Category Archives: Wayback Machine

First Times

[WARNING:Mom, you probably don’t want to read this one.]

So you’ve spent some time reading this magazine. (Yes, Instinct considers what you do when you’re not looking at the half-naked studs “reading.”) And, really, why not have a good time while you are here, right? Unfortunately, we Instinct-ers have found that most of you horny homos didn’t start out on the best foot when it came to discovering the joys of man love. That’s because you didn’t realize you needed to start on your knees.
Sooooo… The First Time, our Big Moment, the Original Sin that leads you into the abyss of abomination also known as Homosexuality: How was yours? I threw that question out at a lot of guys and found that “The First” was usually BAD. Sometimes REALLY BAD. I’ve heard the boring (“He came in my mouth and I threw up.”), the weird (“He wanted to use embalming fluid as lube.”) and the downright wrong (“My ass inverted and fell out.”). But it’s so rare to hear about the decent initiations. My Editor wanted to run something “nice and flowery” for a change, and well, since it is Instinct, we’ll assume that he meant a piece about de-flowering. After interviewing well over 50 people, I have only six stories to share with you. So, get ready, get set, get lubed, because here they are: The Best First Times.

f*cking on the front nine (inches)

We’ll start with me, just to be fair. The first time I had sex was way back in 1986 at the tender age of 13. I realize that you might be shocked and appalled at my age, but I was a late bloomer, what can I say? I was living in Montana at the time, and there was no Pride Montana to help me get some, so I had to be coercive and manipulative. I wanted this boy because he was the hottest thing in school. Unfortunately, the only way to get some of him was to be in class with him, seeing as I had no other reason to strike up a conversation, really. (I mean, what was I going to say? “Hey, how are you doing? My name’s Kevin, and I want to tongue your hole?”) I somehow managed to weasel my way into his manly shop class. I never once complained about the smelly teacher, the grease stains or the broken fingernails. Well once, maybe, but only with my cheerleader friends. We did actually have to learn things in this class, which was good for me, since it gave me a chance to help him with his homework. Being the kind and generous person I am, I offered to study with him. At my house. After school. And he could stay for dinner. If he wanted.
We walked towards my home, complaining about the major injustices of the school system, the length of the cheerleaders’ skirts, that gym class sucked and a bunch of other bullshit. I didn’t care what he thought about school or cheerleaders or gym; I was busy trying to figure out how to get him out of his clothes once we got to my house. We were walking across a golf course because it was a short cut, and we were headed through the rough in a nice patch of trees. All of a sudden, he stopped and opened his fly to pee. Can I just tell you? His dick was huge. So I stared. Hard. He noticed and smiled at me and then asked if I liked to suck dick. I couldn’t speak, and he told me that he had and he liked it. Then he laughed low and sauntered over to me, dick in hand, and grabbed my pants and pulled me to him. He kissed me so hard I thought he broke my lip open. Big damn tongue, too. And he wasn’t only interested in receiving head. And let’s just say we both got a hole-in-one. I will admit that it wasn’t all easy and painless, and actually I had the worst time later that night, for three reasons. One, my jaw was tired. Two, my ass was sore. And three, I had to explain to my mother why I wasn’t home until seven when school was out at three. I think I just told her that something came up with a friend.

All Rise!

Anthony, a 21-year-old college student, met his first off the Internet three years prior. He was a bi-curious 19-year-old Puerto Rican with a girlfriend. “He wasn’t all that good-looking, but we still went on two dates. He came over to ‘watch movies’ at my house. I knew that something was going to happen when I invited him over and we decided to watch the movies in our boxers-to be more comfortable, of course. I was sporting black plaid, he was sporting the American Flag, and we were both sporting flagpoles in our pants. He ended up lying on my bed while I sat in a chair as we watched I Know What You Did Last Summer. He soon looked at me and gave me this really corny line and gestured for me to join him on the bed.
“At this point I’d never been kissed by anyone, ever, with a tongue. I laid down, he straddled me and I freaked. He leaned down to kiss me, but that consisted of wiggling his tongue in my mouth because I didn’t know what to do. He asked if I was okay after he pulled away, thinking I was damaged. Far from it, as I was focused on other things, like that my flag had fallen off of my flagpole. The guy asked if it was alright to go down on me. I said ‘yes,’ and he did, but not before he kissed me all the way down my chest and stomach and I giggled like hell. He wasn’t great to look at but his technique was great; I was grabbing my pillow so hard that I thought it might rip. Whenever I think of sex, I think of that amazing head.”

Thanks, Mom!

Having sex under your parent’s roof seems to be a common theme, but how many of your parents knew you were a cocksucker the first time you had sex? “My mother had invited the neighbors over for dinner,” says Sammy, a 24-year-old waiter. “I must’ve been about half-tanked by the time they got there. I was 21, but just coming to terms with my sexuality and not real comfortable with it yet. I was not out at all, but my mom kinda knew something was up. I really didn’t want to have dinner with them-until I saw their son, who was 24 and was just there to help with the move. He was hot as shit, and I was soon completely tanked. I don’t know how I kept quiet during dinner, but I did. After all was said and done, our parents decided to play bridge, which left the two of us to find something entertaining. He suggested that we head downtown, which is where he lived. I said sure, but somehow we never made it. We ended up at the Silverado and were dancing and drinking and having a gay old time. I never told him I was gay-he just knew-and by midnight he had called his parents and asked them to tell my parents that I was too tipsy to drive and would be back tomorrow. We left the club, making out on the streets as we walked towards his apartment. We didn’t make it all the way, and ended up fucking in the elevator of his building. I remember the sensation of going up and down and down and up, and I’m pretty sure the elevator was stopped at the time. It was wild. By the way, we’ve been together ever since.”

