I'D BE STARING TOO

 

I LOVE A LAD WITH MANNERS -- DON'T YOU?

 

IT'S NICE TO BE LOOKED UP TO.....

                                                                                                                    by Frank McCarron

Every man (well, maybe just me, I shouldn't generalize) wants to be Superman and looked up to and respected and looked to for direction. We want to be The Man of Steel who has all the answers. We want to be “the man” who the town turns to when the monster is about to devour Metropolis. And that is a fun dream. But sometimes….. 

Today, for example. We are stuck 120 miles from home and decisions have to be made: 

What will we do?  Where will we stay? Are we home yet? 

99.99% of the time my loving wife and my loving mother-in-law rely on me for “the decisions”. I don't mind, although at times I'd be happy to hear opinions and thoughts and not just “oh you decide”. 

I don't mind being Superman, but at times I'd cheerfully give up the cloak and disappear into the crowd. 

Today with all the commotion of the highway being closed I neared my breaking point. I spent hours monitoring the traffic situation on my cell phone and then my beloved MIL spends 3.6 seconds on Facebook and says “oh, traffic is starting to flow”. So we drove to the point where the police were turning folks around. The one and only post that said the highway was “starting to flow” turned out to be the Admin of a group that keeps us all up to date on these kind of traffic situations. He was 100% wrong. He couldn't have been more wrong if we tried. But my MIL read his post and thought “whatever”. 

My near meltdown was exacerbated by already having spent too many hours with a family member that I don't like but tolerate because he is the MIL's brother and she loves the big lug. And now we are spending the night as guests on his sofa. I'd rather have wedges under my fingernails spending more time with him, but for the sake of ‘family happiness” I sit quietly surfing FB in his small apartment living room.  

I've cooled down. I am less likely to curl up into a ball in the corner than I was an hour ago. 

I will survive. But I realize that while it is great to be looked to as a great leader, there are times I'd cheerfully let another qualified person take the lead of our expedition, even if only for a while.

YIKES!

 

MAYBE THEY JUST NEED TO GET ASS-FUCKED ON THE REGULAR

                                                                                                                                by Damien

In 1996 I moved to Melbourne Australia from Brisbane Australia for a career change and a life change.

Not long after getting there I hooked up with a Palestinian-Australian with a big dick and a filthy attitude. We dated for a few months. The New Jew Me. The Palo-Aussie Bottom. It was fabulous. One day after a particularly athletic session where the two of us double dicked him – his dick was so long and fat he could fuck himself – we were lying there with various juices on our bodies and he turned to me and said. “I don’t know why they can’t get along like we can?” To which I replied “May they aren’t built like you and seeded with a filthy mind like me.”  He giggled. He had a basso voice that came up out of his boots and his chuckle made me hard. He then said “No. Maybe they just all need to get ass-fucked on the regular.”

Now. I cannot speak for Palestinians. I have only ever known two, and only fucked one. But as far as Orthodox Jews go........... been there and done a few and let me tell you this about that, you touch their arsehole – with a finger; a tongue; or a cock head; not even put it in, just touch it, and they will do anything for you. Hell – they’d go buy you bacon from the Piggly Wiggly!

Orthodox men do not get enough sex. Even in those families with 14 kids. Because unless the woman requests/demands it, he don’t get it. You see, in an Orthodox marriage, the woman is the one with power of the horizontal boogie.  And those Ortho ladies don’t necessarily want it that much. So, the men often go looking elsewhere. And, like some men, if you don’t tell anyone, and they don’t have to touch you, they’re up for a swallow job. They LERV head. And., They love it when you swallow.

But Yossi – not his real name – did something completely different back in ’96 when I forget who I was blowing and began licking his hole. I think he actually saw Moses. Needless to say, anal play became our regular thing. Fingers. Tongue. Cock. Toys. Many fingers. He could not get enough of it. And I swear I could have asked for a Mercedes Kompressor and his response would have been “what color?”

Now.... I am not minimizing the Middle East Conflict, but knowing Arab men as biblically as I have, and Jewish men as biblically as I have, I don’t think either group is getting enough. I don’t know about you but I am as surly as a white woman whose coffee order is wrong when I have blue balls, I can only imagine the hurt with these men.  Needless to say, my Palestinian buddy may have been onto something.

