MUGWUMP

Story #15: Left Hand

After my twin brother and I departed our old Kentucky home in Vanceburg for our respective colleges, our mother moved into a small apartment which was situated above the body 'prep room' of the local funeral home. Occasionally, whenever I was back from school visiting during a winter holiday or a summer break, Tony (the landlord and director of the funeral home) would call upstairs asking for some help moving a body, or placing flowers on the casket in the main room, or something that might save him some time before guests began to arrive for a viewing.

It was a little odd, especially since every now and then I would happen to be assisting him with someone I had known; a result of having grown up in such a small town. It was almost always an elderly person who had been a member of the congregation of my church or a schoolmate's grandparent, but after the first few times of being in close proximity to a body, whatever sense of creepiness I had first experienced had dissipated completely or morphed into something akin to normalcy. (As an aside..., It is a little known fact that there are only three reasons elderly people in small towns leave their houses and they occur in this order: The first is the weekly trip to church, followed thereafter by the monthly trip to the doctor/hospital, followed then by a trip to the funeral home from which they never return. So..., if you happen to spot a small-town old person outside of their home, no matter the venue, consider yourself very lucky indeed.)

It was that familiar sense of normalcy (of seeing a body) that I --at first-- felt years later on a night in 1996 while driving home on the interstate 10 freeway here in Los Angeles. It was around 3:30 in the morning and I was heading west in extremely light traffic when my headlights caught something on the dark road ahead straddling the line between the two left-most lanes. "That looks like a body," I thought to myself somewhat off-handedly. But just as soon as the thought had entered my head I immediately realized that it was, in fact, a motorcyclist splayed out on the pavement and I shouted out loud, "Holy Shit! That's a body!!," stunning myself into understanding that there was nothing at all normal about it.

I swerved my tan Dodge K-car over to the right-hand shoulder of the road, parked it, and just as luck would have it, I saw that I was next to one of those yellow "Roadside Emergency" call boxes. (This was about three years before personal cell phones would become common in L.A.) I ran to the phone and picked up the receiver and while waiting for the call to ring through, I noticed that there was a silver motorcycle that had come to rest on its side at the median about 20 yards further up the highway.

"Roadside Emergency. Can I help you?" an operator asked, her voice calm and collected.
"There's a guy down on the road! I'm at the Robertson overpass on the 10 Freeway going west!!," I said frantically.
"What is your name and address, sir?"
I was incredulous. "What?? No, it's not me!! There's a guy ON THE ROAD!"

A car's tires screeched as a speeding driver jerked his car suddenly from one lane into another to avoid hitting the motorcyclist in his path and after successfully steering around the obstacle, the driver continued on down the interstate. "That guy didn't even stop to help," I thought, somewhat dumbstruck as the operator spoke again.

"I NEED your name and address." she repeated in a tone that now sounded cold.
I rattled my personal information off to her.
"and your home phone number?"

"My home PHONE NUMBER??? NOW??? Are you serious???" I didn't actually say these things to her, as my jaw was too busy completing the action of dropping.

Just then a car sped past and ran right over the poor guy on the road knocking the body about like a rag-doll. I heard a rolling thuddish sound reverberate off of the median and bounce over the roadway to where I stood on the shoulder. The car's taillights lit up briefly as the driver slammed on his brakes momentarily, but then they dimmed as he sped off into the dark as though nothing had happened. He was directly followed by a second car that repeated the first's actions, hesitating only a moment longer after hitting the cyclist before shakily deciding to flee.

"JESUS!!! Get somebody out here!! This guy's getting hit by cars!!! I'm on the 10 West overpass at Robertson!!!" I slammed the receiver down returning it to its cradle and ran out to the middle of the road, bending down to assess how bad the situation might be.

He was lying on his stomach, across the painted dash-line between the first and second lanes, with his feet pointing towards my car on the shoulder. He was wearing a white T-shirt, faded cut-off blue-jean shorts, and socks that looked so white they had to be brand new. His boots had been thrown off of his feet, I supposed, when he had fallen from his bike and tumbled onto the asphalt. I could just make them out in the dim light; one randomly deposited 20 feet ahead on the center of the roadway and then the other cast near the concrete median wall. His physique looked fit and trim and his smooth muscular legs bore only blond, wispy traces of hair.

