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Jason Rimbaud

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Blog Entries posted by Jason Rimbaud

  1. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part Nine
    By: Jason R.
    It was shortly after I ?borrowed? the neighbor?s car. I had stayed at Greg?s house that night, not an uncommon occurrence as our parents had long given up on trying to keep us apart. Though they did try towards the end. Maybe they suspected our friendship, maybe they could see the special bond we shared, maybe we weren?t good at hiding it as we thought. Either way, it was a night I?ll never forget.
    His room was in the basement of their house. We had proper pictures on the wall of landscapes and animals, but on the back of those innocent pictures were pictures of guys we thought were hot. When we were in the room with the door locked, we?d turn them around so we could look at them. We had a bunch of things that glowed under the cheesy black lights we had stolen from the local mall. It was our domain, the place we went to be in love. The only place that was safe for us to be ourselves.
    I remember that night so strangely. It?s all perfectly clear but I remember it happening so slowly, like a movie playing fourteen speeds too slow. Greg had been telling me about his plans for us for the millionth time. How when he turned eighteen, he would get an apartment right down the street from my house so I could sneak over and join him during the night until I turned eighteen the following year. Then we would go off to college together and never look back on the hell of our childhood. It didn?t matter which college we attended, as long as we were together and free to be the couple in public we had always been in private.
    I asked him what he wanted to do with the rest of his life after hell and his reply is still burned in my brain like the afterglow of staring into the sun. I want to live my life without fear. I never want to be afraid to seize the day. I want to live life with a passion that will take me to the moon.
    That night we fucked, hot and animalistic. We both loved to fuck and I loved fucking Greg. I wish I could say we made soft passionate love where we voiced our undying love for one another, but I can?t. We fucked like two horny teenagers, hot and sweaty. I clawed his back and he bit my tongue so hard that little piece on the underneath took over two weeks to heal.
    Around three-thirty in the morning, we finally drifted off to sleep. I lay on my back and Greg put his head on my shoulder. We fell asleep clutching tightly to one another. It was our favorite position for sleeping. At that moment and for the rest of the night, we felt like we were one body, just like our souls were joined in a perfect love.
    When Greg was sleepy, his voice got this raspy rough sound that drove me crazy. And the last thing I ever heard him say was whispered to me in this sexy voice. He leaned close and said in my ear, I can?t believe I get to hold you in my arms every night. Ever since that first night in the moonlight, I?ve been the luckiest boy in the world.
    I kissed the top of his blonde head and called him a goof ball. I was never really comfortable saying what I felt inside but I knew he knew how I felt about him. He could see it in my eyes every time I looked at him and in the tiny ways I showed him every day.
    I slept great that night, just like always when I slept with Greg. I woke up around 11am that morning and instantly knew something was wrong. I felt it in my soul, like my heart had turned cold. Greg had his arm draped over me as he lay there tightly against my back. But his arm was cold, I could feel the chill emanating from his body pressing against mine.
    I don?t remember when I realized he had died sometime in the night but I do remember screaming my soul out. All my pain, all my dreams, all my love, I screamed out until there was nothing left inside me.
    My screams brought his parents crashing through the locked door, where they found us naked in the bed. I was holding on to Greg?s lifeless body.
    It took one EMT and two policemen to pull me away from Greg?s side. In the end, three of my ribs were broke before I released the grip I had on him. The rest of the day is a blur.
    Sometime between the time they found me and when they pulled me away from him, someone had called my parents. I remember they walked over to me as I sat on Greg?s floor, still naked, staring at the bed where so many times we had made love. Where so many times we had confessed our love for each other. Where so many times we sat there, laughing and basking in the joy of just being close to one another. Where so many times we made plans to leave hell and begin our life together. A life we should?ve had from the beginning.
    That?s the day my parents kicked me out of their house and out of their lives. The day I became forever cut out of the family. And yet none of that mattered to me, only Greg mattered. My moonlight. I remember Greg?s parents picking me up and carrying me outside where they dumped me on the sidewalk, still naked. Because they couldn?t bare the idea of having a filthy queer inside their house.
    I don?t know who called him, but my Uncle Malcolm came and picked me up. He took me home with him where he wrapped me up in a warm fuzzy blanket and just held me until I couldn?t cry anymore.
    I remember showing up at the funeral and seeing that my parents hadn?t bothered to show their support. But I heard they made sure everyone in the church knew about their queer son and that Greg was my queer lover. Even going as far as telling Greg?s parents that the reason Greg had died was because he was queer.
    Greg?s parents wouldn?t look at me and sometimes I think they only showed up because they had too. It was sad, hardly anyone showed up to pay last respects for the most beautiful person that only wanted to love. My Uncle sat there beside me, supporting me in something he didn?t?couldn?t understand. But he was there.
    Five students from our High School showed up, I recognized one of them. I figured Greg must?ve known them casually from one of his classes. Because we spent all of our time together and I never had seen them before. I suspect they showed up for the excused day from school than out of any other emotion.
    That was it, my lover, my best friend, my true north, had less than a dozen people at his funeral. And I was the only one that knew him. And I was the only one that loved him.
  2. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part One
    By: Jason R.
    I guess I?m just like everyone else, I have good days and I have bad days. I cry through the bad days and laugh through the good ones. Most days I just exist. But then there are some days, I don?t know if I can take it anymore.
    You know those days. That day when your favorite cousin tells you his child, the one the doctors said they could never have, has a greater than average chance of being born retarded. That day when you realize that your cousin and his wife do not believe in abortion. That day when your heart seems like its going to burst from the sadness that encompasses your life.
    It never ceases to amaze even a skeptic like myself that the human will and the human mind can endure such pain and hardship. Any other species would have given up on life long before suffering the amount of torment that most humans deal with on a daily basis. That?s the magical word isn?t it? The human will.
    We all secretly laugh off life?s little misfortunes. We claim allegiance to one form of god or another. Even going as far as offering empty platitudes to those that have suffered a loss. We pretend, as a society, that we?re happy for those who pass, saying, ?He was in so much pain, he?s better off with the angels.? But isn?t that just a lie?
    I?m not saying we aren?t happy. I?m saying we?re happy for a completely different reason then we show the world. Aren?t we really ?happy? it?s not us lying in that expensive wooden box with brass covered handles? Isn?t that why we have the party after the funeral? Not to remember the loved one but to express thanks to whichever god we serve that we made it another day.
    We spend a few horrid hours pretending to feel sorrow by eating and drinking, whispering in small circles, telling all the sordid details of that person?s life. Thankful, deep down inside, that we have given death the old heave-ho once again.
    Unfortunately, to many of us humans feel that way. Maybe it?s something the collective society breeds into our heads from an early age. Maybe it?s the influence of pop culture that teaches us this manner of mourning?
    We?ve all seen the movies. You attend the wake, get drunk out of your mind, and talk about that person in quiet revered tones. Well, I think its all bullshit. And luckily, I learned what it?s really about. And I learned it from the most unlikely of places.
    I was raised in a strict religious household. We attended church four times a week. Yes, I said four. Once on Sunday morning for Sunday school, once for Sunday evening services to make sure we all remembered to give money to the church. Once on Wednesday, to drive home the fact that church was the center of the universe and once on Friday, to keep the parents out of the bars and keep the children brainwashed.
    It wasn?t the best way to become popular at school let me tell you. Looking back it?s quite ironic that I was one of the most popular students in my High School. I didn?t say I was well liked, I simply said everyone student in that school knew who I was. For good or for ill, I was famous.
    We had lots of rules growing up in my household. I won?t take the time to list them all since I wouldn?t want to bore you any further that I already have. But since most of the sports all took place on Friday nights, my father, deemed it blasphemy for any child to attend or play sports. To me, it seemed the church was more concerned with the loss of revenue if all the parents skipped service to attend their kid?s game. Do I sound bitter? Because I am.
    I had twelve years of torture and abuse from the other students because I never wore the proper clothing. No jeans for me, nope, I was lucky. I got to wear a suit every day to school. And don?t think for a moment I attended an exclusive private school, I know some of you were headed into that direction. I went to a normal everyday High School in Menlo Park California. If only Menlo Park had a Christian school back then, but also it did not.
    Years later my parents would blame the public school for all the ?trouble? I got myself into. Or they would blame my Uncle Malcolm, saying he had been nothing but a bad influence on my young fragile mind. (my uncle believed in free will and taught me to follow my dreams no matter what the world threw at me)
    Just thinking back on my childhood makes my blood boil, and brings an unquenchable rage rising to the surface from the core of my being. Should I hate my parents for raising me in this manner? I did, for years I hated them. Hatred so strong my anger consumed me until the very thought of my parents had me fantasizing about the horrific deaths I could inflict upon them.
    I didn?t want to be different. I wanted to be just like ?Billy? or ?Tommy? or countless other little boys that did all the things I could never do. Yet, little did I know that my quest for normalcy or to be the same as everyone else, would take me down a road seldom traveled by ?normal people?. I look back and smile at life?s little irony.
    I have to admit I bought into the ?whole god thing? pretty much hook-line-and-sinker. Until the tender age of thirteen, I said my prayers each night. All I wanted to do was save the ?sinners? from their evilness, and their inevitable descent into hell. This attitude never helped my already legendary image at school, no one likes a ?bible thumper?, especially a twelve-year-old one at that.
    What happened to change me you ask? I discovered the forbidden fruit. I discovered, which to the day my father died refused to admit or talk about. (when asked of my parents what happened to their only son I?ve heard they reply by saying I died in a horrible car accident) Nice parents huh? But don?t get mad at them, hate the disease not the person. That makes me laugh, my father always quoted that while I was growing up. I guess it?s a saying of, do as I say not as I do kind of thing.
    Oh fuck, he was wrong. I did listen when I was a child.
    Too bad he never followed his own advice. Not only did he hate the disease but he also hated me as well, and was convinced to the day he died that I was going to hell. I know, I say this with such casualness. But you must look at it from my point of view, I don?t believe in hell.
    To Be Continued
  3. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part Seven
    By: Jason R.
    I found myself running into the night, following my best friend. After we proceeded a safe distance from the house, we stopped running and started talking excitedly. We laughed the rest of the way to the lake, about a mile from my house. During the climb out the window, he had decided we should go swimming in the moonlight. He kept saying something about getting in touch with our inner primal beast. He was always spouting shit like that. I never knew what the hell he was talking about half the time but at least I can honestly say I was never bored around, Greg, either.
    After we reached the lake, I told him I was a bit nervous about swimming at night. What if we went out into the water and couldn?t find our way back to shore? But he laughingly pointed out, With that full moon, there isn?t a chance in hell of us getting lost. Now stop being a chicken.
    To his credit, he always had an answer for everything. I think he just went through his life bullshitting and just happened to get lucky so everything always worked out for him.
    I was stalling though, from my fear of getting caught, and swimming at night. So I brought up that fact that we didn?t have anything to swim in. So what. He admonished. It?s only us guys. We?ll just go naked. When that didn?t make me agree, he added, After all, I?ve seen myself naked and believe, I?ve got the same thing between my legs that you have. So what?s the deal?
    That was his logic and damn if it doesn?t make sense to me now but back then, I was still fighting thirteen years of repression. It was evil to be naked in front of another human being.
    So as we stood there on the edge of that lake, I was debating on whether or not I could actually go through with stripping down naked in front of him. What if my father awoke and realized we were gone? What if he came looking for us at the lake? It was bad enough to sneak out of the house, but if we were caught naked together, I would probably be killed right then and there, no questions asked.
    Greg didn?t seem to care one way or the other about getting caught. Matter of face he thought it added to the thrill of sneaking out. Though he did care about whether or not I was killed, so he told me not to worry. He would protect me like always. And though that feeling in my stomach came over me again, I was still riding the fence pretty hard. But when he said, I?m going to strip and you?re chicken if you don?t follow me. That statement was enough to make me jump off that damn fence.
    That?s how I found myself watching another boy undress under the moonlight for the first time. I was transfixed when he kicked off his shoes. I watched him bend over and take off his socks, and something I didn?t know I had inside came bursting out my mouth in the form of a ragged breath. As he bent over, my eyes were drawn to the tightness of his slacks around his lower body, causing an overload in my very active imagination. He stood upright and turned so he was facing me. A slow grin crossed his face and he began to slowly pull his shirt from his pants.
    He didn?t rip off his shirt quickly like I normally did in the safety of my room. No, not this blonde cherub, he pulled his shirt up slow, sensuous. He grabbed it from the top and slowly lifted his shirt up his torso. His pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight and I could see him take every halting breath. Slowly as the shirt moved up to where I could see the pink of his nipples, instantly becoming hard due to the chilly night air. His chest muscles moved under his smooth skin as he finally brought the shirt over his head and casually toss it to the ground atop his socks and shoes.
    I swear the entire time he looked me right in the eyes as his hands moved ever so slowly to the front of his jeans. With calmness I know I didn?t possess, he undid his belt. His eyes seemed to sparkle as he unfastened the top button of his pants. When my eyes immediately dropped to his crotch, a knowing grin broke out on his face.
    I remember sneaking looks at him in between watching him undress and he had this crooked grin on his face. Like he was having the time of his life stripping for me. Or maybe it was the time of his life making me uncomfortable. Whatever it was, I took a deep breath when I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down.
    This caused him to laugh out loud, shaking his head in the process. I couldn?t take my eyes off his partially exposed crotch, my body no longer under rational control. When he started pulling his pants down, one of his hands grabbed my shoulder to steady himself as he took one leg out then the other before kicking his pants over to the growing pile of clothes.
    His touch shot through me like electricity, a gasp escaped my lips. It shot through my body down to the soles of my feet then back up into my brain where it must?ve fried all intelligent thought. I swear by this time, just seeing him in his tightie-whities caused emotions to well up inside me I never knew I possessed.
    And while I struggled with my growing excitement and thoughts of making god cry, he stood there with that damn knowing smile on his face. It wasn?t a mocking smile or even a teasing smile, it was more like a smile of conquest. Like the game between us was almost over and victory was in his grasp. (later on I would find out he had been carefully orchestrating this encounter, waiting for the perfect situation to make his move) When I found this out, I wish he had done it two months earlier.
    For a heartbeat, we stared at one another, his hand still on my shoulder and that damn electricity still shooting up and down my body. Finally he spoke, Since you watched me, it?s only fair I get to watch you.
    I took a deep breath. Not only did I not have the experience, but I didn?t have the courage to return the favor he had done for me. I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my socks in one fluid motion. My shirt was over my head in two seconds flat, no slow striptease for me. If I had gone any slower, I would?ve lost my nerve and probably would?ve ended up running home like the chicken he accused me of being.
    I undid my pants and kicked them off on top of my now growing pile of clothes, right next to Greg?s. I?m not sure if he enjoyed the show but I rather doubt it. At least I know I?ve since made up for that rather sloppy strip show, several times as a matter of fact.
    Then he did something I never really understood. He grabbed my clothes and put them together with his pile. And he still had that damn smile on his face. While I, on the other hand, had one hand covering my growing ?evil thing? and the other one covering my chest. (don?t ask, I still don?t know why I did that except this was the first time anyone had seen me in nothing but my underwear besides my parents)
    I?m sure my face mirrored the emotions running through my fragile mind, I felt so out of place, uncomfortable, turned on, nervous, and maybe a bit sick. He must?ve sensed my fear because he stated softly, We?ll take them off together, at the same time.
    I breathed deeply and then nodded my head as he counted backwards from five. When he hit one, both of us pulled down our underwear. Immediately two sets of blue eyes became glued to the most private of places a boy can share with another person.
    I had been ashamed and trying to hide the fact I was erect, but once the underwear came off, I smiled at him shyly. Because much to my surprise, he was in the same state as I except he stood there proudly in his nakedness.
    I kicked off my underwear as he stepped gracefully out of his. Reaching down, he grabbed both pairs of underwear and placed them together on top of ?our? pile of clothes. (looking back now, it kind of felt like some kind of primitive marriage ceremony, something like by these piles of clothes we do wed or by the joining of these pairs of underwear I now pronounce you married) I know I?m strange, you don?t have to tell me again.
    Both of us hit the water at the same time. And for a while, we splashed around, dunking one another. You know all the childish ways you would try to make contact without seeming to make contact. But once we started to wrestle, things quickly got out of hand.
  4. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part Six
    By: Jason R.
    The first time I committed a crime was all Greg?s doing. He dared me to steal a pack of cigarettes from the local gas station, the same one he stole all the booze from. I could never refuse him, no matter what he asked of me.
    He was there when I first discovered the joy of spray painting cars in the middle of the night, his idea once again. As I look back now, everything I ever did up until I was sixteen was all because of a blonde boy named, Greg.
    ?Borrowing? the neighbor?s car one Saturday night, so we could stare at the moon at the rock query outside of town was his fault too. Another time he called me chicken.
    I think he knew I idolized him, and that I was so much putty in his hands. I believe he loved that fact. Don?t get me wrong, I wasn?t some stupid kid he dared to do crazy things. I know for a fact I was the reason he breathed, the driving force that got him out of bed each day, just for the pleasure of staring into my eyes.
    Fuck, I don?t know how we fooled everyone for so long but when we finally got caught, it was a shock to the entire neighborhood as well as the entire church body. I think a part of my parents died that day. But I?m getting ahead of myself again.
    Like I said, behind closed doors, we were very different than how we appeared in public. It was exactly two months after we first met that something wonderful happened between us. I had been begging my father and he his, to allow a sleepover at my house after Friday night service.
    It?s a strong belief in ?our? religion that a child should never go to another?s house to sleep overnight. Something along the lines that no other parent can take care of your child like you, the parent, can. I don?t know how we pulled it, but whatever the reason, they all agreed and the date was set.
    I remember time passing so slowly that night after church. It felt like years before my father stated it was time to go upstairs and get into bed. It was only ten o-clock, but Greg and I ran upstairs to my bedroom.
    Since my bed was so small, it had been decided by all that Greg would sleep on the floor at the side of my bed. An arrangement I had been looking forward to though I didn?t fully understand until much later.
    My father came in to make sure we weren?t doing anything we shouldn?t be, like wrestling or eating smuggled sweets. But we greeted him with innocent smiles and he shut the door, giving us one last word of warning, urging us to go to sleep and behave ourselves.
    This was an exciting night for me. For the first time I had someone staying over. I was so keyed up and hyper I knew I would never be able to fall asleep though I was accustom to going to bed at such an early hour.
    Greg, the proverbial night owl, never went to sleep until much later. I never understood how he did it, but he would never go to sleep before 3am each night only to wake up like clockwork at 7am rearing to go for the rest of the day. He did this the entire time I knew him, and he never seemed sleepy. Matter of fact, he had this boundless energy that drove him to always look around the corner. While me on the other hand, needed at least seven hours of sleep to function at any normal level, even to this day. Anything less and I walk around in a daze, my eyes puffy and bloodshot.
    Why was I so excited Greg was staying over? First, as an only child, I had always wanted a brother. And secondly, I had heard from other kids in school how much fun they had on sleepovers. Greg wasn?t my brother, though he was the closest thing at the time, and I was ready to experience some of this fun I had been hearing about. But lastly and most importantly, by this time, I was in love with Greg and wanted any chance I could get just to be close to him.
    I was in love with him, though I didn?t truly understand what it meant back then. I knew he made me feel like no one ever had. When I was around him, life just seemed better, and I didn?t think whether or not I was making god angry or sad. Around Greg, I became a kid, a normal average everyday kid. I wanted that feeling to last forever.
    I remember hanging my head over the edge of the bed, he had placed his makeshift pallet right next to my bed, so that his head and mine were almost touching. We remained like that for hours, whispering softly to each other, laughing and talking about everything. Around eleven-thirty, I heard my father walking down the hallway and I quickly lay down on the pillow and pretended to be asleep. And thanks to my prompting, Greg followed suit and shortly afterwards my father opened the door to make sure his charges were safe and fast asleep. We must?ve fooled him because we heard him walk down the hall and enter his bedroom. We waited for the bedroom door to shut before we resumed our early positions.