If it was so simple as drop several hundred West Hollywood twinks into the region, I think we could really have a chance.

Yes. I realize that whilst saying I wouldn’t minimize it, I eventually did.

And no, I won’t apologize for that.

You see, as a Jew, I am as tired of the conflict as all of you.

Shalom.  Get a dick up you. Or, get your dick up someone. It could be world peace.

Damien

OH HI! JUST LOOKING FOR MY PHONE

 

A BOY AND HIS DIC.....I MEAN DOG!

 

SOMETIMES YOU'VE JUST GOTTA SAY 'WHAT THE FUCK'

It's not something I'm necessarily proud of but....I can be a vindictive cunt when pushed to it.

Take, for instance, my final months at the next to last 9 to 5 I ever held......

The Normandy at 140 Riverside Drive

It's 1997 and I've been running a boutique real estate asset management company as its EVP and Managing Director since 1991.  The company manages a portfolio of about 50 largely triple A cooperative apartment building in NYC -- a portfolio of which I've grown, in the six years I've been there, from a firm handling fewer than 20 buildings.

The head of the company is a dipshit of 33 years of age who inherited the firm from his father who founded it (and who thought his son was every bit the dipshit I did) who loved to tell anyone who would listen that he was in Mensa with a tested IQ of 165.

Part of my agreed upon compensation -- in addition to base salary -- was a year-end bonus tied to revenue and new business development AND, if I were to broker the sale of any apartments in the buildings that we handled I'd be due a full commission -- since I had a New York Real Estate brokers license.  A full broker's license, not just a sales license.

Over the years I didn't really involve myself in sales much because we had an entire department for that. Plus, I didn't want to take food off their tables by trying to wet my beak in their business.  But at one point a friend of mine who lived in one of our buildings asked me to handle the sale of his apartment and I agreed.

We sold it toot sweet and got his full ask and that was that until it was time to get paid.  At which point there was a bit of hemming and hawing from company ownership about whether I was actually due a commission or not.  In the end I agreed to take a half of what I was rightfully owed and I filed the memory away in case I needed it for later. That later happened about 15 months later when another friend in another building asked me to list and sell her apartment.

Her apartment, at the Normandy at 140 Riverside Drive, was a massive combined penthouse overlooking the Hudson River with wrap around terrace -- at the time she was the restaurant critic for the New York Times and her hubby was an asshole master of the universe running CBS News. So the crib was expensive and the comp tasty, to say the least.

Recalling my prior experience trying to get paid by my firm's owner I made it a point to have the client specify me as exclusive sales agent for the apartment in the listing agreement and I informed my boss that I was selling the apartment and didn't expect any trouble from him this time.

Long story short -- I sold the apartment in no time and my boss fucked me.

When I went to get paid he said, and I remember it to this day....he twirled his fucking sideburn (an annoying habit he had that we all made fun of to his face) and said, "Right! Salaried employees don't get paid commissions."

And with that I stood up and left his office without saying a word and I went back to my office and back to work.  As I did for the next four months -- just like nothing had happened.  I was super friendly, and joked around as usual and acted like the whole thing hadn't happened.  All the while I know for a fact that my boss was waiting for me toss a hand grenade into the room.

And then one day, four months later, that frag got tossed -- in the form of a bunch of letters that came to the office, all on the same day from 32 of the firm's biggest accounts and addressed to the head of the firm.  The letters all said the same thing (because I had written them): Your company is fired with immediate effect and you are instructed to turn over all of our files to the new asset management company. Failure to do so expeditiously will result in civil litigation and the filing of a criminal complaint for fraud.......

And as I listened to the sound of shrieking coming from the president's office I smiled, stood up, grabbed an envelope I had waiting on my desk and walked into his office and tossed the envelope containing my resignation on his desk and said, "Salaried employees may not get paid commissions at this company -- but when you fuck us over we take your business away from you."

In the ensuing four months since getting fucked out of my comp I had spent that time laying the groundwork to take away all of the company's biggest most choice accounts.  And I was able to do it because a year earlier I had discovered a sleazy little accounting trick the company was pulling that they had been perpetrating for decades and that had cost their clients several million dollars over almost 30 years.  And I kept that knowledge to myself in the event that I needed it and then, when I did need it, I took that information around to all the clients I wanted to walk away with, pitched them, and signed them all up.

