Let's Hear it For the Boys

Last night I had a date with a bartending hottie that I met at Trannyshack. He's one of several guys that I would see around when I last lived in the Bay Area about three years ago. They were largely crushes from afar. Guys I'd lust after at the gym or on the street, but seldom if ever talked to. The distance kept the lust intact, and provided me with much late night masterbatory fodder.

And even if I knew their real names, they were usually given nicknames for conversation among friends.

"I saw the Abercrombie Wet Dream at the Gym today working out his chest." (Later shortened to AWD) It's silly and juvenille, but I know all gay men do it, if not everyone. In New York, my friend Keo and I have the Doctor. A beefy daddy-type who shows up at Crunch in suits and glasses. A sexy professional type who's the gay Clark Kent. He's hot when he arrives straight from work, but in a way that screams, "Take me on your desk now!"
It's not until he changes into his workout gear that he becomes a purely hot piece of meat. He's ripped beyond belief, and he's got arms the size of your legs. Needless to say, my friends and I are left looking like teenage girls at a New Kids concert in the early 90's.

Well, I've come back to the Bay Area, and my three major crushes from afar are suprisingly sill here. Unfortunately it looks like as if their lives have changed very little. They're still bartenders in the Castro and they're hanging out with the same friends. Don't know why that's so disturbing but it seems to me that their lives are in a state of entropy. Yes, I'm totally projecting, but I beleive that if you're a guy in your twenties, change and the challenges of new experiences are things that you should be pursuing. Saftey and monotony are boring and lame.

Well anyway, I would see this bartending hottie work out at Gold's on Market years ago. He has the kind of body that I strive for by going to the gym five days a week, but will sadly never have due to bad genes and my penchant for Ben and Jerry's. He's got huge arms, a solid chest, and a thin waist. His body fat is something around 5%, and he's got gorgeous brown eyes.
Although we would nod hello to each other on the street, it wasn't until he visited NYC a year ago that I finally met him.

We met at a gallery showing for a photographer that had taken photos of the both of us. This photographer is the hunky pin-up of the art-world with his porn-star bod and over-sexed artwork. Of course, I appeared in very few photographs, and the bartending hottie was a featured star in the exhibition and the catalogues. Our conversation was short, and I probably went home to a pint of Chunky Monkey.

He introduced himself at Trannyshack this past Tuesday with no recollection of our previous encounter. We exchanged numbers, but as he was heading out with another trick he approached me and said, "Look, I'd rather go home with you, so if you'd like, I'll ditch this other guy and we'll go hang out...."

"What? Uhh...go with your plan B."

"Should I call you?"

"If you want to talk, you can call me."

Instead of being flattered, I was sort of bummed out that my bartending hottie turned out to be such a jackass.
Well, he called the next day and apologized for his behavior. I accepted because he said he was shitface, and because he's really hot.
Yes, because he's HOT. I'm a shallow bitch, honey, and cute boys walk all over me....and I LIKE IT.

The date went okay, but the bartending hottie is well....uhh.... how should I say this diplomatically... his brains don't match the brawn. He's dumb as a fucking rock.
He's incredibly sweet, but there's something about dumb hot guys that makes me want to treat them like puppies and not like sexual objects. (I know I may be in the minority here.)
Plus, the boy has tribal AND chinese characters tattooed on his arms. Now thats a sign of a dumb fucking boy. Unless your last name is Park, Lee, or Chang and you've got slanty eyes, don't get a asian character tattoo. Having a stupid simple fucking word such as dream or love tattooed on you in an asian character doesn't make it cool. It just makes you look like an ass.

The kicker was when he informed me that he found the tribal tattoo from a tank-top he owned. A tank top. Yes. A fucking tank top.
I was left speechless, and that's a rare moment. Me speechless.

My best friend Chow Chow calls dumb hot boys "male Pamela Andersons." Big Titty Blonde Girls with no brains. And believe me we have plenty of friends who fit that description. But at least Pamela had enough ambition to be on Baywatch and leave the bartending gigs behind, and Pamela made bank which leads me to believe she's not as dumb as you think.

In spite of everything, I enjoyed hanging out with the bartending hottie. He was sweet and seemed genuinely unaware of his sex appeal. Guys who look like him in New York are complete jackasses. Aspiring models/actors/bartenders who know their beauty gives them power.


But what would I have done if this hottie had turned out to be mentally stimulating as well? I'd run away as fast as fucking possible. Guys like him are the only kind I can handle right now. Hot guys who I know I won't ultimately fall for, because every night right before I fall asleep the ghost of my EX haunts me. Even now in SF, on the other side of the country. I think of him. When everything is quiet my thoughts return to Manhattan to a man with the deepest blue eyes and sweetest smile.