Music to Our Rears

Well, while that fairy tale ending is a great thing, other fairies have other tales. Scott, a 30-year-old fitness instructor, was 15 when he decided he needed to go find a gay man and have anal sex. “I went to the Waxy Maxi’s Record Store in D.C. and I was looking at the new Poison album (don’t ask!) when I noticed this blond man peeking over the aisle at me. So I moved on down to Motley CrŸe records and he sauntered onto my side of the aisle and kept glancing at me. I decided that I needed to leave the store for a smoke. If he really wanted me he’d follow me out the door. Well, he followed me out. We were chatting up a bit, and I didn’t want him to know that I was this inexperienced virgin, so I told him I was a prostitute and >>
got it all the time, but I wouldn’t charge him, since he was cute. He promptly asked me to go back to his house, with his pool and his sauna-and his gay porn tapes. Now mind you, I had stolen my parents car to get to the mall to find a man, so I was dealing with a time limit, but I just needed to get laid. We went back to his place and the first thing he did was pop in a video. Then, he pulled down his pants, and his cock was like 13-inches long-when it was soft! Needless to say, I was a little taken aback, but I promptly hopped to it and started suckin’ him off. Now, pan to the porno where they are doing an upright 69 (where one guy is standing up and the other has his legs wrapped around the standing guy’s head) and he wants to try it. I figured, he thinks I know what I’m doing, so fuck it, I’ll try anything once. I wrap my legs around his head, my arms around his waist and start sucking. The boy got so hot and bothered, he dropped me right on my head. Thankfully, my Aqua-netted hair saved my head from cracking open. He reached down and picked my newly matted, mangled and inch-and-a-half shorter body off the ground and tossed me on the bed. Then that boy threw on a condom and impaled my ass. I thought I was in heaven.”

Whatcha Want?

Speaking of finding a groove, Tim, a 23-year-old computer geek, had the most musical first time. “After spending weeks basically stalking this pretty boy in school I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he wanted to hang out. See, this was high school, and it wasn’t unheard of for gay teens to be out, but neither of us were. I don’t even know how I picked him up on my gaydar, but there he was, in all his tall, dark and handsome glory. We went on one date, and thankfully I only needed the one to get what I wanted. After a bad movie and some coffee I finally got him alone in his room, and after I turned out the lights I made my move. I pulled him onto his bed with me and I kissed him. We started to fondle each other, shed our clothes in nothing flat, and turned on the stereo to a local station to cover up any noises. His parents were home, and we didn’t want to have them interrupting us. We hopped right back onto the bed and were going at it hot and heavy, rolling around and trying to keep our lips touching as our hands roamed over our bodies. Then came the moment, the unrolling of the condom and the opening of the lube. It was my first time with anyone, but not his. I didn’t know if I could do it, but he assured me I could. He said he’d go slow, that he’d take his time, and that it would feel great, so I got on my hands and knees, ass up to the world, and let him work his way inside me. I thought I was gonna die, it hurt so bad. He stopped, waiting for me to say it was OK to move, and slowly-incredibly slowly-it somehow went from this blinding, searing pain to something more, um, pleasurable. And I remember the music very well. As he was able to start moving and really get working on my ass, his stereo was playing ‘Another One Bites the Dust’!”

So you see, just to prove it to the GOP, sometimes sex is good. It’s just hard to imagine that everyone had bad first experiences. If it was so bad, why would we keep doing it? So, for those of you who are virgins, or dried up and re-virginized, know that when you do make a new first, you can make it the best ever. And you can write to Instinct to share it.

[This article was written for Instinct Magazine and was published in late 2001]

Love and Lust, or is it Luv and Lost?

[WARNING:Mom, you may not want to read this one, either.]

Ok, so seeing as how I’m now the “Resident Sex Fiend” here at this mag, I was given a challenge. The Editor-in-Chief asked if I would know love from a hole in the ground. I most definitely would, since I have actually fallen in love (twice, if you must know, and unrequited both times, dammit!), and unlike him, I have emotions. Other than the two falls, I’m pretty sure I’ve stepped in love a few times too, at least that’s what the gunk smells like. Trust me, it ain’t Teen Spirit, that’s for sure.

But how do you know that what your feeling is love? How do you reconcile the fact that you are in love with someone? How do your wardrobes combine? This and more will be answered for you, faithful reader, so read on!

First off, I guess we need to define the emotion before we worry too much over whether or not we are feeling it. Love is a term that is way over used. All day, every day, you will hear people randomly state that they “love this” or “love that” or “love pug dogs” and we all know it’s just not true. They can have a true affinity and really enjoy whatever, but no one really loves that many things, and certainly not those smelly, faggy little balls of drool. (Note to Editor: I’m talking about a pug dog, not you!) So we have a basic misunderstanding in our society about what is and isn’t love. Even better, we are ashamed of our lust, so we like to hide it in the more socially acceptable guise of “love” or “love at first sight” or even “love in the afternoon”. We are so funny~!! Truth is, we just can’t stand that we don’t have more love.

