Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Squirt: A Conversation With My Penis

I was sitting on the beach in Maui, looking out over the endless, black water. I was alone and there were only a few minutes until midnight. Leaning my head back, I filled my lungs with the tangy, floral breeze. Above me, the sky was heavy with galaxies and a billion pinpricks in the universe.

“God, it’s so beautiful,” said a little voice.

For a moment, my blood went icy and I stopped breathing. Did I just think that really loudly? Or had I really heard it?

I spread my knees and looked down at my crotch, expecting to see a talking hermit crab looking up at me. Shit, I thought. I’m about to meet a fucking talking hermit crab. And then I’m going to have to take care of it for the rest of my life. I lifted my butt and looked over both shoulders, but I didn't see anything. Then I ripped open the Velcro fly of my swimsuit, just in case a magical sea creature had crawled up my thigh. But nothing. Just my penis — flopped over as if it were relaxing on a chaise lounge. “Did you say something?” I asked it.

I felt the presence of an uncomfortable silence between casual acquaintances, which I knew was weird because I was by myself. Then suddenly, my penis slid along my pelvis and rose about half an inch to face me, like someone sitting up in bed. “Yeah, that was me,” it said.

My first thought was not, how is my penis talking?! It was, why is my penis talking now?!

“Sorry,” said my penis. “I just couldn’t help myself. I was marveling at how pretty everything is here and it just came out.” His voice was small and squeaky and he spoke with a lisp, just like me.

“You’ve been attached to me since birth," I said. "You want to tell me why we’ve never had a conversation?”

“You make me nervous!” he squealed. “You only take me out to piss or beat me up!”

“So you’ve never spoken before?” I asked.

“Well,” he said. “Sometimes when you’re asleep, I sing.”

“What do you sing?” I wondered.

“Oh, I sing all kinds of stuff!” he said excitedly. “I’m really into Father John Misty right now, but I love Ryan Adams, Wilco, Springsteen, Neil Young. My tastes are all over the place.”

“No female singers?” I asked.

“I can’t get into girls,” he said.

“You can,” I said. “You just won’t.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

A breeze picked up and my penis shivered and tucked itself down like it was hiding. I pulled my fly up and cozied it around him.

“So how did you know the beach and sky were beautiful?” I asked. “You don’t have any eyes. Just a peehole mouth.”

“I see what you see,” he said. “That’s how boners work.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

It got quiet again. There were so many things I wanted to ask, but I didn’t know what would be appropriate. I didn’t think there was much that could offend a talking dick, but he seemed really sensitive. Then suddenly, he broke the silence.

“You’ve never taken the time to name me,” he said. “Why is that?”

I thought for a moment. “I used to call you The Irish Spring when I was a little kid,” I said. “But I guess I never said it out loud. It just made me giggle.”

“I like that name!” he squeaked. “Makes me sound powerful and fresh. What was wrong with it?”

“I’m not all that Irish.” I said. “I just have red pubes and my mom’s maiden name is O’Reilly.”

“She’s my mom too,” he reminded me. “And can’t you just name me right now?!”

“Do you really need a name? You’re 24 years old and you’re Ryan Rogers’ Dick. Why confuse people with a rebrand?”

“Maybe a rebrand is exactly what I need,” he said under his breath.

“Oh,” I said. “Why’s that? Do you feel like you need to change your image? Not happy with your reputation?”

“I don’t know,” he said pitifully. “A little.”

“Ouch,” I said feeling slightly wounded. “I didn’t know I was embarrassing you. What am I doing wrong?”

“Well,” he said leaning back against my scrotum as if it were a beanbag chair. “You introduce me to people all the time, but I never get to know them. Then, you put all kinds of pressure on me because you want me to make a good first impression, and five minutes later, you’re done with me and you’re moving on to the next guy. All I want to do is make you proud, but I feel overwhelmed sometimes.”

I nodded to show him I was listening.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I really value our alone time. I like it when we’re watching TV and you hold me. It makes me feel safe. Or when you get home from a jog and you dance around the bathroom while the shower runs. That’s my favorite thing in the world! Just bobbing my head to the music while you shake your hips. But when you start taking me out to meet other people, I don’t always enjoy myself.”