    We talked for another hour in hushed whispers before Greg really began getting restless. Suddenly he sat up, his face inches from mine and asked, You ever sneak out of the house? I couldn?t believe what he was suggesting. Even with my newfound ?rebellious streak?, I had never thought about doing such a daring and risky thing.
    What, you scared of the dark? He asked, a blank look on his face.
    I told him I wasn?t, that I just had this fear of dark places in the great outdoors. And that I was greatly afraid of my parent?s wrath and the punishment I would receive if we got caught sneaking out.
    Can you guess what that bastard did? He called me a chicken. So somehow I found myself getting dressed in the darkness and opening my bedroom window. (because he had informed me that we had to sneak out through the window, that it was a rule or something like that) He told me that he had done it many times before at his house and that running around in the dark was kind of exciting. (later on I would find out this was his first time sneaking out as well, claiming I made him reckless and it was really all my fault for the things we did together) I?ll let you decide who?s telling the truth. Who are you going to believe anyway, him or me?
  5. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part Three
    By Jason R.
    Who can explain the first time a male masturbates? Who can describe the feeling of ecstasy one gets at the slightest touch on the male penis? I know I could never describe it but the feeling has never been as strong since that first time lying naked in bed. Not even after my many sexual encounters and my desire to learn new things, I have never felt that feeling again. I guess in a way, I?m still searching for that level of awakening. In a weird way, it?s the reason I?m writing this now. But I?ll get into that soon enough.
    For a few minutes or maybe hours, I would rub one finger against my ?evil thing?, reveling in the feelings I received. And just as every boy learns eventually, I began using more fingers and in no time I had begun a gliding motion up and down. No one teaches a boy how to masturbate, that?s obvious in the many different techniques I have observed in the various partners I?ve had over the years. But the gist of it, the end result, is always the same.
    As I played with my ?evil thing?, I began to notice each time my finger brushed against this one certain spot, right below the head, a shiver would shoot down my back. I don?t have to say this but I will, I enjoyed this immensely. So naturally I began to focus all my attention on that one area. It wasn?t long before I had wrapped my entire fist around my ?evil thing? and slowly began to develop the technique I would use for the rest of my life.
    That first orgasm didn?t take me long to achieve. I remember letting a groan escape my lips and my entire body convulsing as the release raptured my being, spilling out my seed on my heaving stomach. (I remember disregarding the seed on my stomach. I knew what it was, by that age I knew where babies came from and how they were made.) I?m amazed by what my parents considered good teachings and what they considered bad teachings.
    My breath came in gasps, and I realized I was still quite hot. I had sweat above my upper lip and my hair was damp from the exertion of my hand. But I felt satisfied. And in a weird way, I had taken the first steps towards my awakening free will. Steps that would set the tone for the rest of my life.
    Can I really place this much awakening on a single orgasm? At that time, I learned there was something other than religion that could give you satisfaction. I know it?s satisfaction in two distinct different ways, but it was satisfaction none the less.
    My parents had told me that my ?evil thing? was the downfall of humanity and that nothing good would ever come from it until I was safely married. That was the day I first found out they had lied to me. A lot had come from my ?evil thing?, and for the first time in my life, I begun to question what they had taught me.
    I?m not saying that next day I didn?t feel guilty about what I had done. But I didn?t tell my father either. That was my first experience that I had kept from my father. And though there has been many since that night, masturbating was the first thing I kept from my parents. (so dad, in a way you were right, my ?evil thing? really was the reason I stopped believing in your god, but only in a way)
    The next morning, over breakfast, I was petrified that my father would know I had played with my ?evil thing?. He had drilled into my head that god saw and knew everything we did on earth. And I was expecting to hear that god told my father about what I had done the night before and that I would be burning in hell forever for making god cry. And yet, all through breakfast, my father sat there telling jokes as he enjoyed his morning coffee, laughing with my mother like he didn?t have a care in the world.
    And then my overactive imagination took over. I began to believe that my father was making me suffer, and that he would yell at me after my conscience had wrecked havoc on my tortured psyche. It was the longest day of my life. All day I was jittery and nervous. I just knew my father was hiding behind every corner, ready to jump out at any moment and accuse me of my sinful act. But it never happened.
    After that long horrifying day, I swore I would never do it again. I had learned my lesson. I even went as far as to wear pants to bed with a belt tightly fastened to make sure I could never touch my ?evil thing? again, not even in my sleep. I must have sweated buckets in those following few days after I touched myself. My mother kept asking me why my sheets were so wet every morning. (try explaining the rational behind that freakish behavior to your mother) My father actually spanked me on the third day after I touched myself because he thought I must have wetted the bed during the night my sheets were so soaked. Couldn?t he understand I was trying to stop my ?evil thing? from sending me to hell?
    But after a few days with ?nothing? bad happening, I began to calm down. I thought I must?ve gotten away with it and I felt as long as I never did it again, that god would forgive me and let it slide just this once. He was supposedly a loving and forgiving god, right?
    But then church night came and once again, I was petrified out of my mind. At that age, it was the first time in my short life I really didn?t want to go to church. I had convinced myself that god had told the minister about what I horrible sinner I was and he would stand up in front of the congregation and explain how I touched my ?evil thing? until my seed came out. (I know I was a bit strange, but I had every right to be strange, I had a strange childhood, what?s your excuse?)
  6. Jason Rimbaud
    More of A Few More Sentences
    It was a place like no other he had ever seen before. It was dark and light, seamless and joined all around him with no clear ending or beginning. Existing at the same time, hot and cold, black and white, a place where time didn't seem to hold stable, where time stopped or slowed depending on it's own whim. There was no sensation in this void, only a feeling of being. For the longest time, he didn't think or even seem to be aware of his surroundings. He couldn't remember coming to this place, only that he had been here forever. What he was before didn't matter now, only what he was. And he was alone for the first time, all alone in this void.
    His conscience mind drifted like the wind, going through his memories at a rapid rate. He was astonished at what his mind would linger on. Events that seemed small when they happened, his mind dwelled on them for the longest period of time. And yet, the events that were huge and self-changing, his mind briefly paused before continuing on it's journey. A journey that he wasn't in control of, but merely like a passenger on a cross-country train ride. A bystander of his memory's every whim.
    He wasn't aware of when it stopped, or when he awoke to an empty room. It was sudden, he was there and sitting alone in a chair. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the strange sights and sounds. It looked to be a circular room about twenty feet across, and all around him was darkness. Not a darkness that he could see, no, not this darkness. It was more like a darkness he could feel in the depth of his soul.
    Suddenly, a loud noise began echoing around the room. A single beat that reminded him of a heartbeat, a wounded sound that seemed to be faltering with each passing moment. His nostrils filled with a smell, a smell that he could only associate with death. It filled his nostrils, causing him to gag with each ragged breath.
    Yet it was the sound of his own breathing that brought him to his senses.
    'Where am I?' he thought.
    Standing up, he looked around, trying to find a door, something to tell him where he was being held. But the room was empty except for the chair he had awakened in. Standing up, he walked around the room, finally making his way back to the chair in the center and sat down.
    "Where am I? Is anyone there?" He shouted out.
    But there was no answer. He didn't know how long he sat there in that chair, but it seemed like days. He had all but given up hope that he would ever find out where he was. He had accepted the fact that he was going to die in this room...alone.
    Yet, finally, out of the darkness, a voice said, "I've been waiting for you, welcome, Scott Taylor."
    "Who are you?" Scott managed to stammer out.
    Looking around the room, he tried to find the speaker, but the room was empty save for that blasted chair.
    "Who I am is not the question." The voice countered. "But who are you?"
    Turning to face the direction of the voice, Scott saw a cloaked figure standing in the center of the room. He took a hesitant step towards the figure but stopped, and said, "What do you mean? You know me? You said my name."
    "Yes."
    "Who are you?" Scott asked. "What am I doing here? Am I dead?"
    "Questions that need answers, every one. Questions that I might answer, but for now, answer mine. Who are you?"
    "Stop it, what is this place?" Scott demanded, approaching the figure.
    But once he was two steps away from the figure, it vanished before his eyes. But he heard this statement as the figure disappeared, "When you are ready, you will know."
    Running to the center of the room, he called out, "Wait! Don't go. Where am I?"
    But before he finished, the room dissolved and became a narrow corridor that seemed to go on forever. Looking in both directions, he pondered what path to take. Suddenly, in front of his eyes, a sign appeared. Taking a deep breath, he studied the sign. It was an average ordinary sign, one arrow pointed one way, with a single word, 'Beginning'. And another arrow pointed the opposite direction and read, 'Confusion'.
    "My god, where am I?" Scott pleaded to the darkness, sinking to his knees, and hugging himself tightly.
    "Choose." The voice thundered inside his mind.
    Reeling back in fear, he backpedaled across the corridor, running into the wall. Even as the voice kept repeating its cryptic instructions.
    "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?" Scott screamed, pleading with the voice inside his head.
    "Choose." The voice repeated, this time harshly.
    Scott started running down the hall, in his haste forgetting which path he fled down. He ran for what seemed like days, his body racked with pain, his throat burning from lack of water, his body drenched in sweat. And finally, the end was in sight. A bright light, intense and burning, stopped his mindless run.
    Walking out of the tunnel, he entered a house. Suddenly and quite unexpectantly, his senses were overloaded. He knew this house, that smell of leather furniture mixed with cheap pipe tobacco. He had smelled that for over half his life.
    "Welcome home Scott, you chose wisely."
    Startled, Scott turned his head and saw the figure standing next to him. He tried to look beneath the hood that veiled the figures face, but failed. It was just too dark. "How's this possible?" He asked in wonder, staring at his parents as they sat in the den reading different parts of the evening news.
    "Everything is possible. I've been waiting for a long time to get you here. So, now, it begins."
    "Who are you?" Scott begged, reaching out in his desire to know the figure under the cloak.
    Turning to look directly at him, the figure replied, "Whom do you want me to be?"
    Scott stammered, disbelief on his face. He asked, "Roy?"
    The figure dissolved, and in its place, stood Scott's long lost cousin, Roy.
    Backing away from the figure that had stolen his cousin's face, he yelled out, "You can't be here, you're dead."
    "No." The figure/Roy said in a sad voice. "You keep me alive."
    Falling to the floor, Scott cried out in pain. His fragile mind couldn't comprehend these circumstances. Laying on the floor, he began murmuring to himself, rocking back and forth on his heels.
    "There is much work to be done."
    "No!" Scott screamed, clawing at his eyes. Trying anything to block the vision of his long lost cousin from his sight.
    His scream was still echoing in the void as his surrounding changed and once again, he was back in the circular room with that damned chair. For an eternity it seemed that he screamed. When he was out of breath, he slowly looked around. Standing off to one side, his cousin stood, staring at him with a burning intensity in his eyes. Again he heard that sound. It sounded like a heartbeat, but it was getting fainter with each passing second. He stammered, "How is this possible? Am I in hell?"
    His cousin, laughed out loudly for a few minutes before saying, "Hell? You've been in hell for seven years. Not only do you live in hell, but you put hell into your body on a daily basis."
    "What?"
    Gliding over to where he was hunched down on his knees, Roy grabbed his arm and showed him the track marks that covered his arm. "I never thought you would turn into a junkie. You were always better than that. Better than this."
    "How do you know about that? You're dead."
    "I know everything about you," Roy asked seriously. Adding, "And who says I'm dead."
    "I saw you die." Scott yelled out. "You died in my fucking arms."
    Roy laughed. "If I'm dead, how is it that I can do this?"
    Roy punched him in the face, causing the confused boy to fall backwards onto his back.
    "You hit me!" Scott screamed, a stunned look on his face. "Why?"
    Rushing over to where he lay, Roy sat on his chest, preventing the boy from getting up. Saying, "Yes I did. You know better than to do that. We made a pact, remember? No matter what happened, we'd never do that. You broke that promise." With each word Roy spoke, he punched Scott in the face.
    "You said we would be together forever. You lied to me." Scott screamed out, trying to block the blows raining down on his head and face.
    "I fucking died," Roy screamed.
    "And it was all my fault," Scott replied, breaking down in tears.
    Standing up, Roy reached down and hauled his bleeding cousin to his feet. "It was not your fault. It was no one's fault."
    "No!" Scott denied, blood pouring from his face and running into his eyes.
    The sound of the heartbeat growing fainter still.
    Roy's face saddened at the denial of his cousin. As he began saying something, his face dissolved again and the figure with the dark cloak returned.
    "Wait, come back." Scott pleaded. But it was too late, Roy was gone.
    THe figure spoke, "Who are you?"
    "Fuck you!" Scott screamed. "I'm sick of this, I want to go home."
    "Home." The figure said. "Do you remember home?"
    Scott stopped in mid-sentence. Did he remember home? It had been years since he had been back there. But the memories came flooding back. He said, "Yes, and I hated it. My parents treated me like shit."
    "Then why do you want to return there?" The figure asked.
    "I don't know..."
    "Yes, you do." The figure argued, approaching Scott. Reaching out a cloaked arm, he grabbed Scott's head and whispered, "Remember."
    Scott started to shake and convulse, his memories returning un-aided. Memories of his father, picking him up and carrying him to bed when he was just a little boy. He could see the love in his father's eyes as he tucked the half-asleep boy safely into his bed. He could feel his father's lips on his forehead and a deep voice whispering that he loved his only son.
    He remembered his mother singing him to sleep. He remembered the way she would wash away the blood from his scrapes and the way she would kiss away the pain. He remembered the way she would stop doing the dishes or whatever she was doing just to ask him how his day went. He remembered the times his mother would get up in the middle of the night to fetch a drink of water for her scared little boy. Memories upon memories of the selfless sacrifices that both his parents made for their only son. A son they loved so fiercely and unconditionally. He couldn't deny the love he saw in their eyes.
    Trying to fight the memories, he screamed out, "No! They hated me."'
    "They loved you," The figure countered, drawing out more memories.
    Trying to block out the images, Scott screamed, "Love is a lie. They never loved me, love doesn't exist. They hated me and they stopped talking to me because I killed Roy."
    The heartbeat grew fainter.
    "You stopped talking to them." The figure said, taking a step towards Scott. "You pulled back, it was you. Never them."
    "No! They blamed me for his death. You don't know, I was there. YOu're twisting it all around."
    Pulling Scott to his feet, the figure stood face to face and said, "So was I."
    Scott reached for the hood and threw it back. HIs eyes widened as he saw for the first time behind the mask. He screamed out in horror as he realized he was staring into his own face.
    The heartbeat grew slower, fainter, until finally there was silence. It had stopped beating entirely.
    Scott lay on the floor clutching his chest and gasping for air. He knew, he could feel it, that any breath could be his last. He tried to get to his knees but the pain became to intense. He stopped struggling and gave up as he collapsed on the floor, staring up into his own face.
    The figure in black, his other self, looked down in comtempt as he raised his hand in a silent plea for help. The figure said, "Oh, are you in pain? All ready to give up?"
    "Help me!" Scott pleaded, turning away from his other self.
    "There you go again, running away. Always afraid aren't you, never willling to face the truth."
    "Help me, I'm dying." Scott begged.
    "Help you? Why should I?" The figure stated, laughing loudly. "When you won't even help yourself."
    "I am you." Scott said, his voice a whisper. "You are me, if I die, you die."
    "Really," The figure said. "Maybe that's for the best. You don't even know who you are. You are pathetic, complaining about your problems, no one loves me, no one cares. Boo hoo, poor little Scott," The figure now mocking the dying boy.
    Grabbing the figures arm, Scott tried to pull himself upright. But his fingers slipped, he was too weak. He said, "Help me."
    Even as he argued with his mirror image, he could hear someone speaking to him, though it sounded far away. It sounded just like Garet's voice and he was...Scott couldn't make out what his friend was trying to say.
    "Do you hear that?" The figure said, cocking his head to one side. "Do you hear what you are doing to your friends back there?"
    "I can't understand you," Scott shouted out to Garet. "What are you saying?"
    "He's yelling at you because you gave up." The figure said, laughing. "Your body is dying in that bed, and all you can do is lay on the floor."
    "I don't want to die." Scott said, staring at his mirror self.
    "Why not? Love does not exist. Nothing is ever good enough. Why not just lay down and die." The figure countered. "Get it over with."
    "I don't want to die," Scott spat out. "I'm scared."
    "Finally." The figure said, taking a step back. "You admit it."
    "What?" Scott asked, trying again to sit up.
    "You admit it, you are scared. Do you know that out there," The figure said, waving his arm, "Garet is scared because he loves you."
    "No." Scott denied, shaking his head.
    "Yes, he does. Listen to him, he's telling you in so many different ways." The figure said, bringing his hand to his ear. "He's begging you not to die, he loves you, just like your parents do."
    "NO!"
    "Just like Shelia does."
    "NO!"
    "Just like I do."
    "How can you love yourself?" Scott demanded, clutching his chest in pain.
    "Because, that is the only way you can exist." The figure said, his voice filled with sadness. "You are me, and I am you. I am everything that you used to be, everything you wanted to be, and I am everything that you are running away from right now."
    "I'm not running away," Scott said in between gasps for breaths. "I"m right here along side you."
    "You left me a long time ago, but I never forgot what we used to have." His other self pleaded. "Just stop running."
    "What am I running from?" Scott begged, his breaths a bit stronger than before, the pain a bit softer.
    His cousin, Roy, appeared next to the two Scott's and whispered, "From me."
    "NO!" Scott yelled. "Never from you."
    "And from me," His other self stated in a gentle voice.
    For the first time, Scott really looked at the figure that had his face. It was his, but it wasn't. Even though the face had a sad look, the eyes were so bright, full of life. Not like the stormy eyes he normally saw in the mirror. His face wasn't the same either, it was more youthful. He realized he was seeing himself long ago. Long before the drugs, before the guilt, before the death of his cousin.
    His eyse shifted to his cousin's face. Roy looked the same as the day he died. Scott asked, "How can you be here?"
    "You won't let me go," Roy said sadly. "You cornered me off in your mind, you won't let me die. You can't find peace until you forgive yourself."
    "I can't, I love you," Scott cried, the tears streaming down his face. "It's all my fault."
    "No," his other self shouted. "It was not your fault, it was not God's fault, it was just bad luck."
    "It was my time," Roy said, reaching out to the tortured boy. "Let me go, I don't blame you. I forgive you."
    Scott broke down and cried. This was not sad tears but more tears of acceptance. His breaths became harder, crashing into him, threatening to swallow and consume him. He grabbed out to Roy, like he was the only thing that could save him.
    Roy looked down and said, "Let me go."
    Scott's mirror self said, "If you want to finally be free, just let go."
    Scott held onto his cousin, crying as the weight of guilt pressed him down. His heart felt like it would burst from the pain that he had put himself through. HIs mind ached from the emotional turmoil that had racked his spirit for so many years. The pain in his chest returned, and somehow, he knew that he was dying. And he was tired of feeling all this pain, all this guilt. He wanted to finally be free of it all. So he did something he had never done before. He squeezed Roy tightly one last time, and just let go.
    As Roy began to fade away, Scott heard him say, "I don't blame you, and I will always love."
    His other self grabbed him, hugging him close until they were touching every inch of their bodies. And yet his other self squeezed even tighter until Scott felt the two bodies begin to merge. At first he fought this sensation, but finally he surrendered to that part of him that was everything good and pure and right. His mind exploded with forgotten feelings of love that he had run so hard to escape. His heart stopped hurting and his breathing returned to normal as he embraced what he had fought so long to deny.
    And then there was only one Scott.
    As the darkness slowly dissolved into pure light, and as he passed the point of no return, Scott heard a voice whisper, "Finally, it's over."
  7. Jason Rimbaud
    Current Music Selection: Five For Fighting?World from the album Two Lights
    Current State: Dis-jointed
    Current Mood: Depressed
    ?What kind of world do you want?
    Think Anything
    Let's start at the start
    Build a masterpiece
    Be careful what you wish for
    History starts now..? Five for Fighting
    If you?ve read any of my poetry hosted here at Awesome Dude or have ever been bored enough to visit my website, then you probably have an idea that my childhood was less than perfect. And before you ask, most of my poetry chronicles my life and the demons I face on every level of my existence. Add into the mix my BI-polar tendencies and dependence on altered states of reality, I wonder why I don?t let the pain slide.
    Maybe it?s a stubborn refusal to let ?him? win. He?s already taken my first from me and inadvertently gave me this sickness and fear of front seats and single beds. Squeezing the trigger now would be like saying the last ten years of struggling to find the sun was pointless. Maybe John was right, my life really was over at twelve. That I?m dead and just haven't fallen over yet.
    But giving up has never been part of my genetic make-up. I also got that from ?him? as well as his predatory nature and life denial. I?ve always been good at smiling at those who pretend to care about my well being. You know the types I mean, well-intentioned do-gooders who spit platitudes and rhetoric claiming truth from a book they use to bludgeon others into sameness. Or ?caring? therapists who attach blame but offer no solutions. Who takes poetry as absolute and recommends institutional care and gives you labels like, HRSA.
    I tend to roll my eyes and go off into my own world as they try to convert me, analyze me, or commit me, while alternately scratching my nuts and winking at the cute ones. Once, I even stripped off my clothes in the middle of her office and described in vivid detail that first time. That didn?t help me but it was the first time I was held overnight for observation.