But Love is important to us. It’s what binds our family together. It’s what keeps our friends in our thoughts. Hell, it’s what keeps us motivated to get up without a servant giving us coffee. For those of you with servants, Money gets you up, which is fine and dandy. Love is what we feel when we see the sunrise over the mountains or the ocean or our lovers’ butt. Love is real, and you can’t escape it. You can however, become confused, overwhelmed and turned about and think that what you are feeling is love, when in reality you are feeling a whip. Oooops, sorry, you’re feeling lust.

Now Lust is another game entirely. (And if you are up for the game, call our Editor, he’s “up” for it, anytime.) Lust is the Wednesday you flounce into B.S. and flash your smile at every cute AmberZombie you see, hoping to find someone for a tryst in the alley. Lust is when you breath heavily of a man’s cologne and realize that it’s ok for one night, but that stank has got a time limit! Lust is easy, and so are you when you are overwhelmed by it.

So it’s love or lust, and, for those of you who rode the short bus, we need to delineate between being felt, and being felt up.

The Candle Lit Dinner

Spending an evening with soft music and soft lighting can be romantic. Spending it with someone you actually care about can be love. Mind you, it’s not something that you instantly recognize. It’s something that builds for you, over time, causing you to realize that you have become entwined with this other person. Sitting in the dark, or semi-dark with him, you gaze into his eyes and realize that the future would be drab and dull, and much darker without him. You realize that you breathe at the same time as him, and watch his every move with anticipation for him to move to touch you. Even if it’s just to touch your hand. You watch, your eyes meet, and your lips ache to caress his. You realize, though you can barely see him, and you couldn’t care less what the food is, that you couldn’t be any happier, and wouldn’t trade this for the world. It’s love, and by god, you’ve waited long enough for this. You go, girl!

The Picnic

Spending an afternoon in a field or a lawn can almost be romantic. Spending it with someone cute can be a good thing, and quite possibly the beginnings of love. Mind you, his cuteness you instantly recognize. Duh! Then there’s something that “builds” for you, rather quickly, causing you to realize that you need to be entwined with him in the weeds. Schtupping like wild animals in the park, you gaze onto his back and realize that the future might be cold and lonley, yet less grassy without him. Still, he is kinda cute, but your thoughts need to stay with the matter at hand. You realize that you’re breathing faster, and his every move causes you to with anticipation for him to move to touch you. You decide it’s not so bad, and you’ll go along with it for now. This is not love, at least, not yet, but it does bode well, if you ever see him again. Go ahead, ask his name and number. Hell, give him yours! You go, girl!

The Chocolate Sauce

Spending the after-hours party in a strangers bedroom can be exciting. Spending it with people covered in chocolate sauce may do nothing good for your waistline, but who cares? Mind you, covering them in sauce is easy, whether it’s from you or the bottle. Just recognize that you don’t even know names, have no intentions of meeting families, and have told them you’re from Albania. While you spend time with various appendi covered in Hershey’s, you play safe and commingle well into the morning. This is lust, pure, unadulterated, chocolate covered, lick-me-thrice-and-call-me-finished lust. YOU GO GIRL~!

The Poetry Reading

Now, we all love poetry, it’s the verse that leads to music, to our hearts if not our ears. Sitting in a dimly lit little shop filled with denizens of the dark colored clothing, you can hears stories of hearts being rent by beasts more evil than any dragon, more forceful than any storm, more over-dressed than a Calvin Klein model. Find the heart strings of one of these injured beings is difficult, but rewarding in ways you’ve never experienced. When you find him looking at you with the longing of a soul ripped from it’s home, that’s love. When you hold him to you with the power of a thousand gods, that’s love. When you reach out to him with your heart across a crowded room and strengthen his resolve without missing a beat, that’s love. You can’t mask it, you can’t fake it, and it’s not something to be taken lightly. Nothing is light and airy in the poets world, so don’t mess with it, they won’t hesitate to kill you, and they are usually dressed for a funeral anyway.

The Coffee Shop

Now, we all love finding poetry, and we can find it in the trendy little non-Starbuck coffee shop that all the trendy bitchy people are frequenting. Usually, while there, we can find someone to play with for a while, and while it may be only a while, it’s worth your while. Well, now that you’re “while”-d out, I suggest looking for the hottie barista mixin up the lattes with that extra special flare. We call that poetry in motion, and if you play your cards right, you can have him motioning some poetry sans clothing with you. Plus, if you time it right, you can make sure that both of you are wired on caffeine and sugar and god knows what else as you head off to a poetic bliss. Love, probably not, unless you knew his name before hand, but definitely a possibility if you did.

The Bookstore

Now, we all love a poet. I’m not being facetious or using the term out of hand. Ask anyone who is coupled, and if they say they are in love, their lover is invariably a poet. Axe wielding lumberjack by day? Poet by night. Number crunching bean counter at the office? Poet in the bedroom. Leather wearing, paddle swacking, master of your domain? Poet. It’s all about the feelings behind the action, especially the action with you. But does that mean that you are in love? Not usually, but you never can tell. I would have to give this one a big ol’ stamp of lust, quite frankly. I mean really, we all dream about dating someone romantic, who can sing of ripe olives without laughing, who can dream of tangerine skies with lavender storms, who can quote Shakespeare as he ties us up. Whatever the case may be, it’s a dream, a basis for lust more than love. I mean really, other than our Editor, who wants to be tied up on a daily basis?

[This article was originally published in Instinct Magazine in late 2001 or early 2002]

I Can’t Get No Satisfaction

[WARNING: Mom, you won’t really want to read this. Just FYI.]

