Topman: Talk Dirty To Me, Daddy-O

I did a dress rehearsal of my newest entertainment vehicle on Cam 4. I titled it: 'TopmanCA Presents Erotic Story Time and Master-Sleaze Theater." With input from my sexy and smart Traffic Light Techie in Baton Rouge, I went formal, although he was pushing for an series of entrances along the lines of Loretta Young 

For about an 75 minutes, I read vintage porn stories, and Sex Advice question from vintage Advocate and Freshmen Magazines, wrapping up with a short intro on Bondage from The Leatherman's Handbook II by Larry Townsend, who was my 5th floor neighbor for about 10 years.

Was it as success? I had fun. I was tricked out in tux and bow tie, looking sharp. I think  'm on to something.....and I'm going to test different parts of the day to see if there's a good fit. The wee morning hours are now tested.

The Reluctant Pallbearer

Death and I are old friends.
My first birthday was celebrated just six weeks before President Kennedy was gunned down 15 minutes from our house. By age 17: I'd said goodbye to my parents, grandmother, 3-4 aunts and uncles, an 11 year old cousin, our junior high principal, and a few high school friends.

By the time I moved to California 24 years ago, I had (via news coverage) the Jonestown Massacre, the assassination of Harvey Milk, the loss of the Challenger, and more close to home, the deaths of too many friends, boyfriends and mentors during the early days of 'the AIDS crisis'. That's what we called it then.

I crossed paths often Death while volunteering at the Oak Lawn Counseling Center as a  'buddy' for PWA's . If I've lost you with either the acronym 'PWA' and/or the term 'buddy', I suggest you take a break from the goddamned porn sites you've bookmarked, exit your Grindr app and educate yourself on that period in history.

Death is inevitable: and you'd think given my history; easy for a control freak like me to accept. It's not.  Barely 2 weeks into 2012, Death crashed this cyber-cafe society man's party. I'd met both George and Mike online. If they knew each other, I've no clue. To my knowledge, neither death was directly linked to anything I write about here. Not that it matters: they are gone and my feelings of helplessness are the same. I will miss  my brothers-in-arms, and neither would want me to sing sad songs for them now.

****
Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down a rabbit hole?

I was at an afternoon soiree about 5 years ago complimenting the host on the quality of his snow (it was a winter-themed event, although it was late April). Ordinarily I wouldn't have fawned like I did, but I was feeling on top of the world.
Rather than politely thank me, simply blush, or giggle nervously and move on, my host frowned, turned red as Kris Kringle's coat, and said: "You idiot! Didn't you read the invitation? This is a P-A-R-T-Y!"

Still in a grrrreat mood, I looked around. On the sofa, having shed their long underwear and those fur trapper hats I identify with news footage of the 1967 Chicago blizzard, three different men were getting blow-jobs from five different people.
I answered, "Indeed it is!"

This misunderstanding was cleared up later, and perhaps realizing his anger was misplaced, my host pulled me aside and directed my attention to a late arriving guest.

He was about 5'7", blond, tanned,  fit as a fiddle, limber as a rag, and clearly lacking inhibitions. He'd stripped and would assume various yoga positions. Perhaps noticing us noticing him, he arose from his sexy sun salutation and sauntered over to us.

"Got a bump? Can I get a bump?" Yet, he didn't wait for our host to answer, or for me to further show my ignorance by asking him what he was talking about. In truth, he kinda spooked me. Although stunning to look at, his expression was blank, his blue eyes: dead. Kind of like those robots that went on the fritz in Westworld.

"He was a screenwriter at Paramount. Don't let that ever happen to you," a voice said.

My host was not offering me career advice. I see Paramount's water tower (originally RKO's) as I write this. It's easy to spot: well-lit almost as if it were center stage and we were in the audience . The dark space that frames it for us from the property Paramount's lot backs up to: Hollywood Forever Cemetery. 

Back to Death, aren't we?

****
I came to that party seeming to have everything material one could wish for, but I'm a damn good actor. Don't get me wrong: I am grateful for all that life has given me. But: I was also bored out of my mind and clueless as to how to change that.
I acknowledge I am bored again. I can't be an apologist nor a champion nor of what I like to get loose. We all react differently. As I always say, if you are the paranoid, tweaky, freaky type when high, why the fuck are you still here?

I'm as flawed as any character from the Island of Misfit Toys. I tend to take people at their word even while I'm at warp speed. Thus, I'm very bored of meeting new people online yet within minutes begin parroting the same scenes: the 'getting to know you' that often leads nowhere. Yul Brynner touring in 'The King and I' ain't me.

