This one time... at my porn job...

So I, in my immense wisdom and insatiable sexual curiosity, was searching on Craigslist back in December for a new job. It’s not that I don’t adore spending time with developmentally disabled children all day, it’s just that I feel that more people need to experience the loving touch of a little Bill in the their day. So anyway, I’m searching in all the usual spots on Craigslist. We’re looking at TV / Film / Video, Education, Art / Media / Design and finally a little Men Seeking Men if I get sidetracked. However, on this fateful December morn, I come across an ad looking for an “Adult Film Editor”. Seriously? Did someone really read my mind this morning and decide to make my little east coast boy dreams come true? I think that’s what happened. So I read on.

“Established adult film website in search of experienced video editor and right hand man. Must be comfortable in such an environment and have experience in linear editing systems. Compensation commensurate with experience. Starts ASAP.”

Well my friends, I got up from my uncomfortably lap-warming computer and proceeded to jig all around my room. I know, it was not much of a jig due to the size of my room (see previous entry) but it was still a jig and that in itself should not go unmentioned. After taking off my dancing shoes, I got back in my serious porn mindset and applied the hell out of that job. It was the most enthusiastic e-mail that I had ever sent. So enthusiastic I should’ve been taxed for the amount of exclamation points I abused. Well anyway, I sent the following message… seriously, I just copied the email and I’m even more embarrassed now that I’ve re-read it.

My name is Bill R@#(%) and I'm EXTREMELY THRILLED to have found your ad on craigslist! I'm a recent graduate of So and So College with a degree in Digital Media which renders me more than capable when it comes to computers and the such! I have experience editing, producing, acting, directing, choreographing, composing music,
storyboarding, filming and operating a camera! I've created music videos, documentaries, movie re-shoots, web pages, animated television shows and even some online flash cartoons!

Right now, I reside right next to Hackensack and am very much interested in this position because of my LOVE of PORN! I think porn is such a healthy expression of your sexuality and would love to be a part of the process in any way possible! Just recently, I've been downloading some porn and I've made some short pornographic music videos for some friends who don't have the same porn resources. So, I'm definitely into anything that will be thrown my way!

The letter continues on in the same sycophantic style and it only gets more and more needy sounding as it goes on so I’ve spared you that pain for now. So of course, I don’t get a reply from the e-mail even though I sent my resume along with a sexy headshot just for special effect. Gay, I know. Of course, I get antsy and send a second e-mail, basically a disguised forward of the first e-mail, and I finally get a reply from a man who we’ll call Renee. I choose Renee solely because of the feeling you get when you pronounce the name, knowing it belongs to a man who’s obviously not French and furthermore not suave enough to pull it off. But that’s his name as far as you’re concerned.

Renee calls me and we chit chat about what I’m into and what his company’s about and I’m all hair-twirling-bubble-gum-harajuku-girl on the other end. Because of the nature of the company, he feels that our first meeting should not take place at the office but at the local diner, something which is kind of odd but I let it go because I was excited about looking at naked people.

The next evening, I pull up to the Coach House Diner and I’m looking good and ready to edit porn. I’ve got my butt jeans on, my new a-little-too-expensive jacket and my laptop just in case I need to show some portfolio work. I walk into the diner and just like I was told, I go up to the guy at the register and ask him for “the boss”. You really don’t know how much of a tool I felt like just acknowledging that it’s acceptable for someone to label himself as ‘the boss’ in a place where he has no managerial clout whatsoever. But I sucked it up, imagining my rendering of a huge corporate ladder with “Saying the phrase (the boss)” imprinted upon the bottom rung. I tend to over-dramatize some of my life events but that’s how I get through my day.

I’m lead not three feet away to the counter where this huge white man is sitting next to a turkey dinner and a beer. Oh, how suburban of you, Renee. Here’s my vantage point: Blue plate turkey special sitting on the counter, covered in that khaki colored gravy that you know is from a can, next to an unnecessarily high mound of mashed/cubed potatoes covered in the same slop which oozes over to taint the watery corn/carrot mixture that’s been left untouched. Next to this culinary fantasy is my dream man. Renee is a man of about 39 I’d say and he’s not fond of personal appearances. He wears black easy fit jeans that aren’t really fitting all that easily and a plain black t-shirt with a pocket, the kind that makes your biceps look good if they’re not covered in a metric yard of cellulite. Renee’s arms were not being salvaged by his shirt. On the stool next to him is a huge matrix-like black pleather jacket that must’ve required at least three fake cows to complete its fabrication. But the sexiest part of the ensemble was definitely his ponytail. If you haven’t already, picture now this man who’s easily 300 pounds with a generous Claus-esque belly and is also sporting a pointy black goatee-thing which does little to mask his triple chin but matches nicely with his sexy bifocals. Now we can add on his pedophile ponytail, which comes complete with a widow’s peak of long locks of love.

So as you can imagine, I’m just in awe because I never thought I’d meet my life partner so early on in my days. We sit down at a booth in the back and we’re not lead by a waiter because ‘the boss’ doesn’t need a waiter to help him choose his table. Just the fact that I’m following this hulk of black down the narrow aisle and the physical juxtaposition of the two of us together makes every pair of eyes in the diner follow us to the back of the dining room. I’ve never felt sluttier. Well that’s a lie, but we’ll get to those stories some other time.

We chat. He seems cooler than he looks. He’s actually pretty chill and down to earth which makes me able to look past the creepy exterior. So I agree to take the job as an editor and I tell him I’ll stop by the office the next day to check out the work station and some of the previous projects. All is well. But I hadn’t seen the ‘office’ yet.