Resident Sex Fiend, Kevin Hamm, is Ordered to Not Have Sex, and Instead Spends His Time Coming Up with Some Substitutes for Nookie. He Didn’t Like Writing this Article One Bit.

Suppose that you were told you couldn’t have sex. None. Nada. Zilch. No funky butt-loving, no hand-jobs or masturbating, no anything that would make Mr. One-Eyed Jack so happy he could “spit.” In other words, complete abstinence from all things that voluntarily cause semen to erupt from that engorged organ you love and appreciate so much. OK, stop whimpering. You’re still allowed to read this mag if you decide to get off. Actually, we strongly encourage that around here (as if you haven’t noticed). Hell, if you’re wanking while “reading” Instinct, we must be doing something right. All we’re asking you to do is imagine going for a certain amount of time without some sort of sexual relief. Imagine being trapped in a barren, sexless and hostile environment that refuses to let you carry out your basic fundamental desires. Imagine you’re a Mormon in Phoenix. Of course, even in this extreme example you still need some viable substitutes for sex, right? Right. My editor decided that he’d like to see what happens when some sex-crazed fiend is not allowed to touch or be touched for 72 hours. I thought that was a great story idea-until I realized he wanted ME to write it. (“Hell, Kevin’s a new writer, let’s experiment on him!”) He informed me I would be “sacrificing my sex life for the greater good of the gay brotherhood.” I asked if I could instead help my butt-fucking brethren by seeing how many I could blow in one weekend. Apparently, that must be the article he’s writing for this issue because he smirked and said, “Um, no.” Then he asked if I still wanted to write for the magazine. So, as you can see, this topic was not my choice. I wanted to write about leather, SM, B&D, Hot Wax and whatnot, but noooo, it was decided that I write about something that scares me. Frankly, the thought of never playing “Cocks and Rubbers” again reduces me to tears and has me researching creative ways to off myself. But, I’m a fighter, so here’s what I did when the proverbial chastity belt was clamped around my groin (besides scream like a sissy):

No Nookie Activity #1: Drink Like a Fish.

On any given Friday, consuming mass quantities of alcohol is what I call a “good thing,” if not a mandatory activity to kickoff the weekend. Drinkies not only lower your ability to get hard, but they can help knock you out. Being unconscious is usually a good way to avoid sex (unless, of course, you’re a sorority girl). Personally, I go for martinis. It’s Cosmos when I’m feeling frisky, and Manhattans to forget about the world. Obviously, I’m going for double Manhattans this weekend. However, my plan is doomed from the beginning. See, they drink Cosmos and live in Manhattan on Sex and the City-my favorite show EVER-and, what’s more, I identify with Samantha. DAMN, do I want some dick. So, now I have to drink enough to stop my cock thinking for me. “Bartender! Can I have about seven more of these?”

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #2: Fun with Fingertips.

Even though liquor does relax me, it only lasts until the next morning when I awaken to that wonderful phenomenon known as dry mouth. However, dry mouth is usually a “got some” sign in Kevland, but I know that didn’t happen because my editor confiscated my condoms and lube (and is probably putting them to use right now, that little…). OK, breathe. I need to relax somehow, and since the usual avenues are closed, I’ll have to seek out the next best thing (and I’m not talking about that crappy Madonna movie, either!). Hmm, I’m starting to think death is the way to go, but I keep convincing myself that I’m not THAT dramatic. Instead, I’ll get a massage. After all, what could be more relaxing than having some brute with more muscles that your college football team pummel your body for an hour? I just have to conjure up something that completely kills any sexual impulses. Maybe Genre, Trent Lott or, for those with the libido from hell, Dr. Laura-naked. I also recommend avoiding hiring someone from an ad that mentions inches or spurting. The temptation would be too great, and no one is THAT strong, buddy. Plus, after a REAL massage you usually go home and crash for hours. So a massage is like drinking: same amount of money, same amount of sleep. The only differences are that you don’t need a bottle of aspirin the next morning, and your skin is silky smooth.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #3: Cook your Pants Off.

Now that I’m relaxed and have slept for half the day, I have two things I must do. First off, call the boss and apologize for not making it into work. Oh, wait, it’s Saturday, so scratch that. This “no sexual relief” stint is making me go schizo! The other thing that I need to do is eat, which brings us to the next substitute for sex: cooking. Taking the pots and pans and whipping up gourmet food should relieve the stress of 24 sexless hours. I’m going to whip up something so gourmet that people will think I’m avoiding sex to pursue other, more constructive interests. Either that, or they’ll think I have crabs. And, no, not the edible kind. (Well, I’ve never heard of anybody eating ’em, but if I do, you can bet that Instinct will DEFINITELY share it with you.) A few food items to avoid at all cost: Twinkies, hot dogs, German sausages, oysters, bananas, cucumbers, snack cakes, anything with “cream” in the title, nuts, any big hunks of meat and tossed salad. Hmmm… considering all the sexual innuendoes that can be attributed to food, it’s no wonder we’re a country of gluttonous slobs.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #4: Paint by Numbers.