He made a kind-of half smile and I could tell he felt relieved to get all that out.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t always know what I want, but I’m going to need you to share some of the blame. I follow your lead quite often. Remember that time we fucked that LSU cheerleader on the floor of Alex’s bathroom? You totally influenced that! Or that time we banged that 40-year-old because you liked his military uniform? You made that decision, you prick!”

The tide came in and the cold water rushed over my toes before quickly receding back over the sand and into the sea. Up until then, I didn’t know a penis could look unhappy. But mine did.

“Hey,” I said giving him a soft nudge with two fingers. “Remember when we went to that dance club in Playa del Carmen and I climbed on top of the bar and pulled you out for everyone to see?”

“You were drinking tequila and Red Bull,” he said bitterly. “You weren’t in your right mind.”

“Fuck me, is that true?!” I said. “Jesus Christ, that sounds terrible. Anyway, I pulled you out that night because I was proud of you and I wanted everyone to know that you were mine.”

“Really?” he said affectionately.

“Of course,” I said. “You’re not the biggest wiener and you don’t always hulk up when you need to, but I love you. And of all my appendages, I’ve shared some of my greatest memories with you.”

He finally looked back up at me.

“Can we get back together with Thomas?” he said. “He showed me a lot of attention and his bed sheets were some crazy high thread count.”

“Is that what you want?” I asked.

“Maybe not,” he said looking back at the waves. “I guess I just want you to settle down again. I’ve met a lot of assholes lately, and I’m ready for an asshole I really care about.”

I patted him on the head and said, “Of course, squirt.”

We both looked up at the stars and then I blurted out, “Hey! What about Squirt? I can call you Squirt if you like. That’s a good name, isn’t it?”

“That’s gross,” he said. “But I like it.”

I tucked him inside my swimsuit and gave him a playful punch with my fist saying, “Good talk, Squirt.”

I closed my eyes and when I opened them again, everything was still dark and beautiful. And nearly twenty feet away was a police officer, marching towards me through the sand — pointing and yelling as if I’d done something obscene.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Found this in my phone from February 22, 2014:

That is all.

End of blog post.

Monday, July 7, 2014


The Height of Luxury - Part I

Every now and then, I’ll look over at John and he’ll be looking down at his phone, scrolling through the pictures of the stripper from last night.

“Can’t stop, huh?” I ask.

“Every time I see him,” he says. “I stop breathing.”

“He was a goddamn superhero,” I say. “Like when he turned on the shower and started whipping his hair around and flinging water all over the crowd.”

“Oh God,” says John. “It’s like my dick can hear you. I bet if I covered my ears, my dick would still be like, Are you guys talking about Tarzan?! Is Tarzan here?!’’

I laugh and then I roll down all the windows when I see John reach for the pack of cigarettes in the cupholder. The Texas summer wind zigzags in and out of the car — roaring over the song we’re listening to: She’s A Lady by Tom Jones. When we took this exact same road trip last year, our anthem was Rock The Boat by Hues Corporation. This time, for no particular reason, we’ve adopted She’s A Lady as the Independence Gay Weekend 2014 theme song. “This song sounds like something from the Miss Congeniality soundtrack,” John says. “Yeah,” I add. “It sounds like the perfect song to introduce a drag queen. She would never perform it, but she would definitely walk out to it.” He side-eyes me and nods as if to say, exactly.

Two nights ago, on a Thursday, we left Lafayette around six and arrived at Nick’s house in Houston in the shallow end of the night. We went to a strip mall gay bar called Guava Lamp where we stumbled upon a drunk mob of singers and dancers with the touring company of The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas, who for four solid hours continued to drink like monsters and perform choreographed dance routines to songs unrelated to the choreography. Needless to say, it was fucking spectacular.

The next day was July 4th, which we spent beside a pool at Joey’s apartment, surrounded on all sides by Mexican teenagers who grilled hot dogs and played screechy, incoherent mariachi music from a boom box that looked like the same one that’s covered in dust and rat shit in the shed behind my parents’ house. When it started raining, I took cover but John and Joey stayed in the pool, insisting the rain was only passing.