    Have you ever wondered why christians are filled with such hatred for anyone who differs from their idyllic belief system? I was raised on the good book, I?ve read it ten or eleven times and for a brief period, I could quote dozens of scriptures and talk down to others with the best of them. But that was before front seats of cars and someone who used his position to further his own demons. Being taken advantage of puts you in a place, mentally and physically, that you never truly leave. Having one?s innocence taken by a man, who swore before god and the world that he would lead the faithful to the promised land, is something that can never be understood by someone who has never experienced such action. Molestation is an act of aggression against God.
    Christians hate others for one reason, stupidity. I?ve been there, I have the scoop and let me tell you, they begin brainwashing at the time of conception. Once a week, a man walks to the front of a building and for an hour, he pretends to speak the words of god. And the faithful sit there with raptured faces and rabid expressions as their own prejudice and fears are given validation. How can you fight christians? They tend to think in absolutes. There is no compromise with absolutes.
    Denial is the new black. My father had it, my mother has it, and my family embraces it. And I?m left alone. Can?t they see I?m hurting? It?s not about what I smoke, what I snort, what I inject, who I fuck. It?s not about whether or not I?ll go to hell. I?ve been in hell since cotton candy and broken heaters.
    It?s about this scared little boy who still sleeps in the closet at times clutching stuffed animals with ripped seams. It?s about a boy forever trapped inside a man?s body with no clear path on how to proceed. Just once, I wish they?d see me. Why can?t they see me?
    Mother
    (the reality)
    By: Jason R.
    Mother
    I can?t forgive you
    You were there all those times
    I know you know what he did
    You turned away
    Sheltered your eyes
    Belief in your god
    Could not save your boy
    What you couldn?t do
    Was protect me
    I?ve been dying
    Day by day
    Mother
    I tried to forgive you
    Because the bruises
    Speak of pain
    I heard the yelling
    I heard the praying
    But what good is god
    If a man can do that
    It?s your duty
    To your child
    Laid down in that book
    By your side
    Mother
    I won?t forgive you
    Because the laundry
    Was your domain
    You saw the blood there
    Where it never
    Should be
    From a boy of twelve
    You cleaned the sheets
    Saw the tear stains
    Mixed with fuck pains
    How could you let him touch me
    Mother
    I think I hate you
    Not as much
    As I hate that man
    Should I tell them
    All your good friends
    Just what kind of mother you are
    You hold your head straight
    During service
    They look to you
    For guidance now
    But if they only knew
    Mother
    I can?t forgive you
    I won?t forgive you
    I can?t?
    But I love you
    Help me
    Please
    Hold me
    Like a child
    Wipe the tears
    From my face
    Like I was twelve again
  8. Jason Rimbaud
    My Fiftieth Blog Entry
    So I realized a few days ago, that this would be my fiftieth blog entry here on Awesome Dude. Of course this was after I wrote one of my typical blog entries. And much to my surprise, I was petrified to post this average run-of-the-mill post. Let's face it, my fiftieth blog entry warranted something special.
    So for days I struggled with finding the right topic. I thought I'd come up with something witty, maybe a bit smart, and really funny. But as I stared at the blank screen, I discovered I didn't feel very witty, smart, or funny. So then I thought I might offer up some advice, something so deep that it would change the life of anyone who might read it. But I don't have any advice other than to advise to never wear pink out in public, and that's really not that life-changing for everyone. So I called my friends, polling them for any glimmer of insight they might have to offer. But sadly, I found out they are pretty much as pointless as my left over toenail clippings. Then I danced around with the idea of relaying some past emotional trauma for you but I don't feel like being all deep and vulnerable right now.
    So here I am, my fiftieth blog entry and I've got nothing to say.
    But...I can offer this one admission, an admission so terrifying and so embarrassing just the thought of it causes me to run and hide in the closet and never come out again unless I first change my identity.
    I am really looking forward to the new Harry Potter movie.
    You average Awesome Dude readers might not think this is a very scary admission at all. Truly not scary enough to warrant posting it as my fiftieth. But let me explain this first, so it becomes crystal clear why this admission frightens me so.
    First off, let me say that I've never read a single Harry Potter book. Mostly because I'm not a fan of books starring children, for some reason I can't seem to identify with twelve-year-olds, no matter if I act the part most of the time.
    Nor have I watched a single Harry Potter movie. When asked about Harry Potter, I would roll my eyes and say something along the lines, "How good can it be, it's a childrens book." To be honest, I've been known to vehemently say I would never read, watch, or pursue any avenue that would lead me to Harry Potter or that freaky witch that writes the stories. In my opinion, J.K. Rowling is one step below Satan. I don't care how much money the whore has made.
    So how could I go from hating all these Harry Potter to looking forward to this new Harry Potter movie?
    Let's go back to last week. I had the good fortune of having Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday off, Wednesday being the fourth of July. And while Monday and Tuesday were quite eventful and I'm pretty sure I'll be posting those events in blog entries very soon, Wednesday I had absolutely nothing to do.
    Hanging out with Daniel's family is okay, most of the time, but there are times when I just want to hang out alone and veg. Unfortantly, sometimes Jason alone is not a good thing. Idle hands and such, so when I begin feeling a bit bored, I do what I normally do...I clean my apartment. But that only killed about four hours and two bottles of wine. So I decided to order food from my favorite Chinese Restaurant, in reality I ordered enough food for three people. Once the food was delivered, I settled in front of the TV to eat WAY TO MUCH food and watch some mind-numbing programs on my 60 inch screen.
    Okay, I know the fourth of July is a holiday about the celebration of the independence for our nation. I love America, I really do, but fuck me running backwards, why the hell do they have to play those crappy war movies all day long. I've seen them all, a billion times and I wasn't in the mood for blind patriotism. I wanted a different flavor, so channel surfing became my way of doing something different. And since I have every channel available, going through them is a chore in and of itself.
    Two hundred channels and nothing on right. It's how it always goes. The only movie I was even considering watching was on TCM at two o-clock, Mel Gibson's The Patriot. Looking at my watch, I had about twenty minutes to kill. In my channel surfing, I saw that Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone had just started a few minutes earlier. So on a whim, I switched over, after all, I was all alone in my apartment and I would allow my balls to be ripped from my body by a herd of wild baby elephants before I would ever admit to what I had just done. I had planned on watching it for a few minutes before The Patriot started, no harm, no foul. Right? Okay, yeah, I'll tell myself that.
    Holy Shit! Before I knew it the ending credits were rolling and I was in shock. Not only was it a good movie, but I really, really, really, liked it. So much so, that I got dressed and raced to the local Blockbuster to rent the other three movies. I won't mention that I made a big show of saying to the pimply faced nerd behind the counter that I was renting these stupid movies for my little cousin, so loudly that everyone in line heard me.
    I watched all three movies back to back. And I was sitting on the edge of my seat the whole time. I couldn't believe it, the story drew me and kept me waiting to see how this all played out.
    So my friend, Ann, is a Harry Potter junkie. I mean junkie, she has all the books, signed probably from E-Bay, she owns all the movies and has watched them over and over again. And for years, I gave her a ton of shit about this unhealthy addiction. But once the fourth film finished, I was so excited, I called her up.
    Did you know that Pennsylvania is three hours ahead of California? I did, but for some reason in my excitment I forgot that important piece of information. It was a few minutes after midnight in California, for me, yet for her, it was just after three AM. After she yelled at me for about five minutes, something about waking her up in the middle of the night on a work day, I finally got the chance to tell her about the Harry Potter marathon I had in my apartment.
    Three hours later, we finally hung up. She had twenty minutes to shower and get dressed for work. We talked about the story development, the movie version as opposed to the books, it was a fucking amazing conversation. In those three hours, I learned so much about the world of Harry Potter. I hung up the phone in a daze, and a bit confused why I had for so many years dismissed Harry Potter as mere children's drivel. And I realized that I was a fan.
    At least when it comes to the movies. I still won't buy a single J.K. Rowling book, mostly because of the things I've heard her say in the press and the way she goes after those who writes fanfics about her characters. Fanfics are the truest form of flattery, why the hell she gives a flying nun's fuck is beyond my understanding. Anyway, J.K. Rowling sucks, no matter if they can make good movies from her crappy books. About enough about that crazy whore.
    So now I'm waiting for the new movie. I'll even go see it with all the other wacko's and won't be embarrassed to be seen in the theatre. Mainly because I know I won't be the only fag in the theater who is watching because of Daniel Radcliff. My oh my how he's grown up. And I've been fortunate in that regard, I've watched him grow up in a single afternoon instead of waiting for each new movie like the rest of you.
    So I'll admit it, I'm a fan of Harry Potter. And I should never have said never. Oh well, life goes on.
    Jason R.
    Now if I could only persuade Ann to keep her big fat mouth shut, and not tell all our friends. Like that's going to happen, she probably already sent out a mass email to everyone. Tragic I say, fucking tragic.
  9. Jason Rimbaud
    Before I really get into the reason I started writing down these random letters to form words that structure the following incoherent sentences that you are about to read, I want everyone to understand why I decided to write this in my Blog instead of responding in the forum thread where I first started ruminating on this topic. I am writing it here mainly because I think I’m going to offend a few people that read this and more than likely piss off the rest.
    A few months ago, I came across a topic in the Lounge over at Gay Authors that got the wheels in my tiny little brain a whirling. So much did my head spin around and around, that even all this time later, I’m still thinking about the topic.
    I really don’t remember who started the Topic all those months ago, and it’s really not important as it doesn’t really have anything to do with who started the topic but what path that topic got me traveling on.
    To the best of my ability, the topic was “Do You Identify as Gay?”. It also included a poll of three choices…I identify as part of the gay community, I identify as someone who has sex with the same gender, I identify as something else (please explain). Or something along those lines anyway.
    When I first read this topic, the results were as following…
    72.41% or twenty-one posters identify as part of the gay community
    13.79% or four posters identifying as someone who has sex with the same gender
    13.79% or four posters identifying as something else
    And for full disclosure, I identify as something else. This something else with the tagline, ( please explain), is the reason I am writing this today and the reason I have done more research about this topic in the last few months than I have in the last twenty years.
    I have never spoken to the person who started the topic, nor am I judging that person or anyone that participated in this particular thread. I believe there is something deeper here in regards to my own journey then the author or other posters intended.
    And let me preface this by saying, I am not attacking, judging, or refuting anyone that shared their own experiences in this topic. Nor am I discounting their beliefs or personal truths. I am only referencing them as it led me to a better understanding of my own self.
    Upon first reading this topic, I believe I understand what the motivation the author had when they created the poll and the questions they proposed. And without putting words in anyone’s mouth, I believe the intention was to see how the other members of GA viewed themselves in a larger, cultural way. And on the surface, I think it was a harmless question without malice.
    The post started off something like, “I’m curious to know how many people on here identify as part of the gay community versus how many just identify as having same sex attractions without feeling a part of the larger, cultural gay community”.
    I first read this question more of, ‘hey, tell me how you feel about your place or lack thereof in the gay community at large’. I don’t believe there is anything wrong with the question that was put forth. I felt, and still do after all this time; it was more a curiosity to see into the lives of other individuals and to understand how they might see themselves in a grander scheme of life as it pertains to the “gay community”.
    And after reading all the response, a particular comment stuck out from one user. And again, I might be paraphrasing, but the poster said something like, “I have come back to this post several times because it rather irks me. I am gay. However, I am not a member of gay clubs, sports, or other so-called gay organizations. The feeling I get reading this, is that unless I “join up”, me and the others like me, are really not gay”.
    This comment intrigued me, so much so that I started doing some research into the poster. And no, I wasn’t stalking that user, but I did find out while I was stalking him that he identifies as a Dom in a BDSM relationship.
    The user clearly stated that he did not feel part of the gay community because he refused to ‘sign up’. And a few posts later he added, “My lifestyle is even smaller. Mainly found in small clubs, and yes online. But even thought we have BDSM clubs, I am not a member. Though my husband and I live that way. Does that make me less a Dom? No, Not at all”.
    Please understand that I know absolutely nothing about this user except what I have read in that particular topic and I am not refuting what he feels. I know nothing about BDSM except surface facts nor do I care to learn about this…lifestyle for lack of a better term. I do know that it’s not for me even though I understand that the participants feel a need to experience their life in this way and that there is a strong bond of love and trust in regards to their relationships. I feel everyone is entitled to love however they find it. And this post is not about BDSM but rather about the feeling this poster voiced about community.
    Webster’s define community as: a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common.  It goes on with a second definition: a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.  A few of the synonyms listed: group, body, clique, faction.
    When the user identified as gay but didn’t really have a connection to what most would call the gay community, preferring to just live their lives as they see fit and damn anyone that doesn’t agree with them. This statement got my little head spinning around. While this is an admirable trait, and one that I wholeheartedly agree with, it made me curious why he didn’t feel a connection to the greater gay community.
    I don’t know this user and didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask certain questions regarding BDSM and why this user didn’t feel a part of the community, so instead I went online and started doing research about the subject to see if I could get a better understanding of why he might have answered like he did and more importantly, why the question seemed to irritate him.
    And in my limited research about the subject, I found that most in a BDSM relationship identify first as a Dom or a Sub, then secondly as gay if they mention it at all. My understanding, BDSM is more important to how they live their truth than a label about sexuality. This seemed to be a logical reason why this user didn’t connect with the gay community.
    And yet it got me thinking why I don’t connect with the gay community though I live in San Francisco, seemingly the Mecca of gaydom for the United States and maybe for the rest of the world.
    I don’t have a lot of gay friends. And being gay does not now nor has ever really defined who I am as a human being. In my youth, I went to the clubs on the prowl for sex. I used more boys as dumpsters and playthings than ever made any real connections with the shallow people I met in those spaces. But that was a small part of biology, I was horny and wanted to find a release into the next willing receptacle but that wasn’t who I was or what I thought I should be. My community has always been those like minded individuals that share my same love of movies, video games, books, and historical places. At times, other gay people have fit that mold, but often as much, my friends are made up of all races, orientation, and gender.
    I have found in my travels, the “gay community at large” are shallow, promiscuous, addicts, that are too self absorbed to be good friends much less good human beings. And yes, before you get all angry, there are always exceptions. But go to any club on a Saturday night, and you’ll see rampant alcohol and drug abuse in the gay community, unsafe sex practices, and old men trying desperately to hang on to their youth by any means necessary.
    And if it seems like I’m judging them, maybe I am. But I don’t want to be associated with those types of humans. And it’s true, go to any straight club and you will see the same exact behavior which I think only proves that I don’t identify with them either.
    To get back to the user who identifies as BDSM, he would also say, ‘my lifestyle is even smaller’. He’s proud to say that he doesn’t belong to any BDSM clubs. He simply chooses to live out his best life with seemingly little regard for what others might think. This is a behavior I can support.
    Webster’s define lifestyle as: the way in which a person or group lives.
    The user is living his best life with someone who loves and respects him and for all purposes; he is living the lifestyle of a gay man. The user also used the phrase, ‘join up’. And this made me think about the grander implications of that statement.
    I feel that too many of our brothers and sisters are made to feel left out based on some of the marginal stigma surrounding certain lifestyles, especially if it’s on the fringe of the larger gay community. If the user, who identifies as a Dom, cannot feel like he’s a part of the gay community because he refuses to ‘join up’, then what does that say about this gay community? Is it because as humans, we tend to judge those that are different than us? If that’s the case, then we are no better than the homophobe that judges us because they do not understand us?
    To counter that point, the user that started the post topic and put forth the poll answers to begin with, stated, ‘For example, I personally identify as gay and very much feel a part of the larger gay community. Most of my friends are gay, I go to a mostly-gay gym, I play in a gay sports league, I go to gay bars/clubs/circuit parties, and whenever I travel I make it a point to check out the local gay scene. What I love about being gay in the cultural sense is that no matter where you go, you already have an established tribe/community that you can find support in through shared identity. I've found in my post-college years is that we are a community that tends to protect our own, and we've created our own institutions separate from the straight world to fulfill that purpose. It's ghettoization to an extent, but after living in the stuffy confines of straight life for so long, I've found that this much smaller community offers freedom to a level and in a particular way that people who aren't a part of it will never get to experience’.
    I think I could argue what the poster was referring to is not so much the ‘gay community’ but more of the gay lifestyle. Or what that perception of that lifestyle is from someone on the outside looking in. I do believe there is a certain perception of what most would call the gay community, and for a good portion of us, we would never identify ourselves in that manner.
    Urban Dictionary defines gay lifestyle as: a stereotype used by social/political conservatives to describe gay men being promiscuous, drinking, bar hopping, using drugs, cross-dressing, and orgies.
    Okay, I’ll be honest, the bit about cross-dressing made me laugh so hard I almost choked to death when I read it. But can you honestly say, you have never thought the same exact thing at least privately in your own brain. To most, the gay lifestyle doesn’t describe us much less define us. I have often lamented that who I choose to sleep with is such a small part of what makes me…me…that I rarely talk about it. I don’t go to Pride, I don’t participate in circuit parties, I don’t have orgies, nor do I have random encounters using phone Apps. That is not my lifestyle, nor has it really been.
    So why am I writing this? It’s not to bash the author of this topic, nor the user that doesn’t identify as a member of the gay community. The reason I wrote this and the reason I have been thinking about this topic for months, is because I was looking at this through the wrong lens.
    There was a time when gay individuals needed to bond together, first for safety, and then for support from a world that didn’t really accept us. And yes, having that support system truly saved who knows how many lives over the last decades. How many young people who didn’t commit suicide because they found a place that was safe for them to live their truth and find happiness within those communities? How many of the younger generation can go to proms with their same sex partner now all over the country? How many states have legalized same sex marriage? So much has changed for the gay community just in the last ten years that I never thought I would see in my lifetime. And thankfully, it has changed.
    Yet I truly believe one of the worst things we can do as a community is retreat into our gay clubs, gay bars, gay sports leagues, and leave the rest of the world behind. We didn’t affect change by hiding in the shadows. We changed the country because we got out in the light and demanded that we needed to be treated first as humans, with the same rights as all other humans, then by allowing straight people who didn’t know any better that we have the same goals, values, and desires that all humans possess. Who we sleep with is irrelevant in the grand scheme of life.
    My community, as defined by Webster, has always been made up of a fellowship of likeminded individuals that share my same attitude, goals, and life values. That is my community, and like most communities across the country, it’s not a gay community, it’s not a straight community, it’s a mix of beautiful humans that all strive to achieve a better life for those they love, and for those as yet unborn.
    I have seen a lot of ‘gay communities’ that do not share my same values and goals. And I will not be a part of them just because they also happen to sleep with other men. That would be like saying, I will only vote for this particular person because they also have the genetic coding that made their eyes blue like mine. Eye color and genital preference is so far down on my list of priorities in those I choose to surround myself with its practically nonexistent.
    If you find a gay community that shares your same attitudes, goals, and values, than great, you might have found the ideal life. But don’t get so hung up on only participating in ‘gay communities’ just because there are gay people there. Instead, create your own communities by including all people that share your values, embrace those that can bring something positive in your life and exclude all those, even the gay ones that would drag you down.
    Gay or straight, all communities are made up of humans first, and most of us are a wonderful, kind, generous, honest, loving, and accepting group that can do extraordinary things when we share a common purpose.
    I know that my thoughts might not be for everyone who reads them. And that’s okay. We are all on different places in our walk of life. I do know that over the last few months my perception of community changed and I believe I am a better person for it. So I thank whoever started this topic, and those that contributed to the thread as they all helped me come to a better understanding of who I am as a human and where I want to go.
     
