TMI Questions: Randomness

“Let's get unconscious, honey,

Let's get unconscious…”

- Bedtime Story by Björk/Nellee Hooper/Marius De Vries

Randomness. Perfectly describes my life plan.  And my man plan!

Yep, it’s all out of left field for me (although I’ve a fondness for pitchers).  Actually, these days I am frequently amazed that I am able to finish a complete sentence, let alone a blog entry.  My energies are so scattered.  My allergies are acting up.  And with temps dipping ever lower, a full week of gray skies and intermittent rain, and the falling of the leaves, I find myself drifting into a kind of mental hibernation.  A pre-winter stupor, if you will.

But never fear!  Sean is here.  With this week’s TMI Questions.

Thank you, Sean.  Some weeks I don’t know what I would write about without you.

TMI QUESTIONS:

Questions designed to reveal Too Much Information

Link: http://tmiquestions.blogspot.com/

TMI Questions: Randomness

Could you go the rest of your life without smoking a cigarette?

I could. Now.

Smoked for ten years.  Started during my first main stage show in college (Taming of the Shrew).  The woman that played Kate to my Petruchio smoked Virginia Slim Menthols.  We were the last to go on for curtain call, so she would have set up in the shop area, an open bottle of Tab (does that age me?), one cigarette, and a lighter.  She would light up, take a drag, and then a sip of the Tab.  I was a newbie in the department and she took me under her wing, which means she offered me a ‘puff’ (and was also the first person to French kiss me). To this day, I hate menthol (makes me dizzy), but I sure took to smoking.  By the next show (Hedda Gabler, she, in the title role, I, as her myopic spouse, George) I was smoking a pack a day and bumming cigs left and right, as I could not really afford to smoke. 

It was an awful ten years.

I tried to quit a million times, almost since the day I had started.  What did it?  I was in a summerstock production of ‘The Music Man’, playing Marcellus Washburn (should have been cast as Harold Hill).  When it came time to choreograph ‘Shipoopi’, my vision clashed with the choreographer’s – a chain smoking queen who always wore tap shoes!  I wanted to do a sort of manic Donald O’Connor homage (see ‘Make ‘Em Laugh’), playing to the audience while dancing solo in front of the chorus (which left the actress playing Ethel Toffelmier little to do). My bad.  So, I choreographed my own routine and then showed it to the choreographer, who, smoking yet another cigarette, said, “Well, I suppose you could do that, if you didn’t smoke.”  That pissed me off, so I replied, “Okay.  I quit.”  And I did.  Smoking, that is.

Just shows that I will go to great lengths when really pissed off.

Since that time, I’ve come to detest smoking.  It’s nasty.  Smells bad, gives one horrible breath, it clings to your clothes, and smokers tend to treat the world as their ashtray, throwing their butts on the ground or flinging them out of moving vehicles.  I once had the SUV in front of me empty his vehicle’s ashtray while traveling 40 MPH, forcing me to drive through all of his butts and ashes.  I caught up to him at the next light and we proceeded to have a rather ‘adult’ conversation.  Unsurprisingly, he was offended that I took offense and after calling me every name in the book tried to hock a loogie at my car.  Fucker. 

See?  Smoking is an inconsiderate habit.  It promotes uncivil behavior.

And, yes, it is very addictive.  But, hey… people stop drinking booze, they stop taking heroin, they control their eating, they control the number of people they fuck (well, some do), so… get over yourselves and quit already.

Take up 420 instead.

Are you single / taken / heartbroken / confused?

All the above.

What if I told you that you were handsome/pretty?

My first thought would be… bullshit.  Then I’d wonder what it is you actually wanted from me.   I would assume a compliment in return, which would fly out of my mouth without so much as a moment’s reflection.  “No, you’re the one that’s handsome.” 

I find compliments in general hard to take, but those of a physical nature distress me – due to the bullshit factor.  I will play that game, if you insist on starting it, but I find the whole thing rather alienating and disconcerting.

People that start conversations that way?  Focusing on physical attributes?  Well, that’s going to be a pretty short conversation, as in, my interest in you will dim almost immediately.  That type of shallowness isn’t attractive.  And how people, who base their relationships or potential relationships on such, get laid is beyond my comprehension.  They must find each other and morph into an even shallower unit.

