Archive for the ‘Extravagant Gay Lifestyle’ Category

Here is one thing I know for god damn certain:  The minutes pass like months when you are sitting at home alone on a Friday night listening to your RDP rattle the timbers with the kind of snoring that can only be induced by a combination of Nyquil, Alka-seltzer Snot Nose (TM), and over-the-counter sleep meds.  Or something like that.  So, what’s a sassy gay with impeccable manscaping to do?  Besides kill himself?  I don’t know.

No, really.  I can’t think of anything else.

Thanks gods I don’t believe in the suicide.  No, really.  I don’t.  Talk about a passive-aggressive way to pass the problems that you thought you couldn’t bear one single minute longer to everyone else in your life.  But I digress.

Do you know that tickle that you sometimes get in your ear after you turn *fmmmphhhty* years old?  Turns out it isn’t a terminal condition.  It’s hair.  God fucking dammit.  Congratulations on your continued survival.  With. Hair. In. Your. Ears.

Actually, as a card-carrying, American, male homosexual, I’m pretty sure that hair in my ears is terminal and will result in death.  At least the death of any hope that I’ll ever get laid again.  And, if you ask a card-carrying, American, crazy, right-wing homophobe like Rick Santorum or Mitt Romney or the Catholic Church or the MOTHER FUCKING INSANE people at the National Organization for Marriage, sex is the only thing that card-carrying American male homosexuals live for, think about, or do.

Still, I digress, but I’m going to bring it full circle and you are going to be amazed, impressed, and wanna have relations with me.

In this edition of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM), you will please observe that sex is the farthest thing from the minds of the card-carrying, American, male homosexuals who live in my house.  All two of them.  Instead, the RDP has managed to catch the Bird Flu or SARS or Tuberculosis or rickets from the dirty, filthy people with whom he works.  For the fourth night in a row, he has retired to the bedroom (and by that, I mean our marital domestical parntnershipal bed) with two +/- 60 pound dogs, long before any of our grandparents would even signify their exhaustion with living by yawning a giant, toothless, mothball-scented yawn.  And for the fourth night in a row, I am left to contemplate my navel in complete and utter silence, lest I wake the hybernating RDP with television or the sounds of me singing along to Whitney Houston’s Greatest Hits for the 13th day in a row.

Speaking of Whitney, please do not worry that the RDP will Houston himself with all that cold medicine.  I made him promise not to take a bath or get in the hot tub.  I’m smart like that.

So, right-wing snatches, how’s that for your amped-up, godless, kinky impression of the gay lifestyle?  Pretty fucking titillating, isn’t it?  I know what you’re thinking: “Bitch, please.  We know you are going to hit ‘publish’ on this worthless excuse for a blog post and then spend the next 10 hours shooting heroine, watching porn, and calling complete and utter strangers to your home via Grindr for sexual encounters.”  To which I should respond, “See you soon, crazy, self-loathing, complete and utter stranger.  Please post a decent head shot of yourself on Grindr or I won’t even give you my address.  And if you do not resemble your headshot by at least 46%, you ain’t comin’ in.”

Wouldn’t that kind of response make you conservative, defense-of-marriage-act dickheads happy?  Not so fucking fast.  I refuse to perpetrate your lies about me or your willingness to portray me as a promiscuous devil-child, hell-bent on destroying civilization.   Instead, I am now going to retire for the evening with my Kindle Fire to play Angry Birds in the spare bedroom, 20 feet away from the sawing of Sequoiadendron giganteum in the bedroom across the hall.  Why?  Not to prove a point.  No, not at all.  I am going to retire for the evening because I lead an Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM).

You know, the type that cures insomnia.  Boo-frickin’-yah!



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I have another episode of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM) to share.  I know how much you bitches love to mock my pain, so I’m sure you are absolutely tingling with joy.  You will be glad to hear that you aren’t the only ones who love to mock my pain.  In fact, the RDP* is a frequent–and by frequent I mean constant–mocker (is that even a word?) of my pain.