OK, so cooking got boring really fast. What the hell else am I to do? Actually, hobbies are a good way to avoid sex-well, except that sex IS my (favorite) hobby. Thankfully, it’s not my ONLY hobby. I’ve been desperate before and have found that fine art is a great way drown out lustful laments. Painting, for example, can be an effective way to forget about your dick. You can imagine the future or the past, bend the laws of physics to your will and revel in bright colors and deep contrasts-or some other artistic bullshit. Basically, just engage in anything that’ll jumble your mind. Take a class, fer christ’s sake, because while you usually get to paint fruits in bowls, sometimes you get to paint fruits in towels. For this excursion try to get a class that uses female models-it’s better for three reasons: 1) you’ve made it through four more hours without having to pack ice into your pants, 2) you won’t have to ponder how the male model remains conscious when that monster between his legs gets loooong and haaard and throoooobbing, and 3) you have the perfect Christmas gift for your best lesbian friend.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #5: Chick Flicks.

Speaking of lesbians, they are a great resource for things to do that don’t involve sex. If you don’t believe me, just look at their gardens. I don’t know about you, but on Saturday night I go to town. I go out, I dance, I hunt for cuties to take home and use in various and sundry ways. Well, can’t do that now, so what better time-consumer than spending an evening with my favorite muff divers? If it weren’t for this mandatory downtime, however, I’d never visit the Condo du Lesbo on a weekend. They know this, so they’re immediate reaction is to ask me if something is wrong. I inform them about my assignment, and the evil cows laugh at me. But they agree to a movie night, so I don’t hate them nearly as much as I hate my editor. Plus, they have the best spinach dip recipe in the world. We pop in a bad Ally Sheedy movie (Is there any other kind?), have some herbal tea (It’s “soothing.” Whatever.) and great dip (SPINACH dip, that is), and the night isn’t too bad. Actually, I kind of enjoy it. Seems hanging out with the Sappho Sisters on the weekend isn’t the worst thing in the world. Now I’m really starting to scare myself.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #6: Get Car Back from the Impound.

I left the lesbians with the intention of heading home (alone) and hitting the sack-alone. Alone! Alone! Alone! FUCK! Sorry, had to get that out of my system. I’m fine now. Really. But when I get to where my car should be, it’s not. I think, “Hey, I’m not gonna get any while fighting to get my brand new car back from some oily dwarf tow-truck driver,” so I consider this a relevant diversion. There’s no possible way you could think about sex during this, unless if you’re into grease-stained freaks named Smitty. I just want to go suffer in my empty bed, but instead find myself autoless and having to convince two lezzies to schlep my dried-up ass all over god’s green earth to get it back. After going to my pad in the northeast valley to get my goddamn title, we go to the tow company’s lot in the southwest. I try to drive my car off the lot and the manager tries to lock the gate on me. I pull up enough to block it, so he calls the police. They arrive and tell me that I’m breaking the law. On a good note, these uniformed hunks of burnin’ love threaten to arrest me. Suddenly, I’m transported into some sorta porn sequence. If they handcuff me, I will come all over my undies and blow the whole article, figuratively speaking. They even do the whole Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. Long story short: I get my car and get to spend almost two hours with two of Phoenix PD’s finest. The only problem is that the Bad Cop chews tobacco. He looks really butch doing it, and he has the body of a god, but ugh, gross. (Officer Hunt, ditch the can!)

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #7: Pray for Forgiveness.

Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an “amen?” Can I get a MAN? The good thing about attending church is that it isn’t difficult to keep your libido in check during the service. One, it’s boring spending hours with a bunch of heteros and their fidgety kids, and I’m thankin’ the Almighty for making me queer. What’s more, how could you possibly get aroused while the pastor is reading from The Bible? Yeah, there’s some scandalous stuff in there, but after years of reading Men and Honcho, I’m used to a higher quality of erotic fiction. Besides, the stories are so 70 A.D. The biggest problem was the toxic-shock of actually attending church after so many years. The only hymn I know is “Son of a Preacher Man,” which I know isn’t sanctioned by Rome. It reminds me of that all-boys Catholic school porno I own. I get all worked up, and then the altar boys kneel before the priest, and I end up making a beeline for the exit before I even get to the free wine.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #8: Hit the Gym.

OK, trying to be all pious and shit made things worse, but isn’t that always the case? Ask my priest, and he’ll tell you. Anyway, I’m full of energy, and feel the need to work on my body. Again, not the exercise I would choose on a weekend, but something to do nonetheless. I figure today is as good as any to do some training. After all, we’ve been testing the strength of my will all damn weekend, so what the fuck? Let’s see if we can damage me physically, too! Oh, yeah, let’s go sling some weights around. Let’s jack up every joint in my body. Then I’ll do my best impression of a drowned rat/Leonardo DiCaprio (you can’t tell them apart, anyway) in the pool. Oh, and then let’s go to the showers and try not to stare at the hottie getting a rim job in the steamroom. Must… make…it…thru…weekend…

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #9: Pay Homage to Godiva.

Obviously I need something to calm me down, so I stop in at THE chocolate shop, Godiva Chocolatier. We all know that good chocolate works as a substitute for sex, even though you have to pay through the nose for it. I recommend Godiva because they hand out free samples-especially if you look upset. (“Me? Upset? JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING CHOCOLATE, SKANK!) Unfortunately, having spent nearly 52 hours being chaste instead of chased, I don’t think this will help. Even after gorging on sweet chocolate so rich it votes Republican, I’m still pretty bitter. The waistline doesn’t need it, but after six pounds of the stuff, I’m so sick that there’s no way I could possibly stuff anything else into any of my orifices. Great, now I’m inducing nausea to finish this piece. I hope you’re happy, Ben!

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #10: Become a Workaholic.