Everything is temporary.   And if time has taught me anything, it’s that physical beauty has a short shelf life. (Not true of anal lube.  Thank heavens!)

Ever been told “it’s not you, it’s me”?

Is this question about STD’s?  Cuz, I swear, it was NOT me.

Huh?  No?  Oh.

I’m sure I have, perhaps not in those exact words, but that pretty much summed up what the speaker meant.  It doesn’t faze me anymore – it’s like my ‘feelings’ have been botoxed for life.

My knee jerk reaction is always : ‘there’s something wrong with me, let me fix it’.  Because there is something wrong with me; I always want to ‘fix’ it. 

But, let’s face it; a person who uses such a lame excuse to get out of a relationship was never in a relationship to begin with.  “It’s not you, it’s me,” is in reality code for: “I got what I wanted out of this relationship.  Now, please get the hell out of my life.” 

The same is true for “We’re in different places,” which roughly translates to: “You value me, and I can see why, but I don’t value you at all.”  People who end relationships this way are incapable of being honest with others or themselves.  It’s a sad and cowardly way to find the exit door – especially if it is a long-term relationship and the words “I love you,” have been spoken by both parties.

But, hey… we live in a shorthand society where people can’t be bothered to type ‘are you’ and, substitute ‘R U’.  It’s only a matter of time before breaking up with someone is as simple as sending your beloved the appropriate emoticon. 

Yep, Momma may have raised a fool, but I ain’t one no more.  I guess that’s why, these days, I always assume that ‘hello’ means ‘good-bye in twenty minutes or as soon as I nut, whichever comes first’.

In a way, it’s a tremendous relief. 

I’ve saved a fortune on monogrammed towels and renting U-Hauls.

Are you interested in anyone right now?

Is that a proposition?

Hmmm?  No.  Oh.

Umm.  Well, there is this black dude that answered a Craigslist ad of mine who goes by the handle, ‘Hard Top’.  He wanted my ass ready at 9:30 pm last night for some serious pounding.  His response sent my heart aflutter.  Of course things didn’t work out as planned and we didn’t get to do the deed, but I do hope he hits me up again soon.  He knows where my garage is now.

Then, there is this couple – one white/one black (why is that important?), who want a threeway with me as piggy-in-the-middle.  I am interested, but, so far, our schedules have not meshed. 

Mr. Big is back in my life.  He stood me up on Friday (stuck in traffic).  I put him off on Monday (allergies acting up).  We are on for Thursday.  I am sort of looking forward to it.  I don’t know.  I guess that first kiss will tell.

There is the sweetest 23 year old black man that I played with a week ago.  We text back and forth and I am hoping for a repeat.  He has a really nice dick and is just sweet as can be.  Such a cutie.  He must have a thing for old, ugly white guys.  No, I’m not going to ask.

Oh, and there is this odd, bird-like dude with a leather fetish who is a dom top into watersports.  We are texting, like old buddies, now, but have yet to hook-up.  Fingers crossed.

Is that what you meant by ‘interested’?  Because, for me, that lovey-dovey shit has gone the way of the 8-track tape, the Walkman Discman, palm pilots, dial-up modems, VCRs, phone booths, modesty, personal boundaries, and floppy dicks… er, I mean, discs.

Plenty of floppy dicks to go around, am I right, fellas?

Still, if I met the right man… (gag reflex induced).

What are you looking forward to in the next week?

An end to the government shut down and getting fucked – which, in light of what the Republicans are trying to do?  Pretty much the same thing. 

Do you want to be single/married/in a relationship?

Yes.

I’ll have one of each.

Do they come in different colors?

Have you pretended to like someone?

Well.  If they have something that I want, then, I really do like them, so I don’t think ‘pretending’ is the correct verb. For instance, if they have a really big dick, then there are all sorts of verbs that do apply, but ‘pretending’ is not one of them.

I have become rather pessimistic about this whole relationship thing.  It frequently feels more like an exchange of goods and services than it does human interaction.  I realize that the many chips on my shoulders play a large part in this outlook, but, at this point in my life, I really don’t think the ‘butterfly of love’ is going to be flying up my ass any time soon, so… what’s the harm in feigning a little interest? 