Joey invited us to a party in Rice Military, so we got ready and ordered a ride. We don’t have Uber in Lafayette, so we thought it might be fun to try in Houston. A peppy black lady with hair bundled like a sheaf of wheat picked us up at twilight. She said it was her second day as an Uber driver, which was obvious by her scattered, overenthusiastic attempt to talk to the strangers in her car. She didn’t seem nervous, just jumpy and obnoxious. She asked us questions, and nodded, and smiled, and then asked more questions until we arrived at our destination. Her sugary disposition and apparent need to make others comfortable and engaged forced me to take a good, hard look at my own cynicism. And before exiting the car and mounting the stairs to the party, I decided that the friendly, conversational characteristics of a Southerner were not within me — and never were. I felt like a contradiction; a New Orleans native who finds friendly small talk between people who don’t need anything from one another painful and embarrassing. Like I was raised by animals in the jungle — seeing agendaless human social interaction as mystifying. And that’s when I thought, out loud, “I need a drink.”

The party was hosted by a pair of gay real estate agents at a home that could have been featured in Shit You’ll Never Own Magazine. Joey introduced us around and we tried not to gawk at the furniture and artwork. “We need to make a good impression,” whispered John. “I want to stay here next time.” I poured myself a glass of Grey Goose over ice from a crystal decanter with a sterling silver charm around its neck that read, Vodka. I repeated this exercise for the duration. The house was five stories with a rooftop patio that overlooked the Houston skyline. We climbed to the top, surveyed the panoramic view, and headed back down the stairs for another drink. A man with wild eyes and a voice like Harvey Fierstein stood on the landing, gesturing for us to follow him towards a door. “Why don’t you kids just take the elevator with me?” he said. John and I looked at one another. “Of course there’s a fucking elevator,” I said rolling my eyes. And then John screamed, “This is the height of luxury!”

I was introduced to a CPA who had the power to make me bored and also sexually indifferent. When he walked away, John said, “Geez, he’s had some work done.” I said I hadn’t noticed. John looked at me like I was screwing with him, which I wasn’t. “You didn’t see how his left eyebrow was pulled all the way back to his hairline?” “No,” I said. “I just assumed he was intrigued by everything.” I arched my eyebrow and pursed my lips, causing John to snort-laugh into his drink.

After the fireworks, we decided to head to the bars. I was considerably drunk and John was not far behind me, as evident by the volumes of our voices inside the second Uber car. That ride did not inspire a bleak, depressing self-realization the way the first one had because I was much too busy asking the driver if she could play “a black girl song” because I was “feeling like a black girl.” Also, the driver was a black girl and she stopped acknowledging me after three minutes.

Like many gay bars, Meteor has a stage on which drag queens and dancers can perform. Unlike many gay bars, Meteor has a multi-head shower in the middle of the stage, backed by a stone-tiled wall. We’d been drinking and socializing for hours when we finally sat down on a couch in front of the stage. John sat in the middle, flanked be me one side and a giant Mexican on the other side, who used his thumb and index finger to steady the straw in his drink every time he took a sip. John turned to him without provocation and asked his name. He said Ricky. John asked who he was with. He said no one. Then John said, “Good. You’re with us now.” Ricky looked ecstatic. And that’s when Turn Down For What came on and the lights changed. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen..."

I didn’t see him walk onto the stage. I only saw him everyone started screaming and whistling. He was the type of man you would see at the beach and drop your sunglasses to get a better look when he passed by. And he shook his ass impossibly. At the age of 25, I’ve seen more strippers in my lifetime than the average rap artist. But this guy — this Tarzan-looking guy — he was an unbelievable showman. To be honest, I wouldn’t have looked away if the place was on fire. And when it was all over, John and I sat next to each other dumbfounded and oddly horny for being in public. Then John turned to Ricky and said, “Get up Ricky, you’re coming with us to the next place.”

John’s awake now and Marc Maron is interviewing Jared Harris on the podcast I’m listening to. I accidentally forgot to set a route for Austin, and I’ve only just realized it upon entering San Antonio. I thought I could just travel west from Houston and end up in Austin, which was apparently fucked. So now we’re headed north up through Lockhart with another hour of driving ahead of us.

But I don’t mind.

It’s been exactly a year since John and I visited Houston and Austin together.

