A Lovely Little Jaunt

I spent the weekend in Chicago visiting my dear kindred spirit Blanche. We went to high school together, but I didn't know her very well then. We started reconnecting this year, and I am so so grateful for it. She is a peach and a half and makes the world a brighter place. I took the train up, and you know how well that went. I stayed with her and her husband, and met Judy and Jim: also peaches.

We kikied for hours, and Blanche made us homemade pasta. A regular Martha Stewart, that one. She puts Ina Garten to shame. Bitch keeps a TIGHT household.

We headed to a club to see the wonderful Pandora Boxx perform. She was supposed to go on at 12, but there we were, milling around the place, waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Drag performers are notorious for their tardiness, so we thought nothing of it and busied ourselves with the goings on around us. Ooooh there was some shit. As expected, there was a plethora of shitty faggots. A few of them cute. Not many great looks, but oh well. It may have been cool outside, but it was HOT in there. One gay really committed to his whatever looks in the cardigan and beanie. I hope he had a heat stroke. There were SO many girls too. I'm not used to that at a gay club. And tons of lesbians too. As evidenced here:



I was a little shy about taking pictures, but then I thought, what the fuck? I don't know these bitches and probably won't see them ever again. Also seen: the trashiest skank ever. She had ratty Britney hair, raccoon eye makeup, a ruffle denim micro-skirt, and some kind of Ugg BOOTS WITH THE FUR. I didn't get a good picture of her unfortunately.

There were two go-go boys, which was a new experience for me. One was really muscled and meh in the face. The other was adorable and had a sexy scar on his midsection. He was still a shitty, shitty faggot. Look, even at my sexiest and lowest-self-esteemiest, I would never have danced on the bar in my underwear for money--and I've done some crazy shit in my twenty. . . one years. What really killed me was his Santa's little helper look. His red underwear was attached to red suspenders. The pièce de damn résistance that brought it all together was the mark of a crummy faggot: FLIP-FLOPS. Yes, boy was shaking his ass on the bar for dollars in flip-flops. I didn't want to be attracted to him, and at first I was determined. He won me over though. That mop of hair gave him a boyish cuteness, and he really did have a nice ass. We decided, however, that he was stuffing his underwear. Oh well. I still wanted to hate fuck him:



We witnessed a great scene through the window. There was a party trolley filled with all kinds of wasted people dancing and carrying on. There was one kid who had obviously started the party early, and he was swaying in his seat, chugging water from a giant jug. Luckily the traffic light was long enough for us all to observe. Some drunk buddy talked to him for a moment, and the kid drank more water, swaying the whole time. He gagged and fought the urge to vomit. This continued for what felt like a long time, but must have been only 45 seconds. It was a game, and I was really hoping he would puke before the trolley took off. He heaved more and more, and finally he threw up! All of us watching in the club cheered and laughed as the kid spewed onto the street. Fantastically hilarious.

None of us had ever been to that particular venue before, so we didn't know there was also a giant basement, which was apparently where the performance was. By the time we wised up, we had missed the first set. Oh well, we saw enough to gag us. The opener, Jade (also from RuPaul's Drag Race) was great. She did a ballet number while lipsynching, and she was really on point. And en pointe. Pandora was her usually goofy self, and she delivered. She performed to what is becoming her signature song:

Super Pussy Smash

This truly is the best drag queen entrance I've ever seen. I want to thank my friend Blanche D'Almonds:



She really opened my eyes to some wonderful things this weekend, and I'll get into more in later posts. Right now it's about a performance you MUST watch:




BOOM. OVARIES. I also appreciate the high kick into death drop move. As Mrs. D'Almonds pointed out a comment to me, "her wig is pinned for LIFE." Yes, girl. Yes it is.

Bitches

Which one are you?

It Will Be A June Wedding

Let me tell you about my boyfriend. His name is Mark. Mark R. I first spied him across the waiting room at the train station, and my heart leaped the instant our eyes met. It was love, lust, and devotion at first sight. He was busy with his computer while I pulled out my camera, putting the zoom lens to good use. Who knew that those few snapshots would one day be on the first page of an album labeled “Mark & Dan” with a heart around it? He looks like a cuter, healthier version of someone I once had a crush on. And more Latino. His surname is Latino, and there are hints of it in his features: bushy eyebrows, pouty lips, and always looking like he has on a trace of eyeliner and mascara.

After my impromptu clandestine photo session, he got up to use the rest room. If I were braver, I would have followed him in there. But sadly my bravery is relegated to other areas, so there I sat alone. Upon his return, he made his way to the line that was forming for the train, and it took me a couple minutes to follow. By this time, I was intimately familiar with the back of his head. He’s perhaps 5’11”, with a touch of muscle on him. His chestnut hair doesn’t have any product in it, and it’s apparent he hasn’t had it cut for some time. It has a sexy casualness about it that cannot be contrived. His outfit does rather confuse me: tan suede miniboots, stylish grey jeans, and what looks like a walmart uniform-issued blue sweater. It works on him though. His ass looks great in the pants. I got a peek at his underwear when he briefly sat down in line: the waistband and material indicate either briefs or boxerbriefs. My money is on boxerbriefs.

The doors open, and everyone spilled toward the train, not minding that there was a line in the first place. I made haste, and cut off several people to stay close to him. An extremely large man with nails too long for my taste and dreadlocks stayed between us, but I wouldn’t let him get in my way once on the train. The odds worked to my favor, and there were the perfect number of occupied seats. Mark sat next to a window, and I stopped in the row next to him. I saw a completely vacant row down the train, but I pretended not to notice it. Without even asking, I sat next to him. He immediately closed his eyes and slumped toward the window to sleep. The way his plump lips separated in slumber just a touch makes me burn. His two-day scruff only added to the lovable effect.