You see, this is where gin plays an important part in one’s life.  The pickling process tends to smooth out some of the rougher edges of my prickly personality.  As I grow older (and older, and older), hopefully the occasional martini will allow others to consider me a ‘real character’ (as in, “He is a real character, isn’t he?” or “He’s such a character”), as opposed to them referring to me as ‘that crabby old fuck in the corner who keeps trolling the mens room’.

Sigh.

Well, it’s important to have a vision for one’s life, now isn’t it?

Have you ever told somebody you loved them and not actually meant it?

Well, I meant it at the time.

When it comes to sexual role play, for me, as long as there is an understanding, then anything goes.  ‘The Girlfriend/Boyfriend Experience’ pretty much guarantees that those three little words are going to spill out. 

And then, there was this cute ginger dude that had me pegged as ‘Daddy’.  As the scene progressed and it was getting time for him to cum, I’d tell him how much ‘Daddy’ loved his ‘boy’, before adding ‘Now fuck Daddy!   Seemed to send him over the edge every time.  We saw each other on and off for two years.  What the hell ever happened to him?

As for those three little words… in the words of Madonna, “They've gone out, lost their meaning. Don't function anymore”. 

“Traveling, traveling, I'm traveling…”

Bonus 

Are you better at giving oral sex or receiving oral sex?

Is THAT a proposition?  (Sean, honestly, you keep sending these mixed signals…)

So… what would you guess my answer would be?  If you know me at all?

Well, you’d be right.

Having a dude suck my cock?  Eh.  I’ll let them chew on it for a bit, if that gets them off, and while I am more than willing to shoot my load down their throat, other than the high of the orgasm, the whole thing leaves me rather cold.  And wet.  And, if they’re a smoker, it really smells bad.

On the other hand…

I am good.  So good, I can think of only two sex bloggers that I know of that even come close to matching my cock sucking skills (you know who you are).  Challenge: at the convention next year, let’s have a contest.  I have no idea how anyone would judge it (Speed? Technique?  Volume?), but I do like the idea of a contest.  How about it, Bikeguy13?  Care to go knee to knee?  Take on all cummers?

What? 

There is no convention?  

Well then what were all those men doing in my hotel room?

Oh. 

Anyway…

I do not claim to be good or great at anything, but I am one hell of a cocksucker.  It is one of the few skills I possess.  And I was born into it.  Seriously, the first dude I ever blew couldn’t believe I hadn’t been doing it all my life.  He said I was a natural born cocksucker, I kid you not.  And given that he was something of a total whore, I took it as high praise. 

If the internet existed back then, I could have put those skills to good use.  But, alas, I was a naïve thing, prone to believing everything the Catholic Church and Shirley Temple movies taught me.  

Yes, my friends, it seems I was destined to give it away for free.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea.  Sucking cock is no different than doing drag.  Hell yes, you better work it!  Practice, practice, practice.  Those knees don’t develop calluses all on their own.  You can’t overcome tongue-lock until you’ve experienced it a good hundred times.  And that gag reflex thing?  Ha!  Everybody’s born with that.  Don’t think you still have one?  Try sitting through an episode of ‘The Arsenio Hall Show’, ‘Two and a Half Men’, or ‘Modern Family’.  Those’ll kick it in, all right.

Yes, heavy lies the uvula that wears the crown, but cock sucking is serious business.  It even comes with its own credit card! 

And spit or swallow?  Is that even still an option?  Come on, I’m not working for nothing, here.

But I love, love, love it.  That wonderful, full feeling you get in your throat when you’ve swallowed every inch and end up lips to pubic mound.  Yeah, I know, my mother wouldn’t be very proud of her son, but then, Momma’s not exactly foremost in my thoughts when chowing down on some fine filet-men-young. And Momma don’t pay the rent no more, no more.

If universities had departments devoted to the art of cock sucking I would have earned myself honorary degrees at all of them by now (and actual degrees at a few – hey, Professor, I earned those credits the old fashioned way).

To find out what happens to old cock suckers, simply visit your local shopping mall (do those still exist?) or public park.  Yep.  There you’ll find me.  Lurking in the bushes or the handicap stall, smelling of cheap gin and Olay Anti-Wrinkle Mature Skin Night Firming Cream.

Well, cream of one kind or another, for sure.

And all that you've ever learned,
Try to forget.

I'll never explain again…

Bedtime Story - Madonna