Let me lay the foundation for this episode.  Yesterday, I was turned on (pun intended) to Davey Wavey.  Who is that, you ask?  Well, he is only the best set of man-tits on the Internets, ladies and gentlemen, to wit:


Titsy McBooberson

Plus, he’s sweet and funny and a little dirty, and I would like him to be my future RDP.  Oh, and he has a great website to which you should pay constant attention, just like mine (yeah, mine peckerheads).

So, as the RDP and I were getting ready to go out and drink my favorite new drink, the Vieux Carré, the following Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM) conversation occurred:

Moi:  Honey-Pie-Fart-Face-Saggy-Butt-Snookums-Pants [he absolutely LOVES terms of endearment], you have to come check out this new, hot, gay vlogger/blogger that I found today.  I can’t believe our dirty, horny gay friends didn’t already tell us about this guy, because he is infinitely adorable.

RDP:  Is he brown?

Moi:  What?  Is he brown?  What in the fuck are you talking about?  Do you mean like his skin color?

RDP:  Yes.  You know how I like my boys a little brown.

Now, let me interrupt your reading pleasure right here.  I know that some of you are keeping tabs on me and putting me together like a carefully-crafted puzzle because you are nosey and think I have something to hide, besides the bodies.  Well, let me give you another piece of the puzzle:  I am not brown.  I am not a little brown.  Now, I have had a little brown in me–if you know what I mean–but unless and until I have baked myself in the sun for 43 days in a row, I am pale.  And by pale I mean iceberg blue.  In fact, probably only about 5 shades darker than this guy:


No, I'm not an Albino. Dickwads.

Where were we?

Moi:  You dated one Asian boy for all of 17 minutes and had relations with [Anonymous African-American Friend] one drunken evening, and suddenly you like your boys to have brown skin?

RDP:  I’ve always liked my boys to have brown skin.

Moi:  Ummm, WHAT ABOUT ME???

RDP:  I don’t know what happened.  Now, go get in the shower and come out tan.

Moi (under my breath):  Why I oughtta come over there and show you just how brown I can be by doing whatever brown people would do to you for dissing me and my pasty white, wrinkled, saggy skin, you cracker.

Oh, but it doesn’t end there, because whilst I was in the shower, the RDP sat down at my computer and viewed Davey Wavey in all his shirtless glory.  So, when I emerged from the shower, dripping wet, naked, humiliated, and not even one single shade darker than when I went in, the conversation continued:

Moi:  So, isn’t Davey Wavey adorable?  Should we invite him to be our houseboy?

RDP:  I stand corrected.  You could have come out of the shower more tan or more porcelain, like Davey Wavey.

Moi (imagined):  MOTHER FUCKER YOU BETTER SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE BEFORE I CHOKE THE LIVING SHIT RIGHT OU . . . .(hands around throat, thumbs pressing on Adam’s Apple)

RDP (also imagined):  *gurgle* *gasp*

And then we went to Toulouse Petit and I drank so many Vieux Carrés that I could no longer feel the emotional pain of being “not brown enough” and “not porcelain enough.”

Thus concludes another amazing episode of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM).  Again, you will note for the record that gay relationships, like mine, are just as abusive as any straight relationship.  And just as alcoholic.  Now, I must drown myself in another bottle of wine, while my RDP is in Central America for work this week.

Wait.  What color are the people in Central . . . Oh you little mother fuc . . . . I am calling a divorce lawyer!

*Registered Domestic Partner (when are you going to remember?)

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In tonight’s episode, the following exchange occurred betwixt moi and the RDP:

RDP:  Is that wine any good?  I’ve always liked it, even though it’s only $9.99.

Moi:  It’s fine.

RDP:  The first time I had it was after I slept with this guy.  He left it on my doorstep the next day because he was moving to California.

Moi:  That’s a ringing endorsement.  Did you know he was moving to California, or was that a surprise?