Lunch Date with the Networking Guru

I had a lunch date with a superbly successful CEO who's recently released a book on networking. I met Mr. CEO on a pseudo blind-date set up by my friend BC. I call it a pseduo blind-date because it was not really a date. BC and I met him at his hotel suite, we all ate, and then BC left. I left 30 minutes later. 'Nuff Said. Sad thing is I've had a string of similar "dates," when what they should be called is booty calls.

Mr. CEO is 38, gorgeous, and built like a line-backer. He's Richard Branson with a personal trainer and better genetic stock. He certainly fulfills the hot coach fantasy with his butch swagger and deep voice, and guys my age are constantly courting him looking to call him daddy.
He's been the CEO of several companies, started a famous hotel chain, and has released a NYT best selling book on how to gain sucess through the secrets of his networking prowress.
Mr. CEO is undoubtedly a great catch on paper, and most of my friends think I'm crazy for not pursuing him harder. He's funny, hot, and rich.
Most girls would settle for the last two and call it a day, but I find myself being extremely....incredibly....wary.

Part of it is the fact that he presents himself as being perfect. He's constantly selling himself, and his charm and smile make you want to believe that he his in all actuality the perfect man. Like all business-saavy alpha males, he is a master at packaging his most important product; himself. There's no self-deprication, no admission that any thing in his life is other than great, and no sign of weakness. But I'm cynical enough to know that he's hiding something. Maybe not a Jeffrey Dahmer history, but I refuse to believe that everything is as "great" as he claims it is. Maybe the butch Mr. CEO cries at Gilmore Girls and gets gas from Indian food. Maybe he beats up little puppies and is addicted to Trimspa.

How much of his perfect persona should I believe? Is Mr. CEO sincerely "great" all the time, or is he negotiating our dating life the same way he negotiates the board room?

But then again we all project better versions of ourselves when we first start dating.
I certainly hide the neuroses and mood swings from my potential suitors until I've hooked them in. Then its just a showering of abusive tirades and angry rants, but by that point the boyfriends are too invested to walk away.
(Yes, I've been in therapy....I'm working on it.)
The tricky part is figuring out how much of the whole picture you show your suitors. We hide the less desirable aspects of our personalities and present a sane put-together version of ourselves. Maybe we should we save each other time and list all of our vices upfront.
Should I tell guys on the first date that I'm an affirmation-junkie overspending lush?
Should they tell me that they'll ask me to be monogamous while they jerk off with half of Chelsea in the steam room of David Barton?
All of this really reinforces the notion that dating is a game. A game of false-impressions and packaged personas. A game of sell and buy, and I can't help feeling that I've maxed out my Amex.

So one can understand why the one-night stand is so appealing. You meet, you hook-up, and that's that. No selling, no negotiating, and no bullshit. Splash and Dash.


The other part of my hesitation with Mr. CEO it is that I'm sadly still really into my ex-boyfriend. In a lot of ways, I consider the EX to be the perfect man, and I inevitably compare all other men to him. Every guy I've dated since him hasn't been as intelligent, ambitious, or sexy as him. But he's not my boyfriend anymore, he's my ex-boyfriend, and all this comparison has me blowing off guys left and right. I often wonder, then, if I'm sabotaging any future with other men by continually living in the past.

I had cancelled my dinner date with Mr. CEO last night because the EX and I have been talking on the phone a lot lately.
But as I was walking down a deserted Market Street last night, the cold wind hit some sense into me.
There's no guarantee that things will ever change for the EX and I. We were toxic to each other in the past, and he seems too wary to give us another shot.
I want to find love again, and eventually start a family. It doesn't have to start tomorrow, but I don't want to waste another year pining away for a man who's destined to be my friend.
So when Mr. CEO called today to see if I could meet up for lunch, I decided to say yes.
He's still slick as oil so I doubt anything will come of us hanging out, and I suspect that Mr. CEO has a boyfriend. But I think its healthy for me to keep my options open. And I'm going to encourage the EX to do the same.

I need a dog. A dog that can pay for dinner every now and then.

I'm not a Bitch, I'm just Styled that way

So last night I checked out Trannyshack at the Stud. Perhaps the only great thing going on in gay nightlife in SF. It's a showcase of nasty gritty drag queens who are more likely to lip-synch to Siouxsie Sioux than Mariah; and who will glady squirt the audience with fake menstural blood in the name of performance art. In other words: it can be pure genius.

I'm not really a fan of most drag queens because quite honestly most of them are lame and b-o-r-i-n-g as fuck. (Yes, I know Stonewall was started by drag queens, but sweetie, I'll heckle anyone who doesn't have the sense not to wear a muu muu and who thinks judy garland is "fierce.") I mean, honestly how many times can you see a fat guy in a dress mouth the words to a cher song? I'd rather eat a tuna-melt and watch Desperate Housewives.

