tarotreid

[tarotreid]

#ass #gay #polaroid #gayass

[tarotreid]

Ghost Keeper

The woods are getting thicker As your hair is getting thinner There's a pain in your stomach And your skin starts to splinter Open doors will soon be closed Yet I still can't seem to find the words How will I be able to push through When I can't say the things I need to most The past comes blazing through Like the hour of the end And I endlessly remind myself That your love was not my imagination I want to hide you Death cannot find you in our secret place But life will always find us We will never win the race And there's a part of me that knows That when you leave I'll keep your ghost Watch me as I wade on through The life I live because of you

[tarotreid]

Oh mm hmm.

[tarotreid]

Gym Lingo As Told By a Gay Man

The gym is pretty much gay church, and like any congregation of worship, it comes with its own rules and lingo. Just like scripture, it’s hard to understand just what it all means. But, if you learn to read between the lines, you can easily interpret the hidden meanings behind the language. Here are some translations of common gym phrases that I hope will aide you in your path of spirituality, or, depending on which gym you go to, dicktuality:

“Are you using this piece of equipment?” Translation: “get the fuck out of my way, queen.”

“I forgot something in the locker room - be right back.” Translation: “I just saw some fine piece of ass heading to the showers, so I’m going to see if I can catch a glimpse of him naked. Bonus points if he flashes me the D. Grand prize if he lets me touch it in the shower.”

“How many more sets do you have?” Translation: “hurry, queen, I have to go home and douche before my boyfriend gets home.”

“Can I work in with you?” Translation: “I’m initiating the official gym mating call for gay men. Watch me lift these weights with all of the masculine energy I can exude. Once I’m done, we will switch and then I will observe you lift the weights. Our sweat will blend on the equipment, and by the end of our workout, we will have become one.”

“Can you spot me?” Translation: “I noticed you’re not wearing any underwear, and you’ve got some serious VPL (visible penis line for you amateurs out there), so can you please stand over me and help me lift these weights while I stare at your bulge?”

“Enjoy your workout” Translation: “you’re fat.”

“What’re you working out today?” Translation: “which show are you currently binge watching?”

“Hows your nutrition?” Translation: “Spit or swallow?”

“Make sure to fuel up after your workout.” Translation: “There’s a Chipotle down the street.”

[tarotreid]

I Bottomed for a Black Man and Didn't Even Get Any Mozzarella Sticks

Like many naïve and STD-free young gay men, I moved to New York City at the ripe age of 18, and I genuinely considered it to be my big shot in life. At the time of my move, I was coming from a very small rural town in Texas that, in all seriousness, was known as “The Cowboy Capital of the World.” No, I’m serious, it even says it on the welcome sign as you drive into town. The welcome sign also makes sure to mention that our high school football team has won the state championship only once in the entire existence of the planet earth, and that was back in 2002. However, there were many wins that year that we shouldn’t take for granted: the aforementioned 2002 state championship win, Madonna’s Drowned World Tour, and our coming together as a nation to ensure that no one’s time spent in an airport was quick or easy. This was also the year that I graduated into the 7th grade and discovered masturbation for the first time thanks to a “how to” I read up on in an AOL chatroom. ASL anyone?

My moving to New York City after high school was quite literally the talk of the town. I attended a high school where the usual thing to do was graduate and go straight into the military. To paint you a picture, there was a military sign-up station in the hallway every day throughout the year, and the occasional on-site appearances from military men themselves to try and recruit us, and when this happened, they always rode up to the school in their big fancy military Jeeps. As a young teenage boy, watching a man in uniform descend down from the most masculine of all vehicular transportation devices was time-stopping, and erotic. It also really made me want to be Lara Croft.

I can fondly recall the time a military recruiter cruised the school cafeteria looking for young boys to recruit. I realize this sounds a lot like a porno film I’ve seen on more than one occasion, but this one does not end with the recruiter stuffing my mouth with his “great nation.” Instead, he merely strides up to me and, with a voice that sounds like he is trying to sell me Oxy Clean, says to me “have you ever considered joining the military!?”

“Um…I’m in theatre.” I replied.

“Have a nice day,” he said. And it was there that my military career began and ended.

And that was that.