RDP:  It’s been a long time, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t talk about him moving, so I think it was a surprise.

Moi:  Well, was the sex worth $9.99?

RDP:  I would never have sex if it was only worth $9.99.

Moi:  How ’bout $10.99?

RDP:  What?  Are you trying to get in on this or something?

So, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it.  Another sexy installment of gay life.  Now, I must go and stare at this picture of Anderson Cooper’s nutsack.

AC's goodies

I know balls, and those are BAAALLLSSSSS!

And then, I am going to take this sore throat, snot nose, and shitty attitude to bed and give my RDP exactly $11.01 worth of lovin’.  We’ll try to keep things to a dull snore roar.

Extravagant, indeed.


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It is Tuesday night.  I hear my phone chime the sweet sound of a new text message at 6:30 p.m.  I am sure it is my Registered Domestic Partner texting me that he is on his way home and that he can’t wait to see me and/or get his hands on me.

[Ed. Note:  That would never fucking happen in a million years, even if HorseKnuckle was not only the hottest man on the planet but also the last fucking man on the planet.]

I am correct.  It is my Registered Domestic Partner-thingy sending me a text.  To-mother fucking-wit:

RDP:  I am going to go out with [co-worker] for a bite to eat.

RDP:  Ok?

Me (in my head):  Absolutely.  I’m just at home right now COOKING YOU A DELICIOUS MEAL, YOU CUNT.

Me (in my head):  Don’t worry about me.  I’ve just been at home all day by myself talking to our two dogs who keep trying to avoid me talking to them by hiding in the basement so they can nap.  I’m fine.  You go out and have a great time and come home all full of yummy food and drunk from delicious, expensive bottles of wine that the company is going to pay for.

And then I remembered.  Today, a cute UPS guy knocked on my door and asked me to sign for not one, not two, but three BOXES of wine, including a Napa Valley wine you’ve never heard of along with a box of love from L’Ecole No. 41 and–are you sitting down right now?–a box from Cayuse.

So, I responded:

Me:  Ok.

Me:  I will stay home and drink all of the wine we received today.

Me (in my head):  So, fuck off.

So, if you think gay relationships are any different that straight relationships, you are FULL OF SHIT and/or wine, like me.  Which is why you should support full marriage equality for gay Washingtonians, because–for better or worse, as they say–we are exactly like you.

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Picture this.  It’s Friday night.  My domestic partner-type-thing is on a 777 somewhere over Europe on his way to a destination 12.5 hours in the future.  FOR A WEEK!  He said, “Have a great week,” which I think means that I can do whatever I want.  The world is my oyster.  Added bonus: my hair looks fucking fantastic tonight, and I went for a run today so I would fit into my extra-tight jeans.  Friday night, your ass is mine, and my ass is yours.  So to speak.

NEWSFLASH!  I have nowhere to go and no plans whatsoever.  So, for this particular installment of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM), I offer you the following recap of my Friday night events, in no particular order.  Wait, now that I re-read this mess, it’s totally in order.  Whatever.