The false promises to talk 'again', the entitled feeling that a few feel they have to 'order' me around, and worst of all, to feign any interest above a carnal, heat of the moment encounter, now disgust me. The friendships I've seen crack and shatter in 5 years were those forged while down the Rabbit Hole. It's unfortunate, because I believe we all have much more in common under the surface than we know. And that unspoken bond terrifies many.

Yet, I'm grateful for those friends, met here also, who are grounded in our ungroundedness. These are men I can call on the phone, text or get together with in person just to say hello, but also to book some hot and heavy playtime. I've had only the best experiences when I had guests visit, or when I have traveled. I fell head over heels also, one documented here; others not so much, for reasons that are none of your fucking business. Hee hee.

And to a those who need to know exactly what I'm saying, what I'm going to do, what's to become of me...well, write your own ending. There's something quite empowering about taking a breath...and walking away.

Goodnight to a ' Good Ol' Boy'

'Southern Hand Man' could never be mistaken for anyone raised above the Mason-Dixon Line. He had the thickest moonlight and magnolias drawl: so much so that at times he might as well have spoken in Urdu. He claimed North Carolina as his birthplace, but had deep roots in Alabama. Like any good Southerner, he had story after story to tell: all fascinating, all delivered in his singular self-deprecating, so dry you'd spit cotton style.

For all his outrageous talk, and there was never any doubt his 'true life adventures' were genuine, he seemed to be a very private man. Thus, his full name will not be stated. He had many careers, had loved and lost, but never gave up.

For the last several months, he had struggled with liver disease, similar to what his late mother had, and this spooked him. But it did not slow him down. He traveled to the Carolinas to help out friends on a landscaping project, and when done, drove home to Alabama without one stop. He was unscathed by the tornado activity around Birmingham in September although homes on either side of his were leveled.

His last message gives insight into his humor: 'Just home from an unexpected 9 day visit to the hospital. It's definitely not a Four Seasons Resort.'

George passed Monday, January 2, 2012. He was approximately 57 years old. He is survived by family, and many friends.  While I know he suffers no more, I will miss hearing that charming drawl.

New Year: Old Challenges: Always Opportunities

I'm in the middle of my own blog-a-thon off line: and I plan to post a series of random yet not random thoughts shortly. It was with great satisfaction to see 2011, a year I will not miss, blow away, yet not without drama and roadblocks.

I turn 50 this year. '12' has always been a lucky or important number to me. (yes, I must be back on a numerology kick, you're saying under your breath). Who knows what any of our superstitions really mean.

It goes back to having faith. I do, yet more and more I feel I hold myself back from getting ahead. It would be easy to blame the obvious, but I won't. I take responsibility for what I do: and don't do.

That knowledge though, no longer an idea in my head, but on the page in letters,  empowers me like nothing else.

I guess that's one reason why I write.

I Got A Name

I've met people online so committed to the anonymity of screen names that even after months of chatting back and forth, a comfort level seemingly in place, they still refused to divulge basic facts like a first name, or location.

This of course, drives me bonkers. I'm always offering up my proper name, or a variation of, because calling someone  "Hog-eye" , can seem foolish when discussing politics or the weather.

Or, some sort of bizarro adult 'Little Rascals' comedy, with characters called 'Spank-me', 'Buckweed' and 'Super Butch'. Having a name like "Topman" apparently implies I'm ready to fuck at a moment's notice. While that is often the case, it's not the rule. I like a little foreplay. Some people I meet act as if sex was akin to the stops on the subway: the Local 'N'.

Here's an example of the types of greetings I get: in this case I don't even rank as 'Topman' but 'Buddy':

"hi buddy hows it hanging love to suck and feel you seed my ass over and over"

"hey hotman, you hard and horny today?"

"hey stud you naked?'

"hey buddy, fuck me man, fuck me fuck me"

What's the old line: 'When they STOP calling I'll be worried?'

I guess it's hard for me to separate flirting from genuine interest and to no get so uptight when encountering the less polished, 'caveman' types.

Plotting My Own Plot Against Me

A glitch in my Blogger program has been hindering some posts. This is caused by:
 
A) I'm so fried, I'm only thinking I'm writing.
B) I'm not fried enough to mind meld with my desktop and solve the problem
B)The not-so-secret government plot against me. (don't worry, they'll get to you in due course)
C) Global Warming/Misc Ecological quirks as foretold by the Mayan Mutual of Omaha Desk Calendar
D)Gremlins from the Kremlin


I'd forgotten how hilarious those old cartoons were. Watch that while I go under the hood for a bit.

