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Tuesday, July 30, 2013

TMI: That’s So Funny I Forgot to Laugh!

Laughter is the best medicine.  It’s good for what ails you.  Being funny or clever used to be very important to me, but I rarely laugh these days.  I’m not sure when it died.  But I do know that if you are lucky enough to find someone that makes you laugh and you, in turn make them laugh?  Hold on to them, treat them well – they are a precious commodity.

I should have married Don Knotts when I had the chance.

Questions designed to reveal Too Much Information

That’s So Funny I Forgot to Laugh!

Do you have a good laugh? Do you like it?

I have a goon laugh.  I used to really enjoy it.  But then, as I grew up, people made fun of it, so I am less likely to let myself go to that extreme.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time something made me laugh so hard I goon-ed out.

I don’t like that laugh ( I do, but can’t admit it).

I liked my Dad’s laugh.  He laughed like ‘Popeye the Sailor Man’.  Not on purpose, that was just how he laughed.

And I love laughing, just as much as I enjoy a good cry. I think both keep us rounded and human.  It’s a matter of balance.  

Do you have a sense of humor? What kind?

I finally developed one in my mid-thirties – a sense of humor about myself, anyways. 

Before that people would tell me I was always ‘so serious’ – and I was. My few attempts at humor before that point were always misfires or got me labeled as ‘weird’.  In high school, the only people that ‘got me’ were the dudes I played with in bands.  They thought I was freaking hilarious, because I would touch on inappropriate things.

One of my idols at the time was Iggy Pop of the Stooges.  Of course I was naïve and had no idea that most of his madness was chemically induced.  David Bowie was also a huge influence – and he was considered ‘serious’ at the time, as was most of the music that I was attracted to that was not pop, dance, funk, or R&B. 

This same group of guys fell into a habit of, rather than going on dates, holing up in this little homemade studio one of the wealthier dudes had and we would record these sketch shows – radio programs, I guess.  We all developed a catalogue of characters (my favorite was ‘The Gutter Rat’) and would improvise different story lines.  Sometimes we would call the local radio station in Austin, MN and we would play stuff out on the air.

So, one would think that would have prepared me to be ‘funny’, but it only prepared me to be ‘weird’.  Being ‘weird’ is a hard road.  Rather than be thought of as odd, I opted to be taken seriously, which meant I was big on discipline and had a tough work ethic.  My ‘weirdness’ is probably one of the reasons I remained in theatre as long as I did.  It was easy to hide in those big black boxes, disappearing behind words someone else wrote.

My comedy style on stage was always over-the-top.  My idols for stage comedy were Jerry Lewis, Danny Kaye, and Don Knotts.  Growing up, I thought they were the bomb.  Needless to say, not every director agreed.  My talents were not always appreciated and I ended up being reigned in an awful lot (think Imogene Coca, Red Skelton, Carol Burnett).  Still, when in performance, I would go with my instincts and definitely get more than my share of laughs.  I destroyed a lot of productions that way, in particular a dinner theatre production of ‘Last of the Red Hot Lovers’.  I looked like a young Vincent Price (jet black hair and beard), but behaved like a loon.  In those days, we took our Neil Simon pretty seriously (the new Shakespeare). Of course now I realize that most of his work was nothing more than sitcom fodder, so in hindsight, no harm / no foul.

My inability to articulate my sense of humor is one of the reasons I prefer writing.  I’m not a think-on-my-feet kind of wit.  With writing, you have the opportunity to self-edit and hone your material before presenting it.  In the real world, I frequently fail to succinctly communicate my intent and therefore tend to end up being misunderstood.  While it’s hardly failsafe, writing gives me a better shot at hitting the bulls-eye on occasion.

How important is a sense of humor in a mate?

If you spend any amount of time with me, you better have a great sense of humor, because I tend to be rather dark and that requires balance.  Only one of my partners managed this quite well.  He could always poke holes in my rather bleak outlook and help me see how ridiculous I was being.  Sure, I got angry with him for it on occasion, but, again, in hindsight, he handled me perfectly. 

I like clever people.  I enjoy being around them.  Make me laugh and you will win my heart and loyalty (and maybe a trip inside my pants). 

I had a very good friend (20 years’ worth) and we never failed to crack each other up, usually doing a riff on ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ or some other play. And then one day the laughter stopped. And I still don’t know why.

Are you attracted to one type of humor over another?

Yes.  I enjoy acerbic, sardonic, cerebral stuff.  Clever is very attractive.  Intellectual humor makes me feel smart.  Snarky stuff holds appeal for me, too, but it’s limited because it tends to be so caustic.

But I’m not a snob.  I see value in the prat fall antics of Jerry Lewis. However, I’ve never been able to grant Jim Carey the same regard.    