    J
  10. Jason Rimbaud

    My New Site

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    For any of those that are interested, my brand new site is up and running over at the Hub. It contains every piece of work that I've posted online. Designed by Rob Hawes, I couldn't be happier with the final outcome. So if you're interested, look over at the upper left hand corner of the screen and click on the link called, The Writings of Jason Rimbaud.
    Jason (proud poet)
  11. Jason Rimbaud

    My Resurrection

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    My Resurrection
    A few weeks ago I headed off to the beach for a few days, probably the best idea I?ve had in recent memory. Anyone reading my blog has seen witness of my bouts of depression, my slow recovery from addiction, and the added stress of continuing my therapy with Susan. To say I needed some time away from the chaos of my life to clear the darkness from my soul would be a severe understatement.
    Basically I?ve been feeling like a caged animal, trapped inside myself and slowly going insane in plain view of those that really didn?t give a shit on ?whether I lived or died?. For a time, it seemed to me that as long as I showed up for work and did my job; the people around me were satisfied. It didn?t really matter that I was depressed and anti-social. I smiled at the appropriate time and made the restaurant guests feel welcomed. All other behavior was overlooked.
    I couldn?t then, nor could I now, put the proper descriptive definition on the feelings roaming around my head. And yet, maybe instinctively, I knew if I couldn?t tame the animal that was lurking under the surface of my sobriety, then I would lose the better parts of myself to addiction and sink back into depression.
    And this scared the shit out of me. Because maybe this time, I wouldn?t be able to escape.
    And the fucked up thing about this is it wasn?t until I got away from the noise of my job, the voices of my co-workers, and the deadening silence of my apartment, that I realized just how close I was to the edge. And how drained I truly became by the events of the last few months.
    I found it to be rather easy to ignore the shambles of my life when I was busy dealing with the hundreds of problems that crop up on a day to day basis of working in a hip, up-scale restaurant.
    I could either focus all my energy on the problems of the restaurant, problems I knew could be solved rather quickly, OR, I could waste what little energy I had left and spend hours self analyzing and attempting to tackle the large problems that persisted in my life. What would you do? Yeah, that?s right my friends. I?d thought you say that.
    BEWARE DIGRESSION ALERT
    I think this is probably the deciding factor on why there are just so many workaholics in the world. Maybe I?m not the only one that has discovered this coping mechanism that seems hardwired into our primitive minds. Survival at any cost.
    And while this is something we should all think about, this is not the where nor is this the when to chew the fat and make left-handed supposes on the growing trend of workaholics the world over. So I?ll return you to your regularly scheduled rant.
    END DIGRESSION
    I didn?t do much that Friday I arrived at the beach; I was so mentally and emotionally frazzled I spent most of the whole afternoon on the front porch watching the rain fall into the ocean and losing myself in my I-Pod.
    And as I sat there, the music playing randomly in my ears, my mind started drifting around to long forgotten memories. Poking around into places that I thought we had previously agreed, my mind and I, to leave forgotten and buried forever.
    And as I sifted through the past, I slowly began to realize that I hadn?t been happy in a very long time. This is not to say that I didn?t experience happy moments, let?s face it, over the years I?ve had lots and lots of happy moments. You can?t be a drug addict with a constant hard-on and not have some happy moments. But I recognized and more importantly, understood the difference between ?happy moments? and a genuine feeling of happiness.
    The longer I pondered this, the further back in time I delved. I knew, sometime when, there had to be a period in my life where I was truly happy. I wasn?t always an addict; I had lived for sixteen years before finding solace in the numbness of drugs. And I was determined to find that source of that happiness again.
    But the further back I went, the more I remembered, and the angrier I became.
    Before the age of sixteen I was pretty happy. I had loving parents, and even though they were religious bigots who brainwashed me into a life of fear and self-loathing, they were quite affectionate towards me and I loved them very much despite their beliefs.
    No matter what anyone might say, the ties between families are extremely powerful. Especially between a child and its mother. Think about it, for nine months, you are an extension of your mother. You experience all her emotions, happiness, sadness, the uncertainty of the future, and I bet in some respects you feel the pain and the ecstasy of birth itself. That kind of closeness creates a bond that nothing else you ever experience could ever compare.
    This bond begins as an unconditional love. It?s engrained into the human DNA; a mother?s instinct to protect its offspring. And even though my parents were strict and sometimes quite harsh, I knew/know that they loved me and only wanted the best for me. And as long as I followed the path they laid out for me, their love was unconditional.
    But much to my chagrin, one night I found out that their love had more than a few conditions attached too it. It seemed that the love they gave me hinged on the belief that I was a heterosexual. Because the night my father caught me in the living room giving an older boy a blowjob was the night I lost my home and my world. After that night, unconditional love took on a whole new meaning. Matter of fact, to be completely honest, from that moment on I have always put conditions on love. So you have to excuse me if the notion of unconditional love is a bit tough to swallow.
    Is it any wonder why I turned out the way I did? What was I supposed to do? I was sixteen, I had no money, no place to go, and my only possessions were the clothes on my back.
    I ended up sleeping in a bus station that first night, scared out of my mind and filled with an unholy rage. I was tossed aside for some obscure religious belief, and for a god that I had began to doubt even existed. Because if god did exist, and he really hated me because I liked other boys, than my unholy attraction to other boys was a gift I received from him.
    Read the fucking book, we were created in his image. And if you believe what my parents believe, then it is impossible for god to make mistakes. So?what the fuck was up with me? If it was truly wrong for me to be attracted to other boys, then god must?ve somehow fucked up when he made me in his image.
    BEWARE WORLD?S LONGEST SENTENCE BELOW
    Because, even before I became aware that there was a difference between girls and boys, and that other boys should only like girls, and that girls should only like boys, I was full-on, no denial, looking away wouldn?t change the fact no matter how often you arranged some ?alone time so the two can get to know each other? with the local girl, and forbid me to spend ?alone time? with my best friend, Sean, would I ever choose to hang out with a girl over the sheer pleasure of spending ?alone time? with a him.
    And it didn?t have to be my best friend, Sean, either, who at the time I was completely in love with but that?s definitely another story for another time. I have been that way since before I can remember. I would rather hang out with a boy than spend a moment with a girl. It was simple, plain and true; I was/am attracted to boys.
    I like the way they look, I love the way they feel, I go absolutely crazy by the way they smell. I was/is completely obsessed by just the physical sight of them. Clothed or not, the figure of a boy/man?s body drives me wild to this day. This is the only reality I ever knew, from my earliest memories all the way to the present day, it?s as natural as taking a breath. Did I make a choice? There has never been a choice for me to make. I?ve always liked boys, its simple genetics.
    ANTI-RELIGION RANT
    So when my parents, to be honest it was more my father than my mother at this time, threw me out of the house because I was gay, I immediately placed the blame on the god of my parents religion. After all, it was god?s bible after all, it was his words, and it was his hatred I felt. He was the root of my problem. He made all of humanity, and apparently he didn?t figure into account that some percentage of his creation might be attracted to a member of the same sex. And if he did take into account this ?phenomenon?, and still decreed that such love was an abomination, then I was the lowest form of scum on the planet. It didn?t matter to my parents that I was the scum that god created, because upon finding out I was gay, they had an instant hatred for me. And since god teaches that he destroys those he despised, my parents opted to destroy me. At that time, it didn?t matter if god created fags or not, because I was fucked. And by a god, that at that time, I loved almost whole heartedly. And people wonder why I?m an agnostic.
    END RANT
    In the morning, after I spend the night in a bas station, some guy told me about this shelter that allowed young runaways to stay there on the condition that they help out around the place and attend chapel services at the church that sponsored the shelter. Not having any other option available to me, I embraced this opportunity.
    Though I must admit it was rather difficult to go to the shelter. I had just been tossed out on my ass by my parents and their religion, the last thing I wanted to happen was to give someone else an excuse to exclude me based on something I couldn?t help or control. So upon arriving at the shelter, I kept my sexuality a secret and told several vague lies to disguise the real reason my parents gave me the boot. Though looking back now, I don?t think for a minute I fooled either the volunteers at the shelter or the minister about the real reason I ended up on their doorstep.
    I can also say, looking back, that they were a group of people who truly tried to help those that they came in contact with at the shelter. But at the time, I treated them like they were the enemy. Like they were a part of some grand conspiracy, plotting to destroy me and take advantage of na?ve fags the world over. I was/am forever bitter about religion and the people that believed in religion.
    There was another boy, around my age, who had been living at the shelter for a few months before I arrived. Though he never told me outright, I ?m pretty sure we had more in common than just needing a place to stay.
    It?s always been easy to spot the gay kids. They have an attitude, the way they carry themselves in a crowd that reminds you of a wounded animal quietly freaking out in a life and death kind of way that makes them easy to identify.
    And for whatever reason, most gay kids on the streets become predators as they get older. They find the weakest species on the block, some kid who might be new to the whole I don?t have a family so I now have to live on the street but I still don?t have a clue what the fuck life is about but I?ll trust you because I think you?re cute boy kind of kid, and take advantage of that innocent frame of mind and completely fuck them up.
    I think it might be Mother Nature?s way of coping with these situations that humans aren?t prepared to deal with. Of course it could be just a product of surroundings and circumstances that most youths find themselves facing after expulsion from their home. Much like the only way they know how to control a situation that is completely out of control. Or it could be a way to gain revenge, to make sure someone else?s life is as fucked up as their own.
    Anyway, most runaways/get the fuck out of my house, type kids becomes predators in one form or another. It?s like they become the embodiment of those that first drove them into exile in the first place. Food for thought, but still not the main reason I?m writing this tonight. If you?re still with me, I move on.
    Back to this other kid I met at the shelter, I?m sorry I don?t remember his name. On the second night after my arrival, after we washed and dried the dishes, and right before we were loaded on the bus to attend chapel services, shown me a little plastic baggie filled with white powder asked me if I wanted some insulation to get me through the mandatory chapel attendance. I didn?t know what he was referring too, because at this time, I really was, for all purposes, a complete innocent.
    Drugs were something that my father had warned me about since I was a young child. And looking back on all the things he filled my head with, the only good advice that mother fucker ever gave me was, don?t do drugs. But again, I digress.
    When he realized I didn?t understand, he started laughing at me.
    Now, I?ve been laughed with a lot over the years and I?ve been laughed at as well. This laughter was definitely one of those times when I was being ridiculed because of my naivet?. This was a feeling that I quickly found out I absolutely despised. And even to this day, I refuse to accept anyone laughing at me. I?ve gone to ridiculous lengths and have done some pretty dumb ass stupid shit to make sure that no one laughs at my expense ever again.
    Once regained control of his laughter, he pulled me into the shelter?s bathroom. This was a space that was accessible to anyone who wished to use it, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. So I?m sure you can imagine the smell of stale piss, fresh vomit, and un-flushed shit that permeated the small enclosure. This was the kind of place that even drug addicts would warn others about avoiding.
    Once inside the cesspool of a bathroom, he dragged me into one of the filthy stalls and locked the door behind us. He then pulled a plastic baggy from his pocket and held it up triumphantly, like I was suppose to know what was inside. To the white kid from suburbia, it looked like he crushed up a stick of white chalk. I know, I was pretty stupid back then.
    So I asked how a piece of chalk would insulate me from the attempted brainwashing we soon would be subjected too. And can you believe it, that bastard laughed at me again.
    Once he informed me of the true nature of the white substance nestled so innocently in that plastic bag, he laid out a choice for me.
    HIJIKED THREAD
    To be honest, the best way to get me to do anything; is to make it appear that I have the final say in the outcome of my actions, that I made the choice. It doesn?t really matter what the two choices are, if you pretend to give me an option of deciding my fate, then I will usually do what you wanted me to do in the first place. Just don?t ever tell me what to do, that?s a sure fire way to get me to dig my heels in and let my stubborn streak rear it?s ugly head. Just something for those to think about that might have ambitions of controlling my actions. I know I should delve deeper into this weakness but this is not the entry for discussing the inner workings of my mind and I?ve rambled on long enough already and still haven?t gotten around to explaining the reason I began writing this blog entry in the first place.
    RETURNING TO NORMAL BLOG ENTRY
    Okay, what was this choice he laid out in front of me?
    I could attend the chapel service and buy into the concept of an all-knowing, all-seeing, judgmental god that will hold me accountable for my every action with an unwavering solidarity to the rules as laid out in the Biblical text, OR, I could snort a few lines of cocaine and put my trust into the hands of fate and let chance decide the cards that would be dealt for me to play in this game called life.
    Fuck it, what can I say? He was cute. He was a dangerous boy that lived by a philosophy that went against every single thing I was ever taught by my parents. And for a moment, as brief as that moment was, I was scared that this cute boy would lead me directly to hell.
    But then I remembered my father, and the way he threw me aside for a god he?s never seen all because a man stood in front of a church and told him to hate people like me. At that moment, joining in something that might send me to hell was pretty damn tempting. If god hated me simply because I was gay, then I didn?t want to go to heaven anyway. That was the day, the very moment, I walked away from the religion I was raised to believe.
    And the more I thought about that first time doing drugs, the more bitterness I began to feel. The more anger that slowly started consuming me. I was a product of my past, I had lived a life that I never choose. It all began when my father turned his back on me.
    And there, sitting on the front porch of that beach house, I felt like no matter what I did, I could never escape the demons that haunted me. I?ve tried again and again to remain sober. I?ve spent countless hours and countless dollars trying to erase the depression that stalks me. And I?ve failed each and every time.
    There was no way a faggot like me could ever have a chance at living a normal life.
    I was filled with rage, bitterness, and an overwhelming desire to get as high as I could possibly get. I almost ran into the house, with the full intention of grabbing my shit and driving back to Redwood City where I knew I could score some pure coke. If I was going to be trapped in this shit, then I was going to be as numb as possible.
    But something happened as I stalked into the house. Up to that point, the music blasting in my ears was background noise. I had been sitting on that porch for three hours and I couldn?t tell you a single song that had played. Until that moment, then my mind focused on the song and I understood the words I heard.
    I had listened to that particular song probably fifty times over the course of this year. I liked the song, but I don?t think I really heard what the lyrics were really saying until that moment. The clarity that washed over me was staggering. And all the anger and bitterness that was so consuming a moment before melted away, slipping from me like a bad dream, fading into that part of my mind where all nightmares are banished.
    I spent the next hour walking along the beach, the rain pouring down on me, just letting the cleansing flood wash me clean. And as the sun set, as I peered into the fading light, I couldn?t help but think I was watching my past slip into oblivion.
    Because that?s all the past is, a string of events that happened. My past certainly shaped the man I am today, but it doesn?t dictate my future. The future is wide open, a new page that only I could write, but still a fresh parchment. I couldn?t control my past but I can control my future by changing my present.
    For the first time in my life, my past is just that, the past. To have a future I can?t dwell on those memories anymore. And so my present is looking pretty fucking bright.
    The last time I thought about using cocaine was that time at the beach. It?s almost like I put my addictions to rest that night. This might change in the future, but somehow I think my present doesn?t allow for those feelings to exist here. Either way, I feel like I have a real chance to become the man I see in my dreams. Cheers.
    Jason R.

  12. Jason Rimbaud

    New Goals For A Pretend Writer

    By Jason Rimbaud,


    Life In Glasses
    Have you ever read something you wrote twenty years ago and literally cringe in embarrassment? I have so many times it’s becoming a constant state of cringe. And believe me, I’m a master of cringing. 
    I’ll give you an example of a cringe that came over me about six months ago..
    Twenty-one years ago I wrote a fanfic about the members of Nsync. Which I find to be strange as I have never been a fan of their music. Nor have I been attracted to any of the members of Nsync, then or now. 
    I always found my taste in men to be a bit on the nerdy side. Give me a man who wears glasses, a bit awkward in social situations, and I’m all in. If you add in a darker skin tone then I get a mental erection and it's all over but the moaning.
    A few of you might know my husband is ethnically an Indian who was born in Malaysia. He’s almost 5’ 10” and weighs 120 pounds skinny butt naked. Does he wear glasses? Check. Is he smart? Extremely. Is it any wonder why he gives me mental erections just by walking into the room?
    Back to the fanfic I wrote. It was twenty chapters and just over 100K words. The plot revolved around an assassination attempt of a US Senator at a concert in Hershey Pennsylvania. Of course the protagonist meets the members of this boy band and the plot is off and running to a climax I still believe is pretty good.
    But you ask, is the story any good? I can say honestly, it had some really good scenes, a fairly interesting plot, mixed together with some of the worst writing I have seen in a long time. Trust me, I read it, then I read it again. It wasn’t great by any standard.
    The tone was all over the place. Due to the main plot, it was a bit dark. After all it was about assassinations at the core. I tried to weave suspense throughout the narrative, and I think I tackled that part okay. But then I would have a scene of graphic sex, eight or nine pages of graphic detail. So it was this weird mix of death, humor, and jerk off material. Sound like a story you want to read?
    Yet can you believe at the time, I would receive up to fifty emails when I posted a chapter. I thought I was on top of the world. Which only goes to prove the theory that even a bad writer can get sympathy platitudes. 
    I actually had an idea for a sequel. Thankfully it never materialized as I would have another novel to look back on and cringe.
    Why did I fail to write the sequel you might ask? A few months after I completed the novel, I kind of went off the rails with a love affair of cocaine and Oxycontin that I wallowed around for a few years. And that addiction morphed into a habit of picking less than ideal boyfriends that only fueled my drug addiction that caused me to choose bad boyfriends which fueled my drug addiction.
    And if any of you are wondering what life was like during that time of my life or if you are contemplating on getting a drug habit, I urge you to scroll down to the past blog entries and you can experience all the chaos that comes with those addictions. 
    Or if you want to really experience what goes through a drug addict's mind, you can always read my poetry. I might have stopped writing stories but I never stopped writing. I poured all my mania, my anger, my drug addled thoughts into some pretty amazing pieces. In poetry I found a way to confront my demons and exorcized them one piece at a time. I am still rather proud of my poetry.
    Then I somehow gave up the drugs and the poetry. I swapped them for blog entries. Those posts really delved into the characters of my sordid past and focused on my journey into sobriety. They were funny, sad, and at times would drive any sane person mad at the stupidity of my actions. But through it all, I remained honest and wrote with an intensity that scared me at times and healed me at others. I showed the bad along with the bad, and was unashamed. 
    Then just like real life, days turned to weeks, months turned into years, and slowly my life got on track. I’ve been clean for over fifteen years. I focused on my career that afforded me an amazing life in San Francisco. And that focus on career came with a hefty price. I had walked away from writing and found peace and a measure of what I thought was happiness.
    Then I met the man who would become my husband. That is when I found out there was another level above a great life. For five years I went from great to perfect. I had found my life partner, the person that would spend every night sleeping next to me. That person that can make me smile just at the mere thought of his name. And when he decided that our life needed something else to make it better than perfect, he brought a cat home named Peaches. And then somehow it got even better when he brought home another named aptly, Kali. 
    And life is still perfect. And I know some of you might be thinking there is a “but” coming. You would be wrong. My life is still perfect. We started our own business. I’m doing something I love. And yes it’s slow getting off the ground, and we are still struggling to be successful. But I’m happy.   
    Throughout that feeling of happiness, I had a growing feeling deep down in the darkness of my heart. It was a feeling I had lost long ago. That feeling that urged me to get back to what I’ve always said was my first love. 
    Even before the love of drugs, I had a love for writing. From my earliest memories, I have wanted to be a writer. And for a multitude of reasons, I slowly lost that love to create stories. Yes, I wrote poetry, blog entries. Those were things that were needed at the time for my own sanity. But I wanted to get back to crafting stories.
    So I made a plan to get back to where I knew I wanted to be. Firstly, I would gather all my writings that were posted in various places under a bunch of different names before I settled on Jason Rimbaud for a pen name. I had numerous short stories and novels, mostly on Nifty. And I’ll admit that in those early days, I wrote a bunch of stroke material. 
    Secondly I wanted to start writing seriously again. So in July 2022, I made myself a promise that I would write at least two hours every day. And thus far, I have stuck to that promise without missing a single day. 
    I have written a bunch of flash fiction, even a few short stories since then. I also wrote a bunch of blog entries that no one will ever see due to the fact they focus on my husband and our lives together. They are way too personal to ever share. 
    The flash fiction stories were a way I could dip my toe back into serious storytelling. I needed to relearn how to write stories. I had been writing true to life ramblings so long I had forgotten how to structure a real fictional narrative. And that was a huge challenge for me.
    Then in mid-November, I saw a writing prompt somewhere and got this idea about a story involving a pink jockstrap. And I got really excited about this premise. So excited that I actually wrote it. And then I got brave enough to ask a few people to help me with the edits and beta reading.
    Was the story great? I’m not sure. They gave me amazing feedback and insight but by the time I was somewhat satisfied it was New Years Eve. It’s a bit too late to post a Christmas story after New Year’s so I think I’ll save that until next year. I do feel a bit bad as they had to wade through lines upon lines of crappy writing and I never posted it.
    But that’s not what this post is about. And judging from their feedback, I have a lot to relearn about story structure, plot, and characterization. I mean, you can’t walk away from something for twenty years and expect to be mediocre when you return after only six months. 
    My passion for writing was not diminished in the slightest. Their critique actually started a fire inside me. So what I’m really saying in this post, I am actually re-writing that old fanfic about Nsync. 
    Of course I removed all mention of Nsync. I created my own fictional boy band. I also updated the story to be more modern and expanded the cast of characters. I cut entire chapters and trimmed certain scenes, plus added a bunch of new content.
    And then there’s the sex. I had to tame the sex a lot. I didn’t eliminate it all together, because for some reason not only am I getting back into reading light erotica I’m also interested in writing it again. What am I saying with all this?
    I rewrote the entire story completely. Now I’m going back and adding/cutting/expanding the story from the beginning. My goal for this year is to finish the story and see if anyone would like to host it on their site. 
    I’m relishing the journey of finding my voice after so many years of writing tongue-n-cheek blog entries. And I think some readers might find this change confusing as they expect a more cheeky tone in my writings. I know in the long run I will feel more fulfilled in doing something that makes me extremely happy. And for a guy that has no reason to be as happy as I am currently, I am grateful.
  13. Jason Rimbaud

    New Nickname

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    Current Music Selection: Disturbed?Ten Thousand Fists
    Current state: Red eyed (allergies are killing me)
    Current mood: Not pissed but not happy either
    So I have a nickname now. And not even a name I?m proud of or even answer too. And thanks to my roommate, Daniel, upwards of thirty people now call me this each and every time they see me out and about. And since I venture into the clubs on a regular basis, this name I hear all too often.
    In a way it?s my fault but damn, I wasn?t the one that shouted out this stupid story for the entire gay community to hear. I was drunk, I?ll give you that, but Daniel had no right. I even looked it up on the Internet; there is no precedent for such behavior. Especially from a friend and dare I say, mentor.
    I know you?re asking, what is this nickname you speak of? It?s hoodie. Or for a different spelling, Hoody. It doesn?t matter which spelling you prefer, neither is acceptable and this is the basis of my argument with my roommate.
    To those that are in the loop that is my life, it started back in the day, which was a Tuesday. Remember Fredricko, the sexy but ?attached? boy I saw a tiny bit too much of one night after drinking a few Jager Bombs. Yeah, that?s the one. ?shudders?
    So Daniel and I went out for a few drinks tonight. Apparently, Fredricko and I made an impression on the patrons of our local gay bar that Tuesday night. Because the moment Daniel and I arrived, Steven, the bartender, began giving me verbal abuse about the cute little boy I was making out with the last time I shown up. I wasn?t the only boy interested in Fredricko. After all he was the perfect little twink and the locals decided he was ?four fingers? worthy. (It?s a sliding scale between one and five. Don?t ask.)
    I was in top form; I played it off and acted smooth and cool. Well, as smooth as I could manage considering I?m a horrible liar. But my roommate, the bastard spawn of Satan, decided it was the perfect time to expound on my liaison with Fredricko. In a loud voice, it was like he had a microphone and some twisted fairy turned off the music to give him the desired attention this seventh son craved, he re-told the story of my temporarily loss of sanity concerning Fredricko and his extra attachment.
    For more than a few minutes I became the butt of jokes. Fine, I?ll take my paces simply because I know I handled that situation poorly. I know, I don?t need a bar full of fags to drive home the fact I?m a shallow boy. I get it. Let?s move on to the next subject. Yeah, like that was going to happen.
    After Daniel finished regaling us about my misfortune, this bitch (I never knew his name. Everyone called him Connie Chung) Connie Chung began riding me about Fredricko. Even if I remembered everything he said, I would never take the time to type out. But the end result of this particular conversation, I somehow received the moniker of Hoody/Hoodie. And thanks to Connie Chung, every time I walked into the local gay bars, everyone shouts out Hoody?s/Hoodies here.
    Not only do I hate Connie Chungs of the world but also hate my bastard spawn of Satan roommate for allowing the world access to my pitiful existence. I have a reason to be upset. No fag likes to be shown in public how much of an ass he is or has been.
    What did I say about consequences earlier? If I?d only knew, boy, would I have handled that differently. Hindsight and all that, I?m screwed and only time will tell if I?m known forever as Hoody/Hoodie or Jason. Anyway, until next time, cheers and all that.
    Jason R.
  14. Jason Rimbaud

