12.20.2010

Twinkilocks and the Three Bears CH3...Finally


*Blogger`s note: Since it has been three years since the last installment of Twinkilocks, don`t hesitate to review Chapter 1 or Chapter 2 to refresh yourself about just what the hell has gone on before Chapter 3. If you still remember, kudos to you. Even I had to go back, read and take notes... Enjoy!


Twinkilocks, still jaded from his stint on Catastrophe Cruises, slowly sauntered into Hole. Despite the gaudy exterior decorated with what seemed like bolt after bolt of seafoam organza, the interior of the club was quite the contrast. After paying the $20 cover to what seemed like a vagrant and belligerent pre-op tranny and receiving a slimy and overused blacklight handstamp, Twinkilocks entered what appeared to a veritable den of filth and sin. The walls, painted over black and covered with Hefty trash bags where the paint had failed to take on top of past stains, dripped from various spots along the entranceway; all of the stains at a curiously consistent level equal to that of a man`s waist. Behind the testy tranny was pasted, without any glue or tape it seemed, a 6-foot tall, 4-foot wide poster advertising the evening`s themed party, "Squirm".




"Really?" Twinkilocks thought. "They named the party `Squirm`?. Doesn`t that skeeve anyone else out?" As he glanced around the dimly lit unfinished basement of a club, no one looked the least bit skeeved out. In fact, most of the customers in attendance at Hole seemed to be more of the kind who usually do the skeeving. However, despite his bad hand in choice pickings this evening, Twinkilocks stayed positive, knowing one thing that he could do to make tonight better, even if only a bit. He dashed past the tranny and into the bathroom with his carry-on bag in order to clear the runway for any future takeoffs.

Once locked safely inside the crudely tagged bathroom stall, he exhaled deeply in despair and in doing so, smudged his post-vacance cashmere sweater on a recently rendered section of a mens` room masterpiece. Underneath an illegible bubble lettered street name was an amateur sketch of two hairy testicles. No penis nor legs nor abdomen were even barely present. Just two bewhiskered balls still shiny wet after being freed from their Sharpie prison. "Ugh! How am I ever going to find a perfect daddy mentor with my cashmere looking like an elementary school desktop?! Thank Cher for cruise options!"

Twinkilocks busied himself for the next 30 minutes, trying on outfit after outfit of different combinations of tops, bottoms, shoes and shawls, finding just the right combination and walking the narrow line between St. Tropez and So Trashay. After consulting with hair & make-up as well for finishing touches, he burst out of the mens` room with restored confidence and a bounce in his step, although the bounce was provided by a bump off of the guy`s fist who was tying a belt around his forearm at the mirror.

"This party doesn`t look so bad afterall," Twinkilocks thought to himself as he made his way confidently up to the bar. He flashed his already fading handstamp at the bartender who just grunted in what Twinkilocksk perceived to be an interrogative fashion. "I`ll have a Santa`s Little Helper. On the rocks, hold the helper." The bartender turned away, leaving Twinkilocks pretty impressed that he wasn`t asked what the drink was made of like usual. "This place must be pretty with it. This guy gets a tip!" The bartender returned after a few moments and dropped a burboun, straight up, in front of Twinkilocks. Before he could make a proper complaint though, Twinkilocks was shoved roughly from behind, spilling his unwanted libation all over the bar.

"Lo siento, Papito. Lemme buy you anotha drink, OK? Que quieres?" As Twinkilocks slowly turned around to glare at his assailant, he was surprisingly greeted by the sweet smell of chorizo in the air. His gaze finally landed on a young but legal latino boy with a tight bubble butt and straight, shoulder-length raven black hair pulled into a slick geisha knot with a livestrong band.

"I`m sorry? If you`re trying to call me a queer, at least pronounce it correctly, you mess."

"Whoah, whoah, whoah chico. I said I was soree, OK? Jew know I was tha guy that pusht you intoda bar so I just wantit to say soree, OK? Fuckeen relax, man."

"Oh, my god. I`m sorry. I thought you were gonna get all hate crimey on me. I`m sorry. I really am. I`ve just had a bad day is all. Just forget about it. I`m sorry." Twinkilocks turned to the bar to take another stab at Santa`s Little Helper. But before he could open his mouth he heard a shout from behind him.

"Lemme get dos Cuba Libres y dos chupitos de tequila! OK, Marcy?" The bartender nodded and Twinkilocks wondered when Marcy had become a unisex name.

"I got you, chico. You look all glammed up for dis party so da leest I can do fo you is buy you a drink, OK?" Rico Suave Jr. slammed a twenty down on the bar and passed the shot and Cuba Libre to Twinkilocks. "Repeat after me, blanquito. SA - LUD."

"Salad!" Twinkilocks said thankfully and clinked glasses with Suave.

"My name`s Javier. Whatchu lookeen for tonight, baby? You here to squirm like me?"