Crude and gross stuff rarely does anything for me. 

Can being really funny make an "unfortunate looking" person sexy and attractive to you?

Sometimes.  I think Don Knotts is sexy as hell, until he joined ‘Three’s Company’ and started wearing mumus.  

I actually think dorks are hot.  And I don’t mean nerds.  A dork with a clever sense of humor will have me reaching for their junk every time. But dork does not age well.  I guess dorks morph into goons after a point.  Which means, I guess, I was a dork before I was a goon.

P.S.  Goons need love, too.

Fart jokes are_______!


I dislike them and keenly dislike that type of humor.  Any time you see a fart joke it’s because the writers have run out of ideas or never had a viable one to begin with.

My dislike for fart jokes probably has to do with my older brother.  Growing up, he was gross and mean (wah, wah, wah), using his bodily gasses as a weapon. 

I fucking hated him for it.

Do you embarrass easily?

Yes.  Which is why for so long I had no sense of humor about myself.  None at all.

Now, I’m much better about seeing the humor in embarrassing situations, or situations at my expense, but it still may take me a moment. 

I have always focused on the ‘why me’ aspect of an embarrassing situation, rather than the, ‘of course it’s me’ of a situation.  Having been a goon for most of my life, one would think I’d have recognized the importance of validating the latter and enjoying the laugh, but I can be rather thickheaded when it comes to altering my perceptions. It took me a long-ass time to come as far as I have, and, much to my chagrin, I still have my less than enlightened moments.

Yes, I’m a big fucking baby. (wha, wha, wha)

Do you tend to wear silly t-shirts? Do you have a favorite?

I have a collection of silly t-shirts, or ones that I consider silly.  They sit, neatly folded on a shelf and I never ever wear them.  But I buy them, usually used, at rummage sales, or they are given to me as gifts. 

My favorite is one of Stewie Griffin from ‘Family Guy’ modeling a diaper and says ‘You know you want me!’  I have never worn it.

I do have a Piggly Wiggly grocery store tee that I wear out to bars on the rare occasion that I go.  It is black with a white logo.  On the front is the familiar pig’s head logo and beneath, it says ‘Piggly’, and on the back is a pig’s behind with the word ‘Wiggly’.  It never fails to get me a hug, a kiss, or a tug. I love the shirt, partly because the grocery store chain has no idea how that tee translates in the gay world.

The truest to character silly tee that I own?  In a kind of horror/splatter-script it reads: “I live in my own world. I like it here and they know me.”

Do you make faces or strike a pose when having your picture taken?

No.  In fact, I rarely smile at all.  When I do, I resemble Sheldon (‘The Big Bang Theory’) attempting to be happy for someone.  Yes, it’s truly gruesome to behold.  

Which is the funniest movie you've seen?

I enjoy the unintentionally ridiculous.  The Mystery Science Theatre 3000 series is a blast, for the sole reason that many of the films they skewer were made with the intent to strike fear or wonderment in the hearts of the audience. 

I enjoy the early films of John Waters.

Oh – ‘Zombieland’!  Loved that movie and was kind of hoping for a sequel.  See ‘Zombieland’. That is my kind of apocalypse (sans Twinkies).

Do clowns scare you or make you laugh?

Real clowns scare me (the way drag queens used to).  I no longer fear drag queens, though on occasion I may refer to them as scary clowns. 

The physical comedy of clowns has never appealed to me.  I do love watching them chase people.  They are kind of like zombies.

I love creepy, cheap, plastic Halloween masks from the 50’s and 60’s – the kind held in place by an elastic string.  The more faded and beaten up, the better.  But then, I enjoy a good scare.

What's the funniest thing to happen to you while having sex?

I’ve seen other people’s wallets, cell phones, and blackberries fall in toilets while fooling around in mens rooms.  I don’t recall laughing at the time, but I can see how that could be construed as funny (or, maybe, merely unfortunate).

I’ve walked away from encounters wondering where the used condom ended up, only to discover it stuck to the center of my back.  That might be thought of as funny (or merely gross).

A rather amorous dude once stuck his tongue up my nose and began licking out the inside of my nostrils.  I think I broke out laughing and told him to knock it off (that was gross).

I get giddy sometimes right after sex, especially if it is really intense, or if there were good poppers involved and the sex was really intense (but that’s more gleeful than funny).

I guess I take my sex too seriously.


What a goon.

Monday, July 29, 2013

The Further Adventures of the Little Whore On the Prairie: Four Ways to Sunday, Part One

My weekends have been so busy with work, the rental properties, the dogs, household stuff, mowing lawns, and checking in on my parents that I have had little time to do anything that is not on my task list.  Sunday afternoons are the sole exception.  Around 1:00 in the afternoon, I get to call the shots for a few hours, and it being summer, that naturally means I use that time to escape to the prairie.