    New Years Eve & Blowjob Shots

    By Jason Rimbaud,


    Life In Glasses
    The first time I had sex I was fifteen. He was an older boy and that bending over the couch resulted in me getting kicked out of my house. And since my parents took the extra step in declaring me a fag to the entire church, I was basically outed to my entire community.
    So for a few years, fifteen to eighteen, I did all the drugs, fucked all the boys/men as an out and somewhat proud gay boy. I couch hopped when I could, lied to use the shelters, or struggled living on the streets when necessary. Basically I tried to navigate my world as best as I could.
    Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I met an older gentleman who convinced me to move to Harrisburg Pennsylvania by offering to co-sign for my very first studio apartment. He also helped me get a job at Giant Grocery Store by dragging me to the DMV to get my ID. So I slowly started to build a life for myself.   
    Though Harrisburg is the Capital of Pennsylvania, I saw first hand the homophobia that surrounded me so I took moving there as an opportunity to start over so to speak. To avoid being the gay boy that was bent over the couch I went back in the closet and nailed the door shut behind me. 
    Giant was where I began making friends that would carry me for the next ten years. The first person I met was another eighteen year old named Nelson but everyone called him Five as he was the fifth Nelson in his family. Five’s best friend, John, a dirty blond nerd that is probably the biggest geek I’ve ever met in my entire life.
    On my second day, I met Jason, who would quickly become my best friend and the bane of my existence as we both struggled through our sexuality for years before culminating where I was his best man when he married a girl named Christine. But that’s another story for a different when. 
    The four of us quickly became inseparable. We all worked at Giant, and spent almost every waking moment together for the next ten years. That entailed watching many movies, going to Denny’s at two am, and playing pool for hours at a time. We also hung out in the Giant parking lot after hours, throwing footballs, talking, and just enjoying each other's company. Then we discovered alcohol. 
    One of my earliest memories of Harrisburg was watching a KKK rally spew their hateful message to a large crowd of onlookers. This convinced me to make a nice comfortable home in my closet. From the ages of eighteen to twenty-one, I was a typical straight boy. I dated girls, had sex with them, and tried my hardest to fit into a world as something I wasn’t. 
    I could do all the things girls expected boys to do. I could go down on them, stick it inside them, make out with them, but I never really figured out what to do about the tits. Even to this day, tits are an enigma I believe should be better left alone. 
    For a while, I existed happily in my straight fantasy. For the first time in my life, I had a close group of friends that actually liked me. I was very popular with the girls, not really dating anyone longer than six months to ensure none of them discovered my secret. But deep down, I knew I was living a lie and over time, that began to take its toll on my already fragile mental state. 
    Then New Year’s Eve, 1996, twenty-six days before my twenty-first birthday, something happened that would change the direction of my life. It would be another three years before I came out to my entire circle of friends, but that was the day I stopped lying to myself. 
    Five had a friend from High School, her name was Anja and she was a first generation immigrant from Croatia. She was brunette with shoulder length hair, brown eyes, petite with little perky breasts. She was also very athletic in a feminine way.  
    While Five wasn’t interested in her in a romantic sense, he was borderline obsessed with destroying her relationship with her High School boyfriend so I could date her. Her boyfriend, Eric, was one of the hottest guys I had ever seen. He was six-foot tall, shaggy brown hair, lean but very fit with the most amazing brown eyes. He was also funny, and always quick to laugh and enjoy life. 
    Though Anja and Eric had been dating since tenth grade, there were always rumors swirling around that Eric would cheat on her during vacations and out of state trips. This drove Five crazy as he considered her a friend so he made it his mission to break them up so in his words, “She could date you and have a good boyfriend for a change”. 
    Little did he know, I wasn’t a good match for her either. But all that would come to a head anyway and there’s no reason to get ahead of myself.
    So for months, Five invited Anja to every party, every trip to Six Flags, every pool party, any event where the opportunity would present itself for me to make my move. Remember, she was still dating who she thought was the love of her life. I never said Five was smart. 
    Of course, Anja would always arrive with Eric in tow and over time, I got to be quite friendly with Eric. Not like my core group of friends, we never hung out alone, but when we did show up at the same place, more often than not, we would spend the rest of the time laughing and joking together. 
    This frustrated Five to no end. I was supposed to be “helping” him destroy this poor girl's relationship so I could swoop in and save her, and all I did was flirt with Eric. Though no one really saw what I was doing was flirting, but I know the truth. 
    Before we progress, a little backstory on my little group of friends. John was an only child to a well off middle class family. Jason was the youngest, at eighteen, his older sister was twenty-five and already married. His family was middle class wealthy as well. 
    I was definitely the poorest in my circle of friends. But they never made me feel like I was. They would subtly buy movie tickets for me, offer me gas money when I drove them anywhere, little things to let me contribute so I could feel like an equal. They paid for a lot of things and I am really grateful they did it with such class.
    Five was by far the richest in our group. He was an only child and born when his mother was forty-nine years old and his father was fifty-five. Neither of his parents had wanted kids but when he was a surprise, they loved him anyway. They were amazing parents. They were also loaded, worth millions of dollars and lived in Hershey Pennsylvania on top of a hill that looked down on the small city. 
    And yes, Five worked at a grocery store. Later he would build his career at Costco, ultimately becoming District Manager. For all the money he inherited at an early age, it never seemed to affect him. He made his own way in life and never relied on his family’s money. By thirty, he was a multi-millionaire and worked eighty hours a week at Costco. He’s a very interesting person. 
    His parents were also functioning alcoholics. By the time he was eighteen, they were long since retired and enjoying the fruits of their labor. And since they were notorious drinkers, Five had been drinking beer at dinner since he was sixteen. They also allowed him to throw house parties in High School as long as all the kids' parents knew there was drinking and no one drove home.
    This made Five’s parties legendary. 
    On this particular New Year’s Eve, Five’s parents had gone away somewhere for the Holidays so we had the entire house to ourselves. Five had invited about thirty or so friends/peers but as all parties tend to do, it ballooned to fifty by the time the ball dropped. 
    The music was pumping, the alcohol was flowing, people were making out, jock/bro’s were playing drinking games, it was turning out to be a great party. Until the incident. The incident happened shortly after midnight because Anja caught Eric kissing another girl.
    Full disclosure, Eric wasn’t making out with this girl, but they definitely kissed. This turned into a full blown fight because during the argument, Eric let slip he was transferring to Pittsburgh for the next semester to finish his studies. 
    Things turned ugly quickly, Eric told her she was being overly dramatic and she accused him of using the transfer as an excuse to end things. Turned out she was right. Eric wasn’t satisfied with the prospect of turning twenty-one only having dated one girl. And then it came out that he had in fact cheated on her over the summer when he was touring Pittsburgh campus. That’s when Anja slapped him and stormed out of the kitchen with Five closely behind. 
    As this argument was going on, I was outside on the balcony smoking and chatting up with a girl I had invited to the party. Sometime later, a very drunk Eric came stumbling out on the balcony for a cigarette. I clearly remember he was not that upset about the whole incident. Matter of fact, he almost looked relieved. 
    As we did every time we hung out, we started talking and joking around. Then Eric suggested we should do shots and things get really blurry for the next few hours. Because I woke up the next afternoon in my bed, naked, with a massive hangover and very little memory of what had transpired the night before.
    I had several missed calls from Five. Apparently I had left the party, the girl I brought that no one else knew, my shirt, and just disappeared without a trace. I didn’t return his call as I laid in bed trying to reason out the night's events. 
    Then a lump in my bed that I had mistakenly attributed as my throw pillows started to move. That was an interesting turn of events. Apparently I had ditched the girl I brought to the party but still found a replacement. Go me.
    I reached out and moved the covers down and saw a mop of shaggy brown hair. Oh fuck.
    Eric rolled over and peered up at me. It took him a moment to register who I was and then he stretched and said, “Morning.”
    I managed to say, “Morning” as I reached on the nightstand for my cigarettes. Then my heart sank as I saw a used condom on the floor next to my bed. Oh fuck.
    “What time is it?”
    I looked at the alarm clock as I lit my cigarette. “One-thirty.”
    “That’s not good.”
    “Really, it depends.”
    “On what?”
    “What time you had to be home today?”
    “Not until tomorrow.”
    I propped myself up against the headboard and put the ashtray on my stomach. “Then what’s not good about 1:30?”
    “I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch at noon.” Eric mimicked my leaning position against the headboard and asked, “Can I have one of those?”
    Like me, Eric was bare chested and from how the blanket fell against his hip, I could tell he was as naked as I. I gave him a cigarette and said, “I drank a lot last night, do you remember what happened?”
    He looked at me with a questioning look. “I never thought you’d be one of those guys.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “A guy that conveniently forgets what happened last night.”
    I leaned over the bed and picked up the used condom. I held it up and said, “I can only assume we had sex.”
    “Twice.”
    I dropped the condom on the floor and asked, “Is there at least another condom on your side of the floor?”
    Eric took a long drag and replied, “Yep.”
    “That’s good. At least we were safe.”
    “We both insisted on that.”
    “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m assuming I fucked you.”
    “You did. Right after I fucked you.”
    I hadn’t bottomed in over four years. I had been “straight” and too many questions were swirling around in my poor aching head. He seemed to be extremely comfortable waking up next to a boy. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of weird joke.
    I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and slowly stood up. Then I could tell that at least part of his story was true, my asshole ached. “I’m thirsty, want anything?”
    “Some water would be nice.”
    I made my way into the kitchen and poured two glasses of water. When I walked back into the bedroom, Eric was just hanging up his phone. He was still in my bed and looked like he had no plans on moving anytime soon. I held out one of the glasses and saw another part of his story was proving true. Right by my foot was a used condom. 
    I sat down and took a long drink. I said, “Eric, not that I’m upset or anything. But how did this happen?”
    “You mean us fucking last night.”
    “That. I really don’t remember much of anything after the ball dropped.”
    “We were doing shots in the kitchen, and someone dared you to do a blowjob shot.”
    “Fucking Jason.” I muttered. He was always bringing up blowjob shots and trying to force everyone to partake. “Was you the lucky constant?
    “Pretty much, in a manner of speaking.”
    It was a really stupid shot but he had roped me into doing it more times than I could ever admit. You put equal parts Amaretto and Bailey’s Irish Cream in a shot glass and then top it with whipped cream. A person sits in a chair and puts the shot between their legs. Then you get on your knees in front of them and then using only your mouth, grab the shot glass with your lips and tilt your head back to drink the shot. 
    “What does that mean?”
    “You were pretty drunk and you kept shoving your nose into my balls. It took quite a while for you to get the shot glass in your mouth.”
    “Great, so my head was between your legs in front of fifty kids.” I groaned out. 
    Pretty much.” Eric said as he leaned over my bed and put his cigarette out in the ashtray that was sitting on my nightstand. 
    As he stretched out, I got a good look at his ass. At least I had good drunken taste. 
    He caught me staring at his ass and smiled. “Later on, I teased you about the way you kept sniffing my balls while you were “pretending” to drink the shot.”
    “That’s mean.”
    “Then you whispered in my ear that if I ever wanted to experience the real thing, all I had to do was ask.”
    “So you decided to take advantage of my drunken ass.” I muttered as I ran my hands through my hair. 
    “All I did was ask a question.”
    I pulled back the covers and climbed in next to him. “So then it’s your fault we had sex last night.”
    “I wasn’t the one that was begging to be fucked last night.” Eric said with a grin. “Not at first. But after you seemed to enjoy it so much, I figured I should see what you were moaning about.”
    I moved down until my head was on the pillow, I put my hands over my head and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t remember anything about last night.”
    Eric snuggled his head on my chest and said, “Don’t worry, you had fun.”
    “Apparently twice.”
    Eric, like me, had always known he was gay. At first he stayed with Anja so long because she was extremely religious and he figured it was a safe way to ensure no one suspected the truth. But they had dated so long, they eventually had sex. And he had been feeling exceedingly guilty for leading her on and the last few months, he had stopped the sex all together. 
    And it was true he had cheated on her over the summer. The part he left out was it was with a boy. After that experience, he figured the only way he could get out of his situation was to transfer and start over in a new city far away from the prying eyes of his friends and family.
    I dropped Eric off at home a few hours later and then went to Five’s house to do some much needed damage control. All my friends were worried that I had disappeared and once they realized I was fine, they really laid into me. I was a selfish bastard, I didn’t respect them, they said the most awful things. Their anger lasted until I decided it was time to play a drinking game around seven o-clock. It was just the four of us and their anger disappeared sometime after I made Jason do a blowjob shot. 
    No one ever found out the reason I left Five’s house that night. Eric went on to graduate from Pittsburgh and we never got together again. I saw him a few more times but by the time he came back, I was fully involved in the mess that was my relationship with Jason.  
    But that experience started me on the path to visiting my first gay bar twenty-six days later when I turned twenty-one. But that’s a story for another time.
  15. Jason Rimbaud
    Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, AP, BBC America, CBS, ABC, we could go on for paragraphs just listing the different news programs in this country alone.
     About ten years ago, I stopped watching news programs on TV and its probably not the reason many of you might suspect. 
     Once upon a time, reporters would actually inform you of the current events in your local area as well as over the world. If you missed the nightly news, you would have no way of getting the information until the next day.
     There was no spin, no slant towards a certain agenda, no talking heads telling the viewers what to think or feel about any certain topic. Reporters were hired to give an unbiased view of the news. They were also for the most part a money losing program for the network. It was understood by the executives that the news didn't make money and never made a profit. Instead the news would bring acclaim and prestige to the network which would bring advertisers for the other shows. And for a time, the big three had the most respected anchors in the country.
     The big three, Dan Rather CBS, Peter Jennings ABC, and Tom Brokaw NBC, ruled the airwaves for over twenty years. They brought a gravitas and respect to their respective networks. 
     Out of those three, Dan Rather, who from 1980 until the mid 2000's, was arguably the most respected and most watched news anchor in the country. This was before his fall for presenting questionable documents regarding President George Bush's Vietnam service papers.
     Then Ted Turner came along with his visionary idea called CNN, the very first 24 hour news channel in the early 80's. But it wasn't until the Gulf War when the world first stood up and took notice. For the first time, CNN overtook the big three with an unprecedented scoop. They were the only news outlet to report from inside Iraq during the initial hours of the bombing campaign with live reports from a hotel inside Baghdad.
     Almost ten years later, CNN would also go down in history as the first cable news channel to report the attack on September 11th showing the first live footage of the plane crashing into the World Trade Center.
     And with the success of CNN, an Australian publisher, Rupert Murdoch, joined forces with philanthropist, Marvin Davis, to purchase a media company under the banner of 20th Century Fox, to compete with the big three in early 1985. By the third quarter of 1986, Murdoch led the company to earn 5.6 million dollars. In contrast, the year before of the same quarter, there was a 55 million dollar loss. For one of the first times in america, there was profit in the news and people started to notice.
     Some would say this was the start of the decline of traditional news programming as networks implemented new standard operating procedures to garnish quarterly profits. And those shows that didn't turn a profit, those anchors that couldn't compete with the more sensationalized reporters were slowly replaced. 
     Now reporters were replaced with personalities pushing narratives the network demands as they started to divide into Republican and Democratic propaganda machines.
     Traditional reporting was now regulated to newspaper only as networks focused on agendas and pandering to the advertisers. Thus paved the way for internet news shows who dove deeper into partisan politics with overt slants in one direction or the other. As of right now, no matter what side of the political spectrum you follow, you can find bias reporting that only reinforces your worldview and/or opinions.
     But none of the above reasons are why I stopped watching TV news programs ten years ago.
     The I-Phone brought a powerful computer in your pocket that gives you real time sources to find any information your heart desires. Why watch the nightly news that teases a story before a commercial break and then makes you wait now sometimes longer than 3 minutes. I just pull out my phone, and get the information from Twitter, Facebook, Google and I get the information without the talking heads spinning some story that happened ten hours earlier.
     Who still watches news programs and if you do, which ones do you watch in 2019?
  16. Jason Rimbaud
    I was perusing the Blogs over at GayAuthors.org when I happened to read a new Blog called Marty's Musing. I don't know Marty but the title caught my attention and I urge everyone to go there and read it as it is definitely the "muse" that started me down this long rambling entry of my mine.
    https://gayauthors.org/blogs/entry/17900-o-muse-where-art-thou/
    To briefly give everyone an overview, Marty once upon a time use to write a fair amount but for the last ten years or so has focused on other things in his probably amazing life. And a few months ago, he started getting the urge to dip his toe back into the writing pond and was having some difficulty finishing a story he began all those years ago. He also had a few new ideas but after writing a page or so he would find himself getting discouraged and abandon the words on the paper. At the end of his post, he posed these three questions.
    1. What is the cause of writers block?
    2. How does an author overcome writers block?
    3. O muse, where art thou?
    After reading Marty's post, and it's only about five paragraphs long and I have included the link above so I urge you to read it. As of this writing, there are about five comments and they are perfectly nice, encouraging words that I have come to expect from the members of GA.
    Things like don't force it, let it come naturally, just take some time and wait for good ole "muse" to return. Things like, go to the story prompts and see if anything gets your mojo flowing again. And for some reason, these positive answers who's sole intent was offer encouragement to someone that was feeling a bit down got me a bit fired up and I starting to respond to what had been said before me.
    And then much like I always do, my reply got to be pretty long with some colorful language, some blunt honesty, and childish musings about a subject I might not know anything about. So after a moment, I decided to post my reply in my Blog to keep from hijacking someone else's entry and to ensure I don't hurt anyone's feelings.
    I don't believe in the traditional idea of "muse" and its whoring reputation it carries around the world. You know the one I mean; you first meet "muse" at a coffee shop. You have a double shot of espresso with almond milk and you tell everyone you're sick of everyone raping the cows for their joy juice but secretly wish you could enjoy real milk in your beverage but don't want the judgmental guy behind the counter to give you a disappointed stare when you order. So you sit there, sipping your dairy free beverage and suddenly, "muse" walks in the cafe.
    "Muse" skips past the guy with the ironic mustache trying to construct the perfect sentence in his essay about the dangers of drinking milk. Pirouette's around the housewife peering intently at her Hawaii Five-0 fan fiction crossover with Magnum P.I.. Frowns at the out of work screen writer who is steadfast in his belief that he alone has the script that will finally show the amazing talent that is Nicolas Cage before sliding into the seat across from you and give you that dirty little smile as if to say, 'how you doing'.
    "Muse" seems to be very impressed that you are drinking a dairy free beverage and starts to gently rub your instrument under the table, discreetly at first. Suddenly your fingers are flying over the keys, your writing so fast you can't help but look around to make sure everyone can see that you are writing so fast and that the elusive "muse" has settled on you to employ its magic.
    Ironic mustache guy leaves in huff, his hopes of stopping the consumption of milk dashed forever as "muse" continues to do dirty things to your instrument. Housewife leaves, her face a little flushed but completely stumped how to finish the scene where Chin Ho Kelly and Magnum finally consummate thirty-seven chapters of longing on the hood of the iconic red Ferrari. While the out of work screen writer continues to struggle with the perfect script for Nicolas Cage. And sadly, this screen writer never stops at this attempt, never.
    Because now "muse" is no longer content to discreetly stroke your instrument. Now "muse" has progressed to doing something so dirty I can't even describe it with human words. But that doesn't matter, because your fingers are flying over the keys. You have a look of ecstasy on your face and everything is right in the world and you owe it all to "muse".
    This behavior continues for hours, days, maybe weeks that turn into months, and sometimes it could even last for years. You and "muse" seem to have an understanding, you'll keep writing in public spaces and "muse" will continue to rub your instrument.
    Once upon a time, I use to produce a fuck-ton of content. I have nine complete novels posted on Nifty and seventeen short stories that I uploaded over a span of about four years. I'm talking a hundred thousand words plus novels. I also wrote dozens of poems that some might have read once upon a time. 
    And trust me, I'm not claiming that these stories and poems were great or even good, I'm just saying that I use to produce a lot of content when I was younger.
    I will also say that I am rather proud that save for one sequel, every story I ever posted online is complete.
    When I was younger, I wrote a story that attracted some reader attention and garnered me hundreds of encouraging emails that stroked my fragile ego. And when that story finally came to an end after 32 chapters, the encouraging emails stopped arriving in my inbox. And I missed those glorious words.
    So to keep those emails pouring in, for the first time I started writing and posting chapters immediately after finishing them. I skimmed over them barely but really didn't have an idea on where I was going. But I was confident that I knew these characters and didn't think I needed to worry about the end. I knew I would get there.
    The first chapter was posted, and again, dozens of emails. The next chapter, I only received half the amount as before. And with each chapter after, the emails all but dried up. So by the time I got to chapter five, I was completely lost and the story fizzled away and I abandon it to the internet.
    The fans who loved the first story lost interest in the sequel because truthfully I didn't really have an idea I was just winging it and it showed in the writing.
    I didn't know then but I was scared. I wrote about some characters people liked and hoped to capitalize on my earlier success by offering up a shitty premise. Not even my sub-conscious mind could work out a plot that was so paper thin before I even put words to screen.
    I think a lot of people believe "muse" to be a fragile creature, one that is meant to roam free, to traverse where it will without any guidance or structure. As if any attempt will stifle the creativity it brings you. Many writers treat "muse" in this manner, with kid gloves, hoping not to anger the delicate flower that could leave you at a moments notice to rub some other instrument.
    Like one day you'll be at a party, you and "muse", and you turn your back to get a tuna poke on a piece of kale appetizer and when you turn back around, "muse" is off in the corner giving someone else a hand-job. And the frustrating thing, you've seen this other person's instrument, and its not as impressive as yours, but "muse" is going to town and suddenly you feel taken advantage of and then your instrument shrivels up until its barely a tip and no amount of writing in a public space can bring "muse" back to stroking your instrument.
    You continue to go to that same coffee shop, order the same boring milk free beverage, you sit in the same spot, hoping to attract "muse" again to your instrument. But "muse", that fickle so and so, rubs everyone else's instrument but yours. You get depressed, eventually you start ordering espresso with real milk cause you just don't give a fuck anymore and one day you wake up and you aren't even writing, you just surf FaceBook and comment on cat photos.
    I think writers tend to create blocks as they try and appease this thing called "muse". Whether its sitting in the same spot every day, listening to the same piece of music, having the room at the correct temperature, complete silence or even chaos. All these rules and structures they somehow believe will get "muse" back to where it belongs, under the table stroking your instrument. And in the end, writers allow these things to rule their creative life.
    Merriam-Webster defines muse: to become absorbed in thought, especially to think about something carefully and thoroughly.
    You don't get to the more popular definition of muse until definition number three, a person or source of inspiration. And that definition is the second one if the word is used as a noun.
    So why do most people believe that "muse" is more the third definition over the first. The definition where it clearly defines what "muse" is, to think about something carefully and thoroughly.
    So to answer Marty's first question, what is the cause of writers block. Maybe you didn't carefully think through the story in the first place.
    I'll add a question of my own, how can you hope to finish something if you have no idea where you want to go?
    I know there are writers out there who post chapters online as soon as they are written with little or no thought of where they are heading. And those same authors will argue they allow the characters to take them on the journey and they as well as the reader will find out together how the story ends.
    But how many of those stories are ever finished? Maybe 2%, if we the audience are lucky.
    Or the other side of the same coin, the never ending saga. You know the one where the author keeps rambling on for dozens of chapters chronicling in great boring detail events that never seem to progress the plot forward. Seriously, every story has to have an ending; its the nature of what we do. Overly long stories are nothing but a glaring sign screaming 'I don't have a clue where I am going but please take this journey with me and hopefully there will be a resolution sometime if "muse" allows it'.
    And let's be brutally honest here, most of these type of stories are complete shit. And the ones that aren't complete shit would never have a chance at professional publishing.
    Much like Marty, I too left writing some ten years ago to focus on a career that I ended up hating. I am currently trying to change my life path and have gotten back into writing almost every day.
    And like Marty, I went back to an old unfinished story and struggled for about three months to complete it. I already had seventeen chapters finished with a dozen more that had half-baked ideas but I could never get it moving in the right direction.
    The frustration was there mixed with a lot of fear that maybe because I stopped writing all those years ago, I somehow lost the ability to put words on the screen. And for a moment, I faltered. 
    I went over my past writings, hoping that "muse" would again grant me the inspiration to start writing again. I found an old outline I wrote on June 25th, 2002 on a yellow legal pad during a slow day at work.
    As I read the twelve page outline, a few things stood out among the shit. Some really cool characters, a few great scenes, a ton of out dated technology and some really stilted dialogue. Even without a strong idea, I was convinced this was my next project, my grand return to online writing.
    It was a constant daily struggle to accomplish anything. For every good scene I wrote, I would delete entire pages of shit that just didn't make any sense. It was the most difficult time I've ever faced attempting to do something that gave me so much pleasure in my younger days.
    After one particularly rough day, I took a break and went outside to empty the trash and then it hit me. The reason it wasn't going well was because it was shit. If its only a collection of cool ideas with some half-drawn characters but no plot to speak of, was it any wonder I wasn't moving.
    I was trapped at a certain point and no matter what little trick I did, I couldn't gather the "muse" long enough to do anything except stare at that dreaded blinking cursor. I hadn't thought about it carefully and thoroughly.
    Which leads to Marty's second question, how does an author overcome writers block?
    Merriam-Webster defines writers block: a psychological inhibition preventing a writer from proceeding with a piece.
    Makes perfect sense to me, most of the things we encounter in our life begins in the mind anyway. Why would a block be any different?
    What are some of the reasons one might get writers block besides the things I already covered above. 
    Fear is one that comes to mind first. Fear of letting other people read what we wrote, to voice our opinions, our viewpoint, or whatever it is we are trying to convey.
    Perfection is another. I can't write until its perfect. We fall into this trap of not even attempting until we think its perfect. 
    I hate to bust your bubble, but perfection takes time, and re-writes, and editing, followed by more re-writes. Perfection will come, but it will take time.
    Timing is another block. You start writing something like I did, but you really didn't have more than the seeds of an idea and quickly you lose focus and the story dies on the page. Ideas need time to be nurture, water the seedling and then shape it until you have a usable idea that will be turned into a realized story.
    So back to Marty's question, how do you overcome this dreaded affliction? Before I give you the definite and only answer, and I do have the answer. I'll give a few ideas on how to get some movement on your thought process.
    Lets pretend we are back in our favorite coffee shop with our diary free beverage and "muse" isn't stroking our instrument. Get up and go for a walk. Change your environment and ruminate on the idea at hand. Maybe change your music selection, read a few pages of your favorite book, play video games. Sometimes getting your conscious mind off the problem will allow for your subconscious to tackle the issue without you banging your head on the table in front of everyone.
    There a thousands of ways to alter your frame of mind, and all of them have one thing in common.
    There is a famous saying, 'the only way out is through'. Sometimes you have progressed so far that it is easier to continue the path ahead then to turn around and go back.
    Whether you change your environment, or your music selection, or the task you are accomplishing, all of these are paths of movement. You have to move from the place you are currently to somewhere else. Sometimes that movement might be forward, sometimes that movement might be sideways, or sometimes that movement is backward. And like in my case, sometime that movement is starting over from scratch. Standing still will never defeat the block in your life.