I noticed his left hand was down to his side and lying in the center of a widening, wet pool of blood. It looked young and smooth with slender fingers and his nails were neatly trimmed with cuticles that appeared exceptionally well-kept, as though he had recently had a manicure. The juxtaposition of that clean, perfect looking hand resting in the goop of blood and dirt and road oil was an image that I found dark and horrible and strangely beautiful all at once.

His head was turned away from me, towards the direction of the cars that had just assaulted him and then shockingly continued on. His motorcycle helmet was still donned, strapped tightly beneath his chin and masking his face from my view. The helmet had once been shiny and white but was now badly scuffed and I could make out the gruesome pattern of tire tread marks across the back of it. I wasn't sure if his eyes were open or closed... I didn't even know what he looked like.... and I hoped he might merely be unconscious and (miraculously) only badly injured and not yet dead -- even though it didn't seem quite plausible. With my hand at his shoulder I braced myself to hunch over him and look at his face inside the helmet for the first time.

Just then, a car whished past and I realized that I had forgotten myself and the dangerous fact that my back was turned to whatever oncoming traffic might still come along. "I'm gonna get hit!!" I thought, my priorities suddenly shifting back into place.

I stood, and ran back to my car, grabbing a small pocket Maglight flashlight that I kept in one of the plastic cupholders then peered down the highway to see that more cars were coming up fast. Darting hastily to the middle of the road, I stood in front of the biker, my back to him, wildly waving the flashlight above my head like I was the beacon of a lighthouse warning the approaching ships to steer away from the treacherous rocks before it was too late.

The next couple of minutes whizzed by in a blur as adrenaline pumped through my body and cars veered crazily toward the right side of the road in order not to strike some moron with a penlight and a fallen biker who had popped up unexpectedly in their way. "I'm gonna get hit," I thought again, still erratically swinging the flashlight back and forth. Somehow I emerged untouched as honking clusters of three or four cars at a time managed to get past without plowing into us (or each other) in their sudden mergings and lane shifts. Then, almost out of nowhere, an enormous Metro city bus was bearing right down on me and as it continued closer and closer I concentrated the aim of the flashlight at it and thought, "Oh shit, he can't see me. SHIT!!!"

Fortunately, the bus driver DID see me and I guessed that he must have heard something on his radio stemming from my call as I watched him slow and then position the bus in such a way that blocked all the lanes except the outermost right two -- forcing any other cars that should come along to slow to a safe speed. I looked up thankfully at the bus driver and he made a reassuring motion with his hand and mouthed the words "It's all right… All right."

Soon after, an ambulance popped out around the bus and parked just behind the biker and I stepped back a couple of feet away then leaned against the concrete median wall to watch its crew spill out and get to work. Police cars began to appear and officers placed flares on the road and started to direct traffic, which was now bottle-necked thanks to the bus. A black female cop came over and stood next to me to get my story while the EMTs cut a slit up the back of the biker's t-shirt from bottom to the neck and began placing several small, white circular patches on his skin that could monitor for his vitals.

I watched officers walk up to the wrecked motorcycle and then walk back to my car which was still on the shoulder of the road. They examined my bumper and fenders and looked for any signs of damage that might point to me as the cause of the crash but, finding nothing to support the suspicion, they quickly dismissed it.

The faces of the EMT's were grim… this guy was already gone… and they said so to each other.

Another officer bent down and emptied the rear pocket of the dead biker. He pulled out three items… all cards. The first was an American Express credit card followed by his driver's license. I wanted to lean closer and look at the license to see the picture on it. At least then I'd know what he had looked like. I'd have a face in my mind to go along with that perfect hand.

The last item was a white plastic card with a logo on it that said "The Zone" which was recognizable to any guys who ever flipped through the pages of the free gay mags "In" or "Frontiers", or who happened to get a coupon/flyer for the place handed to them as they walked along Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood late at night. It was a gay sex club and that white piece of plastic was a membership card.

"That poor bastard," I thought to myself. "He was probably getting a blowjob not twenty-five minutes ago and now, here he is, dead on the fucking freeway."