And then, after I had commitments from the clients I wanted to take, I went to two friends of mine who owned a top mid-sized asset management company and said to them, "I can bring these properties with me, essentially doubling your portfolio size and quadrupling your billable revenue.  Are you interested?"  And when they said yes I said, "Good!  This is what you'll have to pay me in comp and this is what my year-end bonus going forward is. and this is what the comp on all this new business I'm bringing you is going to be and I'll take the check for the new business I'm walking in the door with right now please."  

And that was that.

Oh, and the properties and clients that I didn't want to take with me?  I sent them all a letter outlining the financial malfeasance I had discovered and within 6 months the company was completely out of business as a third-party asset management firm and within two years was out of business completely.

And that's how much of a vindictive cunt I can be.

GINGER

 

YES, CHEF!

 

BILL'S ART

Soooo I rehung this painting Bill Cullum (for whom this blog is named) gave to me back in 1995.  Its part of a series of four (two of which I own) but I left this one unhung after it fell off my wall several years ago.

It's a mixed media piece -- oil paint and photographs on wood with an epoxy resin coat.  Its huge.  50 inches by 38 inches and it weighs 55 pounds.  So hanging it is a motherfucker.  And keeping it on the wall is too.

The photographs used in the piece were taken by Bill in the Jardin Tuileries and the underground catacombs below Paris.  I can't recall where the barn was located.

The New York Times, in their review of the show in which this piece appeared, called the painting "Sweet and resonant -- yet somewhat derivative of the Starn Twins."

OH! EM! GEE!  I thought poor Bill's head was going to explode when he read that, he was so enraged.  And of course, for years (decades really) afterward my younger brother Ken and I would tell Bill, upon seeing some new piece of art that he had painted, that we found it, "sweet and resonant -- yet somewhat derivative."

Interesting thing about this piece.... Bill used an epoxy to coat and set the entire piece and its thick and hard like heavy glass.  But he hadn't quite perfected the formula for the resin and if you look closely at the bottom of the painting you can see the drips from it.  And those drips were sticky to the touch and ever so slowly dripping further off the wood.....for over ten years!  It was truly a piece of evolving artwork.

It finally fully dried in 2007.

Bill was hugely talented and brilliant and totally fucking nuts.  I miss him.

MASC FOR MASC & OTHER DIARRHEA

by damien

When I came out in 1990 I was a ballet dancer.

Graceful. Delicate. Demure. Mindful. With a full face of make up on.

That’s what ballet dancers – even the guys – did back then (my make up was flawless by the way).

 

I was not masc. But I also was not a screaming one man Pride Parade.

I was just ………… me. And for about 20 years now, that apparently has not been enough.

 

I have a friend of mine I adore. He knows I care for him deeply but he doesn’t know just how much I love him.

He is one of the most impressive people I have ever met. Great soul. Big heart. Enormous bucket of grace. Just a mensch.

And yet, he is one of these queens who just has to overlook anyone he views as “girly” / “femme” / “gay”.

(By the way – as much as I love him, him and I are both men who have those qualities at times – as most gay men do).

 

As what is now termed an elder gay – a gay man over the age of 50 - (fuckers) – I look back when I came out and I remember the amazing diversity of people at the club that night. Drag queens. Leather queens. Muscle Marys. Dads with sons. Sirs with Boys. Transgender Ladies. Your Basic Bitches. It was wonderful!!! I was stunned at how many different people were MY people. As I got to know them – I was hot and new meat after all – I loved how different they were and yet so similar. All came from backgrounds that included hatred of who they were. They understood my pain and I understood theirs. I understood why they had the different identities they did and it was just a fabulous mélange of men, males, women, and others. It was like being in Oz with Dorothy.

The other thing that was so pleasing back then was no one tried to force me to conform to a single label. There were no gays pushing Masc for Masc.

 

I hate this term. To the point of violence. It is hetero-normative bullshit that is pedaled by gayelles who sit in the corner of their bedroom in the dark regurgitating their self-hatred and chewing it over like mouthfuls of stale cud. These men can all fuck off in the most painful and denigrating way possible.