The prairie is in exceptional shape this year.  The powers to be at the Parks and Wrecks Department have left it alone for the most part.  Also, the police presence has been minimal.  One can attribute this inattention to the fact that things at the prairie are not what they were; many of the old guard have opted out, some make an appearance, but it is just to bemoan how things have changed, while the new kids on the block seem only interested in moving around the perimeter of the field on their bikes in the hopes of seeing some action.   Attendance has been sparse, to say the least.

A quiet prairie isn’t a bad thing.  I rather enjoy being there by myself.  Last week, on a cloudy Wednesday, I had the place all to myself and had a marvelous time.   The prairie is at its peak right now, and there is something supremely serene to be found, hidden among its tall grasses and magnificent foliage.  

And, yes, on rare occasion, there is also something else to be found there; something more supreme, though less serene, like the scene that came together on a Sunday afternoon two weeks ago.

I arrived and put my stuff in my usual spot.  On a slight slope, it overlooks the whole prairie to the east while still allowing me to keep an eye on the woods to the west.  There are a few bodies about and I notice a number of recently hewn niches that have been carved out in the tall grass.  The sun is quite brilliant, with only the slightest of breezes keeping things from becoming uncomfortable. 

Typically I slip off my shorts and slip on my Pistol Pete jock.  It’s become my go-to piece to wear on the prairie.  I like the way the straps frame my ass.  The grass is so tall, I really have no fear of being seen and could go completely nude, but that frequently invites unwanted pawing, so I keep my naughty bits covered (for the most part).  Today, however, I opt to go commando while wearing my long black shorts.

After checking my ass to make sure it’s fuck-ready, I make my way down the path to the west, toward the woods to see who might be lurking about.  In a small enclave to the right of the path, I see a familiar face setting up camp; I call him The Great Dane.  We fuck once a year, here at the prairie, and this is the first time I’m laying eyes on him this year.
He’s a tall drink of water, at least 6’4”, thin, but something solid about him.  He’s obviously been hitting the gym because his pecs look good (not sagging) and those pesky saddlebags that gravity plants at the lower back seem to have melted a bit.  He’s my age, bald/balding, with a quick smile and a rock-solid chin.  His dick is nice sized, 9”, reasonably thick with a nice set of low hangers swinging beneath.  I really dig his legs; long and muscular.  His thighs are particularly impressive.  If there’s a downside to him it’s his… general odor?  Taste?  Or maybe it’s just his breathe.  Honestly, I don’t what it is, but it reminds me of room temperature milk: a not unpleasant smell/taste, but there’s a warm sweetness to it that doesn’t sit well with me for long.  That might explain why we only play once a year.

Oh, and then there’s that other thing: a kind of unctuousness to his personality, a certain kind of enthusiasm that makes for awkward physical mishaps while in the pursuit of happiness; a knee in my eye socket, an elbow to my lower back: the kinds of things that happen when transitioning from position to position too quickly.  Sometimes it’s like making out with an overly-hyper Great Dane puppy. 

I let him know I’ll be right back to say ‘hello’, once I take a stroll about.  With that, I head to the southwest corner, the most popular niche for gathering.  Here I perform a little greeting ritual, letting the prairie and woods know that I really appreciate them.  This consists of raising my hands as high into the air as I can and telling Mother Nature that I love her.   I do this when there is no one else about.  However, that is not the case today.

Hidden in the niche stands my little friend, the one with the odd scars on his shoulders that make it look like he had his wings surgically removed.  We played once in late June.  He’s very pretty; doe-like eyes, sort of a younger Elijah Wood.  Our first encounter was rather sweet and touching.  I’m always careful when playing with men much younger than myself; not to push, not to rush.  This one requires a degree of gentleness I find refreshing.  He’s very sensitive, but very sexual.  In June, we kissed and I sucked on him until he pulled out of my mouth and shot the most amazing load of the summer.  I love it when a dude shoots really far – it’s my personal favorite kind of fireworks. 

We’ll call him Elijah. Elijah is happily showing hard and invites me to get busy at once.  Well, who am I to disagree.  I greet him with a quick peck on the mouth before moving south in order to get to work on his pecker.  It’s 7”, and very pretty, like the rest of him.  I love making him shiver and shudder – in a good way.  I’m enjoying my work, with my hands getting busy on his magnificent ass, flat abs, and sweet nipples.  The globes of his ass are really something and I have no doubt that he probably gets asked to bottom frequently.  Yes, it’s that sweet.
After sucking on him for about ten minutes, he gets antsy.  So I stand and let him play with my dick, which he always treats like he’s touching a rare and precious object.  We continue to kiss, and between kisses, he tells me he’s concerned about someone walking up on us.  Bolting suddenly, he’s convinced someone is, indeed, approaching.  I look out onto the prairie and see no one, but hey, that’s cool.  I got someone waiting back in the field. 