WHEN you get desperate or have to abstain for a longer period of time (for which I pity you, because now I’ve only got a 17 hours to go. Hold on Mr. Spanky, hold on!) you can always throw yourself into your work. Most queers do this anyway, because we love our jobs. Really, we do. Honestly. Fine, we need the overtime to pay for the Godiva and the paints and the cops, but it’s worth it, dammit! However, it’s Sunday. Work on Sunday? Well, I guess if I want to make it until noon tomorrow that I have to resort to desperate measures. Grrr. Oh well, at least it gives me some time to catch up because I was too busy surfing eBay and Gay.com at work. I disconnect the net connection and open up some spreadsheets. Spread. Sheets. Spreading the police officer between my sheets. (Great. Now I’m drooling all over the place! AAAAAAARRGGHH!) If I do remain in the office, I think I’ll try chaining myself to the desk. It should work for you, too, unless that sort of thing excites you. That way, you can work at work, spending the rest of the time finally doing something productive for your company. However, I WILL make it until noon the next day! Give me libido or give me death!

I realize that some of you might be disappointed that I didn’t make it longer, but tough shit: I barely made it to noon. If traffic hadn’t kept my fuck-buddy from getting to me right at 12 p.m. I would probably have headed to the rest rooms and proceeded to wank for the next hour. But, he made it, and we ended up screwing in the copier room. It was fun, but I wish that the copier didn’t make all those pornographic prints. My editor says to send them along and he’ll include them as artwork for the article. I think he’s lying.

Originally published in Instinct Magazine in 2001.

Anatomy of the Party

Understanding the basic anatomy of the party. We at Instinct realize that some of you don’t have this issue, that you intrinsically understand the dynamics of the party, and feel completely comfortable moving throughout the room without care for which clique you are entering or exiting, because, really, you are the social butterfly. (In Spanish, “Mariposa Social” or “Social Fag,” but I digress). But for the rest of you, gentle readers, the ones who actually read the articles I suspect, you might want this handy guide to a party. There are two parts, the first being a map to who is who, the second being a guide to being who you want at the party. Good luck and have fun~!

In Flight Organizer
The IFO, as we like to call her, is a superficial Queen and usually the person that organizes the party. She doesn’t sit for more than a minute, runs from room to room commenting on everything, usually in the negative, and she has the panache to get hundreds of people who don’t even like her to show up at her parties. She is a big girl, and we mean that in the meanest possible way. Usually decked out in bright, obnoxious colors, accented with the latest pink pashmina. We hate her and she really annoys us, but since she also provides alcohol, we put up with her. I fully recommend getting a martini the moment you walk through the door, she is accommodating yet annoying. WARNING: Sleeping with the IFO is not mandatory for the free liquor, and can cause you to be axed from the future party list due to bitterness.

Schmutzie
This would be the queen that you only see at one of the IFO’s shindigs. Why? We don’t really know, but suspect that Schmutzie, whom everyone really loves, is the reason that some people stay after the free liquor has disappeared. This boi is the one that has nothing but nice things to say, usually is seated on one side of the leather couch, legs crossed, with a drink in hand. Always has the IFO to get him another drink, even if he hasn’t finished the current drink, so he rarely moves. Knows all the dirt on everyone, so if you’ve missed the latest gossip, sit next to him. He won’t say it in evil, bitter and bitchy ways, but he will say it. Always single, but constantly on the lookout for a husband. WARNING: Sleeping with the Schmutzie will get you a double-flush, although they do make nice house pets.

The Party Mouse
Also called the Wallflower, but since we think the band is hot, we had to find another name. The PM is divided into two subcategories – A & B. The PMB (Party Mouse: Boring) is just quiet and mousy, the innocent bystander. PMA’s (Party Mouse: Asshole), however, want you to think they are innocent bystanders. They are only quiet because they are guilty of something and if they open their mouths, they will spill it. Both types of PM can usually be found standing next to the couch, opposite of Schmutzie, with a drink in one hand and some frufru appetizer on a napkin in the other. Generally, they drink beer, we don’t know why. Although sometimes you can pick them out right away, PM’s do have a stealth mode, and you have to watch your back to make sure they have not snuck up behind you to ogle your buns o’ steel. That’s your man, and you need to keep the PM away from him. WARNING: PMA’s are hiding something and PMB’s are, what else, boring, so you take your reputation into your own hands when messing with either of them.
Prairie Dog
The PD is the silly fag who constantly interrupts himself when he overhears something about someone he knows. This person is always craning his neck around looking at another group of people, and listening in on your conversation. Never mind that he will eventually stop over to tell you something he heard, he is really not the most fun at the party. He will, however, have the best new dirt, so if you can’t stand to sit with Schmutzie, grab your wingtips and follow the PD around as he digs up random material ruin the lives of countless fruits. WARNING: Sleeping with a PD is always a random sport as he will stop sex to listen for a sound he just heard, even if you have him tied up.

Hipper than Thou’s
The HTT’s are always groups of no less than three and have been known to exceed the population of Des Moines. Why? No one really knows, but we suspect that it’s because they always want to show off the latest fashions from Calvin Klein, Abercrombie & Fitch and Dolce & Gabanna, and cross-dressing is not an option. This group of fiends will usually be holding the same drink, the same sneer, and the same opinion on everything. Should an HTT Drone become separated from the main pack, they are dissed and shunned until such time as they return with either new clothes or the look on their face that says they almost stained their Tommy undies while shagging in the bathroom. WARNING: Unless you have the backbone or baseball bat to smack the crap out of these lippy bitches, don’t bother sleeping with an HTT drone. They’re all bottoms anyway.

