Hard-Boiled Egg or the Bathroom

I have been drinking all night long and am swimming in my own thoughts. So, here I go, with my messy backstroke/quick keystroke.

My friend was recently caught masturbating on a plane. He was in the restroom and had unknowingly placed his arm on the wall. His staccato thumping against it had alerted the male flight attendant sitting in the jump seat, and he finally tapped out "Shave and a Haircut" on the wall to get him to stop. My friend just rapped back with the "Two bits" part and finished his business. Then, as he exited, he spent several minutes standing in the open bathroom doorway trying to locate his cell phone in his pants pockets...much to the chagrin of everyone in the coach bathroom/kitchen area.

His story whisked me down memory lane to a lonely trip from Dallas to Los Angeles, where a couple of bulky blankets and a sexy memory encouraged me to do the same thing. In my seat. No one was around to see me or scold me. But I still became my own hero again when I remembered it. Does that make me a junior member of the mile high club?

I am not the world's biggest exhibitionist. I generally enjoy the comfort, ease, and safety of a room in the home to do the deed in. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, whatev. All the same. When the location changes, so does the reaction. It's hot, but the adrenaline causes an altered response that usually makes me wish I had something I don't--small tube of lube, handi wipe. Something. But the sexiness of impromptu public naughtiness can't be beat...God bless the Japanese for proividing me such magnificent automobiles to house me and my caged animal tactics. Also, thanks to the builders of that one bathroom in the Valley, the landscapers of that Park, and the managers of that bar that averted their eyes. And that couple that pretended they didn't see the enthusiastic and well-matched game of tonsil hockey happening in their lobby.

Here are my Places I Hope to Have Sex in for 2007:
A wooded area (waterfall a bonus)
Hot Tub
Top of a Refrigerator
A Closet (how's that for symbolism)
A United Nations Summit
Alcatraz Bathroom
UCB Theater
Taj Mahal
The Container Store in Orange County
The Home Depot on Sherman Way

Now you know. I will post the progress. I promise, my darlings. It's the least I can do.

hit it. g

Boyfriend-Sanctioned Infidelity

From the rooftops I shout, "I had sex with a stranger last night. And my boyfriend ENCOURAGED it!"

Welcome to my online confessional: home of grieving about death, concern over hygiene, scorn for celebutantes, and divulgence of sexual indiscretions.

Anyhow, I know you're wondering how this happened and how it can happen to YOU, too! Let me assure you, you'll find the answers here.

He showed up at my gate, and as I slowly drank in his image, it was clear what he wanted. I hesitated. Should I trust this man? Should I let him in the Treehouse and release all cautionary words my head was spewing forth?

I sighed, and opened the gate wider to allow him inside. I was no match for him. As we silently ascended the steps, I wondered what I was in store for. I could feel the energy between us, like an electric wire had just snapped and was dancing in the same puddle of water we were standing in. Except we weren't standing anywhere...we were walking towards my living room, kitchen...and bedroom.

The minute we walked in the door it was like someone had lit some sort of sex fire in the room and we had to Do It in order to put it out. I barely had time to turn on some fuck music, people. Seriously. In retrospect, the frenzied pace was a good thing, because if I had let my head have a chance to weigh in, it would have told me "Stop! This is not a good idea! The man you have committed yourself to will be maaad! And you might get herpes!"

My eyes, usually permanently closed in celebration of ecstacy, were wide open, still taking in the scene. Who was this man who had shown up on the Terrace with the intention of maneuvering past the gate and having his way with me? Who was he, with his baby-soft skin and shortly cropped hair?

Oh yeah. It was my boyfriend.

Oh man. This is embarassing. My bad. See, the thing is that My Pablo went from Kenny Loggins lookalike to Shorn Hipster in one night. It was such a dramatic change that I barely even recognized him. Whoops, my darlings. I promised you something I could not deliver. I guess after all this time I still can't figure out how to both have a boyfriend and nail someone else with his permission. Well, nuts. Sorry to have gotten your hopes up. That's just the way life is, kid.

lessons. g

Triumphant Return

Let's get this out of the way.

I know I've been gone for a long time.

In fact, you're not even reading this the day I post it. You've stopped coming here regularly because you can't stand being let down anymore. The pain of seeing that entry from July 23rd over and over again hurts too much.

I get it. I've let you down, my darling.

The truth is, I have become bored with myself. Since last we spoke, here are the stats:

1: Bladder infection
14: Miles walked so far for Marathon training
1: New car purchased
1: Boyfriend still putting up with my shit/giving me shit to put up with
9: Families who have gotten a home thanks to the work of my department
1: New dog in the backyard that I can't stand
1: Friend Who Shot Himself
2: Toothbrushes used
2: Times I have done Capoeira, the Brazilian Martial Art

The car is great, I am excited for the marathon, I want to find a new loving home for this fucking animal, and a man who opened my life up to the possibility of Love is sitting on my coffee table in a sandwich baggie.

I feel fucked up.

I don't pay attention to what friends say anymore. I have little to no desire to teach and help people. I don't want to edit. I am helpless against the waves of nausea and revulsion that overcome me as I think about one of the only people in the world who knew me raw and unraveled's brains splattered across the wall of room 232 of the Days Inn in Little Armenia.

I think I'm entering the Anger Phase.

It makes me want to put on heavy eyeliner and take self-portraits.

All of a sudden I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know if I need company. Should I exercise or roll up in a ball in the corner and scream? Nothing matters the way it should. One lump or two? I feel like I'm underwater.

I can smell his deoderant. I remember when he took care of me during my very first anxiety attack. The time we played music for hours in his studio, attractively lit by Christmas lights. Our visit to the Statue of Liberty. That Thanksgiving where he wore the pink Ralph Lauren shirt. New Years Eve. The beach, both coasts. Mount Bonnell. Jack in the Box. The memories keep coming, like a faucet. They collect and leave me staring.

I wish it wasn't so late. I wish I didn't have to wake up so early. I wish he was still alive so I could see him sing one more time.

This is all so cliche. I hope you're not reading this. I hope you have bookmarked another blog, by some waiter who chronicles the tips he does and doesn't receive, or the one about the ever-changing hairstyles of Jessica Simpson. I hope you weren't looking for an epiphany, because all I have is something you have heard before from some other sad bastard who lost someone they cared about.

Put up your fists, and I'll just raise my glass. g