So, to be the boy to skip out on a life full of self-esteem shattering Drill Sergeants, same-sex communal showers, and nocturnal bed bunk squeaking was quite the topic of conversation. That’s right, world, I was throwing in my camo print pants for Capezio dance tights! I remember that on the window outside of the school office, our guidance counselor would tape up school pendant flags that had our names on them and where we would be going to college. I was the only one venturing out of state. I was the only one doing anything that I considered to be big or worthwhile.

From the start of my high school career, I was the rising star of the theatre world. I was what the school newspaper would call, “a tour de force of acting power”…if that ever happened. So, it was only natural that by the time senior year rolled around, I would choose one of two careers: modeling or acting. I was still growing out of my baby fat, so I chose acting instead. I can’t tell you how many parents came up to me after shows to tell me how excited they were for me and how I was sure to make it big in the big city. And if check out ladies from the local Supermart grocery store tell you you’re acting is on point, then you’re clearly destined for stardom.

So, off for stardom I went. I moved to New York City on October 7th, 2008. How do I remember this? I remember because it was also the day that, in addition to moving to my new city of residence, I saw Madonna in concert for the first time during her Sticky & Sweet Tour. So, in essence, moving to New York City and seeing Madonna all in the same day was pretty much the gayest thing that I’ve ever done. But, my NYC gaydom would not end there.

When I arrived in the city, I arrived about a week before I was supposed to move into my dorm room on west 84th, so the logical solution was to stay with my cousin Marty (also gay) at his apartment on James Street right off Chinatown. Oh, how I miss getting off at the Canal Street stop and being asked every day and every night if I wanted to buy a designer purse or watch the latest blockbuster movie that was filmed from the saleswoman’s purse in the theater. It finally got to a point where the black market salespeople recognized me as a resident, and they no longer cared about if I wanted to buy “Burbuhry, Gootchi, PrAdA” bags. I was sad that they felt they no longer needed my money to help them flourish, but on the flipside, I was also proud that I was recognized as a resident.

Naturally, when you’re 18 and living with your older and experienced gay relative, you take their lead. After all, he’s blazing the trail, is he not? My first lesson in being a gay resident of New York City: Equinox Gym.

Now, I have a feeling that there is a collection of people in this world that read those two words “Equinox Gym” and either sighed, chuckled in understanding, rolled their eyes, or wept. I get you…I really do.

Marty was quick to get me a guest pass to his location of choice in SoHo. Who was I to say no? I needed to start working on my dancer body and also start trying to get a boyfriend. I was 18 and the Sex and the City movie had just come out, so I needed to get a jump on becoming my inner Carrie Bradshaw. There is more to come on the Equinox Gym segment of my life, so for right now, we are just going to fast forward to that fateful meeting that this chapter hinges upon.

Naturally, I was sold on the entire concept of Equinox Gym. It was some fancy fucking shit, the men were gorgeous, they sold smoothies and clothes, and offered a student discount. It was a building that literally combined all of my favorite things in life: fancy fucking shit, sex, shopping while drinking a smoothie, and saving money. What was not to love? Since my school was on west 61st street, my location of choice for a good after school sweat was the Columbus Circle gym. It was here that I met him, the man that would blow my world, and my butthole open, Rafael.

We met in the locker room (okay the steam room) as that’s really the only place at an Equinox Gym to meet someone. On the gym floor? Stone cold silence. The locker room? Social hour, group therapy, and fondling. I could tell he had a thing for me, and I was immediately intimidated by the notion. He was a tall, incredibly well-built, and smoking hot black man. I rushed upstairs, flustered, to purchase a smoothie (fuck those fucking delicious smoothies) and a protein bar, and out he comes of the elevator. He does the dance of someone you can tell is working up the courage to talk to you, and I smelled his scent instantly. I, on the other hand, was not ready for this dance – I had simply not stretched properly and my Caprezio dance tights were nowhere in sight. So, I did what any normal human being would logically do when faced with the situation of having to talk to someone you didn’t want to talk to: I pretended to talk on my cell phone. Let me just sidetrack here for a second and mention how much I miss Blackberry as a company because, back then, my cherry red Blackberry Curve was everything to me. Okay, back on track.

This man didn’t seem to be taking the hint and going anywhere, so my conversation with my mother got longer and more heated. There was just no possible way I was getting off that phone with our quarrel unresolved, and who in their right mind would want to stand around and wait, and not to mention listen in on a guy “argue” with his mother? Well, he did, the sick bastard. Finally, I thought to myself that I should just buck up and give this guy a shot. After all, it was just some basic human interaction. What was I so afraid of?