The next evening after chilling with the autistics all day, (sounds like an alternative emo band doesn’t it? The Autistics? No? Well fuck off then.) I arrive at the alleged office. It is not an office. It’s a residential home in suburban New Jersey and a dirty one at that. The front yard looks like it hasn’t been touched since leggings were in. Oops, scratch that. Sorority girls think that’s a good idea again. Anyway, you get the idea. It’s one of those homes with chipped paint, numberless mailboxes and weeds growing out of the windowsill flowerboxes. Very garden state. I ring the germy doorbell and after several more reluctant pokes at it, a short and comely girl/woman answers the door. She’s about 5’1”, round in the middle and very weathered. She looks like she could be about 45 but unfortunately her hair and clothes suggest mid-20s. She’s got this horrible Pennsylvania Dutch bob-haircut that’s dyed jet black and it clashes nicely with her grapefruit shade of lipstick. She’s also wearing one of those adorable Strawberry Shortcake baby tees that would’ve actually been adorable if it didn’t have pasta sauce and pit stains caked on it. Yum.

--Hi! I’m Bill. I’m here to see, um, Renee?
--Oh, hi. Hold on.

She shuts the door in my face and I can hear her bound up the stairs; the first clue of many that should’ve clued me in to just leave right then and there. But no, I was being optimistic that week. She reopens the door two minutes later.

--Ok, come in. He’s upstairs.

Oh my, what a hospitable little witch. She must get her charm from the remnants of fetal alcohol syndrome still swirling around in those veins. I make my way upstairs, checking out all the faux-goth decorations on the walls; wrought-iron chandeliers, handcuffs, cat-of-nine-tail whips, the usual. I open the door to the upstairs area and I’m immediately disappointed. There are three desks in this place; all of which are constructed of old doors upon cinderblocks. The Swedes at Ikea would be very upset. It’s not like their shit is hard to put together. Damn. This guy’s wallet must be tighter than my Tuesday night appointment.

Moving on, he offers to show me some of his past work for the website and as he says that, he pats this little stool that’s on the other side of his desk, right next to the mouse pad. >>Shudder / Gag<< So being the nice new guy that I am, I maneuver my way around the back of his desk paying special attention not to graze any part of this man’s circumference. I sit down on this precarious little perch and he begins to navigate the website, which unfortunately due to the contract I signed, must remain anonymous.

Not two seconds into the porn tour, I’m bombarded with more fetishes and leather toys than anyone could ever desire. I couldn’t even believe that there was such a huge market for such specific eccentricities. This particular company specializes in the tickling fetish. This basically deals with strapping someone down to a bed or some other restraint contraption and then tickling the hell out of them until they either cry, laugh, beg or cum. The videos that I wound up editing were focused mainly on girls.

One of my last videos I worked on involved this white trash blondie that my boss had ‘picked up’ at the 2006 Fetish Convention in Orlando a few months earlier. That’s right. These people are fucking legit. So this girl is supposedly famous in the fetish scene but I’d never heard of her before, principally because vag makes me vom. But I still did a fabulous job on the video as well as the trailer. She was famous because she had these amazingly sexually sensitive feet that got her off like nothing else I’ve ever seen. The video starts off with her being tied to a bed and then my boss, who is the tickler in the video and who also calls himself ‘Mysteryhands’, rounds all the usual bases. He starts off tickling the pits, the stomach, leaves the breasts alone because just seeing breasts jiggle while a girl is laughing is enough, apparently, to get off most guys who have this fetish anyway. He moves his way downtown to her thighs, her calves and finally he gets to her feet. Most of the actors I’ve seen just laugh when their feet are touched and Mysteryhands politely moves on to the next most ticklish area. However, this famous Floridian was much different. No lie, as soon as he gets to her feet, she starts letting out these deep ass moans comparable only to a female walrus in heat. It was unearthly.

After the entire video was edited, I reviewed it quickly to count the number of times this girl orgasms or claims to orgasm during the tickle session. I tallied 4 squirts just from foot tickling and putting the vibrator on the soles of her feet. She also came two more times from the vibrator in the usual area. And once from the vibrator touching her nipples. I was awestruck and semi-jealous at the same time. Not that I would ever want to cum from someone touching my feet because I just don’t think feet need to be touched while in bed, but because this girl could squirt on call. I could make so much money if I were able to do that. And what if I could maintain a steady stream of it strongly enough to levitate a small beach ball or something, you know? Like that concentrated stream of air at the Liberty Science Center that holds that beach ball in mid air? I could definitely join the circus then.

Sorry about that tangent. Anyway, he finishes showing me the web site and I go take a seat far from the reach of his ponytail while he prints out some independent contractor forms for me to sign. This is when the comely witch comes upstairs. She sits down next to me and we start some small talk and I end up asking her what she does here? Like is she an editor or just an office helper or a potion-mixer, etc? She says to me in the most casual tone you could ever imagine:

--Oh, I’m his slave.
--Oh! … That’s, uh, cool.

Apparently, this girl/woman lives with Renee and his wife, whom I’ve yet to meet, as their sex slave. Why didn’t the career center offer this on the checklist of professions? I would’ve been fucking set with a 401k and everything, training into the wee hours of the morning at frat parties all over campus. As it turns out, the slave performs all the sexual favors that are asked of her, stars in some of the web site’s videos and on top of all that, works part time at the makeup counter at Macy’s. She is a true working girl if I’ve ever seen one. In return for her domestic services, she lives free of charge in a permanent threesome. And of course, I’m wondering, what does she label that as on her resume? Could you imagine reading that one?

2002 to Present ---------- Professional Concubine ----------- Hackensack, NJ

It’s one thing to be a sex slave to a Russian czar or a Persian raja. Like I think that would be pretty cool because you’d get to wear these skanky but really gregariously ostentatious outfits embedded with the most precious of jewels and you’d feed grapes and capers to your master all day long in his steamy throne room / sin chamber. I could totally do that for like a month. But being a sex slave in Jersey is like being a zookeeper in Somalia. Everyone’s general reaction is just, “Ugh, I hope you at least took a shower.”