These men have ruined our community.

I was actively supported and encouraged to move beyond my own self-hatred. A wonderful pre-op trans woman and I were having a conversation one day at a rehearsal. She and I were part of the weekly dance show at this club. PS The club was called Flashez.  A then institution in the city of the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia. I made a comment she obviously clued into and, with the most penetrating gaze said to me “the only one holding onto your hate is you, darling. Jettison that bitch and just see how great life can be.” At first I was so insulted. How dare this person tell me I was in any way in any version of “wrong”. Which is how I took it. I mentioned it to my then best friend, and she replied “it’s the only unattractive part of you.” And she said it with love and care and compassion.

Now, there is a whole sub section of gay men who cling to their hatred like a Alien crab to a human face.

 

And it is unattractive.

And it is caustic.

And it plays into our enemies script.

 

“See! They don’t even like themselves!!!”

 

As such. Fuck off to any of you who use this masc bullshit. Fuck off to your outdated hetero-normative psycho-social bullshit. Fuck off to your desire to “fit in with the Joneses”. And fuck off to the bullshit you bring to the world of gay dating.

 

I don’t have time for it. And you should really ditch it. We all have enough in the world to navigate without this obscene and antiquated bullshit that simply been repainted and zhuzhed up for the new generations.

 

Oh. And if any of you have a problem with this – fuck you too.

I didn’t survive 4+ decades of HIV/AIDS and fag-killing to put up with you and your half arsed bullshit.

 

Other than that, I wish you all well.

Damien.

 

SOMETIMES MORE IS ACTUALLY MORE

I posted a totes G rated version of this shot of this hottie a few days ago and then, after a hint from a helpful reader as to where to look, I found AAAAALLLLLL his nude shots and more.

Please, won't you enjoy one of them.

Also, if he were my boyfriend I'd wear that foreskin around on my head like a shower cap.

SOMETIMES SEXUAL ASSAULT IS JUST PLAIN RAPE

Sooooo, here we are, fast approaching September 8th -- which is the 12th anniversary of my opening Q Nightclub on Seattle's Capitol Hill.  A milestone life event if ever there were one.

But there's also another milestone event that happened that very same weekend as Q's grand opening -- and that event was my kicking my husband of 12 years out of the house and ending our relationship forever.

I'm pretty sure I've never told this story in toto, as it were.  And probably danced around recounting the full events as they unfolded that weekend to one degree or another in order to spare the victim.  But I figure twelve years is long enough and I can use a pseudonym for the victim if need be so, let me set the scene:

It's Friday, September 7th and the day before the official grand opening to the public of the biggest nightclub in Seattle and I've just that night conducted the hugely successful invitation only {pic at left} soft opening for about 500 of my closest friends and family.  One of my ex boyfriends had flown in several days prior in order to attend the weekend's events and to show his support and he was staying with us in one of our guest bedrooms at our house in Bellevue.

At the end of the soft opening, and after conducting an after-action meeting with the staff, at around 3AM the soon to be ex-husband, Richard L. Schmitt, the visiting ex BF, and I headed back to my house in Bellevue to catch a few hours sleep prior to Saturday's BIG EVENT.  At my house, the ex and the soon to be ex and I knocked back an Ambien each and headed to bed.

Now I'm a light sleeper thanks to my years in the Marine Corps and at one point or another I woke up as Richard, the soon to be ex, got up and very very stealthily left the bedroom -- which I found odd.  There was no need for stealth for fear of waking our house guest since there was an ensuite bathroom in the master and also because being concerned for my sleep was never a thing he ever once displayed in the more than a decade we were together.  Anyways.....as soon as I heard him super quietly close the door, I vividly recall thinking, "He's gonna try to go fuck the ex."  Whereupon I started to fall back to sleep again....until, about five minutes after leaving the room, the soon to be ex stealthily (again with the stealth!) returned to bed.

By the next morning I had totally forgotten about the entire episode until I headed out to the patio to sit with the ex and enjoy the weather and some coffee while the soon to be ex was making breakfast for the three of us. Whereupon the ex asked me, "Did you come into the bedroom and try to fuck me last night?"