    J Michael Straczynski is a well respected writer of television, movies, comic books, books and any other medium that involves creating. He created Babylon 5, Sense 8, reimagined Thor, transformed how people write Wonder Woman and is hired often to re-write screen plays and polish them. 
    He is also famous for writing every single day. No breaks, no vacations, no holidays, no time off. Just like Steven King, who once stated that he wrote at lease five thousand words every day, JMS continues to write on a daily basis.
    That is the answer to Marty's question. You can only overcome writers block by writing. Writers get blocks, authors do not. Somehow authors have learned that writing is not a gift from the "muse" of legends. It's a skill that is honed by doing your ten thousand hours. It's getting up every day and writing before work, or after work, or on the train commute, or however you do it but all authors do the very same thing, they write every day.
    After I gave up on my old work, I saw a prompt as I was going through some Blog posts on GA.
    Prompt 706-Creative
    Tag-Sleep
    The patient has been in the hospital for longer than you have been alive. They barely look eighteen and doctors keep running all sorts of tests. You were hired to exercise the patients muscles, keep them groomed, and clean. While bathing them today, the patient woke up, what happens?
    I didn't happen overnight. I thought about this prompt for the rest of the day. When I cooked breakfast the next morning I thought about this prompt. A few days later when I was doing laundry, I thought about this prompt. The next week while playing video games I thought about this prompt. This idea consumed me for a few weeks before I sat down and wrote this paragraph...
    "Nuresh Rajendran whistled happily as he pushed the cart down the brightly lit hallway. He had just celebrated his 65th birthday the week prior and had been awarded a small gold watch. That watch signified thirty years of service, and though he moved a bit slower than he once, he still hadn't lost his love of the job."
    So to answer Marty's third question, oh muse, where art thou? It's where it's always been. In the idea that is carefully and thoroughly thought out before attempting to write it down.
    J
  17. Jason Rimbaud
    One Confused Gay Boy
    I almost did something last Monday night that I swore I would never do again. And just to get it out of the way right now, because we all know how easily it is for me to get sidetracked writing these blog entries, it has nothing to do with Cocaine.
    Though if it did have something to do with Cocaine I wouldn?t be a confused gay boy and this blog entry would never have been written. So I?ll let you decide which problem is more relevant.
    I think for you to really get a grasp on the events that transpired last Monday night, I think I have to take you back in time a few months. So come with me, let?s take a slow trip back in time when the weather was warmer, I was a bit thinner, and completely coked out of my mind.
    That really doesn?t sound like a fun trip at all. I think you readers are going to hate this blog entry. *shrugs* Not my problem, I?m not making you read this, am I?
    PLEASE DON?T STOP READING MY BLOG
    Before we begin, let me introduce the characters of this sordid tale. First, you have a twenty-two-year-old, let?s call him, Mark. Then you have a twenty-five-year-old, let?s name him, Dale. And lastly, you have me of course, because we all know that I?m the reason ya?ll are reading this blog. And I go by, Jason. So now that we?re all friends, why don?t I begin?
    THE BEGINNING (that?s a bit overdone now isn?t it)
    So I work in a hip up-scale restaurant in Palo Alto as a server, and working along with me are ten other guys and two girls. The ages range from thirty-seven to twenty-one and out of these twelve servers, I?m the only gay boy.
    So for those of you that are counting, the statistic that there is one gay boy out of every ten is still holding true.
    And for being such a diverse group of guys, I?m fortunate that everyone is really accepting of my sexuality. And after working there for a year, I somehow have gotten the nickname, Fag Boy. This was given to me by, Mark, a few months ago. And while not everyone calls me that on a regular basis, a few do and I take no offense.
    I really can?t, considering the name I gave, Mark, which everyone calls him on the regular. His name is Teabag, named after his love of showing everyone his nuts. I?m pretty sure I got the better name out of the two.
    From day one I?ve been out at work. And this is not from my actions because people still question if I?m really gay because apparently I?m ?straight acting?. My coming out happened the very first day when Mark asked if I had a girlfriend and I replied that I was single and very gay.
    QUICK BIO FOR MARK
    Mark is twenty-two, rather average looking with short dark hair, and big brown eyes. He?s also a complete homophobe, even after working with me for over a year, he still makes some really dumbass comments regarding some of the gay patrons that visit our hip up-scale restaurant. He?ll turn to me and say something about the gays and then realize who he?s talking too. Then he?ll blush and say, you know what I mean. I?ll call him a phobe, he?ll call me a Moe, and everything is fine. And before you get a nasty taste in your mouth regarding this youth, he?s changed a lot in the year since I?ve known him. And over time, we?ve settled into a nice routine filled with practical jokes and a genuine fondness for one another that has nothing to do with sexuality. Or so I thought.
    The best part about his homophobe actions is when he has to be the server for a gay couple; you can see it in his eyes, the panic that is lurking just under the surface. He?s always pleasant and professional but I know just how uncomfortable he is at those times.
    Why is it that most straight guys think every gay guy they meet will try to get into their pants? Seriously, does that happen?
    Whatever the reason, Mark is afflicted with this stigma. So to explain things to him, I took him out one night after work seven months ago. We sat down at the bar and to prove my point, I started pointing out different girls asking the same question, ?Who you do her?? In just a few minutes, he had said yes to about half of the girls and said no to the others.
    I then told him to start pointing out different guys to me and to ask me the same question, ?Who you do him?? I was surprised, after only a few minutes he realized what I was showing him. He really thought that gay guys wanted to fuck every guy they saw. Once he realized that even gay guys have a certain type they?re attracted towards and that most have no desire to date a straight guy, he became really comfortable around me.
    And since most of you are probably aware of where this entry is heading, I don?t feel like I?m getting ahead of myself at all by saying that I did notice that most of the guys he pointed out that night looked a lot like he did, same body type, same dark features, with the same style of dress.
    Some of you might remember Mark, I wrote in a blog entry called, Mistaken Identity and Two Rolls of Toilet Paper, chronicling our games we play at work. If you would like to know more about this, then I urge you to read that blog entry.
    Five months ago, I was still nose deep in Cocaine and pretty anti-social so I rarely hung out with my co-workers outside of work. But somehow, I was convinced to attend a twenty-first birthday celebration at a local dance club. And seeing this was the last server that works at our restaurant to turn twenty-one, everyone from work was planning on attending.
    I don?t know why I said yes, I didn?t even like the girl that was turning twenty-one. And at that time, going to a club just took time out of my doing cocaine.
    It?s weird now as I look back on that night. Basically if I would have stayed home to bump lines all night then the events of last Monday more than likely would?ve never happened and I wouldn?t be so confused right now. If only?
    I arrived at the club around 11:30 PM that night and found only the birthday girl and her two friends. Apparently the rest of my co-workers were planning on making a fashionably late appearance. Go them, I wish I was that smart.
    For over an hour the three crazy chicks bombarded me with stupid questions regarding my gayness and what type of boys I preferred. Even with my sneaking off to bump lines in the bathroom did little to help the situation and by 12:30 I had had enough. I wished the birthday chick happy times and promptly left the club.
    Oh if only the story stopped right there than this blog entry would be finished and ya?ll would be loads happier. But that?s not what happened because once outside I saw Mark and his friend approaching the club from down the street. Mark saw me and waved and headed into the club. And though I was planning to go home and finish getting fucked-up I found myself turning around and walking back into the club. This is where I found out that Mark had run out of gas and that the rest of the servers were just minutes behind him.
    So I love to dance, and if I?m in a bar that has music then I?m dancing. And for the next hour, in between birthday shots, I did have fun dancing with assorted people. I had six or seven shots in me by this time and had bumped who knows how many lines so when Mark asked me if I wanted to go outside and cool off a bit by smoking a cigarette I hastily agreed.
    I stood with my back against the building while Mark stood facing down the street, sort of sideways from me, staring at the passerby?s.
    After a few minutes of silence, he looks at me from the corner of his eye and states, ?You were going to leave when I saw you outside earlier weren?t you.?
    ?What?? I know, brilliant conversationalist.
    Again, he looked at me from the corner of his eye and said simply, ?You came back inside for me, didn?t you.?
    Since Mark and I hadn?t really hung out that much I wasn?t sure if he was being serious or not. Mark?s father left him at an early age and with his two younger sisters he is surrounded by women who constantly show him affection by touching, kissing, hugging. So for a guy he?s pretty touchy. So instead of taking him seriously, I lied, ?I was having a smoke.?
    Now he turns and faces me and looks me right in the eyes and says, ?Bullshit. You came back for me.?
    ?You think highly of yourself, don?t you?? I reply, not breaking eye contact.
    So we stand there, staring at each other for a few moments, each daring the other to make a move. Then he suddenly starts laughing and says, ?Of course.?
    We finish our cigarettes and head back inside where I, for the time being, forget about our exchange.
    Shortly after that night, I really went off the deep end and lost myself in depression and drug use. And though at work we still got along great, and he still did little things much like the above incident, I was too wrapped up in myself to really pay attention.
    But four months ago, this caught my attention, in a big way. It was a bad night at work. And by a bad night, I really mean that Mark and I had spent most of the night punching each other in the ribs or kidney area.
    SIDE NOTE: Some nights after working with Mark I?d go home with my ribs so sore it almost hurt to breathe. And on my than one occasion Mark has confessed too me that his back was covered in bruises.
    Anyway, Mark was standing at the computer putting in a guests order when I came up behind him and punched him rather hard in the ribs.
    After swearing loudly, he looked over his shoulder at me and said, ?You?re always hurting me, why don?t you make me feel pleasure instead of pain??
    I laugh and reply, ?That?s not my job.?
    He turns to face the computer again but I catch it when he almost whispers, ?It should be.?
    I was very high at the time and this statement scared the shit out of me. I?m not stupid, and I know the little games Mark and I played was our weird way of flirting with one another. But that statement hit a bit close to home. Once, long ago, I made the mistake of falling for my straight best friend and after that destructive relationship was over I swore I?d never do it again.
    So I did the only thing I could think of doing?I made a stupid joke and walked away. But this little exchange put me on my guard and I began to watch Mark rather closely. I then observed that Mark touched everyone, a shoulder pat here, an arm squeeze there, pretty harmless stuff really. But he touched me differently. It took a few weeks for me to pinpoint the differences but once I saw it, it was clear as day.
    That is a stupid expression, clear as day, isn?t? After all, I?ve seen days where the sky is filled with dark clouds and rain is misting up everything a few feet away.
    It took a few weeks for me to pinpoint the differences but once I saw it, it was clear as a beautiful spring day without a single cloud in the sky.
    That?s better.
    When he hugged one of the other servers, he would bend at the waist and make sure his crotch area would never come in contact with the other person. This was true even with the two girl servers. Yet when he hugged me, there was full body touching. I could go on but I don?t really have the time. Or to be more accurate, you might not have the time for me to ramble on and on about unimportant things.
    When Mark and I are surrounded by our co-workers, we have this playful, almost brotherly relationship between us but once we?re alone, Mark?s demeanor changes drastically and he even speaks differently, more relaxed, more comfortable. For a long time I allowed myself to view these differences as nothing more than another layer of our already complex relationship, much like the actions taken by a younger sibling who still has a bit of hero worship for his older brother. After all, I?m quite a bit older than he is and sometimes I can?t see the forest because of the trees.
    Three months ago, our playful games began to slowly change. Where once we left bruises when punching one another had, for lack of a better word, morphed into softer touching. Like we had given up all pretense of punching just to make contact and now had accepted the simple fact that we just like to touch each other.
    Because there are times when we are standing around in a group, he?ll make sure he?s as close to me as humanly possible without actually being joined with me. And yet he?ll ignore me at the same time, resorting to sideways glances instead of acknowledging my presence. And there have been several times when he?ll do something so bold that not only shocks me but him as well. Like the time I was standing at the computer and he came around the corner and immediately started grinding up against me or the time he walked into my hand with his crotch and moved his hips just enough that I felt the outline of his cock in his boxers. In both of these instances, his eyes widened, like he just realized what he had done, and he quickly walked away, behaving like nothing had happened.
    And the more he did this, the further I retreated into my cocoon of anti-social behavior. And just because I?m an honest kind of guy, I?ll admit that my attitude towards him slowly began to change. By this time I had let him see just a hint of my mental state and he knew a portion of my drug addiction. I?m sure he didn?t realize how bad it had gripped me because I think he would have tried a bit harder to get me to open up and trust him. And during these conversations he got a taste of how far down I was and how depressed I truly had become.
    Because one night after work, we were smoking and talking about friendship and the need to have people in your life, and I declared that I prefer to be alone and that having friends were overrated. He disagreed of course. He said that without friends in your life that care about you then you will never know that cocaine is slowly killing you. He further argued that the only reason I was depressed all the time was because of my high intake of cocaine and the blow was making me look like shit.
    He was right, I had lost a lot of weight and the dark circles around my eyes gave me an eerie look that resembled a walking cadaver. I wonder if he ever knew how close I was to the edge that night. I wonder if anyone will ever know.
    In September he waltzed into work and told everyone that he finally found a girlfriend. That?s not true, he never told me. I found it strange, both then and now, that he never told me about this girl. It didn?t matter one way or the other, I was dealing with my own shit at the time.
    I do know that the addition of this new girlfriend did nothing to stop the flirting between the two of us. All it did was confuse the shit out of me, especially after the events of last Monday.
    Two weeks, another after work session smoking, Mark looked at me and then asked, ?Have you been gaining weight??
    I know I?ve said it before but let me state it again. I HATE SOBRIETY. Always have, and probably always will. Why? Because now that I?m off the coke, I?ve gained a shit ton of weight and don?t really give a shit when everyone else says I look healthy now. I don?t, I just look fat.
    I nodded my head and shrugged. He then said, ?You look good too, happy even. Have you finally found a boyfriend??
    I?ve always been the guy that keeps his personal life very private and with the exception of Mark, no one at work knew a damn thing about my personal life. So why I decided at that time to explain in great detail the events that had happened to me in the last few months I?ll never know. But I did. I told him all about Susan, My Resurrection, my giving up Cocaine and my new outlook on life.
    When I was finished, he wrapped his arms around me and whispered into my ear that it was about time I grew the fuck up. That was when it happened, that was the exact moment the crush I have for Mark was born. The crush I have for him isn?t huge, just a tiny harmless crush for someone who shown me kindness.
    I swear, because at that time, it was more important that I found a friend. I know my feelings for Mark aren?t real, just a by-product of me desperately needing a true friend in my life.
    By the way, Trab, you once told me that above all else, I needed a true friend in my life. You were right.
    So for the last few weeks, I?ve been spending a lot of time with Mark outside of work. Not too much time, he?s busy with school, with work, and his girlfriend, but enough time that I feel safe enough with the amount of trust I placed in him. And I like it, spending time with him. It gives me something else to do than spend hours alone in my apartment, cleaning the floor. And though I had a bit of a crush I pushed those feelings down and embraced the friendship I felt instead. But then it all changed, last Monday night?
    I know, after how many pages of long winded trips back in time, we finally made it to the reason I started writing this in the first place. And for those of you that are still with me, here?s the payoff, just something for the torture I?ve put you through today.
    Last Monday night, Dale threw a small party at his house. Mark and I were the only ones invited from the restaurant; everyone else was friends of Dale and his girlfriend. After a few hours, once everyone else had left except Mark and me when Dale produced his bong and the two of them smoked a bowl. After they finished smoking, Dale popped the movie Transformers into the DVD player and we all settled down in front of the TV.
    I don?t really care for weed but seeing as we were in a closed room, I?m sure I had a contact high going on. Mixed with the several beers I had finished already, I was feeling pretty mellow by the time the credits started rolling.
    Dale flopped down on the easy chair and quickly passed out. That left the large leather sofa for us, I sat down on one end and he took the other. About half-way through the movie, Mark and I began playing our little game of ?would we do her/him?. This gave us lots of material for jokes and goofing around like two idiots.
    At some point in the movie, Mark left to relieve himself. But upon his return, instead of reclaiming his seat on the other end, he choose to flop down in the middle, his upper body inches away from me with his legs kicked out on the coffee table.
    Somewhere between us making fun of the movie and playing our little game of who would do who, I suddenly realized that he was leaning against me, his head dangerously close to resting on my shoulder. When I noticed this, I immediately stood up and went to the bathroom.
    I stood there in the bathroom for a few moments, staring at my reflection. In my head I kept asking what the fuck was going on. I know I?m a bit slow, and have a hard time judging when someone is serious about the touching or just joking around. This is true especially when it comes to someone actually liking me.
    I stood in the bathroom and kept telling myself that it didn?t mean anything. I rationalized it by blaming his behavior on the weed and the beer, and that leaning against me was more of an accident than a design. So by the time I left the bathroom, I had convinced myself that he probably hadn?t realized he was leaning against me at all and that I should stop worrying about stuff that was perfectly harmless.
    Yeah, that lasted only until I sat back down. Because not only did he immediately lean back into me but this time he moved even closer to me and put his head on my shoulder.
    Just who is the gay boy here?
    My heart started pounding faster, and I felt suddenly very uncomfortable. When I snuck I look at him, he looked totally at peace, like it was an everyday occurrence that he snuggled up with another guy while watching a movie. And just about the time I settled down, he sat up. I figured he just realized who he was snuggling up with and wanted to move as far away as possible. Wow, boy was I wrong.
    Because once he sat up, he grabbed my arm and lifted it up high enough so he could snuggle even closer to me. And once he found a comfortable position, he pulled my arm down around his body and sighed. Oh yeah, he sighed.
    So there we were one happy content straight boy and one very nervous confused gay boy. What a pair we made.
    And I?ll admit it was nice sharing this very intimate moment with someone I really liked. And even now, to be honest I don?t know if there was anything sexual about his actions that night. I could be trying to rationalize this experience and hide from the truth, but I have trouble believing anyone would be interested in me for more than just a sexual purpose. And, he professes to be extremely happy with his girlfriend.
    Either way, shortly after that, Mark fell asleep, my arm draped over his body and snuggled into my chest. Long after the movie was over I sat there, just watching his chest rise and fall as he took shallow breaths. Trying desperately to figure out what the fuck was going on, if anything was going on, and what the fuck I was going to do about this new development.
    Let?s face it, so many thing are wrong with this whole situation. Not only is he younger than me, but to my knowledge has never even been with another guy, and he has a very real girlfriend. Plus I swore I would never get involved with another straight boy confused about his sexuality again. Not after Jason and that whole mess.
    So I carefully untangled myself and quietly left, figuring I would take my cue on how to behave from Mark the next time I saw him.
    Which was today and from what I could tell, I was the only one that was uncomfortable.
    Because when I walked into work, Mark greeted me with his usual hug, even laughing when I rolled my eyes. We joked and made small talk all through the night as usual. So I figured he either didn?t remember what happened the night before or had chose to ignore it all together. Either way, I was totally fine with this strategy.
    Denial isn?t just a river in Egypt.
    But towards the end of the night when all the servers were standing around waiting for the last of the guests to finish up eating and leave, Dale asked me when I left the night before. I told him I left after the movie was over. Then Dale asked Mark when he had left. Which Mark replied, ?I woke up and left after I realized I lost my pillow.? Then Mark looked right at me and added, ?For a while it was quite comfortable sleeping on your couch.?
    So I left work and rushed home to start writing this blog. On though it?s now Thursday night, almost Friday morning, I?ve had several days to think things over and still can?t figure out if Mark is interested in me or if he?s playing around with the gay boy. Who knows, maybe he treats all his friends like this, you know, like a pillow.
    My head is telling me that he?s a bit interested, at the very least curious. But if that?s the case, then that leaves me in a bad place. I don?t want to be the one that fills his curiosity nor do I want to be his first boyfriend either.
    So I think, the best course of action for me to take, is to keep my distance and maintain our relationship on a professional basis. But that damn crush came crashing back and I find myself more attracted to him now than ever before. And I thought my life would be easier once I lost the drugs. At least when I was fucked-up, I didn?t care about things like this.
    I guess it could be worse.
    Jason R.
  18. Jason Rimbaud
    One giant can of Red Bull, Spearmint Gum, and a pack of Marlboro Lights
    Current Music Selection: Snow Patrol?Breaking Benjamin?Ryan Star
    Current State: Slightly drunk
    Current Mood: Optimistic
    So on the way to work, I stop off at Max?s Smoke Shop to buy a giant can of Red Bull, Spearmint gum, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. This is something I?ve been doing every day for the four months I?ve worked in Palo Alto. I say hi to Max, light up a cigarette and shoot the shit with probably the coolest ?old guy? I?ve ever met. We talk about football and the chance of the 49?ers making the play-offs. I ask about his wife, he asks about my flavor of the week, we converse in friendly tones.
    Being slightly OCD, I really, really, really, like my routine. If something happens to alter this routine, I become?well lets say it how it really is shall we?an asshole. I?m sure you guessed it; this routine was altered today when I returned to work after having off for New Years.
    It?s another post, if I ever get the nerve to write about New Years, but I walked into Max?s Smoke Shop, a smile on my face, and a happy New Year greeting on the tip of my tongue for my favorite ?old guy?. But that damn greeting died on my lips when I saw the nightmare standing behind the counter. Have you ever seen that show on BBC, called Are You Being Served? If so, do you remember that old chick that always changed the color of her hair? This is exactly what the DUDE behind the counter looked like. Even down to the cheesy old skirt and stained white blouse. It was frightening.
    I know I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, probably one of the largest gay communities in the world, and I know it takes all kinds. If you have any doubts, take a walk in the Castro and you?ll see what I mean. But digressing again and I?m trying to stop this practice.
    Upon seeing this?thing behind the counter, I pause at the front door. I look around, making sure I walked into the right store. I?ve been known after a long three days of partying to wander into stores aimlessly. But I had walked into the right place. I swear I stood at the front door for a good minute. I get used to certain things and I wasn?t sure if I wanted to buy my giant can of Red Bull from this sitcom reject.
    While I stood in the doorway, I noticed this old lady with probably the ugliest dog I?ve ever seen. I immediately shudder; this lady was somehow odder looking than the ?thing? behind the counter. She was wearing this long black wig, it was dirty and ratted like she had never bothered to run a comb through it. But the thing that made my head turn to one side, much like a dog, was every few moments she would raise a wrinkled hand to her wig. Like she was making sure it was still atop her ?probably? bald head. And each time she checked her wig, she would move it slightly. So by the time I saw her inside Max?s Smoke Shop, it was beyond crooked. I think a slight breeze would send it careening to the floor, which would be cleaner than the mess resting on her head. But digressing yet again. She was wearing these shoes, I can?t even describe them. But I bet they were old during the fifties. I think at one time they were black, but now they looked more like?mud. Her skirt, bright red with yellow fringe, looked like it was two sizes too small and unfortunately left nothing to the imagination. I couldn?t see what shirt she chose to accompany this ensemble, because she was hiding it under a three-quarter length fur coat. Which I might add, was suffering from the same affliction as her head hair.
    I think its time to let you know that I?m not an animal lover. I?ve never understood the need for a pet. But hey, it takes all kinds, right? Whatever, but I do believe that since I can?t smoke inside public places, then I don?t think a flea infested dog should be allowed inside public places. Digress, no thanks, trying to quit.
    I reach into my pocket and pull out my trusty silver cigarette case. I check to see if I have enough to make it through the night. I shake my head, three cigarettes won?t cut it. So I make the decision to go the rest of the way inside and quickly grab my giant can of Red Bull, my Spearmint gum, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. After all, Susan said I should be more open to change. Stupid therapist, change sucks.
    So I walk quickly by the ?thing? behind the counter. I hug the gum shelf to get as far away from the smelly dog, and its ugly companion. I breathe deeply as I reach the cooler that is normally filled to the brim with giant cans of Red Bull.
    Again for a moment, I stand there, staring in disbelief at the empty cooler. I decide that Max must?ve changed the coolers around again without giving me the week?s notice we had agreed upon. You would think the ?old guy? would?ve learned his lesson the last time he moved the coolers around. Why would you put the Red Bull cooler all the way in the back? It was right next to the gum shelves, it was perfect. I?d walk into the store, I grab the gum, grab the giant Red Bull, turn, and walk to the counter where I would pay for everything.
    So I walk down the row of coolers, peering into each one carefully. Maybe the ?old guy? had finally taken my advice and moved them back to the front of the store. But once I reached the gum shelf, I had not seen any Red Bull. So I walk back down the row of coolers, peering carefully again. After doing this two more times, I look at the front of the store. The ?thing? behind the counter was now leaning over the counter petting the ugly dog while the weird old lady looked on with the biggest smile I had ever seen on a human. Crocodiles had nothing on this lady, except maybe a few more teeth, but that was it.
    Again I shudder; dogs shouldn?t be allowed inside public places. But I choke back that retort and instead ask where Max moved the Red Bulls. This is when the ?thing? behind the counter, looks over at me and replies, I swear this is his exacts words, ?That?s right, Max left a note telling me to make sure I fill up the Red Bulls.. Sorry, I forgot.?
    So I walk towards the front, I ask, ?How can you forget? He left you a note and everything.?
    ?Sorry, why don?t you try a Rock Star instead?? This is what he says, now fully focused on the dog.
    Seeing that he has gone to that place when adults see either children or animals, I give up. I can do this, change is good, remember. So I grab my Spearmint gum and walk to the counter. I notice, because I?m somewhat intelligent, that the weird lady is neither waiting to purchase anything nor has she purchased anything. As far as I can tell, she wandered in just so the ?thing? behind the counter could pet her ugly dog.
    I wait, longer than a minute, I know I looked at my watch, and this ?thing? behind the counter is going on and on about this dog. Talking to it like it?s a human, like he expects the ugly dog to answer his stupid questions. And when he asked the ugly dog if it got everything it wanted for Christmas, I finally lost it.
    I ask for a pack of Marlboro Lights and threw my pack of gum on the counter, still standing a good six feet away from weird lady and ugly dog. The moment I spoke, that damn dog turned and looked at me and before I could do anything, it had covered the distance and jumped up on my freshly pressed pants.
    I pushed the dog, cringing at touching such a dirty animal, and looked at the lady and say, very plainly, ?Please control your dog.?
    You would?ve thought I punched the dog, which was my first instinct but after four months talking to Susan, I had ignored this reaction. She called out for the dog and the ?thing? behind the counter gave me a funny look. So I repeat what I wanted. The ?thing? rolls his eyes and grabs a pack of Marlboro Lights.
    While I?m paying for my purchase, minus one giant can of Red Bull, that damn dog jumps up on me again. This is when all of Susan?s advice went out the window. I shoved the dog down, and looked at the lady saying, ?What don?t you control your flea ridden dog for fucks sake?? Granted, not very diplomatic, but after seeing what I did the first time, she should?ve expected something along those lines.
    The ?thing? behind the counter looked at me and said, ?Calm down, he?s just happy to see you.?
    So I say, ?I believe Palo Alto has a very strict leash law, shouldn?t that thing be leashed up out front or better yet inside the car??
    The conversation pretty much went down hill from there. The lady went off on me, telling me where I could stick my leash law and the ?thing? behind the counter told me to get out.
    I was mad, but I knew in the back of my mind I needed that pack of Marlboro Lights, so I told him I wanted the cigarettes. He refused, so I threatened to call animal control and say that the dog attacked me and that it wasn?t on a leash, and I was inside a store.
    I admit I might have been just a bit irrational at this point. But change really isn?t good and sometimes I just can?t help my anti-social behavior. I really do try but I don?t have a lot of patience, or good judgment at times in crisis. Besides, I brought two people closer together today. I?m sure, long after I left with my cigarettes, they bitched about the asshole who doesn?t like dogs. So in a way, I did a good deed today.
    I wonder what Susan?s take on this will be next week. She probably won?t like it on one hand but on the other, she realize just how much money she?ll make trying to help me adapt to change. Wow, that?s two good deeds I did today. One more and I?ll make Eagle Scout. But I digress again.
  20. Jason Rimbaud