I stayed to work as a pornographic movie editor for about a month and a half. In that time span, I spent maybe two days a week at the office and made like $200. It was not worth my time nor my stress. But one day I just couldn’t take it anymore. This was the day I finished editing that video with the foot girl. As you may remember, Mysteryhands or my boss, was the designated tickler in that video. Now let me set up the scene for you.

I work at a desk that is out of my boss’s line of vision but close enough that he can lean forward and peer at what I’m doing. Also, he does not believe in headphones at all so every computer’s audio just blares around the office at the highest of volumes through the trashy boxy speakers that came with the PCs. So people are editing loads of porn and if anyone has ever edited before, it’s a very tedious process. You will watch any clip at least seven or eight times until you get the cut right and that’s being modest. So just imagine this environment of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and ‘oh yeah I’m gonna cums’ just floating around the office all day long. It’s enough to make anyone celibate for at least a couple days. Not ‘the boss’ though.

As I’m working on this one scene where he’s vibrating the soles of her feet, I have to keep repeating this one audio clip that I’m going to export to use later in the trailer. It’s of Mysteryhands saying, “Yeah, bitch, tell me how much you want it. Beg me for it. Let me see those tears.” It’s a disturbing enough clip to hear several times to begin with. But Renee is just so narcissistic that every time I replay the clip, he laughs out loud and then repeats the clip exactly as he says it in the video. So, I get to hear the dirty talk on the computer and then I get to hear it in my left ear for immediate, creepy playback. I was dealing with this.

What I couldn’t deal with was the following quote after several repetitions of the previous line.

--Damn, Bill, I’m so fucking hot in those videos. Like every time I watch them, it really gets me horny because I can remember how many times she came when I was touching her. Doesn’t it get you really horny just watching it?

He got up from his desk to tell me this wonderful tidbit. And as he did, I was able to notice the obviously protruding boner popping out of this guy’s black jean shorts. Eww. That was it. Hearing fat guys talk to foot fetish girls is one thing. Having fat guy boners pointing at me like an angry old nun is completely over the line.

I never went back to work after that day. And I’m glad I freed myself from that environment. It’s gone but it will never be forgotten. I still cringe any time I see diner turkey.


Bill Auditions for Blue Man Group; Vomiting Ensues.

It was Monday, March 5th and I was ready. All weekend I had been thinking about it and was semi-obsessing / picturing a new life for myself in Miami. I was a bit delusional, but sometimes that’s how you gotta be when an opportunity so juicy comes your way. But let’s go back to Friday when it all began.