The Hipsters
Not to be confused with the HTT’s, the Hipsters are strictly a pair, and generally joined at the hip, although not always side by side. This is the couple of queens that defy all the odds and actually have a long-term relationship that seems to last beyond all reason. They don’t fight in public, they don’t diss each other behind their backs, and they don’t sleep around. Sometimes, in the wrong lighting, you can mistake them for a straight couple. Generally they attend parties to “remember what it was like before they found happiness” or “to help others see that it’s possible”. Quite frankly, they have the tendency to be the most annoying of the lot, but they are incredibly cute together and you just want to pinch their cheeks. Not those cheeks, you freak! WARNING: Sometimes a meltdown is in the works, and you will be propositioned by one half of the Hipsters – avoid this as you will be the reason the relationship ended and everyone else will hate you. Unless his dick is really big, then fuck it, and have fun~!

The Slutty Bitch
This girl is the one that everyone knows inside and out and outdoors. He has slept with at least 50% of the party, but denies it. He works with at least one of the fags throwing the bash and was only invited because someone spilled the beans while he was sucking them off at lunch on Tuesday. What some people won’t due to increase their tip! The SB is easily recognized by the too small shirt and tight plastic pants they currently wear. Right now their pants are so tight you can see the stretch marks on their assholes, so you know who they are as soon as they turn around. WARNING: Oh, forget it, you’ve already had her, if you need to be warned again, you deserve what you get.

The Schmoe
Schmoe is the guy you don’t know, who no one else can identify, but who is at the party none the less. You never get introduced to him, and he constantly looks like he is looking for someone to arrive shortly. He wears a beige shirt with black pants, and a brown belt, and might even be playing for the other team. Everyone at the part assumes he just got lost on his way to some gathering of nerdy breeders and hasn’t clued in yet. He is generally balding and sitting opposite Schmutzie on the couch. This is the one person that will cause Schmutzie to say bitter mean things, so it’s always fun to have him at a party, just don’t be the one who actually brought him. WARNING: You never know which team he plays for, and really, you don’t want to be fucking the Schmoe. Bad Fag!

The Breeder Honoraria
The BHs are the breeders invited to the party because they invariably have the sensibility of fags, they just don’t enjoy butt-sex. Go figure. The BHs have the ability to mingle and bitch and kvetch with the best of us, and they generally have lived with or are related to one of the queers throwing the party, although usually not the IFO. They are witty, dress well, and the man is usually hot enough that he has to be protected from SBs at the party who keep trying to touch his ass. WARNING: Don’t even try it, if you do, YOU are the SB at the party!

The Empress of Attitude
The EA generally sweeps into the party and announces that she needs a drink. He is dressed to the nines in a snappy ensemble that looks to be put together from the runways of Gucci or a random garage sale. Either way, the eclectic look and the attitude are the signature signs of the EA. Never underestimate his ability to accessorize, and never nag about what he’s wearing. The quickest way to whiplash is to say something about her outfit. The EA will look you up and down, list out the designer or manufacturer of everything you are wearing, it’s current price, the season it was introduced, the last time it was seen in a fashion magazine and how much you overpaid for it. And then she will comment on your flabby ass, just to watch you squirm. The EA is generally well liked by the PD and is always in the know about all your drama, and unlike the PD, who only tells small groups at a time, the EA loves a large audience for flogging uppity fags. WARNING: Sleep with the EA as often as you like, but note that if you wear the same brand of underwear the second time she will accuse you of not changing them.

The Bon Motts
For those of you who know what it means, it’s not the same when referring to a party guest. “Bon Motts” is just a nice term, but we abbreviate it to BM, which, if you are familiar with the term, is actually the people we are talking about. The BMs are the people you could do without at a party, or so you think. They do serve a few purposes. The BMs are the first topic of the PD, the EA will eat them for lunch, and not in the nice way, and even the BHs avoid them, as if some form of self preservation alerted them to danger. BMs generally dress to impress and miss the mark wildly, and often look like their own special pride parade all by themselves. Generally anyone in rainbow suspenders or with tie-dyed jeans is a BM, and they generally travel in packs of three. WARNING: Enter at your own risk!

The Queen Bee
The QB is, of course, the person who actually throws the party. The IFO does all the organizing and buys all the liquor, but the QB actually has the place to have the party. The QB also has the brain power to lock the bedroom doors before anyone arrives so that any unnatural acts are either in the bathroom or outside. Unless, of course, it’s one of THOSE parties, and then the unnatural acts can occur anywhere. The QB is noted for her ability to find the perfect house to live in on a daily basis, and party in on a semi-daily basis. All her furniture matches, and should you break something, you best have home-owners insurance because otherwise she is going to take it out of your hide. Although, considering his rumored prowess, that might be fun, too! WARNING: It is not considered impolite to refuse an offer of sex from the QB, just know that you might not be invited back to the parties for a while, either.

[NOTE: This was originally written for Instinct Magazine, this was published sometime in late 2001 or early 2002, I don’t know which. I can’t tell on their site, either, as the stuff from back then is gone.]

Queen’s Diary – IONAZ April 2002

It’s always rather interesting to get away from the city, even if only for a short period of time. Recently, I had the wonderful chance to visit the wilds of Northern Maine, which, in case you’ve ever wanted to know, is about 1,000 miles north of the middle of nowhere. Nothing but trees and moose.