I resolved my conflict with mother (no, I do not moonlight as Norman Bates), hung up, and put on my best surprised face as I turned to see him standing there.

“Oh! I’m surprised because I didn’t see you standing there!” I said, hoping my college acting tuition was paying off with my current performance of Much Ado About Non-Existent Phone Calls.

“It’s ok,” he said coolly and calmly. It was there in his tone that I could sense his not taking “no” for an answer. He was so masculine and sure of himself. I became aroused.

He introduced himself as Rafael and that was that. He wore a turtleneck under a velvet blazer which I found equally repulsive and glamorous. He offered me his phone number and the suggestion of getting together sometime. I obliged, and off to my dorm I went. As I washed my dance thong in the sink with a bottle of Woolite I purchased from the local Fairway, I wondered if I would ever hear from this man again. As I listened to the dripping of my ass floss hanging from the pipes on the ceiling, I couldn’t seem to get this chocolate man out of my head. I couldn’t help but wonder, was I coming down with jungle fever?

Skip ahead a couple of scenes to me on the floor of my dorm, packing to head home for Christmas vacation. It was approaching midnight, so I was surprised (genuinely this time) to hear my phone go off (ah the sweet chirp of a Blackberry’s call). It was Rafael. He said he was making mozzarella sticks and was wondering if I wanted to come over and have some. I’m glad I was alone in my dorm that night, because on the first mention of mozzarella sticks, my panties instantly dropped. “Cool, well come on over and we can hang out and have some,” he cooed. I was wet.

Maybe I was wrong about him the whole time, I thought to myself. This black Adonis who I had originally seen as some random fellow that tried to pick me up in a gym locker room was now becoming a man I could easily see a future with – a future filled with velvet clothing and delicious Italian cuisine. If this is love, I thought, then pass the marinara sauce.

Quickly, and I mean quickly, I was on the train heading up to his apartment. By the time I got there, I was convinced I was in a different state. Following his instructions to text him when I got off the train, he responded by sending me directions to his apartment, and instructed me to go to the building across from the Dunkin Donuts. He lived across the street from a Dunkin Donuts?! My heart raced and fluttered as my mozzarella stick-filled fantasies of our life together soon gave way to early morning walks to Dunkin Donuts. If he really loved me, I thought, he would surprise me with a blueberry cake donut upon my waking every morning, and when I would retort for fear of getting fat, he would tell me he loved no matter how I looked. This was beginning to look like a processed food match made in heaven.

I found the apartment, appropriately placed across the donut shop beacon of hope I considered to be my possible future. He met me at the door and invited me in. His apartment was very eclectic and filled with furniture from different countries, and wall art from countless theatre and dance shows. Upon noting this to him, he told me that he lived with a dancer, and that this roommate travelled a lot and was always bringing stuff home. A roommate!? How were we supposed to make sweet love on the kitchen floor while the oven timer ticked away and counted down the seconds to hot gooey passion sticks? Apparently, his roommate was also gone a lot. There was now a new light at the end of the tunnel.

He brought me into the kitchen where I was met with the most horrific sight I had seen since seeing a dead body slumped up against a wall in Times Square on my way to work. Frozen mozzarella sticks…still frozen…on the baking sheet…not in the oven. What was this game he was playing with me? What trickery was this? I felt like one of the young girls in the Hostel films – lured to an exotic destination under false pretenses with promises of delicious appetizers, and then sold on the human black market to be tortured and killed.

“I thought we were having mozzarella sticks,” I said, glancing nervously at the baking sheet on the kitchen table. Evidently, I had only one concern that night. What did he think I came here for, company? Did he forget that the market had just crashed, and that we were in a recession, and that luxuries such as mozzarella sticks were not an everyday occurrence? This was The Hunger Games before there ever was one.

“Later,” he said, all too casually. His tone told me he had planned this all along. “Let’s go talk in the living room.”

“Later!? Bitch, I’m hungry now!” I wanted to say, but I kept my inner monologue to myself.

I obliged and together we sat on the futon. I don’t recall anything we talked about, what I do recall is that the talking portion of the evening was brief, and it soon gave way to making out. Making out soon became undressing, and undressing soon became doing of dirty deeds.