It bothered me that he was gay, or at least had some evidence of it. In the moment upon seeing that Zone card I felt as though I was MEANT to be the one that was first on the scene, the one to find him… the one who was supposed to help him. We were alike… brothers… and I felt as though perhaps I'd let the brotherhood down… as though I'd been given some sort of pop quiz and failed it. I began to wonder if maybe I should have gone out into the middle of the road with my flashlight BEFORE getting onto the yellow call box… if I could have flagged someone over to help me BEFORE dealing with that damn operator… maybe those two cars wouldn't have hit him and maybe he would've been alright in the end.

Or… they could have also hit me… and now I'd be sprawled out on the road as well.

The black lady cop was still talking to me and the next thing she said caught me slightly off-guard, but I couldn't quite tell if it was tinged with accusation or just an observation she was having at that moment.

"You seem really calm," she said, obviously noting that here I was, standing not five feet from a banged up, bloody corpse and I wasn't traumatized or freaking out at all as I recounted to her everything that had just taken place.

My answer to her surprises me to this day. I SHOULD have explained about helping Tony with the bodies in the Vanceburg funeral home and seeing death up-close with a bit of regularity. That, at least, would have made some sense. But instead I replied, "Oh…, well…, I work in film" and then immediately thought, "Now what in the hell kind of answer is THAT? I work in film?? Really!"

But then, to my amazement she uttered, "Oh…, okay," as though that was a sufficient answer from anyone who had spent any time at all on the movie sets here in Los Angeles. I mean, this is Hollywood after all.... what with all of those stunt men mishaps, and accidental prop-gun fatalities, and downed helicopters decapitating extras, a film set is a regular corpse factory, right?? Either that, or she deemed movie people so right-out Weird that we weren't capable of whatever reaction it was she thought I should be going through. I was stupified that my non-sensical response was somehow a reasonable one to her.

Satisfied with all the information I had given her, the officer told me that I could be on my way and that someone from the department would call me later just to re-verify the details.

I got into my car and drove away, reluctant to abandon the dead, gay biker to the cops and the EMTs who had to clean him off the roadway, yet accepting that my part in the drama was already played out.

I went home and tried to sleep but I wasn't very successful. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was that one beautiful, clean, lovely, perfect hand --empty and alone-- in the middle of that thick and congealing pool of dark red blood... and I wondered if someone might be waiting up somewhere, hoping to hold it again, and not knowing the awful truth that I knew.

Story #13: Best AND Worst Lie

So my friend Mike B. has convinced me that I should give the internet another shot in an attempt to meet a 'significant other'. I've not been in a serious relationship for over 4 years now and I don't really expect to meet someone when I go out with friends because, as Mike says, "You're not gonna meet the kind of guy you want to meet going out, because they, like you, enjoy staying at home with their friends." I'd written off doing the internet-dating thing since in the past, when I'd stumbled onto someone's profile that I was really keen on, more often than not I'd realize after meeting them that their 'real-life' persona didn't seem to match up at all with what they'd touted online. Or maybe it was just me projecting only the stuff I wanted to see in them and then being disappointed by all the other stuff they brought along.

Anyway... today I was filling out one of those personality questionnaires and it asked me, "What is the Best or Worst lie you've ever told?" This was my response:

One winter when I was a senior in college and not-at-all out of the closet, I was hosting a cute prospective student (a senior in high school who I'll call 'RYAN') and while we were getting drunk in my dorm room he expressed that he wanted to see naked chicks. Well..., I didn't really know any loose girls in my social circle who'd be willing to fulfill his request, but I DID know the girls' phone number who lived directly opposite the quad from me in a big-windowed dorm that resembled a Holiday Inn. I picked up the receiver and pretended to call them and wave at them from my window even though they weren't even in their room at the time. Since there were so many windows to choose from, and also because Ryan was really buzzed, he wasn't exactly sure which dorm room window he was supposed to be looking at -- but he kept searching while I launched into my pitch.

The made-up phone conversation I had went something like this:
"I've got this guy here, he's a prospective, and he wants you all to get naked."
(pause)
"What do you mean you will if he will?"
(pause)
"Really??"
(pause)
"Hey Ryan, they said they'll get naked if you do."

