What A Feeling

DISCLAIMER:  Do NOT read the following post if you fall into one of the following categories: Lesbian, dyke, carpet muncher, rug-muncher, lemon squeezer, fuzz bumper, lesbo, muff diver, lezzie, lesbo, lez or any other term that refers to a homosexual female.

Well, hopefully if you're offended by the disclaimer, you've already stopped reading this because it ain't gonna get much prettier from here on in.  


One thing that REALLY bothers me, is when a breeder friend asks who my lesbian friends are.  Why would I be friends with a dyke? Besides the whole not straight thing, what else do gays and lesbians have in common?  NOTHING.  So why would I be friends with one?


**Just to clarify, I'm not referring to beautiful lezzies (ie Portia de Rossi) or really funny dykes (ie Ellen) but more like the plaid wearing, beer gut, spiky hair, butchy dykes (ie Rosie O' Donnell).

That being said, I also just want to point out that I am a fierce advocate of equality, and fully believe that all people deserve the same liberties and freedoms.  If 2 fat bull dykes want to get together and scissor the night away, by all means go right ahead. Just because we have to march with them for our basic civl rights, doesn't mean we like to live day to day with them.


So really though, where does this idea come from?  Why would lesbians and gays be friends?  What do we have in common? Gays are men who like cock.  Lesbians are women who like vag.  Gays like tight t-shirts, Britney Spears and sparkles. Lesbians like plaid, KD Lang and bad hygiene.  I'm not getting it.  


I, for one, avoid dykes like the plague.  When I know I'm going to be in the vicinity of lezzie frequented areas (Home Depot, Eddie Bauer, Addition Elle), I make sure to wear my running heels just in case I accidentally make eye contact with one 'cause those dykes are viii-cious. I'd be high steppin' my sweet hiney to the nearest workout facilities as lesbian's is alleRRRgic to exercise (that was Destine in a Margaret Cho voice).   I even saw a bull dyke swallow a twink whole once at Home Depot.  I was there shopping for orchids and light fixtures, typical Saturday, and it was horrifying.  I think he started reaching for the same set of wrenches or something, though she might have just mistaken him for an afternoon treat. I dunno. 


All I'm sayin' is those lezzies are like wild animals, unpredictable, smelly and hungry.  Dykes and gays = not friends.  


So to honor all things lesbian that we tolerate in our lives, yet wish we didn't have to, I've chosen to leave you this week with excerpts from the song "What A Feeling" by Irene Cara.  I've been informed that the dykes have "reclaimed" it as a lesbian anthem (something to do with some actress being in both Flashdance and The L Word) so I thought it might be appropriate.


First, when there's nothing but a slow glowing dream
That your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind
All alone I have cried silent tears full of pride
In a world made of steel, made of stone  


Well I hear the music, close my eyes, feel the rhythm
Wrap around, take a hold of my heart

[Chorus:]
What a feeling, bein's believin'
I can't have it all, now I'm dancin' for my life
Take your passion, and make it happen
Pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life



Words to live by.  So get up and dance.

Thriller

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE STOP READING IF YOU DON'T LIKE HALLOWEEN, GAYS, BUNNY RABBITS, OR SAILORS.

Well, if you haven't guessed it already by the disclaimer, HAPPY GAY CHRISTMAS!  Ok, ok, I know it's a few days late, but I've been practically raped, pillaged, burned and destroyed by my school schedule the past few weeks.  Unfortunately, I don't think that the pillaging will end anytime soon, so don't expect much from this post as my brain is pretty fried from school (and from the celebratory activities of the past weekend). 

After waiting all year the gays most participated holiday, All Hallows Eve, I was already exhausted by the time Saturday came about.  Mostly homework did me in but work didn't really help either. Real life can be so tiring.  Anyways, in typical gay style, the night came and went in a flash of glitters, bunny rabbits, hot pink lashes, feather boas, and some silver sparkly spandex (say that 6 times fast, you can really hear that crisp on the S). Somehow everyone made it home alive, including my bunny ears, so I'd call the night a skipping success. 


....Oh, my brain died already.  It sounds like a record that's stuck, repeating the same thoughts over and over again.


So, sadly, I'll leave you with only these few words from one of the truest diva's who ever walked this green Earth, the late and great Michael Jackson, RIP.  

The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom


That's kind of how I feel every time I saunter home from the Calgary's lame ass gay bar. 


