& cognitive dissonance

I am so obsessed with Rogier posts.  He charms me with his perverted, brutal  honesty, which of course makes me a diagnosable headcase.  I saw him at Sterner’s birthday party last year, and of course recognized him via my expert facebook stalking skills.  And like a little fan girl, I considered going up to him and complimenting his blogging posts.  But I felt like a creep.  A weirdo creep.  And I have no guts for talking to strangers.  I sound awkward and I babble, and frequently turn into an all out ditz.  I’d probably forget the damn year or something, and then giggle and blush like an idiot.  This is really a major problem of mine.  Like when I see a girl in Home Depot and think she would be perfect for a photoshoot I’m planning in my head — and you know, we live in the middle of fucking nowhere so it’s like she’s asked to model all the time so she’s probably just going to be flattered and everything.  But I can’t do it.  And my boyfriend just gets crazy over it, because I guess talking to women — talking to anyone — is just way too easy for him.  And the more I think about approaching her, the more it seems like the most daunting thing in the world, like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro or something.  And by the time we leave Home Depot, which I hate — I really just hate shopping there — I feel like a failure, and the boyfriend certainly thinks I’m a failure.  And we ride home all quiet contemplating all the reasons I’ll never be a photographer.  Which is why I’m going to school to be a scientist now so it really doesn’t matter anyway. 

Soooo, this is a great Rogier post. Read it.

sternerandrogier:

Someone stole my underwear at the gym.

It’s a West Hollywood gym, where lots of huge gay muscle studs work out.  So someone stole them to sniff them and jack off, I think.  That was the first place my mind went, after I fruitlessly searched through my fucking bag for them like Tel Aviv airport security going through some  Palestinian college kid’s backpack.  Someone stole my underwear to sniff ‘em and jerk off.

I can feel no moral outrage about this, because  a warehouse full of underwear would have to be stolen from me, sniffed, and jacked off into before the cosmic scales are balanced.  I used to do this same shit all the fucking time. When I did coke, getting down to my last couple bumps, I knew I would be up for several more hours with no drugs left and a crazy desire to beat the meat, and I would go to my building’s laundry room and raid the lost and found shelf.  Nine times out of ten there would be a pair of panties there.  If I was lucky, it would have been one that tumbled out of the laundry basket before even going in the washer and they would still have a good head of cuntmusk on ‘em. This was when I was living on a floor full of aspiring actresses so the odds were good that I would be sniffing the vagina residue of someone hot.

Or if I was at a girl’s house after a date and I was drunk enough to do something truly sleazy I would reach into the hamper while she was taking a piss and sneak a crusty thong into the inside chest pocket of my first date blazer.  Whether or not I actually scored, I knew I would be having a satisfying jack later with her taint-infused chonies draped over my face.  And with luck, I’d have chosen a pair from when she was ovulating and her cunt juice was at its peak of sweetness.  But either way.  It just adds an element of realism.  You jack off after a long drunken hookup with a chick, you have every detail of her body fresh in your mind.  The taste of her skin.  Add a whiff of her cunt flavor and it’s like you own a fucking holodeck.

So I get why they did it.  And I must say, they chose the perfect pair to steal.  Baby blue American Apparel briefs.  Doesn’t get any gayer.  And I had laundered them in fragrance-free detergent, and washed my genitalia that morning with some not-too-heavily scented Lever 2000, and then walked around in the 90 degree heat for a couple hours.  So there was none of this Tide Mountain Breeze shit interfering with the strong healthy spice of my nuts, cock, taint and virgin butthole.

I hope they knew whose underwear they were stealing.  I hope it wasn’t just some random act of well, these are cute and appear to belong to someone of reasonable waist size; let’s jack off in ‘em.  I hope it’s someone who has taken time to appreciate that I labor my fucking ass off in that gym; that my naked body is not unlike that of Ryan fucking Reynolds, although unfortunately with the head of Harry Dean Stanton circa 1978 grafted onto it. 

I bet they knew, because the fucking gays are the only people who have ever made any kind of move on me whatsoever. The only people who have ever approached me to say I’m cute, to ask me out, to buy me a fucking drink. If I had to rely on women for this I would be convinced that I was a hideous crippled sewer mutant whose approach made mothers cover their children’s eyes on the street.  I’ve seen women make moves on people; I know it happens, but it has NEVER happened to me.  Not once.  But the gays— the gays are always good for a slightly scary pat on the ass; for a look like a trapped wolf might give a pork chop. 

And I appreciate this. Maybe women have their own way of giving cues that they find you attractive, but it’s all so subtle and esoteric and they-look-at-you-and-then-look-away-quickly-and-is-she-uncrossing-her-arms-and-biting-her-lip, etc. etc. And dude, she told me afterwards she wished you would have asked her out— yes, because God forbid SHE should do anything.  There’s about one half of one per cent of all the men in the world who are the dude who is comfortable approaching women in public, and if you’re not them, you’re fucked.  Women will approach a guy who looks like James Dean, maybe, but that’s it.  Otherwise, they aren’t doing the work.  Seventy seven cents on the dollar is way too fucking much.

But anyway: huge, steroid-laden middle aged dude who stole my underwear to sniff it and then blow a load in the taint cradle: thank you.  For once in my god damn life it is just nice to feel sexy.  I don’t want guys to fuck me in the ass, but god damn do I want them to want to fuck me in the ass.

You know?