But thankfully there are several girls out there who can really carry. The outfit is DONE, the hair and make-up DONE, and the peformance flawless and unique. One of those girls is Sherry Vine.

A fellow New Yorker, Sherry came out to visit Trannyshack to perform her live cabaret. I met Sherry years ago for an article I did about her residency in Berlin. She's recently moved back to New York, and the gays are all in a tizzy about her return because she's that cunty. Yes, that's a good thing. She's cunty, hot, and wears stilletos with leather dresses. Think Debbie Harry as a glam jewish american princess.

It seemed that because of Sherry, every New Yorker around- past and present- made the effort to go to Trannyshack because I felt like I was at the Cock with all the familar faces around.

It's a small world, and an even smaller one with the gays, because a stylist I had worked with on a men's swimwear photo shoot approached me and said hi.

Now every faggot with a subscription to Vogue and Cargo calls himself a stylist in New York. And this mofo has NO style whatsofckingever. I swear I think he was wearing Sketchers and a pooka shell necklace.

So in the spirit of Sherry and the clueless Stylist, I have decided to give my Stanford peers some fashion advice. Today I'll do the ladies because A) I'm a total mysoginist and B) It pisses me off when chicks don't make an effort because fashion is created for them. How much would I love to be able to wear Manolos and mini-skirts?! As much as I would love to have multiple orgasms!

Stanford girls mystify me. They dress as if they're about to move heavy furniture, paint some walls, or go camping It's as if they've given up on glamour all together, and that my children, is a very sad sad thing.

WHAT NOT TO WEAR:
-Pajamas: Don't wear PJ's outside of the dorm. It's not cute, ladies, to show up at class in your paul frank pj's. i think you look like a lazy cow. and you're covering up your young supple skin, and that shit aint going to be around forever, especially if you become an investment banker or all-around corporate whore. Look at Carly Fiornia, former CEO of HP. She's a man! And an ugly one at that. But I bet you my Seven jeans she once had youthful glowing skin. And no anti-wrinkle cream is ever going to bring that back.

-Sweats or Gym Pants: Same reasons as above. And you shouldn't be working out in pants anyway. Wear short gym shorts that have Stanford written on the butt. Or buy some form-fitting gym clothes from Y3.

-Sneakers more than 3 days a week: The high-heel is the best shoe ever fucking made. I've tried wearing them and it just doesn't work for the current butch look I'm working. So fucking strap on some heels, cute sandals, or knee-high boots.

-Flip-Flops: Flips are so ubiquitous at Stanford that it will forever be impossible to ween the student body off of them. I love flip-flops, but wearing them every day is pure laziness. We aren't at the beach nor are we on vacation, so try not to wear flip-flops to meals. It's tacky.
If you really need comfortable shoes, invest your money in loafers. Prada and YSL have both released gorgeous loafers which means there are cheap imitations out there. Or even get some moccassins or fucking UGGs. I know they're so LA and Lindsay Lohan, but its a hell of a lot better than looking like Britney Spears who seems to only wear flip-flops, and anything she does you are to avoid like genital herpes.

-Ribbed Sweaters: Burn them. Wear cashmere.

-Really Long Hair: It's tacky, and it makes you look like trailer trash.
-Really Short Hair: You don't look like Winona during her pixie-ish Reality Bites era, you just look like a dyke.

-Tie-Dyed Shirts and other Hippy-ish Clothes: Are we planning on going to a grateful dead concert? Jerry's dead. Phish have broken up. Get over it.

-Birkenstocks and Tevas: PUKE.

And never wear fleeces, northface gear, denim shorts, wedges, hiking boots, ugly hats reminiscent of TV's Blossom, t-shirts you bought at the GAP when you were 12, mules, or PALE skin. Go to a fucking tanning salon.

WHAT TO WEAR:
Stilletos, Make-Up because unless your Halle or Angelina you need it, Mini-Skirts, Chanel Allure, Big Jackie-O sunglasses, silk scarves, hoop earrings, big bags i.e. a birkins, and chunky jewelry.

Pick a style icon for inspiration. Think Mary-Kate or Chloe Sevigny. They're both young women with great style- even if they're both coked-out hookers. That gives someone points in my book, but I know how you Stanford girls are sychophantic ambitious fembots. I blame feminism, but you've got to stop being afraid of being sexy, and stop attacking the few girls who actually dare to look hot on campus.
The few girls I'm friends with from my original stint at Stanford are all hot, and while they were undergrads, you ladies would scornfully glare and call them sluts behind their backs. Well guess what? They're still hot, all have hot boyfriends, and have great careers. And as for the clueless girls, they're now whining about how men are intimidated by successful smart women. RIGHT?!