But it was interesting. Of course, outdoor sports are kinda fun, so you might as well do some. I decided to get back into skiing, which is part of the reason I went there. Some friends are there, and they say the skiing was great. Well, they’d never seen me ski. I was about halfway down the first run when I hit a tree. The forestry service tells me it might’ve survived the impact, but it would forever retain the imprint of my ass. Never mind that I hit it with my face.

Of course, skiing leads to the lodge, which is traditionally stocked with booze, warmed by a blazing fire, and filled with horny men. Thankfully the traditions were followed and the lodge was one big happy moment. I had forgotten all the wonderful things that happen when you get done skiing, which is why I hadn’t been in quite some time. Of course, next time I want to go, I think I will drive to Prescott or Flagstaff.

Being in Phoenix, thank god that skiing isn’t the only outdoor sport to be had. It does require snow, or at least water, so sometimes it’s not the sport to be in. I prefer to usually take part in other games, like tennis, or hiking, or one-on-one-combat-style-outdoor-sex. Generally, the O3C.S.O.S. involves rugged men with no regard for lube. This can be a dangerous sport. Many have been injured, some have never returned. I don’t think they ended up dead, I just don’t think they are done playing. I could be wrong, and if so, at least they went with a smile on their face.

Of course, being that this is Pride Month, you know there are some things you are going to do outside, even if you don’t get his name first.

So here are some things to think about while planning any outdoor excursion. Do remember to pack appropriately for wherever you are going. The leather pants are cute, but they don’t work in 100 degree heat, nor in -15 cold. Trust me on this, I know. Of course, also understand that while the good lord may have given lycra to the world, he didn’t necessarily intend for people shaped like the world to wear it. In fact, I think that’s the 11th commandment – If you are using lycra to contain your ass, you shouldn’t be wearing it. Period.

And pack a blanket. I don’t know who thought of the idea of sex on the beach, but it doesn’t matter. They were idiots. Sand in the crack is a bad thing, and it just ruins the lube. Besides, it’s not just the beaches that we are talking about here. Whether you are on the beach, in the forest, in the desert or on a snowdrift, have a blanket, you will need it. Just another FYI, condoms freeze. Who knew?

One last bit of outdoor knowledge that I should pass on – cactus are bad. You may think you are rolling around and having a hell of a good time, and ‘isn’t it amazing that there isn’t any dirt getting on the blanket,’ when you all the sudden feel several sharp pricks in your backside. Not the pricks of your other five boyfriends, I mean the ones on the cactus you just flattened. That’s right about the moment you realize that the blanket has shifted, you are now in the spotlight of the Park Ranger, who’s got this horrified look on his face, and your partner is convulsed in laughter as you try to heave him off so you can remove spines from your butt cheeks. But all in all, it’s good to be back home!

Queen’s Diary – IONAZ February 2002

Another damn Valentine’s Day and I’m single. I have never, ever, in all my time on the planet EVER had a significant other come Valentine’s Day. Of course, he’s never come because he doesn’t exist. I like to think I’m fairly nice and kind of responsible, outgoing, fun, funny and humane, but for some reason that doesn’t seem to bring in the men. Well, it brings them in, they just don’t stay for more than a baddaboom baddabing. So it comes as no surprise to me that I’m single this year again, although I did have hopes that I wouldn’t be. Unfortunately, my last relationship has ended, may it rest in peace.

Which brings me to the thought for my diary – Why can’t we stay in love? I mean really, I’ve loved several men, and still, in some ways, care for them. Truth be told, I do love them, I just don’t LOVE them. How many times have you heard that from someone? How many times have you wanted to throw your martini in his face? How many times have you thought about the ten bucks that martini cost and realized he’s not worth it? Me too!

But we gay men work on the “Is He Shaggable?” premise for meeting men. Worse, we interact based on that criterion. I have several friends who don’t think I’m sex-material because I’m not their type. Generally, I think the same of them. We hang out all the time and have a blast – because we answered ‘no’ to the question. We can enjoy the person because we aren’t interested in his privates.

However, sometimes it doesn’t work that way. When Person A wants to schtupp Person B, but person B gags at the thought, watch the fireworks as they try to interact. I’ve seen some pretty amazing explosions from people who qualify for ‘mild-mannered’ when caught in this situation. It’s like watching Dynasty crossed with Will & Grace!

And then there are the people who find one another fully finger-lickin’-good. When two gays want to f@#k they don’t waste time with the whole “What’s your middle name and when’s your birthday?” thing. Come to think of it, sometimes we don’t bother asking the first name. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s just that it’s all about the sex!

Yep, it’s the sex for me. Not just the random boinking that I get to do when I find some scrumptious guy. I’m talking about daily interaction with one another. It’s the sex that drives us to do everything in our lives. It all boils down to the detachable penis theory of love. You can be faithful, but your dick might not agree with you. Sometimes, your penis may roam.

Is this a bad thing? No. Its wonderful, really, especially if you just let it roam and do what it wants. It’s your best friend in most situations. If it won’t get up, don’t use pills, just acknowledge that you’re a bottom and roll over. If it’s hard constantly and has the size to do it, plug every boyhole in site. Why not? It’s more fun than pining over the fact that you don’t have anyone to take you dinner on the 14th, or get you flowers, or chocolates.

Isn’t there a song?

Oh give me a home, where the penis can roam, where the bears and twinks will both play. Where seldom is found a straight guy around, but the bi’s and gays both get laid… etc.

Ok, so perhaps I spent too much time at the Rodeo last month.