other than yourself, since every song on her playlist was hers. Of this song she says, “The house is the feminine body.” I picked this song so that I can think about all the good I am doing for my house while running.

9. He Wasn’t Man Enough For Me Toni Braxton: Toni, you are now 99 cents less in bankruptcy. You’re welcome.

10. The Boy Is Mine Brandy and Monica: Oh Brandy, I bet you miss the good old days when your biggest problem was fighting over the same boy (Mekhi Phifer) with Monica. Best of luck with those manslaughter charges.

11. Summer Night City ABBA: See #1.

You know, now that I think about it, I didn’t really save $10 since I had to download all of these songs. Oh well.