What the fucking fuck?!?!?  

And then I remembered Richard's stealthy "consideration" for not disturbing my sleep the night before and I was on my feet and ready to kill a motherfucker dead with my bare hands.  Which is when the ex showed why I never should have let him go.  He grabbed my arm and forced me to sit down and said, 

"DO NOT fucking do it, Scott! You've got a ton of shit to do today.  Your family is here from Kentucky.  And you've got over a thousand people coming to see what you've just spent three years and millions of dollars doing.  Be cool and we can figure out what to do after tonight is over.  Please! If not for you, do it for me until I can process what happened."

And totally out of character....I did what he wanted me to do.

And let me just say this about that:  Can you fathom what sort of willpower it takes to know that your husband has just committed the rape of an honored houseguest in your own home and you have to pretend like nothing happened and nothing is wrong while all the while trying to prepare for the grand opening of a multi-million dollar business that same day?  

Or, even more unfathomable -- for an entire 24 hours after being sexually assaulted you have to pretend like nothing is wrong when you're forced to deal with your assailant as a favor to your ex-boyfriend?!?!?!

Like I said; I never should have let him go.

Oh, and can you believe that while the ex and I were pretending that nothing was wrong {all the while I thought my head was gonna spin around like in the Exorcist} while Richard was in the shower I checked the guestroom and found a freshly discarded condom tossed under the bed.  FRESHLY discarded....in a room Richard and I never once had sex in.

At least he follows safe sex protocols when he rapes someone.

Long story short -- the ex and I got through the day and the grand opening that night -- even though both of us had to spend an inordinate amount of the grand opening trying to stay the fuck away from Richard so that I wouldn't massacre him on the spot. During the day, before the event that night, I quietly arranged a suite for the victim/ex at the Sorrento Hotel where I had a corporate account -- because I wasn't about to ask that he stay another night in a house he had been assaulted in. And while Richard was out with friends that afternoon I moved the ex out of my house and into the hotel.

And then, after the grand opening, and after the rapist Richard L. Schmitt and I got home, I snatched him up by the fucking throat and told him he was lucky I didn't kill him right then and there.  I gave him five minutes to collect up some shit and get out or I would kill him.  I told him I'd pack up the rest of his trash the next day and leave it on the lawn but that he was never setting foot in that house again.  And oh, by the way.....the ex and I were going to the police first thing the next morning.  And then I said to him, "And you know why. Because you're a filthy fucking rapist"

And he said yes and nodded his head in faux shame, acknowledging my accusation and what he had done and left the house in tears (crocodile tears -- because he's a fucking sociopath who finally got caught).  And that was the last time I ever saw him -- well, except for that one time about 6 months later when he tried to get into Q and I was out front on the sidewalk and I had him dragged away by my security detail kicking and screaming all the way down the Broadway sidewalk and around the corner to Pike Street -- where he was told in no uncertain terms by my Director of Security, David Price, that if he continued to act up he'd be put in cuffs and the police called.

That threat of arrest seemed to land with him and immediately cooled him off.  And well it should have because flashing back to the morning after I threw him out of the house -- the ex and I did go to the Bellevue Police Department together and filed a sexual assault/rape complaint against Richard L. Schmitt.  And two days after that Bellevue detectives and uniformed Seattle Police officers walked into Richard's place of work at the WPP Group in downtown Seattle and arrested his rapey ass in front of all his co-workers!

Richard took a plea deal almost a year later -- a reduced charge of sexual battery in the third degree or something after claiming that he had no memory of the event due to Ambien overdose! {a variation on the Twinkie Defense made famous by Dan White the assassin who murdered Harvey Milk} -- thus sparing me and the ex the trauma of returning to Washington in order to testify.  

And since it was Richard's second felony....yeah....SECOND felony! He had to do some time in the King County jail and then more time picking up trash on Interstate 5, as well as something like five years probation.  And since he already had two strikes and that Washington is a three-strikes state {and knowing as he surely did the high probability of his recidivism}, as soon as he got the chance he got a job not just outside of the State of Washington, but in Vietnam!

Apparently, he's back in the US of A......in Texas now and working for the University of Texas in some capacity and hopefully not raping anyone else.

And that's the rest of the story!