"Thanks for the drink, Javier. I`m Twinkilocks, but my friends call me Twinkilocks. I`m actually looking for someone special and I don`t even know what squirm refers to so..."

"Donchu even worry bout it, baby. I show you how I work, OK?"

"How you work? No, you don`t even look like you have papers. I`m just gonna..."

Javier put both of their drinks onto the bar and dragged Twinkilocks onto the dance floor. Without even a hint of feigning to dance like a normal person at the start, Javier immediately squatted with his ass only 3 centimeters from the floor, demonstrating his obvious talent for the Dominican Bottle Dance. "Dis is how I pay my rent, papi. Lemme teach you, OK?"

Twinkilocks, who was actually in the mood to dance, was sourly disappointed when Javier deftly rolled the front of his t-shirt over and behind his head to reveal a glistening salsa six-pack. Despite how much Twinkilocks enjoyed a well-toned torso he couldn`t help how scandalous this was all making him feel. He doesn`t even know this man! People are watching him from the bar! He still doesn`t even know what squirm means!

"Ok, please stop. That`s enough for me. You seem really good at what you do but I just don`t want to do whatever that is."

"Whas wrong, baby? Dees dance is gonna be fo free. You don`t gotsta pay. I`m, how do you say, `off the watch`, today, you know?"

"No! First of all, the phrase is `off the clock`, you stupid prostitute and second, where the fuck do you even work?"

"Hey!" Javier pulled his shirt back down and pulled him back to the bar. "I said you don hafto pay. Just enjoy yourselves, OK? If chu really wanna know, I work at Boys` Room. Itsa latino club over on 28th. I dance there sometimes. Well I don really dance. I just play with my Jose Cuervo on stage and cum on the customer`s tortilla chips. Its super racist and my mother says she don like me waste my chupacabra but it pays super good so whatever."

Twinkilocks had taken Spanish in high school and was pretty sure that chupacabra did not mean semen. Could Javier be playing me? he worried.

"Ok Evita. I`m done with this conversation. Half of the shit that`s coming out of your mouth yo no creo and you are definitely not experienced enough in the ways of the gay. I will not be lured into your putrid world of prostitution and spanglish euphamisms. I don`t care how hip it is to mix languages. I will NOT be lied to by someone who can`t even make their subjects and verbs match. Peace, Shakira!"

With Javier`s jaw successfully dropped, Twinkilocks stomped away as rhythmically and angrily as he could in his man-pumps. However, as we all learn in those first fitful yet formative moments of a gay-club-stomp-away, one must always watch where one is stomping. Sadly, our young Twinkilocks, as wet behind the proverbial ears as he was, stomped right towards the stairway leading to the basement level of Astroglide rooms, the gays` take on a champagne room.

Twinkilocks` fabulously fashioned toe had just missed its next step and as he realized his grave mistake, he began to plummet headfirst down the dark stairway to the basement brothel below. Luckily for him, he landed softly and safely in the strongest arms he had ever felt in his brief time on earth. With a dainty exhale of "tuckered out-ness", Twinkilocks looked up into his savior`s eyes. They were a piercing ocean blue, bordered above by thick golden locks and below by a strong, chiseled Roman yet upturned nose and a bronze, sun-kissed complexion. Had Twinkilocks known Fabio was gay, he would`ve started reading trashy supermarket romances back in grade school.

"Glad you could drop in," the colossal piece of man-meat said in a huskily sensitive voice. Twinkilocks winced at the horrible 90s pun but decided to cut this demigod a freebie for saving his little life.

Thor carried him to the top of the stairway and set him down on a nearby sofa where they chatted for a bit. Twinkilocks` dreamboat was named Luke and he was a volunteer firefighter on the weekends which explained his immaculate physique. He had originally trained as a firefighter down south during his college years when he had been attending USC. His unit had been a special task force entrusted with putting out and dismantling any and all burning crucifixes, which made for a very busy workday, in the tri-county area.

"So, Luke...what were you doing downstairs anyway? You weren`t participating in an orgy or anything were you?"

"No, not at all. I`m not into that scene anymore."

"Oh, thank Cher. Cuz I was worried you were like a leather daddy or something into crazy bondage parties. Good, good. So it seems like you and me would be a perfect fit. Maybe you could teach me a bit about what it`s like being gay in this crazy, mad world?"

"That`s the thing, Twinkilocks. I`m not really gay. Well not anymore at least."

"What?! Then why the hell are you even here? You know you`re at a Manhunt party, right?"

"Of course I know that. You see, I`m an ex-gay, Twinkilocks. Down in South Carolina, one of my co-workers noticed the path of self-destruction on which I had mistakenly set myself. And so he introduced me to the Church of Saturday Taints and through several retreats, lots of therapy and a partial lobotomy, I`m now a happy and mostly healthy practicing member of the Christian right. I want to lend you some literature on..."