  • At 4:45 p.m., after my run, I sat in GOD AWFUL traffic trying to get downtown.  A trip that would normally take 10 minutes took nearly 40 minutes.  40 minutes of pure, unadulterated HELL ON EARTH.
  • You:  “Why on earth would anyone get in a car and try to go anywhere in Seattle at 4:45 p.m. on a Friday night?”  Me:  “Shut your pie hole, hater.”  I had to go downtown to pick up several bankers’ boxes of files from my former employer.  I chose this particular day and time in order to avoid most of the people who still work there.  Naturally, I ran into every mother fucker that I hated working with on the sidewalk, in the building lobby, on the elevator, and at the god damn reception desk.  Fuck me.
  • At 5:45 p.m., I returned to my car, where I decided to avoid I-5 as my route home.  Instead, I made the dreaded/dreadful mistake of cutting through downtown Seattle on 4th Ave. to Highway 99.  You:  “I don’t live in Seattle, what the fuck are you talking about?”  Me: “Have you heard of the GOD DAMN OCCUPY MOVEMENT?”  I drove smack-dab into the middle of Seattle’s bullshit version of it.  When they say, “Fuck my life,” they are talking about my life.
  • You: “What did you have for dinner?”  Me:  “Well, after having one glass of Dom Perignon 1966 (look it up, bitches) and pouring the rest in the toilet, I feasted on Russian Caviar and Kobe beef on a bed of squid-ink marinated fettuccine with a side of fiddleheads, washed down with glass upon glass of Leonetti Cab Sauv.  And don’t even get me started on dessert.”
  • Ok.  Fuck.  That’s a lie.  I had god damn pancakes and eggs for dinner.  AND IT WAS DELICIOUS!  With milk.  Non-fat, obviously, because I’m gay.  Followed by handfuls of Trader Joe’s stupidly delicious chocolate chips, which I tried to barf up later, obviously, because I’m gay.
  • You:  “Then what did you do?”  Me:  “Besides trying to have some human interaction with my very close friends on Twatter, you mean?  Well, I took several ‘Canadian Tylenols’ (if you know what I mean), which I washed down with at least one entire bottle of red wine.  AT. LEAST.”
  • You:  “And then?”  Me:  “Jesus Christ on a rubber crutch, you bitches are nosey.  Ok.  Earlier in the day, I took the dogs to the vet because they needed some shot or something and the old one (we call him ‘Oldy Moldy’) had a skin infection.  So, I have been sitting at home making sure he isn’t allergic to his antibiotic while trying to keep his festering wounds clean and drained.  The young one (who we call ‘Insane Rat Face’) has a clean bill of health but is a monster, to wit (see adorable pic):”

    Insane Rat Face

    Insane Rat Face

  •  [I know, I know.  Insane Rat Face is stupidly perfect and adorable, just like her daddy.]
  • You:  “And then what?”  Me:  “And then I spent the rest of the night answering question after question from you, dumbass.”
  • You:  “So now what?”  Me:  “Um.  Really?  1) A lonely gay man; 2) home alone; 3) soaked in wine; 4) alone; 5) with unfettered access to the Internets; 6) and a 27 inch monitor; 7) with plenty of Canadian Tylenol; 8 ) alone; and 9) randy (as in Australian randy–again, look it up).  YOU DO THE MATH!

Any other questions?

P.S.  I’m here all week.  ALONE!  Fuck.  Except for Oldy Moldy and Insane Rat Face, but they understand daddy’s need for hot, muscular, athletic, wealthy, intelligent male company.

P.P.S.  I’ll save you a Canadian Tylenol and a glass of milk.  I mean wine.  Or whatever you like to drink with your pain-killers.

P.P.P.S.  Please do not disappoint me.

UPDATE:  I connected with one of the 17.5 people who follow this mess of a blog.  I even stopped mid-stroke in order to save myself for his arrival, only to discover HE IS 10,000 LIGHT YEARS AWAY FROM ME RIGHT NOW!  Who knew the Internets were international.

Extravagant, indeed.

[Confidential to M from SEA: Come home to mama.]

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In this episode of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM), it is Friday night at 10:00p.  Me and the Reg.Dom.Partner are in bed with our 8 year old neice and two 60 lb. dogs watching something that looks like a square, yellow sponge wearing pants and that laughs like its having a grand mal.  She (the neice, not the sponge thing) is here for the weekend from points south, and tomorrow we are going to pick up our two year old twins from the Mamas and take an over-night road trip in a mini van packed with diapers and baby butt creams and enough gear to keep us alive for a month to visit family for the weekend.  Shocking and scandalous, I know.

And you know the most freaking ridiculous part?  We’re excited, and so is every single member of our very “New Millenium” family.  The mamas, the papas, the in-laws, the grand-parents, the siblings, the friends, and mostly, all the kids.

Crazy damn gays and their Extravagant Gay Lifestyles (TM).

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