It was Friday, March 3rd, and I was ready. I was driving to work and it was a little rainy out but that wasn’t about to get me down. What did, unfortunately, get me down was the car that pulled out slowly in front of me which lead to a nasty bang bang. This older fellow, we’ll call him Unk, decides to completely omit the meaning of STOP signs this day and sails through the middle of the road without a care in his geriatric world. Of course, I’m only going about 30MPH but I slam on the ole Taurus’ brakes and skid right into the side of his car with a resounding yet strangely satisfying crash.
In all honesty, the initial impact was exhilarating. I knew that it wasn’t my fault and it felt damn good hitting that fucking car. Poor Unk, however, was a bit disappointed, as he knew that there was no denying his complete lack of intelligence in the last five minutes. Well anyway, the front of my car is trashed. The bumper is in the street looking like a piece of the fuselage from “Lost” and there’s neon green anti-freeze just pouring from underneath my car and if you’ve never experienced that, you don’t want to. Anti-freeze looks like ectoplasm and it smells like imminent death. No visual aids necessary. Unk’s rear passenger-side door is bent in half like a faggot during Fleet Week and his rear tire is desperate for re-alignment. I get much satisfaction from watching him painfully move his squeakalicious vehicle to the side of the road.
Moving on in our story, insurance companies are called, cars are towed, blowjobs are given for auto-body repair discounts (or so I hear) and I rent a new car for the week while the Taurus gets a rhinoplasty. But, while I am at Freedom Rentals, I suddenly get a mysterious phone call from an unknown number! If it had still been stormy at the time, lightning would’ve struck and someone would’ve been stabbed in the back by a butler, but it had cleared up substantially. Well it turned out to be a casting company known as Telsey & Company, completely new to me but I live in my own world so lots of things are new every day. The smiley voice on the other end asks me if I would like to audition for Blue Man Group on Monday. Would I?! For once, the glut of headshots and resumes I’ve been sending out since September has finally paid off. But let’s remember, it’s only an audition.
Feeling celebratory in my new rental car, I get all excited and have a hell of a weekend, partying and drinking and not wearing proper outerwear to protect myself from the weather.
Monday morning rolls around and not only am I late for my first appointment but I’m also feeling a slight rumble in my tummy. Oh, pish. That must just be some indigestion from last night’s Entenmann’s binge at 2:00AM. No worries. My audition isn’t until 4:50 this afternoon so I have plenty of time to get rid of that chocolate butter cream.
As I drive from appointment to appointment, my bowels get more and more irritated until I start turtle-heading on Route 46 West, thirty minutes from my home. I speed the rest of the way to my last appointment of the day, not having eaten a single thing all morning, and rush into the apartment building, willing the shitty mess to give me just two more minutes of dryness. Placing my stuff down in the apartment, I pat the little autistic boy on the head and run past the plastic-covered couches to sit upon the porcelain throne. Three courtesy flushes later and a whole lot of anti-bacterial hand wash, I am feeling fine and dandy and ready to talk some Spanish. Little did I know that was only the first of many visits.
I race back home to get my hands on the nearest tablet of Imodium AD and sit down once more to relieve myself of the impending anal fury. Doubled over at the sink, washing my hands, I decide a nap is in order to wear off this Mayan bum curse. I’m lying in bed, shivering about as fast as I’m sweating and not ten minutes pass before I have to shit again. Oh, no. This is serious, now. So I get in about thirty minutes of good sleep, wake up still feeling “shitty” and make my way out to my rental car, shaking and tripping the entire way. I tell myself to suck it up. Would you rather lie in bed and feel somewhat better or take some pain and maybe take a step towards leaving Bogota once and for all? So I start my car.
I’m doing well. I make it down to Weehawken, park my car and walk to the bus stop. I’ve packed my headshot, my resume, a copy of TIME magazine for the waiting room, a bottle of water, my iPod and a plastic Shop Rite bag in case I need to vomit. You never know when and where these situations will occur so one has to be prepared. I board the little version of the Special Education bus painted white and sit down next to my brethren; the other underemployed Spanish speakers. We race down 495 East and as soon as I see the Lincoln Tunnel, I get queasy. There’s no air. There’s no natural light. And all I can smell is the strong odor of Goya Adobo coming from about every person on this bus. Thankfully, we pull into Port Authority in under ten minutes and I’m weaving in and out of the immense rush hour crowds so I can just get outside to 8th Avenue and breathe some fresh air.
I succeed. The audition is only a five-minute walk from here. I can do this. I have my oversized scarf. I have my winter hat. I have my leather gloves. I can take on the world right now. I just can’t do it that quickly and I might need a bathroom break every now and then. The audition space is on the tenth floor which means a two minute, stomach-jostling elevator ride in an elevator shaft that had to have been designed by the architects who built Rolling Thunder. I am nauseated.
I walk into the office and it is fag city. Everywhere you look, gay men are either reciting monologues, staring in mirrors or looking at my unkempt self in a most disdainful manner. So I sign my name on the Blue Man Group audition list and make my way to the nearest bathroom, narrowly escaping further scrutiny from the Homosquad. You guessed it. The Cosby’s are once again dropped off at the pool; however this time it’s in Manhattan. Movin’ on up, I guess.
Looking a bit more presentable, I return to the waiting room, whip out my TIME and get to work ignoring the sneaky glances and snickers about the suburban boy in the city. Thankfully, my name is called and I get up and switch my hips into that audition room as if I were a Blue Man myself. Ok, well maybe I didn’t switch my hips because I don’t really technically know how to do that, but it sure felt good walking in that room. I’m greeted immediately by the drumming instructor, a girl named Julie who’s wearing a skirt and army boots and looks like she, herself, just tried out for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Anyway, she has me copy her rhythms on a drum pad and I perform quite well even though my cheeks are squeezed tighter than prag’s in Oz just to prevent a Hershey waterfall. Next up is a silly improvisational exercise in which I must walk around the room in a completely neutral fashion, think zombie-like, and tell, only using my eyes, the following story: I am a cowboy walking into a saloon and I’ve just spotted two outlaws. I can take them. But just as I’m about to consider drawing my guns, I realize I forgot to load them that morning. Yup. Only using my eyes. Thankfully, I’ve taken an acting workshop with Jeff and if you’ve had Jeff, you’re prepared to do outlandish activities like this one. I rock the cowboy scenario and I’m done.
I’m back on the first bus to Weehawken and I’m the first one off as soon as we get back into Jersey. However, we passed once more through the Lincoln Tunnel and this bus’s shocks were in nowhere near as good condition as the first bus’. So I’m ready to bust and there are no toilets for at least another twenty minutes. I’m walking briskly down Hudson Street when I pass a very good-looking Chad Michael Murray-ish kid waiting for the same bus I just de-boarded. He’s obviously gay. His head is shaved, his lips are pursed and he’s bobbing his head up and down to techno music on his iPod. So I decide to work my famous Bill Reilly magic, no matter how badly I have to expunge my innards.
I’m about ten feet away, walking directly towards him with my eyes fixed on his. He notices and smiles at me. I smile right back and reach into my bag. As I get closer to this little hipster, his eyes get wider and a strange look crosses his face. I pull out the plastic Shop Rite bag, roll it up to a decent size and vomit right in front of him, filling the bag with a foul, greenish bile. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had chosen the only plastic Shop Rite bag with several holes punched in the bottom of it. So not only am I vomiting in front of this gorgeous guy, but it’s also spilling all over my scarf, my suede jacket and my jeans at the same time. I am mortified.
I run around the corner, spilling bile from my trusty vom-bag everywhere, and seeing more people coming my way, I duck into an alley and continue to vomit all over the wall. People are looking at me. People are laughing at me. I am not having a good time.
It’s now 2:46AM on Tuesday morning. I am not going to work tomorrow. I’ve been lying in bed all night, sucking ice cubes and rolling around on a heating pad. But there’s always a bright side to things. Maybe next time, I’ll get up the nerve to ask him out.


My Anal Mother

For those of you who don't know Suzanne, you should really get to know her. She's quite a fabulous woman, even if she does like to rock flea-market-bought pink Kangol hats when she shovels snow. She also enjoys baking Betty Crocker cakes, lighting her Glade candles in the afternoon and reading in bed with the air purifier on its highest and loudest setting. But for those of you that don't happen to share a home with Suzanne, these characteristics will seem purely comical.

I, on the other hand, have graduated college and failed to realize that having a low-income job renders me unable to escape Bogota for a few months. Thus, I’ve gotten to know Suzanne on a whole new level. Oh yes. We live together, we work together; hell we even get to share a kitchen! Now, I know that by this point you’re probably saying to yourself, “Bill, you’re complaining like a little bitch and I’m sick of it.” If that’s true, then stop reading. But you haven’t gotten acquainted with Suzanne yet.

At 6:00 AM, I am awakened by the sound of metal scratching against metal. Not exactly birds chirping, I know. This glorious symphony is composed by my mother, who decides that, at 6am, it’s probably time to change the pillowcases in every bedroom, no matter who is still using their pillowcase. That little metallic scratching sound is my mother outside my door with a tiny metal pick, probing her way into my door handle to unlock my bedroom door. That’s right. My mother is an expert lock-picker. Because she’s done this for about the last 8 years of her life, ever since I discovered that masturbation and the lock on my bedroom door have a very direct and important relationship. But this means nothing to Suzanne.
So while I’m still dreaming of Krispy Kreme orgies, my mother is picking my lock, entering my room, opening my closet and rifling through bed linens. The icing on the cake, though, is when she reaches all the way over my bed to open my blinds and lift up the window; all this while I’m still actually in the bed. Because, you know, it’s probably time for my window to be opened for the day’s airing anyway.