Now, I know I been makin' you wait a while for this little post, but I promise things will get better soon, my midway hell through fall semester is almost conquered and I'll be back sharing my sparkly adventures on a more regular basis. In the mean time, enjoy this awesome remix of the Halloween classic. 

Sometimes

DISCLAIMER: PEOPLE WHO SHOULDN'T READ THIS:  Older gay men who are into "leather", my mom, my teachers, and strangers.


I guess I should start off by apologizing to all my adoring fans for forcing you all to wait soooooooooo long for another entry, it's been a busy few weeks. I just got back from Montreal, where I went to "participate in a commemorative event for the Gay and Lesbian community" (READ: thousands of gay men dancing all night with their shirts off). Let me just say, that was some of the craziest shit I've ever seen.


I won't go into too much detail, but I think a brief summary of our first night is appropriate. The wife and I started off the weekend with a party called "The Leather Ball". Now, for some reason I was under the mistaken idea that it would be attended by all demographics within the gay community, luckily, for entertainment value, I was sorely mistaken. Most logical people would have put together leather ball=old dirty, creepy "leather daddies", but I guess I had a recurrence of Mormon naiveté .


Upon walking into said Leather Ball, we were greeted warmly by the bare ass cheeks of the older gay man standing in line at coat check, wearing only an apron to covering the front of him. CLICK HERE if you need help getting the idea of how the apron looked, and keep in mind that there was nothing being worn underneath. Also keep in mind that he was probably old enough to be my grandfather. So, I turned to the wife and said "Ummmm, are you sure we should go in here?" To which the wife replied, "Well, we're already here, so we miazwell (does anyone know how to spell the conjugated version of may as well?) check it out." E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E was dressed in leather. Everyone was also in the 50-65 age bracket. But the music was good, and we'd had plenty of tequila shooters to encourage some dancing, so we strapped on our leather collars, bracelets, and glove, and danced the night away. The rest of the weekend was equally fabulous, we sashayed about town like the CACK (plural for cock) of the walk.


SO, after all the Montreal'ness, came my birthday. I didn't even have time to unpack and I was obligated to wasting a whole day celebrating my sparkly self. I was thinking to myself "damn girl, you cel'brate yo'self EVERY day!! i don't need no birrrrthday to tell me I's is special. *snap*" (Mmmmhhmm, that was Destine). Anyways, as a result of the weekend I woke up exhausted and slightly run down, so, as is only fitting for one's birthday, I started the day out with a good cry. And, since 26 is the gay 54, I proceeded to look at myself in the mirror and examine all my wrinkles, noting the places where I needed botox. So I finally dragged my swishy self outside and was feeling a little more optimistic about the whole birthday thing, but then I almost choked the first time I said the words "twenty-six" - as I made sure to tell everyone that it was my birthday.


Anyways, I guess I'll just finish today by leaving you with some wise words once told to me by an angel dressed in a white midriff baring turtleneck, dancing on a pier on a beautiful sunny pier.


"Sometimes I run, sometimes I hide,
sometimes I'm scared of you,
but all I really want is to hold you tight,
treat you right,
be with you day, and night,
all I really want is time"


The sad part is I just typed that out purely from memory, word for word from the song.


So deep though. Time, that's all we really want.

New Attitude

DISCLAIMER:  Do NOT read the following post if you fit into any (or all) of the following categories; stupid. That's all.

 

Due to popular demand (popular demand being all of my two friends who read my first entry and want another) I'm back with another posting. After last posting I've been at a loss as to what to write. I had originally planned to have another posting up by Friday afternoon, so when Friday afternoon came and went with no inspiration (READ: a pillar of light experience similar to Saul of Tarsis but maybe a little more sparkly, less blinding light, and having the breathy vocals of Britney Spears circa Slave For You substituting the voice of "GOD") I was a little disheartened. So, Friday afternoon methinks to myself a little friend named W.E.E.D. might be able to help(that's a pseudonym as the friend would prefer to stay anonymous).  Surprisingly, my brain seemed to be in some sort of hazy stupor afterward, which I seemed to mysteriously remain in until this morning. 