    Personal Questions

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    Personal Questions
    A boring look into the existence of Jason Rimbaud

    In the forums of GayAuthors, in the Games and Humor thread, there is an entry called Personal Questions. Basically it’s a forum game where each person asks a personal question and the next person answers the question before asking his own personal question.

    As I read through all the questions and the replies, I realized that there was numerous questions I would have love to have answered. So I thought it would be a good idea if I took some of those questions and answered them in my Blog for my one loyal reader who might want to know a bit more about me then I have shared thus far in my Blog.

    Basically, I’m out of ideas for Blog Entries so I’m going to pretend that people want to read my answers to these questions they asked other more interesting people.

    So without further interruptions or pointless digressions that go nowhere except to boredom. I give you personal questions as asked by lots of more interesting people to other interesting people.

    What is your favorite item of clothing? You might think this is embarrassing but I have an underwear fetish. And before you get to thinking that I’m some kind of freak and that your laundry isn’t safe in the dryer while you run across the street to get a bagel and a chocofrapalatta. You see, I don’t perv on your underwear, no, I perv on my own stash of underwear. And not my dirty underwear either, I like to buy all sorts of underwear. So for the moment, my favorite article of clothing is a pair of Batman boxer briefs, so comfortable against my dangling bits.

    Where was your first kiss? On the lips

    Where was your first kiss? My first kiss happened on a park bench during a summer rain storm with a girl named Michelle. She was also the first person other than me to touch my no-no parts above the jeans.

    What is the one gift you got that you cherish and why? Three years ago for my birthday, “M” bought me an orange fleece Hoodie that is as soft as baby’s tears and as warm as fuzzy bunny slippers. And though “M” is long gone and nothing but a memory, on cold nights I still like putting on that Hoodie and cuddling up in front of the TV.

    What was the last date you went on and how did it go? It was this last Christmas Eve and this great guy took me out to one of my favorite restaurants. We had a great bottle of wine, awesome conversation and then later, because he paid for dinner, I gave it up to him.

    What’s the story behind the worst scar you have? It was the summer I turned twelve and I came up with this brilliant idea that my friend and I should pretend that we were knights of the round table and go on a quest like King Arthur and his Knights. After a few hours of being knights, I decided that I should switch sides. Everything was going great until he swung Excalibur and I forgot to duck. His sword hit my face in a downward slashing motion that started at the top of my right eye, my eyelid, eyeball, and my right cheek. After I got out of the hospital, I realized that I would have to wear corrective lenses for the rest of my life. Luckily, the scar is barely visible.

    What is the one thing you are most proud of accomplishing? My sobriety. I haven’t done as much as a taste of cocaine in five years, three months and six days. And it feels surreal, I can remember telling my therapist all those years ago that I would never do cocaine again and I wouldn’t need a rehab program to do it either. She was very supportive of me but she felt that a rehab program would be something I would need to continue onwards. I don’t recommend that other addicts tackle sobriety the same way I did. I’m just relaying the story how I reached the lowest point in my life and I knew I had to make a change. Everyone must work on their sobriety in their own way.

    What would you say is your sexiest body part and why? Hmm, I guess my one loyal reader might guess that I would say my perfectly shaped cock or maybe I’d describe my prowess of lying on my back. Well, you would be wrong if you thought that my loyal reader. Because the sexiest part of my body is my blue eyes, the only good thing my fuck face father ever gave me.

    How did you imagine your life to be now when you thought about it ten years ago? Ten years ago I probably thought I’d be dead long before I’d make it ten years in the future.

    What is your favorite part of the day? Whenever I make it back to my apartment and close the door behind me and the madness that is humanity is locked out.

    What is something that you do that everyone else thinks is weird? I never sleep with my head against the headboard of any bed. Matter of fact, my own bed is in the center of my room where I can walk around the entire thing. In hotels, I sleep with my head on the foot of the bed with my feet pointed at the headboard.

    What is something that you do that everyone else thinks is weird? Whenever I first try on a pair of shoes I must try the left one on first. I find it very bad luck to put on shoes using your right foot first.

    What is something that you do that everyone else thinks is weird? When doing laundry, if anyone, even my boyfriend, touches my clothes before they are folded and put away and then taken out and put on my body, I have to re-wash them. “M” use to mess with me all the time; he’d open one of my drawers and pretend to touch my clothes.

    If there was one thing about yourself you could change, what would it be? It would definitely be to change my anal retentive behavior. Seriously, do I really have to make sure that all the rooms in my apartment are vacuumed in straight lines in sync with magnetic north? Does it?

    If you had a free pass to have sex with any person in the world, no strings attached and your spouse/significant other was okay with it...who would it be? Considering this question doesn’t specify any person living or dead, I have to go with Elvis. There is just something erotic about the thought of fucking the King of Rock-n-Roll.

    If we were in a relationship and I was breaking up with you what’s the worst possible thing I could do to hurt you...other than physical violence? Share my secrets that I trusted to you with your friends.

    Have you ever been in trouble with the law and if so, what for? I have to just choose one instance. Let’s see, I was once arrested for being drunk in public. I also received a ticket for drinking in public years ago.

    What is the biggest lie you ever told? I once told this really Hot Guy (who I actually quit my job and got a job at his restaurant just so I could be close to him) that his boyfriend was cheating on him. Though now that I think about it, that lie actually came true a few weeks later when I got the boyfriend drunk and had my way with him at a party. Hot Guy and boyfriend broke up a few weeks later and it took me another six months to get Hot Guy to sleep with me. Sadly, a few weeks later I realized that now that I had Hot Guy I didn’t really like him very much so I left him, drunk and passed out at a New Year’s Eve party one of my friends threw and went home with another guy.

    Where was the strangest place you have ever been taken on a date? When I was twenty-one, and trying to be more “normal”, I agreed to go out on a date with a guy instead of just fucking him after too many shots behind the local gay bar. He was a really nice guy and ended up taking me to a Church game night. After the shock of not getting struck by lightning, and using all my willpower not to spill the beans that there was two queers in the middle of “gods house”, I vowed to never try to be “normal” again.

    If you could physically change one part of your body to your complete liking what would it be? My cock, it has just the slightest bend to the right and I would love to be able to make it completely straight.

    What’s the worst nickname you’ve had? Gutter Pants, you can imagine why I’d be named as such.

    If you could go anywhere, where would it be? If I could go anywhere, again no one specified a real place or a fictitious place, so I’d like to go to Heaven and ask god why he’s such a fuck face.

    What’s the biggest secret you’ve ever kept for a friend? That the night before his wedding he came over to my house and the two of us had sex for the last time.

    Do you have parents that stayed together or are you a part of a single or blended family? Hm, a question about my family; I think I’ll pass on this. Well, they were never divorced so I guess I can say they stayed together.

    What’s one thing that you wanna try but too embarrassed to tell anyone about? I’m not embarrassed to tell anyone anything that pops into my little head.

    Who did you look up to growing up? Arthur Rimbaud...if you don’t know who this brilliant writer is, look him up.

    What is your earliest memory? I was around eight years old and the neighbor boy and I use to sneak under my bed and dry hump each other. I have other memories but what fun are they compared to this.

    What is the worst thing you hate/hated about your current/last boyfriend or girlfriend? “M” had the annoying habit of getting food to-go and then leaving it in my refrigerator. I don’t know if he even had the intention of ever eating the bits of crap he left for me to find weeks later.

    How big is your...? Considering who ever asked this question never finished saying how big my “what” is...I’m going to finish it for them. How big is your cock? Big enough to make any guy go gay, if only for a few hours while he is with me.

    What is something that is considered a social norm that you’ve never done? Cry at a funeral.

    What’s your favorite sexual position? It depends if I’m topping or bottoming. Shall I go into details?

    What makes you most nervous? Sitting down one on one with another human being and dropping the walls that keep me safe.

    What type of things do you find funny? Really, that’s a question you want to know. Watching a baby running down the sidewalk before taking a header into the pavement, watching a bicyclist ran into the side of a car, Bill Maher, Tosh.O, any George Carlin CD. I could go on but then I’d start offending you politically correct humans.

    When was the last time you did a random act of kindness and what was it? It was a few months ago, I went to Taco Bell and bought fifty taco’s and passed them out to all the homeless people I saw on my way to work.

    What is the number one thing on your bucket list? I don’t believe in writing bucket lists, I firmly believe that you should never put off something you want to do for a later date. Live like today is your last, always.

    Which is the shortest time it took you to like somebody? Again, this question is open for interpretation. Is it like somebody or like like somebody? So I’ll answer however I want. His name was Jason, some of you might recognize the name, and I remember the first day I met him. I looked at him, he smiled, and I asked if he wanted to smoke a cigarette with me, we went outside and by the time we came back inside, we were fast friends.

    What is your favorite comfort food? Now, remember, comfort food could take whatever form brings you comfort. And my comfort food is sautéed asparagus. It brings me back to when I was a kid, before the devil gay inside me came out to play, when my parents still loved me. We use to sit around the dinner table, laughing and talking, just being a family.

    Where is the craziest place you’ve had sex? I wonder if you’d believe me if I actually told you the craziest place...this guy named John and I once had sex on a public bus around 1am one night. We had just left the bar and were both extremely horny, had a thirty minute bus ride home, we couldn’t wait. He undid my pants, crawled up on my lap and rode my bent dick all the way home.

    Where is the craziest place you’ve had sex? This guy named John and I, a devout but twisted Catholic, once did the dirty in a confessional booth. And I can honestly say that was the most intense sex I’ve ever had, it was amazing.

    What is the happiest moment in your life? I’m still searching for that moment. Because each time I think I achieved that moment, something else that is equally brilliant happens and takes it place.

    What’s the worst thing anyone could do to you? Make me fall in love and then turn their back on me. That would crush me in ways that would destroy even someone as jaded as I.

    When it comes down to it, what is your ultimate dream life? My dream life is one that I cannot recognize or achieve so it’s best not to think about it.

    Do you have a good relationship with your parents? Laughing, I’m laughing at this question.

    Have you ever smoked marijuana? Exactly three times I smoked pot and ate brownies three times. I am not a fan of cannabis. But I’m not against anyone smoking it.

    What’s the worst thing that has happened to you? Sobriety...it has given me the means to look back at a life filled with regrets with none of the tools to medicate the memories.

    If you could murder someone and get away with it, would you? Yes, without even thinking about it. I’d kill my father. Sometimes I wish tombstones could talk back.

    What do you consider your biggest failing? That even after all these years, my fuck face dead father still affects me.

    Would you ever trust your online boyfriend with money? Never. Mainly because I’d never have an online boyfriend because I’m not delusional and can get a guy in real life.

    If you could have one wish (for yourself alone) what would it be? I’d wish my family didn’t hate the fact that the person I love has a cock just like me.

    Are you happy with your life now? Mostly.

    Do you like peanut butter? Not on sandwiches but peanut butter is always fun to have lying around the bedroom if you get my drift.

    Have you ever stolen anything? Yes, and let’s leave it at that shall we.

    What is the one thing you wish people to remember you for? That I was honest...well almost.

    Have you ever shaved “down there”? I’ve shaved down there, up there, around there, pretty much anywhere, not a fan of body hair.

    When was the last time you questioned your own motives for doing something and why? I don’t question my motives; I usually just go with the flow. Why question things I’m going to do anyway?

    What is the one thing you wish you had said to someone, but couldn’t bring yourself too? “M”, I’m sorry.

    What is your favorite color? Blue if its shirts and such...black if it’s coats and pants, and red if it’s underwears.

    Where are you ticklish? Why don’t you come over and I’ll let you find out.

    What other windows do you have open right now? Awesomedude.com, AuthorsHaunt.com, GayAuthors.org, and HomoEmo.com. I really hope further down they don’t ask what I’m doing right now.

    Do you sing in the shower? Yes, in the shower, on the toilet, in the car, on the train, on the street, on stage, pretty much anywhere except work. Though I guess I sing at work sometimes as well.

    What time of the day do you usually get the most done? After midnight usually, I love the quiet time of the night after the weirdo’s go to bed.

    How many sex toys do you have? Three, not sure if I should disclose which type of toys I own...fleshlight, vibrator, and duel headed dildo.

    What’s the most creative thing you do? Answer these questions.

    What is your favorite meal to make for someone else? Chinese food, it always leaves them wanting more in a few hours.

    When was the last time you said, “I’m sorry” and why? Christmas Day, after getting an amazing blowjob and I couldn’t return the favor due to consuming too much egg nog that had my insides running in circles. Matter of fact, after several I’m sorry’s, I ran out of his apartment and straight into my bathroom for twenty minutes. Not fun.

    Would you rather be the best looking guy in the world or date the best looking guy in the world? After careful thought, I decided I’d rather be the best looking guy in the world. I think dating the best looking guy in the world would drive me crazy wondering if he was going to go out with someone better than me. Yes, much better to be the one cheating on the uggo than the other way around.

    What one trait can you not do without in someone? A sense of humor...because they are going to need it to date me.

    Do you have any songs that remind you of certain people/places/times? Runaway Train by Soul Asylum...several years ago, an ex-boyfriend of mine accused me of always running away whenever I’d get close to someone. He was as usual, right.

    What is the most vivid dream you’ve ever had, and why is it so memorable? I had a very erotic dream about my ex-boyfriend (one that I really wished never got away) and when I woke up, for a few minutes, I thought we were still together and I almost expected him to walk into my room and jump into bed with me. It was rather disappointing when reality came back and I realized it was only a dream.

    Will you be willing to be a surrogate for my baby if I asked you nicely? Never in a million years will I use my baby gravy for anything other than for dripping down someone’s cheek/cheeks. One of the best things about being gay is we never have to have those sick, loud, pooping machines. Why would any gay guy in his right mind ever want to have a family like “them” is beyond me?

    Have you ever wrecked your car? Nope, I’m a good driver.

    What is your favorite movie character and why? It varies depending on my mood. Lately my favorite character is Eric Draven from the movie The Crow. What is more romantic than coming back from the dead to avenge your girlfriend’s murder? I know.

    When did you break your heart the last time and why? I have never broken my heart, I leave that to the men I fall in love with.

    Speaking of punishment, what is the cruelest punishment you’ve received by a mate? One of my ex-boyfriend made me go to his family Christmas dinner one year, sober, because I had promised to go to his nephew’s christening and while he was waiting for me to pick him up I was half-way to Atlantic City to go gambling with my friend, Jason, who was my secret fuck buddy for five years.