It’s 8:30 AM and I, after managing to sleep after the Nazi invasion, awake to my own alarm and get myself up for work. My door has been re-locked as if to fool me into thinking that my mother would never betray my wish to have my door locked while I slumber. I am no fool. The metal pick has been returned to its normal hiding spot, above the picture frame in the hallway. I may not have my contacts in, but I am not blind. I sit down on the toilet to relieve myself of the previous evening’s midnight buffet and as I reach for a square or two of toilet paper, a roll falls to the floor. How could a toilet paper roll fall to the floor if it’s secured in place by that little retractable spring-loaded plastic thing? Well, my friends, let me explain.
My mother, in her infinite wisdom, will never again let anyone in the house experience the comical pain of tearing the last sheet of toilet paper from the roll in exasperation. It’s just not possible to do. As soon as either roll of toilet paper in our two bathrooms contains less than 25% of paper left on its roll, my mother will remove that roll, replace it with a fresh one and subsequently place that last 25% roll meticulously balanced upon the new roll. How is this even possible, you ask? You don’t know my mother. She paid her way through business school by balancing spinning plates on meter sticks on street corners so she knows a thing or two about toilet paper rolls.
Right above the toilet paper holder in both of our bathrooms is a towel railing that protrudes from the tiled wall. It’s meant to hold one’s towel to dry during the day between one’s showers. It is not used for that in my house. It is used instead to display six color-coordinated, velvety towels, which are never to be used. These towels are displayed in an alternating fashion, which is based upon the towel’s color and size. You see, all of the six towel colors are derived from the bathroom’s color scheme and their sizes are bath towel, stand-on after shower towel and face cloth. This would be fantastic if they were ever used. But they’re not. Instead, we have to place every single towel that we actually do use on one plastic hook on the back of the door so that only the top towel dries and the majority of the family must re-use their moldy, still moist towel. Why did I go on this towel tangent? To explain to you her balancing technique.
These six, strategically placed towels hang directly above the toilet paper holder and hang just low enough that if one were to place an additional toilet paper roll above the existing one, the largest towel would gently hold it in place with just a thread. A coincidence, you say? There are no coincidences in my house. Everything is placed exactly where it has been planned to be placed.
But now it gets extreme. You’re not even ready for this. I don’t even know if I should write this down. But I’m hoping that someone out there, one day, will understand and empathize with me. The following unplanned edition to this short story is completely true and not an exaggeration just to make my story even more sensational than it already is.
Just as I was typing the part about the Krispy Kreme orgies, Suzanne walked in the room. Some background information: I normally work on my laptop in the designated computer room (a whole ‘nother can of worms to be opened at a later point) but the small table in the computer room on which I’m supposed to work is cramped with so much kitch that it’s impossible for anyone to work upon it. So, I just move my easily portable laptop to the kitchen table where there’s plenty of light, access to the fridge for drinks and lots of space for my paperwork. Not a chance. It’s Sunday, which means the table is set for dinner by at least 1pm after church. Moving an already set dinner plate is absolutely out of the question. It must sit there until the estimated 4:00 PM dinner time and gather cat hair until it is used for food. So the kitchen is out of the question.
Why not go to your room, Bill? Because there is no room in my room to do anything other than watch television upon my bed and I am not a vegetable, not yet at least. My room is twelve feet by eight feet but I’m lucky enough to have a two-foot wide walking passage between my bookshelf and my bed. Being the handyman I am, I installed a pre-measured wooden shelf in the wall space between the foot of my bed and my closet/entertainment unit. This is where I can place my laptop to charge it and sometimes open it up and check the weather or e-mail very quickly. I mean quickly. There’s no room for a chair or stool in that room so I am standing or leaving. Thankfully, my brother is in college and does not use his 14’x20’ room with a walk-in closet. (I know how unfair this is. Let’s not get started on that.) So when I need space to just think, work and concentrate, I bring my laptop in his room, place it upon his desk, yeah he has a fucking desk, and I work there. That’s exactly where I was when Suzanne found me.
My brother’s desk is a bit high and the chair he has in his room is a bit low so I need to compensate for that height discrepancy in order to work comfortably. That’s simple enough. I just place a pillow under my butt and all is well. Not if Suzanne can help it. In she comes, momentarily circling the room, wiping dust from certain edges and rearranging pressed denim in my brother’s closet. Only after feigning a scheduled room inspection does she reveal her actual mission. Tapping me on the shoulder, she tells me to remove the pillow under my butt in order for her to exchange it with the one she has brought in from the basement. Why in the world does that matter to you, I ask her. She tells me that she’s seen me sitting on this specific pillow a lot recently and so I should probably switch up my butt cushion rotation in order for my current cushion to maintain its maximum possible fluff level. She’s not kidding. I tell her to put the new pillow on the floor and I’ll switch it with the old one as soon as I’m done with this train of thought. Nope. That’s not gonna happen. She needs to see that I’ll actually make the switch so it’s either now or never. So, I save my work and remove the pillow from underneath my butt and throw it on the bed. I grab the new pillow and put it under my butt and believe it or not, it’s even flatter than the one I was using. This makes perfect sense. Thanks, Suzanne. But she’s not done yet. Before she leaves the room, she walks to the bed, picks up the pillow, fluffs it, and places it in a diagonal fashion in front of the three other pillows already on the bed.

That is it for now. But I’m sure there will be another installment soon. After all, I’m planning on watching some television later and that involves placing my elbows upon the two layers of doilies on each arm of each couch. So that should definitely make for some fun. Until then.