Luke was speaking but the words didn`t make sense anymore. Twinkilocks` world had been shattered. Just when he thought he had finally found the ideal man, the adonis in every boy`s first wet dream, the floor had been pulled out from under his calf-muscle and buttocks-enhancing man-pumps. "You were just so...perfect," Twinkilocks said under his breath as he glanced away and Luke fumbled with his phone, trying to forward contact information about Camp Blow-no-more.

"Listen, that`s nice and all that you think you`re better off. To each his own, right? But as young as I am, I know one thing for sure, Luke. You can`t just wipe the gay off like cum off your chin after a deepthroat session. You. Are. Gay. Or bisexual. Or curious. Whatever the hell you want to call yourself, go ahead and update your Facebook status. I don`t care. Just don`t tell me who you think I need to be because that is just fucked up, you douchebag. There`s nothing wrong with sucking a little dick every now and then, just ask 3 out of 4 altar boys at your little church down in South Carolina. I`m sure they can tell you all about how `sinful` it was pleasing their pastor during those `retreats`". Twinkilocks had never been a fan of finger quotes and so he did a quick double-squint to emphasize the quoted words for an accent effect. Sadly, from Luke`s point of view, it only looked like an epileptic seizure.

"Alright then, Twinkilocks. I`m just gonna make my way to the bar then. I have a few more pamphlets I need to pass out before I leave so... Can I get you your helmet or...?"

"Just STEP, bitch! You don`t know MY LIFE!" And yet again, Twinkilocks found himself stomping away from yet another failure he hoped to recount later on in life to his adopted Vietnamese daughter, Phab. However, as the gays also learn in the leaflet distributed by the Coming-Out Fairy, a good stomp-away requires two essential elements: 1. 20/20 vision unimpeded by glasses (necessary or poseur) to be aware of your surroundings and immediate stomp path. 2. Proper footwear for shock absobtion, showmanship and overall clop to aurally warn bystanders in the vicinity of the drama involved in the stomp.

As it would happen in such stories as this one, Twinkilocks had never made it to rule #2 of the leaflet. Alas, the illustration for rule #1 had proved too tempting for Twinkilocks` virgin eyes and he proceeded to enjoy himself all over the leaflet, completely blotting out the second rule with the proof of his enjoyment. And so Twinkilocks stomped like a limp-wristed stampede of one across the dancefloor to the tranny by the exit door.

"BAG! COAT! NOW!" barked Twinkilocks, "AND I WANT TO SEE SOME HAND SANITIZER ACTION BEFORE YOU TOUCH MY GOODS, YOU UNSIGHTLY GRENDEL!"

Twinkilocks collected his belongings and stormed out of the club, bathing those near the entrance in harsh, flourescent streetlight for a fleeting instant. After marching like a madman for 3 blocks, Twinkilocks had finally realized how cold it was and fumbled to put on his jacket.

"What?! This isn`t my cologne," he said to himself as he sniffed the jacket. "I don`t smoke either." And he slid the Marlboro reds back into the breast pocket. "God damn tranny gave me the wrong jacket!" And so Twinkilocks reluctantly began his walk back towards Hole.

The more steps he took back towards the club, the more depressed he became. Twinkilocks replayed all of his past failures over and over in his mind. Barnacle McClingster from Craigslist, Corey from Gay.com and now these two idiots from Manhunt.net. Maybe online dating just isn`t for everyone...

Twinkilocks had finally reached Hole and paused for a breath as he grabbed the slimy handle of the heavy front door. As the door swung open, he saw an older man in a grey suit, about 6 feet tall, dark brown slicked back hair holding his very own jacket, looking puzzled.

"Looks like you caught me," the man smouldered. Twinkilocks had never seen a proper smoulder before and he couldn`t believe his eyes. The longer this man smouldered, the more his sphincter expanded, wanting to let in every inch of this polished executive.

"I guess I have," he replied cooly. Twinkilocks took off and held out the man`s overcoat. In one deft move, the man grabbed the overcoat, spun Twinkilocks around, both his arms swinging open and back, and slid Twinkilocks smoothly into his jacket, the man`s hands finally resting strongly and patiently on his shoulders.

"Nice move, um..." Twinkilocks stammered.

"Jon. Jon Turkey."

"Nice move, Jon. Where did you learn that?"

"Well, you could say that I`m pretty well versed in the chivalrous days of the past. I like to bring back some of the better parts when I can."

"Well feel free to bring them back with me any time, Jon." He thought for a moment. "You know, Jon. You look awfully familiar. Have we met before?"

"Don`t think so, handsome. Impossible to forget a face like yours. My job makes me pretty visible to the public though. How about I tell you about it over dinner? Let`s go back to my place and I`ll cook us some steaks. You can take care of the wine."

"Sounds like a dream, Jon," Twinkilocks said as he slid his arm into the crook of Jon`s waiting elbow.

As they walked to Jon`s waiting car parked down the block, Twinkilocks thought to himself...

This one`s just right.