Without contradicting Elijah, I walk back toward The Great Dane, who’s lying naked on his back, playing with his sizable cock, his legs spread wide.  With a wicked grin, he invites me in.  I drop my shorts before dropping between his legs to start sucking his semi-hard dick.   It comes to life in no time and he starts talking about me sitting on it.  I consider it.  He’s also making noise about wanting to sit on mine.  I move up and start kissing him.  Yep, same taste.  I grind our cocks together for a bit and then suddenly he sits up.  Seems Elijah has followed me. A devilish little smile is playing on his sweet face and we gesture for him to join us. 

The Great Dane and I move to the back of the pod.  The grass is tall, but not as tall as I would like it.  People on the main path to our west can definitely see the tops of our heads.   This causes me a bit of concern, but not enough to bolt.

Elijah squats at the mouth of the enclave and whips out his dick.  The Great Dane lurches forward to grab it, elbowing me in the ribs as he does.  Elijah falls backwards, in response to The Great Dane’s lunge.  Apparently, Elijah is only interested in watching and jerking.  I can live with that, and The Great Dane will have to, as well.  The Great Dane and I morph into a 69 position, allowing Elijah (who is all eyes now) maximum viewing.  With a full mouth, out of the corner of my eye I watch Elijah jerk his dick.  It kind of surprises me.  Elijah is typically much shyer than this.   

The Great Dane has now moved into a position where he is munching my ass.  I haul myself up, so my knees are on each side of his shoulders and sit square on his face.  This puts me face to face with Elijah, who leans in and gives me a chaste, kiss.  That leads to me going down again on Elijah’s cock.  And this is the thing that I learn with Elijah: if my attention is on his cock, and not his eyes, it leaves his eyes free to look around and he gets paranoid.

But then, given our location, he has good reason to keep hyper aware of his surroundings.  Other dudes are walking by and even I am suddenly feeling a bit obvious.  Moving my ass off The Great Dane’s face, I come up for air. There’s a thin dude with black hair wearing neon biking lycra standing on the main path, to our west, staring at us.  At least I think he’s staring; he’s wearing a pair of wrap-around black shades, so it’s hard to tell.  He looks cute, handsome even, and very aerodynamic.  Sensing we’re on to him, he starts to move south. 

The Great Dane grabs me and pulls me into him, so we’re lying side by side, spooning.  Suddenly I feel a bit too out in the open.  My eyes search about for my shorts which are behind Elijah, near the mouth of the enclave.  There is no way I could make a quick recovery, even if I wanted to.  With this thought, something in me relaxes – in for a penny, in for a pound.  So, I just go with it. 

The Great Dane is rubbing his big nine incher along the crack of my pre-lubed hole.  It’s been awhile, so I reach back with a moistened finger to check - not only the lube - but to also make sure my hole is clean.  It passes the test on both accounts.  The Great Dane takes this as a go, and soon I am feeling the head of his dick pressing open my pucker.  I ask him to go slow.  As I do, I glance over to Elijah, whose eyes are now rapt with excitement, as he continues to work his dick his hand.
The perimeter of my hole, now breached, The Great Dane takes this as a sign that I am ready for more… a lot more.  He presses me tightly against him and pushes his hips up and forward and with them his dick, which now feels like it is splitting me in two.  It hurts, to the point where I almost pull away from him, but he holds me fast, kissing the back of my neck.  

After what feels like an eternity, I open up and relax.  That’s when The Great Dane gets really busy and a bit loud.  Soon he’s rolling on top of me, forcing me face down, before pulling my torso up and  forcing me on all fours until he’s behind me, doing me doggy-style.  Dude is tall, but not thin, so he is strong and his thrusts pack a mighty wallop.
Elijah takes pity on me and hands me a bottle of poppers, which I take a hit off of.  The Great Dane is now going to pound town on my hole.   I am half on the blanket and half in the weeds.  My left knee is being ground into the stiff, broken shafts of grass.  

Suddenly, The Great Dane stops.  I look up and to my right.  It’s the dude in the neon biking lycra.  He’s walked into our enclave, and pulled his shorts down, revealing a nicely packed neon yellow thong/jock.  The Great Dane leans over and mouths the pouch.  Mr. Lycra doesn’t need any further invitation, he hauls out his semi-hard 8” cock and feeds it to The Great Dane, who resumes sliding his pole in and out of my hole…

End of Part One…  

Tune in Friday to catch the explosive finale!