A Date With Joe

Sitting there, across from a self-described boarding-school brat, all I can hear over the low faux-Cuban muzac is the cha-ching of a rich boy buying me dinner. He looks nothing like the blonde twink I saw online. I’m slowly debating whether that’s good or bad. For now, let’s go with good. Different is always good, refreshing at least. So this Joe, with 8 o’clock shadow and an amateur attempt at a goatee, seems to have his hand glued to the front of his mouth. Be it wrong of me to exaggerate, but the boy just might die if anyone ever saw a morsel of food enter his mouth. Never have I ever, keeping all my fingers up mind you, have I seen a boy with such self-conscious table manners. Call it proper, if you like. Call it classy. I’ll go with anal. Maybe it’s just the garden state in me, but talking with one’s mouth full is one of the last things that would ever turn me off to a date. Be comfortable with me. I’d be just as content if you were wearing your sweatpants, dribbling food all over your Duke University hoodie. Just as long as you stop hiding your fucking mouth.
He grabs the check before I can even sneak a glance at what I owe. I’m simultaneously elated and angry. Happy that he’s paying, mad I didn’t get something more expensive. Do I want coffee? Expresso? Only if you want to wipe my ass later, dear. I’ll just keep nursing my water, waiting in desperation for you to once, just once, initiate a topic of conversation. I’d say talking with him at first was like pulling teeth, but to be honest, I don’t think it was nearly that much fun. I could’ve gone for some anesthesia though. Our meal was $34. He throws $60 down on the table and starts to put his jacket on. We are not in Manhattan, kiddo. Anyone who over-tips that much either can’t count or is trying to impress. I really hope he’s bad at math as money is not my aphrodisiac.

So, where to next, Hef?
I’m going to just drive you back to your car and casually hint that I’m not feeling this so we can both continue with our nights and possibly salvage a Wednesday.
Oh, you mean you’re not going home yet?
Sure, I could go for Feather’s.
It is 9 o’clock after all. We should probably start drinking anyway.
So… You follow me there so I don’t have to drive you back here later, ok?

Alone for now. On the phone. Complaining like a spoiled bitch.

Oh my god, Mike, this kid has his doctorate.
Wanna bring Glause to Feather’s?
Aw, I’m sorry, man. Are you guy’s still friends though?
Well now we’re never going to have a place to stay in Rio.
Ok, I’ll call you if we decide to come. Later.

Eric, I’ve found you a husband.
Yeah, totally cute, just not my type. A bit too serious, you’d love him.
No, just happen to meet us there. Exactly, be slick.

Joey boy, can I bum a cigarette now and for the rest of the night so I can feel socially comfortable at the gay club? Thanks, papi. Menthol? Well if I have to… Oh, so this Saab convertible is your old car? Yeah, yeah, I can totally understand why you bought that new Infiniti because it was cute, definitely. I mean, that’s why I’m driving my ’94 Taurus now. Because it’s aesthetically pleasing to me. Yup. Oh my god! Look! That’s my friend, Eric! Oh, come on, you’ll just love him…
As soon as Eric is close enough to us, I know the night has gone to shit. Two days earlier, my best friend decided to cut his sideburns completely off and follow up with a nice clean shave. Have you ever seen the show Life Goes On with the boy with Down’s syndrome, Corky? Self-administered haircuts aren’t always the best idea, Eric.
We’re the first ones at the bar. We know this because the television screens are still playing a Bruce Springstein concert and not yet porn. Max Weinberg is banging straight eighth notes like an autistic child. A round is bought and Joe heads to the bathroom so Eric and I can gossip like Eucharistic Ministers.

Oh my gosh, Billy, he’s totally cute.
Yeah, I guess. He’s just not my type. Try working your magic on him.
Ooh, I’d work more than that.

Joe returns sans piss before Eric can describe his wet dream and we continue conversing jovially thanks to the second round. It’s now Eric’s turn to be talked about.

So what were you guys saying about me while I was gone?
Joe, Eric thinks you are just the cutest.
Well I’m not worried about what Eric thinks.