An Early Christmas

I had shook my head in amazement when I got an email from Mr. Big Woods of Wisconsin. I should have known the minute I began to reenter the world of the living something like this would happen.


The letter was friendly, with no 'old business' from the past being dragged out. I had last spoken to him July 4th Weekend, when he called and I lay on my big couch and cried after we hung up.
I was feeling so very lonesome, the roommate hunt was not going anywhere, a job negotiation had just fallen through. I went on a three day binge: not leaving the apartment, not eating, just staring at the walls.

This email found him in good spirits and mentioned a possible West Coast trip before Christmas.

We marked out calendars and things promptly unraveled. It started as an inability to coordinate face time via Skype. Then he announced he was running late to pick up his date for a monthly dinner club event, but oddly, and this was a good sign, I didn't wall up in tears when he said he had to go .

And that surprise trip to the Coast didn't happen--- which was no surprise to me.

December came, and with it,his birthday. He called me on mine, but could I stand the thought of having to talk to him, but neither did I want to blow him off. I sent an email, and in my own way began quietly closing the books on Woodman "Woodsy" McCarthy of Milwaukee, and this silly drain of energy known as party and play.
I could have gone to Madrid last year. He would gracefully fade into my past.

I received a rather ardent plea that we 'must' talk, and was told when and where to receive this call. (No 'Taming of the Shrew' jokes either, folks)

What could I do? I thanked Woodsy for making my day, as I was feeling mighty low, and for an hour plus enjoyed the most civilized conversation, with questions
"On the last night of my visit to Milwaukee, why DID you take me to the Supper Club where your father proposed to your mother?"
His reply: " It was?"
Laughter (I still call his old boyfriend 'Winston' which is the name of my cat. It's not deliberate. I'm still referred to as "That Man", which is.) Woodsy has a non-steady steady, and his description prompted me to quip: "He sounds like my twin'.
The reply: "He's a plumber; you're a writer." Ouch.

For once, I looked no further than the moment, turned off the sophisticated comedy repartee(might as well speak in Urdu), and just looked at him...he had fallen asleep on cam.

When I told Woodman  with my extended troubles I feared becoming Ava Gardner at the end of Show Boat, he asked 'Why not Howard Keel?'
I admit, I wasn't prepared for that one.

It's make believe in reality perhaps, but that call was the most marvelous Christmas present I've ever received.

The Boy Who Came Back: Part 2

I blogged previously about the cute younger guy who, when I first met him, was convinced I was none other than Satan's right hand (or would that be left hand?) man.  After I cleared up THAT confusion, he contacted me. Even commented on a post I had in a previous incarnation of this blog. Roll credits: all's well that end's well. Or so I thought.

When I saw he'd dropped me as a Skype contact, then didn't respond to my sincere birthday wishes, I became concerned. Why in blazes would I be concerned? He's a grown up, has family, friends, seemed to have dealt with whatever paranoia or pronoia or pro-choice issues that dogged him.

Boy, was I fucking WRONG.

No good deed goes unpunished, and yes, because I thought he was cute, and sane, I emailed him. Well, that last sentence should have ended with cute. When I saw on he'd put something about 'being possessed' I knew it was time to stick my nose, foot and hand into trouble. So, I emailed my Little Lost Luke Cloudwalker to inquire. I should have just asked what size he wore in a strait-jacket and ordered one.

This resulted in a response to my email and subsequent two to three hour text-fest that basically consisted of:

-was I using meth?
-why was I sticking my nose into his business?
-was I using meth?
-what a rude, self-centered, egotistical, nosy son-of-a-bitch bastard I was
-and was I using meth? Because if I was, he couldn't talk to me.

The best way to not get an answer out of me, is to demonstrate that you have, have, have, have, to know.

To say when I finally had enough, and with a heavy heart told him I was ending communication, was one of the hardest goodbyes I have ever uh...typed. His comments to me were so cruel, misdirected nd downright mean, I can only wonder what issues he had been 'told' were the cause of his drug use, but I had to question what drugs he was taking that would create such a different person than the cheerful guy I thought I knew.

And then, I had a theory what the problem was. And, being the SOB I am (he wasn't totally off the mark on some of his observations) I asked him straight out-and just like you see in the movies where the main character has this terrifying revelation: I knew the answer:

He was IN rehab (again) and that was why he was so fucked up. And why most likely he couldn't talk.

He denied it, but was I using meth?

This game...or whatever the fuck caring for someone genuinely and getting your head handed back to you in that style,  lost its charm right then and there.