Hoping to get inspiration on what to write, I turned to one of my favorite 80's diva, Patti Labelle and the amazing song, New Attitude.  Now if you haven't heard New Attitude, or are a little unfamiliar with the great Ms. LaBelle, you get yourself over to youtube right now (or just click HERE).  New Attitude should be on everybody's "getting ready to go out" playlist (I know you have one).  I'll put a brief sampling of some the amazing lyrics below;




I'm feeling good from my head to my shoes
Know where I'm going and I know what to do
I tidied up my point of view
I got a new attitude
I'm in control, my worries are few
Cause I've got love like I never knew
ooh, ooh ooh, ooh
I got a new attitude


I'm wearing a new dress, new hat
Brand new ideas as a matter of fact, I've changed for good.


Now there's a gay anthem if I've ever heard one.  Any song mentioning a new dress and a new hat is definitely gay anthem material.  I can only imagine the gay clubs of the 80s bursting with acid washed denim grinding to New Attitude.  I'd go CRAZY if I heard that song.




Now that I've got Ms. Labelle going, it comes to mind that every gay man loves himself two things;  a sensible pair of heels and black women.  Black women, you might ask yourself?  Clearly, this originates from the fact that inside every gay man lives the soul of a black diva. Mine even has a name; Destine.  Destine comes out when the sass comes out.  You sass me, you get Destine back.  So we gays can't help but love us some black divas; Aretha, Diana, Chaka, Patti, Whitney, Mariah (she's kind of black), Beyonce, hell, I'd even count Robyn S.  They speak to our souls, to our true nature, to our core. You turn on any diva song, and the gays can't help but get their booties (double entendre) shakin'.  Take Beyonce, add a sexy beat, and some sparkly sequin micro-mini and the gays go crazy.


Of course I've now downloaded Patti's greatest hits in the time I've been writing this, and leave you with this last piece of advice.  If you don't know what to do, just sashay, it seems to do wonders to anyone and everyone who tries it.    
  

I'm Every Woman

****DISCLAIMER**** Do NOT read this if you fall into any (or all) of the following categories: god-believers (you know who you are), possess the ability to reproduce (aka "Breeders"), white (or of light skinned decent), pregnant (recent studies - as in me looking at fat pregnant women - showed that pregnant ladies are useless at most things besides complaining about being pregnant or eating), lesbians, my father, my mother, any relative of mine over the age of 27, any relative of mine under the age of 24, the pope, and her holiness Oprah Winfrey.

I don't know how to start, so I guess I'll introduce myself. My name is Jonny. I was born on a balmy autumn afternoon in October of 1983 as a gayby. I quickly grew from a gayby, to a pretty little boy and from a pretty little boy to a closeted gay mormon. Then, at the age of 23, I burst forth from my slumbering, closeted cocoon of conformity and as a beautifulbutterfly (cue Chaka Khan, rainbows, unicorns and a giant phallic cake that I come bursting forth from). Bursting, don't you just love that word?

Wow.

That was a quick intro. From gayby to butterfly in 2 sentences, I really burst that one on you. You might be asking, why is he even writing this? Well, I'd like to say it's for all my adoring fans, but I think that would leave me very disappointed as I am my one, and only, fan. Maybe it's just to share my sparkly thoughts with the cyberweb. Maybe it's to express my inner unicorn. I don't know. But what I do know is that "I'm Every Woman" won't stop playing on repeat in my head right now. I hope you're hearing it too (and I won't fault you if it's Whitney you're hearing instead of the original greatness of her majesty Chaka). What a great theme to live your life by. Well, actually, I don't really know what the song means, but every time I hear it I just want to stand up, loud and proud, and release my inner black woman. I hope you feel the same.

You might now be asking yourself, why am I even reading this? And the simple answer is, you must have nothing to do. Like NOTHING. Because I can think of 10 things that sound more interesting than reading this.

1. having sex

2. watching sex

3. video'ing sex

4. taking pictures of sex

5. talking about sex

6. thinking about sex

7. reading about sex

8. writing about sex

9. pondering on sex

10. have alone sex (aka masturbating, aka sex for losers)

All of those things definitely sound like more fun than reading this. But since you've stuck through it so far, maybe I'll indulge (another great word to use) and continue on.

Now that I've said all that, I don't even have any indulgences to share tonight. Maybe a word of advice for anyone who stuck it out this long. Watch out for anything that starts with tran; trans fat, trannies, Transylvania, translate, translators, tran tran (a vietnamese cookie) and tranning (it's like tanning but for trannies).