Uh-oh. Now I feel horrible. Not only have I lead this kid on, but I also drug Eric out in hopes of taking my place. I feel like I’m the straight man in my own sit-com. Joe kisses me like a pigeon. I’m not saying I didn’t like it. I’m not saying I wasn’t tipsy enough to be physically attracted to him. I’m just saying he kisses like a third grade girl. Eric’s returned and seeing Joe’s hand on my leg and then my back and then my neck, he accepts defeat and optimistically turns his attention to the nine other fine specimens of man-meat around the bar. So what if some of the other guys are old enough to be Eric’s dad? There’s nothing wrong with a free drink, or four.
Downstairs becomes crowded. We glide up to the dance floor and stand around with the other stalkers. A group of about seven faggy but well-built boys deflowers the dance floor and Eric mentions he wouldn’t mind being their Lucky Pierre. I agree and eye them up, coyly avoiding Joe’s searching hands the entire time. I don’t come to Feather’s for the sole purpose of meeting new boys. Nor do I come to act like someone’s wife. Needless to say, this kid is clingy. I am a very independent person, so this is not going to fly. Do not put your arm around me at the bar. Do not hold my hand at the bar. Do not lick my fucking neck at the bar, Joe! I’m trying to seductively avoid that cute guy’s glances and I can’t do that with a god damned puppy on my arm!
The DJ starts to realize that 90’s house is just not all the rage tonight and switches to something a little more acceptable, Christina Aguilera’s “Candyman”. Reminder: We’re at Feathers, the only place in Bergen County, NJ where “Candyman” is acceptable on a Wednesday night. The gays and I move onto the floor, deftly moving our petite cocktails with the rhythm making sure to never spill a drop.
The night proceeds pretty nicely, us grooving and not spilling, until Joe shimmies up to the twonkish bartender for his third or fourth Ketel One and Tonic. Yes, he’s that uppity. As he earnestly downs his drink, I’m noticing that his dancing ability is directly proportionate to the liquid level in his glass. The more he drinks, the more inclined he is to start clapping on 1 and 3, no lie. So he gulps down the last of his Ketel, getting all that sexual frustration out on some poor ice cube. As he places his glass on the bar, I shoot my best ‘are you seeing this cracker dance’ look at Eric. Eric, having acquainted himself with an extremely perky and techno-chest-friendly lesbian, does not appreciate my look and continues on with his night in Heteroland. I need to escape this boy. So I down my lumberjack man Miller Lite and tell Joe that I’ll be back after I use the bathroom.
For all the breeders reading this, two things are inferred when a man says he’s going to the bathroom at a gay club. One, he’s going to go hook up with whoever happens to be in there. Two, he’s indirectly asking you to follow him to the bathroom so that you will hook up with him there. Unfortunately, I forgot about this unwritten rule because I’m accustomed to Eric being my Feather’s wingman. He’s the only guy I tell that I’m going to the bathroom and all I do is piss because that bathroom is just way too nasty for my pants to be hitting the floor. So, having announced the unspoken sex password to Joe, I make my way downstairs through the angsty crowd of lustful onlookers and over-the-hill fisherman of twinks. For the first time ever, the bathroom is completely vacant so I’m very much looking forward to getting rid of the last four Millers. The typical gay club bathroom is all about ambience. It has no dividers between the urinals. Each urinal is in plain view of everyone in the bathroom; even a few people who are waiting in line can sneak a peek. The singular toilet in the bathroom doesn’t even have a stall surrounding it; it’s total prison style. Moreover, the first urinal is no more than 6” away from the bathroom’s only sink. Needless to say, penis peeks are abundant here.
So I undo my belt and then my fly’s buttons. (God knows that if you’re going to a gay club, you just have to wear button-fly jeans, how else are you going to know who’s good with their hands?) As soon as I’m ready to release the yellow stream of fury, I feel a pair of hands snake their way around my waist. First thought: EWW! Second thought: Wait, check who it is first. So, holding Niagara Falls in, I cock my head to see none other than Joe, standing behind me with an ass-rimming grin on his stupid face.

What the fuck are you doing in here?
(Slurring) I zhust wantedoo keep ya company… didn’t want no boyses comin’
talkin’ to you in the bathrhoum.
Well get the fuck out of here. I can pee by myself.
No, no no no no. Sshhh. (he tries to shush my lips with his finger) You zhust pee.
I won’t look. You just pee. I’ll protect ya.
Whatever man, I’m not into scat, though.

Ok, so I pissed with some German’s hands around my waist while he whispered
in my ear that he was my bodyguard. I know Whitney didn’t have to go through this shit, but I was definitely taking one for the team there. I close up shop, wash my hands, ask him to wash his as well and then I’m off to the bar for another Miller. Of course, Joe whips out his Kenneth Cole billfold and slams a twenty down faster than a trick on a lunch break. My beer and his fifth Ketel and Tonic are covered and the bartender is gregariously over-tipped, thinking he must look extra cute tonight in his Lycra-ish pink number that’s not hiding his womanly front-butt. I quickly lead the way through the labyrinth of creepies and up the most narrow staircase one has only seen before on television specials documenting secret slave passageways in plantation homes. Good thing the majority of the faggots are built like Nicole Ritchie; otherwise some circulation issues would be afoot. Scanning the undulating sea of badly-dyed hair and flailing limp wrists, I finally spot my boy Eric and inch my way over to him and his dykey date. I try my best to incorporate myself into his coupling, hoping Colonel Clingy might get a clue, but alas, he’s on me quicker than MJ at my Holy Communion party. Now not only is this ivy leaguer cock-blocking and cramping my Jersey style, but he’s also taken to sloppily nibbling on my neck, leaving various amounts of saliva on my collar. I turn around.

Joe, you need to back the fuck up.
(Remember, this kid drove) Uhwhat? Whatzwrawng babee?
Joe, I need some fucking space, ok? You’re all over me.
I know, suh-exy. I zhust cann keepmah eyes offa you.
Look all you want, man. Just lay off a bit.
Yeah, okay. (Now my favorite part) I’m gohnna eatchou up later, anyway.

Did he just say he was going to eat me? So maybe he really had been nibbling on my neck, just for an appetizer, tenderizing my skin with liquor-enriched spit. Damn, he sure knows how to make a guy feel special. Joe actually backs off, even if it’s only to cop yet another Ketel. You’d think the kid had fucking stock in that shit. On the positive side, I get an entire song to myself, blissfully grinding with the air, free to shake my shit without repercussion.

Hey thur, suh-exy boyee!
Hi Joe.

The seat belt is back quicker than I thought. Fortunately, the Heavenly Homo is on my side tonight and the DJ starts “Wind it up”, signifying the second to last song of the evening. Shit, have we really been here four hours already? Time just flies when you’re being stalked. “Wind it up” is an excellent song to which one can dance. It’s pop-ish enough for all the twinkies to enjoy and R&B-ish enough to be able to cop a decent feel without feeling too grimy. However, Joe had already filled his coppage quota for the entire week, which prompted me to slap on the wrought-iron chastity thong. Just enough for a tease, but not so much that you feel bad about it tomorrow. Gwen Stefani is halfway done with her song and I signal to Eric that I’ll meet him outside with his jacket so he can finish up motorboating the lesbian’s tremendous tits.
Feather’s is in chaos. I’m fucking Sly Stallone cliffhanging down the crowded stairway of death and no sooner do I reach the lower bar than Joe is pushing his luck, yelling at the bartender, debating the term last call. He sees me dash for the coat check but I barely get our jackets handed to me before he’s on me, barnacle-style. Outside, it’s frigid. But it’s never too cold for the gays. Skinny, little 15-year-olds are all hunched over outside the bar lighting each other’s cigarettes and shivering at record speeds, all the time shooting furtive glances at every piece of ass that makes his way to the parking lot. Joe, the monogamous guy that he is, is all Kevin Costner on my ass once again and not one decent man will even bother looking my way thanks to my parasite. We smoke another menthol while we wait for Eric and after each puff, I’m greeted by this stupid, fucking face asking for a kiss. I hate those faces. You know, the ones that your fucking boyfriend makes at you when he’s acting all innocent and just wants one, single kiss to get him through the next minute. I hate that shit! Especially when it comes from a pretentious, portly and pushy motherfucker like Joe. That stupid face! Doggy eyes, over-gelled hair and pursed lips, extended so far out from his fucking face that even an anteater would bitch slap him. Ugh! That was it.