    When was the last time you pooped? About seven hours ago. And it was a good one too.
    What was the last dream you had about? Aliens had attacked the earth and my boyfriend and I was driving in the dessert trying to outrun the invaders in a Chevy truck. It was so good I didn’t want to wake up.
    Have you ever tasted your own cum? Really...do I have to answer that? I’m sure my loyal reader could guess the answer to this question.
    What is your biggest regret in life to this point? That I let Jason go without telling him how I felt about him.
    What would you do for $1,000,000.00? Whatever it took.
    Where would you never want to live and why? Texas, because everything and everyone in Texas is fucking crazy.
    What is your favorite sex act? It kind of depends on if I’m a top or a bottom in said sex act.
    Who is your best friend? Daniel, he’s the one person that always makes me feel safe no matter what craziness is encompassing my life.
    What’s the worst thing your parents have ever caught you doing? I was sixteen, and my father caught me bent over the couch getting fucked by a nineteen year old guy. It was also the last thing my parents ever caught me doing.
    What is the last book you bought? Nikki Sixx’s This is Gonna Hurt.
    Who was/is your last crush? Again this question doesn’t specify online, real life, or fantasy so I’m going to answer with my online crush. Though I’ve never seen a picture of him, I have the hugest crush on the author known as Julian. Yummy yummy he is.
    If you could choose to have one superpower, which one would it be? I’d like to be able to fly...then I could chase the sun.
    What scares you? Honesty...the scariest thing on earth.
    What are you wearing right now (underwear too)? A pair of slim fit black jeans, red boxer briefs, and black tank top. I know, boring right.
    Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a female? Yes, more than one time. Every once in a while I feel like sleeping with a girl.
    Where’s the weirdest place you’ve had sex? On top of a fire truck with a paramedic.
    If you could throw everything away, what would it be for? Happiness, true happiness without faking it.
    Which is the shortest time it took you to have an orgasm? It was the day after I first had sex with Jason, he was at work and I was thinking about the time we had. I went to the bathroom and in less than a minute I was rinsing out the sink. It was the most intense I’ve had by myself. And I still remember it though it was years ago.
    Who do you think about when masturbating? It’s always the guy I’m on the prowl for, and never the guy I just fucked.
    What is your ideal man/woman like? Preferably he’s a brunet, around my age, a nerd star that wears glasses, has a sense of humor, and likes me for who I am and not what I project to be.
  22. Jason Rimbaud
    Questions We Don?t Ask but Should
    Question One: Ever wonder about those people who spend $6.00 apiece on those tiny bottles of Evian water? Try spelling Evian backwards.
    Question Two: If 4 out of 5 people suffer from diarrhea?does that mean that one actually enjoys it?
    Question Three: If people from Poland are called Poles, then why aren?t people from Holland called Holes?
    Question Four: Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
    Question Five: If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
    Question Six: Why do croutons come in airtight packages, aren?t they just stale bread to begin with?
    Question Seven: Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist, but a person who drives a racecar is not called a racist?
    Question Eight: Why isn?t the number 11 pronounced onety-one?
    Question Nine: If lawyers are disbarred, clergymen defrocked, then what would an electrician, musician, cowboys, models, tree surgeons, and dry cleaners be if they were thrown out of their profession?
    Question Ten: If Fed Ex and UPS were to merge, what would they call it?
    Question Onety-One: Do Lipton Tea employees take coffee breaks?
    Question Twelve: What hair color do they put on the driver?s licenses of bald men?
    Question Thirteen: People tend to read the Bible more often the older they get, are they cramming for their final?
    Question Fourteen: I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks, so I wonder, do Chinese mothers use toothpicks?
    Question Fifteen: Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are we supposed to do, write them? Why don?t they just put their pictures on the postage stamps, so that the mailmen can look for them while they are delivering the mail?
    Question Sixteen: If it?s true that we are here to help others, then what exactly are the others here for?
    Question Seventeen: Why is it that you never really learn to swear until you learn to drive?
    Question Eighteen: If lightening wouldn?t zigzag, what would the speed be?
    Question Nineteen: Whatever happened to Preparations A through G?
    Question Twenty: Did you ever notice that when you put the two words ?the? and ?IRS? together, it spells ?theirs??
  24. Jason Rimbaud
    Bitch of the Day
    (and I don?t mean Howard)
    By: Jason R.
    As I write this, I can?t help but feel a bit cranky and pretty upset with one of my numerous roommates. Not to mention I might just be dying of hunger. Oh yeah, I almost forgot until I shifted positions, I have this blister on the bottom of my right foot that just might be the size of Texas. How did I get to be cranky, tired and ravenous you ask? *Insert question here*
    Fine, those of you not conditioned to the tragedy that is my mind; I?ll explain it to you. As you might guess, July Forth Weekend is usually a slow boring three days for us at Market Street Caf?. Normally the crazy denizens of Harrisburg enjoy the numerous outdoor activities Mayor Reed had planned during ?lets make all the fucking money we can before winter kicks our ass? three day festival we call Fourth of July weekend. With everyone hanging at the festival with the cool peeps and considering my staff had been working overtime with ?little? complaining, I decided to schedule a skeleton crew for the weekend. (Just because I would rather have my nuts torn from my body by a baby elephant than spend time with my parents, doesn?t mean I should make others suffer for my retarded home life, does it?)
    Let me tell you, I must have been out of what little mind I have left. Not only were we busy as rabbits in a storefront window, but we did record numbers for the weekend. Probably due to the horrendous downfall of rain we were ?lucky? enough to receive. (Like I watch the fucking weather channel) I have spent the last three days eating, breathing, and sleeping Market Street Caf?. Wearing the same stinky clothes, trying my best to remember why the hell I entered the service industry in the first place.
    By four PM on Monday, we were slammed back to the ding dong section. I, in all my wisdom, had only three servers and two cooks working that beautiful rainy day. To say we resembled a famous star losing his mind on a popular daytime show would have been an effort in futility. Being the great and talented manager I am, I used my talent for multi-tasking. I ran around serving tables, I made drinks at the bar for the other severs, I bussed tables so fast I reminded customers of police upon hearing Crispy Creme gave away donuts. So basically I was the resident insane person. Why didn?t I call in some of my fun loving, grateful I had given them the weekend off, employees you might ask? Let me say this, all efforts to reach them by train, plane, automobile, cell-phone, fax machine, email, text message and pony express proved in vain. Not a single one of those pricks answered my call.
    After finally arriving home around 1am Monday night. I poured myself into my soft comfortable bed fully intending on catching up some much-needed sleep. But I was so wired on Monster and nicotine I tossed and turned for about five hours before finally drifting off to a restless slumber. I had clocked just under forty hours in the last three days and Damnit; I deserved some fucking sleep.
    But alas dear reader, it was not to be. Fate had other plans for me. After drifting off to sleep around six am, I was awaken rudely at nine am by the doorbell. Ignoring the various doorbell sonatas and the very loud banging on the front door, I rolled over and buried my head in my pillow hoping whoever it was would grow tired of this quest to gain entry into a house filled with five other roommates. But not before I wished some fairly unpleasant things upon whoever this was and their entire family, second cousins and such included.
    But the incessant banging finally grew too annoying for me to ignore any longer. So I ran from my first floor bedroom to the front door and threw it open only to find a crazy meter reader person standing there. She informed me in a pleasant voice that she was there to read the meter. So after greeting her with some pretty horrendous morning breath and seventeen yawns, I showed her to the basement. Not more than thirty seconds later she walked back up the stairs and wished me a good day.
    I slammed the door shut behind her and crawled back into the safety of my bed. Hoping to quickly fall back asleep and resume the dream I had been having about four friends and I in the middle of a giant arcade surrounded by pink bubble gum. Right about the time I had convinced myself that it had all been a horrible nightmare and while teetering on the edge of oblivion, teetering mind you, the ringing of my front doorbell once again disturbed my slumber.
    Exactly twenty-three minutes after I had slammed the door behind the gas meter reader person, a way too cheerful UPS delivery guy began his tortuous attempts to gain entry into my house to deliver a pair of shoes my roommate (and employee that would not answer my desperate cry for help over the weekend) purchased online from this trendy store in New York City.
    Tearing myself from my nice warm bed for the second time in under thirty minutes (I must have missed the meeting where the other housemates voted on making me the designated door answerer person. If you think about it, you know logically and stuff, it makes all the sense in the world. I live on the first floor, the other roommates live either on floor two or floor three. I don?t have the pleasure of traversing narrow stairs each time the doorbell rings. It?s only fair that I should answer the door. Isn?t?) I opened the door.
    It wasn?t that I rude. Because I wasn?t. I swear. But something about way too cheerful UPS delivery guys makes my blood creep inside my already blocked veins. He had it coming, right? I mean, it was early in the day. And I had a blister.
    Anyway, after signing for the package and giving the finger to the way too cheerful UPS delivery guy, I slammed the door shut. Now there?s something about holding a person?s package in ones hand that does strange things to your mind. Like maybe deep down we all, everyone one of us, has this unfulfilled desire to deliver the mail. Because no matter whom the package is for, we feel like we must give it to the intended party. I hated climbing those narrow rickety stairs but I found myself carefully walking up those stairs heading for my roommate?s door. You know I lost my mind because I wasn?t wearing shoes, and in my house, that?s as good as inviting tetinas.
    Banding loudly on the door, I completed the two-day trip for the pair of shoes by personally handing them over to said purchaser. Knowing my good deed for the day had been accomplished, I walked backed down the stairs and climbed into my now cold bed with a promise to the gay god, you know the gym, that I would not rise again until at least one PM. Again, fate decided to royally fuck me. Spitting and laughing on my simple pursuit of a good days sleep. Before my head hit the pillow, my roommate, now fully awake and ready to face this beautiful sunny day, began blasting his music at what I can only assume is volume eleven.
    With what I can only describe is him dancing around the room in his newly purchased sneakers to the horrid sounds of the Broadway musical Urine Town, I stare at the ceiling and plot all the horrible ways I am going to kill him, slowly. Upstairs, oblivious of my murderous thoughts, he dances and sings not caring about my desire and need by this time, for sleep. Beautiful restful zombie like sleep. In my tired dementia, I envision him dancing and singing in his room, wearing his sponge bob square pants boxers, in some kind of bizarre ritual to the shoe god in the sky.
    No amount of burying my head with my pillow can block out the wailing from above. And much to my dismay, God did not strike him dead, unless the banging sound is him in the final throes of death; he is very much alive and happy with his new pair of shoes.
    So with a spirit of retaliation, rivaled only by America?s hunger for oil, I rise from my sleep like a vengeful vampire and approach my own stereo. I serenade him back with the thunderous sounds of Orgy?s Fiction (Screaming in Digital), the synthetic sounds blending with crunching guitar?s to battle the happy sounds of Broadway. Like a childish game of truth or dare, we battle back and forth for noise supremacy. The noise emanating from the house not only woke up the remaining roommates, but shattered several laws of the city of Harrisburg.
    What is the moral of this tirade you ask? *insert foolish question here* No matter what you plan for your life, no matter how hard you try to anticipant the extraordinary, fate, destiny or maybe even Loki (mischievous god of the Norse) takes an almost perverse pleasure in destroying those plans.
    If ever awaken by a crazed meter reader person, promptly make a pot of strong coffee and wait for the inevitable. Sleep is lost for the rest of the day and maybe for the rest of your life.
    Oh yeah, on the subject of my hunger. I have yet to buy food this week so I had nothing to eat. In a final attempt at retribution, I eat my roommate?s last donut. And when he inquired about the missing donut, I smiled and wipe the crumbs from my shirt and blamed it on the crazy meter reader person. I?m not surprised he didn?t believe me. I was chewing the last bite at the time.
    Hey Ann, this is for you. Now you can't talk shit.
  25. Jason Rimbaud
    Have you ever heard the expression dipping your pen in the company ink? If you have, then you know that?s what they call it when you sleep with someone you work with. And since most of you know about my little fling with Mark, my semi-straight co-worker who I had a year long crazy affair with, you also know I?ve been to that movie already and by the end of it all I ended up firing him for stealing from my hip up-scale restaurant.
    You would think I had already learned my fucking lesson.
    And I guess you could say I had learned my lesson?or at least I learned my lesson six months ago. But apparently I forgot that lesson a few weeks ago.
    And this instance happened before I got my new job, a job I start this coming Monday. Where, by the way, instead of working for 65 hours a week, I?ll be working only 40 hours a week.
    So a few weeks ago, a whole bunch of us from work went to Ruby Sky, San Francisco?s biggest nightclub, for an AID?s benefit. We met in the city around 4pm, figuring we?d have dinner together and hang out drinking and such until the show started.
    Because I?m somewhat of a snob, I choose not to stay in the Motel 6 like everyone else. I instead choose to stay at a fine boutique hotel called the Palomore, about six blocks away from the nightclub.
    I decided to go all out and book a large suite with a Fuji-style tub and a large stone shower with glass doors and a king size bed. I must admit, the room was pretty fucking sweet.
    And one of my simple joys, whenever I get a few days off, I like to go somewhere and get a nice hotel room. It?s one of my little quirks that make?s me feel all warm fuzzy bunny slippers.
    For some reason, all my co-workers wanted to see this room; apparently they had never stayed in a room that costs $400 dollars a night. One of my co-workers, let?s call him Alex, declared that if I didn?t hook up with anyone that night, then he wanted to come back to my room and get in the Fuji-Tub.
    I know me, and just how big of a slut I am, I told him it was fine to come back to my room, if I didn?t hook up with anyone at the nightclub. I forgot about the exchange, and we went to dinner.
    So to give you a good picture of how much is a whole bunch, we asked for a table for six, four girls and two guys. Everyone at the table knew that I was gay; the four girls were a mix of single, taken, and married. But what we didn?t know was anything about Alex.
    Quick back story on Alex: Alex is twenty-six, straight blond hair, not very tall but quite slender, and is extremely private. He?s worked at the hip up-scale restaurant for six months or so and this was going to be my first time hanging out with him outside of work. And the girls, though they hung out with him before, said he was fun but a bit shy and never spoke about personal issues.
    Once at the restaurant, we all decided to forgo ordering individual entr?e?s and instead ordered a shit-ton of starters to share. Alex and I had our eye on the steak appetizer; matter of fact, we both ordered one. I guess you could say we love to eat meat. God that was a bad horrible pun?I?m sorry.
    Anyhoo, we had pretty much consumed everything and all that was left was one piece of this scrumptious steak starter. Alex and I both went for the last piece, our forks stabbing into the marinated cow at the same time. For a moment we sat there, staring at each other, our arms steady and unflinching.
    ?My fork was here first.? Alex says.
    ?I?d have to argue against that.? I reply.
    ?A Mexican standoff, how cosmopolitan.? He says before whistling the famous opening of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.
    ?Well, I just happen to have my gun handy.? I state, grinning like the cat that ate the cannery.
    ?Better watch out, I?d hate for your gun to go off to soon.? This from Alex, who had leaned forward to get closer to me, his eyes sparkling.
    ?And that would disappoint you?? I quip, leaning forward as well.
    Alex shrugs, ?I?m use to disappointment. You?ve been my manager for six months.?
    So after dinner, we head to Ruby Sky. The place was packed, a mixture of drag queens, breeders, twink?s, over the hill queers, leather boys, bears, and of course me. As I looked around the club, I saw an open spot at the corner of the bar right next to the dance floor. I staked my spot and settled in for a night of drinking and flirting.
    I was pretty much the purse watcher; I stayed at the bar while everyone else danced their collective asses off. And since I always tip heavy, my drinks were made faster and quite a bit stronger than everyone else?s. Matter of fact, by the end of the night, the bartender wasn?t even charging me for drinks anymore.
    At the end of the night, right before the bartender gives us the last shot, he asks, ?Are you guys driving??
    Alex yells out, ?After all the fucking shots you gave us and all the drinks we had, you ask us now if we?re driving??
    ?Yeah, shouldn?t you have asked us that question a few hours ago?? I ask, laughing very drunkenly.
    We toasted the bartender and Alex and I helped the very drunk ladies out of the club and into a cab, the six of us piled in the backseat in an orgy of giggles and groping.
    Once we got back to their hotel, one of the girls was getting a bit sick so I carried her into the room and right into the bathroom where she spent the next several hours hugging the toilet. The other three girls were very drunk as well, and they had reached the stage of annoying. Plus they pulled out the pot pipe, and that was my cue to leave. I said my goodbye?s and walked out of the room and down the hallway and into the street where I looked for a cab.
    ?Hey, Jason, wait for me.? Alex says, running out of the hotel after me, his bag thrown over one shoulder.
    I grin and say, ?Too scared to stay in a room filled with drunken girls.?
    ?The drunk girls are right up my alley but I?m not a fan of pot.? Alex says, shrugging. ?And you did promise.?
    ?Yeah I did.?
    We get back to the Hotel Palomore and after a very quiet elevator ride, I open the door. We enter the room and Alex rushes right into the bathroom. I remember that I have a mini bar in the room and I yell out, ?Do you want another drink??
    He pokes his head out of the bathroom and looks at me funny and asks, ?Don?t you think I?m drunk enough??
    ?That?s really not up to me is it?? I say while I make myself a vodka and orange juice, not really caring how much that little bottle of vodka was probably going to cost me along with the bottle of orange juice.
    Alex disappears back into the bathroom and I suddenly hear water running. I walk in the bathroom and lean against the door, grinning. He reminded me of a little kid, filled with wonder and excitement. He was pressing all the buttons and making little squeals when he found out what that particular button did. He turns and looks at me with a huge grin, ?This is so fucking cool.?
    He?s cute, something I never thought about before. It must be the vodka because I?m not doing this again I think. But it does occur to me that Alex is the guy I hired to replace Mark. Kind of creepy?
    Alex takes off his shirt and puts it on the toilet seat and then drops his pants. He stands there, his arms wrapped around his body, staring as the tub fills with water. He looks at me, and asks, ?You going to get in??
    Granted this tub is large enough for two comfortably, hell we could squeeze in three if there was a party. But I found it a bit strange that he would want me to join him in his soak. But I was drunk and said, ?Sure.?
    I take off my shirt and pants and then finish my drink. The tub is filled about half-way so I tell him I?m going out to the balcony for a smoke. Five minutes later I stumble back inside. One lamp in the bedroom is turned on, the lowest setting and all the lights in the bathroom are off.
    I ask, ?Why no lights?? I can see him in the tub, the water almost to his neck.
    He replies, ?The lights were hurting my eyes.?
    I shrug and climb in my side of the tub. And I must admit it felt good after a long night of drunkenness. I leaned back and enjoyed the soothing bubbles.
    After a few minutes, Alex says, ?I think I?m ready for another drink.?
    ?You decided you aren?t drunk enough?? I ask closing my eyes and letting the water take over.
    ?Something like that.?
    ?The vodka is over by the TV; make me another one as well.?
    He stands up to get out of the tub and his boxers damn near slide off his skinny frame, showing me a good portion of his left cheek. So I say, ?Nice ass.?
    He climbs out and looks at me, his boxers still down under his cheek, and says, ?You can?t really say that, you only saw half of my ass.?
    ?I?m assuming the other half looks pretty much like this half. I can put two and two together.?
    ?Not even the slightest.? He says as he turns around and pulls down the other side and tucks it under his cheeks. And I have to agree with him, his right cheek looks nothing like his left cheek.
    There is a tattoo that reminds me of a masquerade mask, the one that was used in the movie, The Crow. I leaned forward to get a better look in the half-light and say, ?Nice.?
    ?My ass or the tattoo??
    I lean back and shut my eyes, and say, ?Take your pick.?
    ?Then I choose both.?
    ?So be it.?
    After a few minutes he returns with the drinks and climbs back inside the tub. It had been driving me crazy so I asked, ?Why the tattoo on your ass??
    ?Why not??
    I look at him, cocking my head to one side. He laughs and takes a drink, then he sinks down until only his mouth, nose, and eyes were above water. He then asks, ?So what happened tonight??
    ?Not sure I understand the question.?
    ?I guess you?re just a pretty face then.?
    ?At least both of my cheeks match.?
    ?Okay, so we know you don?t have a tattoo on your ass, what about your carpet??
    I open my eyes and stare at him, or what I can see of him, and ask, ?Are you asking me if my carpet matches the drapes??
    He sits up and says bluntly, ?Yes, does your pubes match your hair color??
    ?Um, I?m bald. So that question really doesn?t count, unless you?re asking if I shave my pubes.?
    He started laughing so hard his head went under the water for a moment and he quickly popped back up spitting out water. I say, ?That?ll teach you.?
    He glares at me and then says again, ?So what happened tonight? Why didn?t you find someone? Aren?t you supposed to be a huge slut??
    ?I was actually having fun with you crazy guys, I just didn?t want to think about it.?
    ?Are maybe you just wanted me to come over and get into your Fuji-Tub??
    ?Are you flirting with me, Alex?? I ask, suddenly very interested in our bizarre conversation.
    He laughs and lets his body float up to the surface and says, ?Maybe.?
    Even though it?s dark in the bathroom, I can still make out the nice bulging front of his boxers. He was not excited by any means; it was almost like he was showing me the goods, giving me assurance that should things get interesting between us, I would be more than satisfied with what he would be bringing to the party.
    I grab his floating legs and pull him close to me, my lips finding his. He kisses me back, and I know from that kiss that I wasn?t going to be disappointed. I wasn?t his first guy kiss.
    Several hours later, after messing up the bed a few times, he?s asleep next to me and I?m staring at the ceiling wondering what the fuck just happened. I look over and see his backpack on the chair. The same backpack where a few hours ago he pulled out condoms and lube. I start laughing, I?ve just been seduced by a younger man. I almost feel taken advantage of?but instead I go to sleep.
    So this happened a few weeks ago, we hadn?t a repeat performance. I still don?t know that much about Alex. But now that I no longer work for my hip up-scale restaurant, he had made the offer that he would like to get to know me a bit better. Though after what we did in that hotel room, I don?t know what else he needs to know.
    And if you?re wondering which one of us got to eat that delicious steak starter, we compromised and gave it to one of the girls. Though in the end, I got to eat my steak anyway.

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