Last year, he was moving to New York at the end of summer, so we took one last road trip before he left for good. That whole weekend was bittersweet and I’d often find myself trying not to cry when I looked at him. But then, his plans changed and he moved from Lafayette back to New Orleans, which is only a two-hour drive instead of a plane ride.

We certainly didn’t think we would have this opportunity again last year, but look where we are! I'm not taking it for granted, though. This is special. But right now, I’m driving to one of my most favorite cities in the world with my best friend sitting next to me.

This is the height of luxury.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Where Do I Come In?

I’m a three position max kind of guy. After that, I’m lying on my back and I’m cranking it out ‘til something happens or I fall asleep.

My idea of adventurous sex involves moving. And if I do anything besides flat-back (stand, squat, bend, sit, prop myself up on one elbow, elevate my body into a push-up position, etc.), it’s only to prove I’m still athletic enough to do it. Meaning that it’s not for your pleasure, it’s for my reassurance. But just to reiterate: I cap off at three.

I never know what to do with my hands when receiving a blowjob. When I was 14, this guy on the wrestling team named Greg Duplechain told me that you should always rub the person’s shoulders when she is going down on you. At an all-boys high school, this kind of open dialogue about blowjob etiquette is mostly going on between everyone all day long. Walk by any table in the cafeteria and you’re bound to overhear the term “donkey punch” more than once. Rub the shoulders, I thought. How considerate.

Teenage boys will blindly follow one another’s advice because each one assumes the other guy has slightly more experience than he does. Greg Duplechain spent his summers in Arkansas at Camp Ozark — where I assumed he fingered girls from sunrise to sunset and participated in bunk-wide circle jerks after lights out. He knows his stuff, I thought. I would later find out that shoulder-rubbing is fine for a little while, but then my weak hands make it strenuous and awkward. Now, my go-to move is both hands behind my head. Guys in porn do this, and it looks so cool. And looking cool is something I’ve been trying to do since I was born. So there I am, receiving oral sex from someone I probably conned into it with my hands behind my head like I’m a fireman posing for a calendar you might find at the mall newsstand in the 1990s.

But then what do I do with my eyes? I can look you in the eyes, I guess. But then it turns into a staring contest, and I get anxious and break eye contact immediately. I can’t beat you in a staring contest while you’re sucking my dick. How much ego does one man need? I already won when I convinced you to give me head. I don’t need to assert my dominance by staring you in your distant, hopeful eyes. So I guess I’ll just keep mine closed. But does that make me appear smug or disinterested? Maybe I’ll just look out the window. But then what if a neighborhood kid walks by and peeks inside to see if anyone’s home? I’m never expecting children at my house, but it could still happen. Girl Scouts or wayward teens on their way to the bus station could drop by at any minute! It’s around this time I decide we should probably do something else.

When it comes to roles, I don’t particularly have a preference. It’s complicated and squishy either way, and my choice to top or bottom ultimately comes down to what the other guy looks like. My work as a Creative Director comes in handy here. I can see the picture in my head beforehand and make a professional recommendation for the final composition. But sometimes I just get hammered and throw caution to the wind because I don’t care what goes inside where after I’ve shotgunned a case of High Life and neither should you.

What else? Um. Oh! I like handjobs. Handjobs are the only kind of sex where you can also sit in a booth and enjoy a chicken parmesan at the same time. Straight guys get so psyched for Steak & BJ Day, but count me in for a chickparm and a mildly enthusiastic HJ. I don’t even care if there’s pasta.

Alright. I’m not really sure where I’m going with this anymore. I think it started out as a short essay about my compulsion to feel comfortable during sex, and then I got sidetracked and started discussing my quirky, relatable sex habits.

I’m glad I put it out there, but what are you supposed to do with that information?

Shit, and I totally intended to mention weird places in which I’ve ejaculated, but I never really got around to that. The title makes more sense now, doesn’t it? Kind of funny, right? Well, I guess now’s a good time to talk about cum since I’ve gone full-on Frank Underwood. Okay, here we go:

I basically won’t cum above your shoulders unless I love you. Or unless I hate you.


I guess that’s all I have to say about that. A little anti-climactic, I guess.

Cum joke.

I’m going to sleep now.

I don't even know how this fucking happened.