Ok, Joe. I’m going home now. I text Eric to get his jacket from me tomorrow.
Dhon’t you gotta wait foryer friend?
No, he already left. Goodnight.
But, whuddabout me? I wanna talk to you.
You talked to me all night, Joe. Goodnight. I had a really swell time.
Can I gedduh goodnight kiss?
You’ve gotten plenty, Joe. Goodnight.
Can I callyah?
You sure can, Joe.
Ok, call me whenshyou get home so I know thatchure safe.
Yeah. Drive safe, Joe. Don’t forget to wear your seat belt.


Once upon a time
Quantity overcame quality
Newness was had
And most head was bad
But numbers don’t lie
More is better, no?
No?! Well that’s what they said
Words stapled in my head
I guess I’m mistaken
To have been so taken
By a boy with ritmo

El primero smoked to win
Looked so lonely, acted even more-so
But we split the bill evenly
Bid farewell with a wary eye
I knew we’d be strangers again
Acquaintance made, soon lost
Nothing gained in conversation glossed
With empty plans, switch-hitter accents
And ‘yeahiknowwhatyoumean’s

Purple sauntered over with promise
Schoolgirl status was displayed
Is that what you call it? ¿La cresta?
Afraid to leave the flat
Television dates become daytime rapes
He was my first and my last
So colorful, so happy
I was jealous of his bravado
And clung to his number

You sent me messages
From the dirtiest of addresses
Not really my type
More like not at all
But you were there
And it was almost fall
Where’d you learn to speak English?
Preventing a rerun of lunch
All over your chest
Proved harder than my hunch
But I gave my best
And reveled in your mediocrity
As you exited me and my afternoon

This one was on a game show
At least that was the photo
He sent me in the blinking box
The box that brought cocks
Turned out to be just that
A vision in lime
Pressed for time
You’re not even going to introduce yourself?
Offer me a glass of water?
Well fuck you and fuck me
And hurry the fuck up
My boss is waiting

Invite me over to enjoy a view
Of the fag neighborhood
Where the pisos are caríssimo
And the people are even cheaper
You’re a stranger as well in this city
Teaching a language
You can barely boast as native
So lay me down and make me squirm
Ecstatic, I’m watched fervently
By nearby neighbors and burning eyes
In a picture frame
But you see those same eyes
And suddenly realize
They’re smiling next to a pair
Of your own from last year’s fair

So another spoke my native tongue
Fought for my native land
Flaunted around native money
And couldn’t have been more foreign
Stay over with me, sure why not
Got a big bed, forget the cot
Like the sheets? 800 count
Casi missed work just trying to mount
No regrets there
I did what I wanted, got what I needed
So take this at face value
But don’t push me so far away
That I can’t use you again

The bilingual came with a bang
Such interest, such talent, me excitó
Smoke me up and drug me down
Chauffeur me around your town
I like your friends but I like mine more
And you’re nothing more
Than a chic little whore
But don’t forget me, you just met me
And inhaled todo lo que me quedaba

El ùltimo de la estación said he was 30
Looked 25, but fucked me over the hill
How artistic you are! What a find!
Someone to appreciate my kind of mind
But a flower you called me
And my petals you caressed
Did I really fall for that?
Or did I want a daddy so bad
I settled for someone who could be mine?

With glasses like his
He should’ve been on TV
I never gave a chance to someone gayer than me
As the chats were lacking
Superficiality shot me down
And I did not want help
So I showed him off, flashed my trophy around
I liked him
But he like-liked me
So he moved a city away
And I said the phone works both ways
Then came the realization
We worked no ways

Hating the side that I’ve been on
Still fearing the opposite
But inviting it half-heartedly
I dive into the king headfirst
Surround me and complete me
Give me what we’ve both had before
What makes you different?
What gives you entrada gratis a mi corazón?
It must be that smile
Because I’d walk the 27 miles
To remember how you feel
And forget how he did
As I leave him behind
To embark on my own adventures
He will have his own
But little do I know
Those affairs will be with his past
And what a blast it will be
When that little text
Travels from east to west
To deliver the message
I expected from day one
See you at the wedding, Adam

Camp Song

Cordially sing to the tune of “When I was one, I sucked my thumb”
Written and Produced by Junior Facilitator Lisa and Video Bill

When I was drunk
As a skunk
I tried to sign my name
I scribbled a line
Then smoked a dime
And Tucci said to me,
“You’re goin’ this way, that way, forward and back over the Atlantic Sea
You’re goin’ home
You’re goin’ alone”
And no more camp for me!

When I was high
Up in the sky
I tried to take a pee
I looked around
And all I found
Was a Czech and a CIT
They were goin’ this way, that way, forward and back, she was down on her knees
She spent all summer
Under the covers
Lookin’ for someone to please!

Quarter to eleven
There were seven
Of us in the car
It’s time to read
And smoke some weed
With the townies at the bar
We’re swerving this way, that way, forward and back down the 209
Jenny Junk
Is in Paul’s trunks
Pretty much all the time!

When it was one
And we were done
We went to the teepee
On our way out
Rob passed out
And we left him there till 3
He’s snoring this way, that way, forward and back, he never took a hit
Even if
He’s unconscious
Rob is still the shit!