Our time spent on the futon was full of the usual sexual niceties: dirty talk, mutually considerate foreplay, compliments, self-doubt, etc. Then, the most shocking thing of all happened: he told me he wanted to put it in me.

I panicked. I was only 18 and had only had full intercourse once in my life, and for that occasion, I was on the top bunk if you catch my drift. I had never considered inviting a visitor to tour my lower Manhattan. Also, do I need to remind you that this man was a black Adonis? If you have never been fortunate enough to experience the passions of a black man, then let me leave you with this: it’s true what they say….

I told him that I was scared and that I had never done it before. I tried to remain as calm as possible, but on the inside, I was a quivering girl covering my breasts from the bad man who wanted to touch them. “Oh no, not there, don’t touch my no-no square,” I wanted to scream out. He reassured me that it would be ok. Damn this guy was good; he could convince me of anything. There was just something in his tone of voice. At the end of the day, I realized he was full of swagger, and knew how to work it. So, against my better judgement, I allowed him to store his junk in my basement.

As we proceeded on, I found myself becoming less anxious about this activity, and actually getting to the point where I could enjoy myself. He smooth talked me, he told me I was pretty and thin (not really), and then he told me he thought my nipples were really sexy. Wait, what? I questioned this further, but I was met with the same response. He actually found my nipples sexy. All my life, I considered my nipples to be fluffy mounds of pink Fluffer Nutter, but here was this gorgeous man that wanted to gaze and wish upon them like some nipple oracle. Without thinking, I puffed up my chest towards his face as a way of mesmerizing him, but in truth, it probably just looked like I was trying to get him to latch on for nursing.

That was all I needed to hear, and the heat was turned up. I soon found myself accomplishing a myriad of positions I had never even thought of before. Is this what yoga is like I wondered to myself. Right hand blue? Left foot green? You got it. There was no position too compromising.

But then, it happened. It is at this point in the story that I must give a brief lesson in anatomy. Whether you are female or male, if you’ve never before allowed a man to knock, knock, knock on heaven’s back door before, relaxing the body and mind is an absolute necessity. However, there is a moment where this total body and mind relaxation leads itself to a moment that, for lack of a better term, feels like you’re taking a big dump. Now going into this, I was not aware of this feeling. This entire experience was all new to me. So imagine my horror when “the feeling” hit me.

I remember it like it was yesterday. We were on the futon. He was the quarterback, I was the wide receiver. Just as I’m thinking to myself, you go, Glen Cocoa, it happens…the feeling. The look of ecstasy on my face is quickly replaced by a look of fear and panic. I was horrified, because I was thoroughly convinced that I had just taken a dump on this man’s penis. I was convinced that this evening, and my life, were over. Time stopped as I waited for the telltale scent of an overzealous bootyhole. However, no such scent found its way to my nostrils. That couldn’t be, though, I knew for a fact I had shit on his dick! I felt it! I needed to inspect further. My gaze was in the direction of the kitchen, and I wanted to scream out “see, mozzarella sticks! See what I must endure for you!”

I had no idea what I was going to do. I started to devise plans and schemes on how to live my life getting over this. Do I blame it on IBS? Do I just never let him out of me and live the rest of my life with Raphael permanently attached my butt? Do I kill him? But before I could decide on a rational plan, it came: the moment in all sexual escapades where the person on top decides to remove themselves, and it’s in doing this, I was sure he would see that I had dipped his cone like a neighborhood Dairy Queen. The world slowed down. If this was going to happen, I might as well look the devil in the eyes, and I craned my head to glance behind me at the grenade that was sure to go off. I wanted to shut my eyes, but I was a man possessed and couldn’t bring myself to do it. I waited for the screams.

But the angles in American smiled upon me that evening, and as I gazed upon Rafael’s ninja turtle, I was delighted to find that no penises were harmed in the making of this love. I finished like a champ that evening.

At the end of the night I went home with mixed emotions. I had just experienced something so deep (no pun intended) and personal that seems so intimidating, but actually turned out to be quite enjoyable. I learned valuable lessons though: to not trust men who attempt to woo you with the promise of frozen appetizers, as they are only out to get one thing, and that if it feels like you’re going to poo, you’re not. I may not have walked away that night with mozzarella sticks, but I did walk away with one thing that I had not entered with: nipple confidence.