And in case you already forgot, don't ever look to Britney Spears for tips. She's southern trash who visits gas-station bathrooms barefoot while wearing denim shorts and cotton tank-tops. She's let herself get fat which in itself isn't a crime, but when you're a celebrity who has personal trainers, stylists, and free designer duds at your disposal, and the best look you can come up with is recovering-oxycontin-addict who eats her feelings, then you are a waste of US Weekly photo space.

I know this is a lot to take in, but take heart, girls. It's a big world out there and you have plenty of time to figure it out.





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Waiting to Exhale

No, I didn't run into Whitney and Angela Basset on my way to Stanford this morning...but I am wound up with anxiety as to whether or not I'll actually be able to attend classes this quarter.
Turns out the good people at Stanford failed to realize that I have a major issue with returning. I can't elaborate just yet, but this is all very frustrating as I've been in contact with Stanford for the past six months, and this issue "came up" just yesterday. Note to self: This whole laid-back CA thing is BULLSHIT.

So I quit my job, gave up my apartment, and flew out to CA for what?! To hang out with a bunch of skinny self-righteous fucks?! I don't think so.

And I can't go back to New York now. I made a HUGE production about leaving. There were farewell dinners, cakes with candles, and even tears. Granted they were fake gay ki-ki tears, but hello, it was a PRODUCTION. I can't come back to New York with a JUST KIDDING, Y'ALL. I need to be gone for at least three months or else the vicious queens also known as my friends will have a field day about my quick return. (Look, my friends are cunts, but I wouldn't have it any other way.)
Maybe I'll actually check myself into a real rehab program. What's the name of the place that Mary-Kate went to? Canyon Ranch was it? Do they have personal trainers and a protein-shake bar? I want to return to New York with less body fat and more muscle. Think Ryan Reynolds in Blade 3.
Regardless, I didn't change every single aspect of my life in New York just so that I could find out it was all for not. I... am...totally...freaking...out.

Oh fuck me! I need a ketel martini on the rocks and a klonopin. but i'm at stanford where the closest thing to happy hour is a keg in some 19 year old's closet.

I'm off to buy cigarettes. Stanford and SF, you're driving me to smoking. Since I'm trying to stay relatively sober, the only ting I can do while waiting to exhale is to inhale a Camel and cross my fingers.

Eating Out

I saw Eating Out at the Roxie last night.
Ryan Carnes is ree-dick-ulously hot but the movie was trash. It's the kind of shit that's shown on TV on 4 in the morning and is watched by cracked out crystal queens while they browse Manhunt. It was trying to be a gay American pie with its zany sex college-antics and heavy-handed pop-cultural references. It just left me with a bad diet coke buzz and 8 dollars poorer.

Ready or Not, Here I Come, You Can't Hide

Why the fuck am I starting a blog when every other self-righteous narcisstic homo on the planet seems to think that their insights and opinions warrant a blog of their own? Well, because I may just be smarter, cuter, and more narcisstic than the rest! Ha, I'm kidding. But it's hard not feeling like a hot piece of ass in San Francisco where the average gay man has a beer gut and doesn't understand the merits of a regular hygiene.

SF is one busted city full of hippy-flippy annoying freaks. It's the kind of city where people will do the fake cough when walking by a smoker. It's also the city where people think that red sneakers and highlighted hair are the height of fashion.
There's a general contempt for gentrification, yuppies, and shallow behavior- which pretty much sums me and my dreams up.

I'm prissy and proud of it. I like to get manicures, go tanning, and shop for clothes. I'll gladly pay 400 for a pair of shades, especially if they're Christian Dior Aviators.

But that doesn't make me an evil soul-less person. But it does seem to make me very incompatible with San Francisco.

Which makes my return to the Bay Area so ironic.
I hate it here, but I have to return to finish up Stanford.
I left three years ago to chase the party. I worked as a hooker and bartender in New York which my therapist will tell you was my way of recieving affirmation. Probably true, but I also had a fucking great time. Granted my life consisted of hook ups and come downs- but I had a good time.
But of course the obvious had begun to hammer away at me.
what the fuck is going to happen to me in 10 years? i need a career. i need a 401K and health insurance. i need to be able to find a job that challenges me in more ways than finding the best cut of jeans for my ass.

my shallow life really began to bother me about a year ago when my best friend started medical school. he had been my running buddy for several years at various circuit-y parties and during drug binges. and now he was moving on and growing up.
and whenever i met up with my circle of close friends from school, there were discussions of promotions, law school graduations, and all I had to offer were stories about how my latest boyfriend swallows.

So I'm back in SF to make amends. It's only ten weeks, but it feels like I'm in a rehab program for the partied out.

It won't be that hard, but SF is a really fucking slow and boring city, and this recovering wild-child is already feeling cagey.