I was hoping that he would remain dozing when the man came for our tickets so I would have an excuse to oh so gently jostle his shoulder. Or should I go for the leg? That’s more intimate but more forward. When the agent came for our tickets, I hadn’t signed mine yet, so he handed me a pen. I do so on the iPad on my lap, and it seemed Mark hadn’t signed his ticket either. Instead of handing him the surface to write on, I scoot closer and indicate that he can just write on it while it’s on my leg. I swear I could feel every brief stroke of the pen through the layers of electronics and denim. It burned me, and I am convinced I will forever have his name written into my right thigh. He said “thankyou,” in the kindest voice I have ever heard. No pretense, just golden honey flowing to my ears.

Now he slept , arms crossed on his stomach, head tilted toward me. Thank goodness for that. I want to kiss his eyebrow, his eyelid, his gorgeous cheekbone, that endearing nose. Those eyelashes are two miles long and denser than a paintbrush. I want to run my lips over the stubble on his jaw, memorizing the planes and angles and noting where it gives over to the complete softness below his eye. His sleeves are slightly pushed up, and I take in the moderate amount of hair on his tan arms. His tan is absolutely natural of course; it’s just his complexion. I can tell that if I were able to peek down his shirt, I’d find chest hair. Just what I like.

I’ll leave him be for now. He needs his rest. When we stop in Chicago, we’ll both have time to kill, and find ourselves in a coffee shop. We’ll talk for hours, but it will seem like only a few minutes. His eyes will have a glow to them that I’ve never before encountered. I’ll want to nuzzle in the cleft of his chin. At one point, he’ll softly take my hand for emphasis while telling a story, but he won’t let go. His hand won’t feel sweaty; which is a wonder to me, because my hands always sweat when clasped with another’s. We’ll grudgingly part ways to go about our weekends, and it will hurt. We’ll hug goodbye: things are too innocent right now for a kiss, though we both want it. It will be a lingering hug, very tight at times, with rubbing instead of patting. It will be the kind of hug where our cheeks are pressed against each other, and the scrape of our facial hair is titillating. Eyelashes will brush against eyelashes, making me swoon. Apart for the weekend, I will feel empty the whole time, like I've had a part of my spirit removed. When we’re both back in town, we’ll meet; and this time it will start with a kiss. Then we will plan our future together, smiling and laughing. Because I know this is what will happen, I let him relax in peace on the train ride. We have an entire lifetime to live together after all.

Homework

I've been toying with the idea of changing my domain name for a while. I've decided against it for now, but I might buy it just in case I want to use it. It's a good one. I won't share so you vultures can't snatch it up. Suffice it to say, it happens to be in the fantastic documentary Paris Is Burning. The first thing I did was type my desired phrase into the address bar to see if it was an existing site. It is not, so my browser took me to a Google search of the phrase. The top hit was a link to a transcription of the movie. It's a little spotty, but it's great fun. See the movie if you haven't already, and check out the document here (if it asks you to download Japanese characters, just do it).

Oh Miranda

Until a couple days ago, I thought Miranda Sings was real. I'd only seen a couple of her videos, and I felt bad laughing at them. I just thought she was slightly autistic with a touch of palsy. I finally looked her up and found out it's just a character. Yay, now I can laugh. If you watch her older videos, you can see when she hasn't quite nailed down her look that she's so so pretty. And then you watch more and she talk about haters this and that and dating celebrities and whatnot. I guess I would have figured it out after a while, but there are some bitches making serious videos out there that are insanely laughable. But this is the first video I saw of her; and taking it as serious, I got a little uncomfortable and thought Mr. Rainbow was a douche:

Just Because

Snizteresting

Well this is interesting. I just noticed that Blogger has a feature that tracks my blog's stats. Things like traffic sources, audience, and all-time posts. I don't think it's been around for very long since it lists only a fraction of the hits I know this website has had.

It would seem that a lot of my traffic is a mistake. My post with the most views is What Is A Hybrid Snatch? And other twat-themed posts are in the top ten. I'd say fine, that makes sense, I talk about ladyparts a lot. But based on traffic sources, it seems like straight guys are googling dirty things which lead to my site. Here's a list:


pussy type hybrid 186


pussy type: hybrid 105


hybrid pussy type 75


fuck you 56


adrien brody 51


fuck women 20


pussy types hybrid 15


fat fuck 13


gay fucking 11


pussytype hybrid 9

Oh well. Maybe along the way, some of those guys took a break between beating off to actually read a little bit and enjoy.

Totaly Disappointing

Until today I haven't owned a legit copy of one of my favorite movies. I was excited to find it in the mail today, but a little dismayed at the tagline on the cover. Please tell me it's not an accident.

Robyn's Björk Tribute

I have to start by saying no one can cover Björk well. It's impossible. Her crazy voice and the demons in her head make it so. I've heard a whole album of covers, and they all sucked donkey dick. The only other one I've enjoyed is "All Is Full of Love" by Death Cab for Cutie. And that's probably because the original is one of my favorite songs. Robyn's version here is. . . passable. She has a good voice, but of course it is nothing compared to Björk's psychotic elf version. That being said, I have a few comments:

a)Robyn, honey, I love you, girl, but get yourself some toothpaste.
b)I love how Björk looks absolutely UNBOTHERED (and for good reason).
c)I can't decide if Robyn's outfit is atrocious, fantastic, or both.