So Ryan got in front of the window and began to strip naked for them -- actually for me -- while I pretended to hear catcalls on the phone and repeat them aloud for him to keep going. ("Okay... now your pants!! Woooo hoooo!!!") Then, when he'd lost every stitch of clothing save his socks, he wiggled his ass against the glass and grabbed his underwear and said 'Okay, now it's THEIR turn! Tell them to come up to their window so I can see them!"

So I said into the phone, "He says it's your turn now... Hello?"
(pause)
"Hellooooo?"
(pause)
"Oh Fuck Ryan, they just dicked us over. They hung up.. and look! (pointing to a dark window) Their light are off now!"

He bitched and moaned about the 'girls' scamming him for a little while but soon he'd forgotten all about it and really was never the wiser that I'd been making the whole thing up for my own titillation.

This lie came back to bite me on the ass when, two days later, I was eating in the dining hall and one of the girls came up to me and said, "So WHAT IN THE HELL was that weird message you left on our answering machine on Saturday night???"

Story #12: Sweet Virgin-yeah

Two big thumbs up on this movie that, believe it or not, actually carries a message that the Religious Right would be proud of.

While watching it last night I was reminded of one of my many feeble attempts at losing my own virginity.

When I was 21, I was desperate to make it with a girl and the fact that I'd not yet done so was troubling to me, mainly because I feared that if I didn't, my sexuality would continuously be called into question... not only by others, but by me as well. (It would be two more years before I finally confronted myself on that issue and become a better person because of it.)

Anyway..., while working a summer job down in Orlando, Florida as a guide on the Backstage Studio Tour at the Disney/MGM Studios Theme Park, a cute, 19-year old girl on vacation with her family came up to me at a dance club.

"You're Kerry, right?" she asked.
"Uhhh... yeah?"
"I'm Mary. You were our tour guide today."
"Oh, really? How'd I do?"
"You were great! Can I buy you a drink?"

I happily accepted and we chatted for awhile until Mary noticed that her older brothers were eyeing us suspiciously so she suggested we leave and go to a different club next door. After dancing for a couple of hours at the second club, we returned to try and find them, since they were her ride -- but when they were nowhere to be found I offered to give her a lift back to the hotel where her family was staying.

As soon as I pulled into the hotel parking lot and killed the engine, she climbed over onto my lap in the driver's seat where we made out and groped at each other for a half an hour... and I gotta tell you... I was terrified... simply because I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Apparantly, though, I did something right and we made plans to see each other the next night. During the drive home to my apartment (which I shared with 4 other guys and a girl) I thought to myself, "Ok, Kerry... It's gonna happen... You're gonna get the big old 'V' off of your chest once and for all."

I got home, excited to tell my roommates about the potential breakthrough, but the guys were all out and Ann, the whiskey-loving girl with whom I shared a bedroom, was once again drunkenly passed out on her bed. It might seem peculiar that I shared a room with a girl, but it was actually somewhat common in the Disney-employee apartment complex we resided in and we got along famously. I always thought she was a gorgeous, buxom blonde but I wasn't really her type since A.) she was a hard-partying girl who could down a bottle of Cutty Sark in 20 minutes and who liked guys who could do likewise and B.) she had somehow perceptively decided that she might not be MY type.

The next morning Ann and I convened in the kitchen and I told her all about the night before with Mary and she was truly, genuinely excited for me.
"You gotta do me a favor, Ann." I said.
"Name it."
"I'm gonna try and bring this girl back to the apartment tonight so whatever you do, don't come home."
"Sure thing," she assured, and downed some aspirin and a jug of water before exiting with a "Good luck, stud!" as she left for work.

That night Mary and I met up as planned in a bar -- where I'd already had a few too many drinks, trying to build up my courage, as I waited for her arrival. We ordered another beer each and I put the question to her "Would you like to see where I live?", trying to make it sound as off-handed as possible. In my head the words "to have sex... to have sex... to have sex..." echoed in a constant loop.
When she answered with "Sure" I found myself chugging the drink to kill it and before I knew it, we were at my doorstep (and to be honest, I have absolutely NO recollection of driving us there at all... but somehow I managed it.)
We entered my apartment to find the guys all sitting around the coffee table playing Risk and I introduced Mary to them and asked her to give me a minute to pick up the clutter in my bedroom. (How I didn't know I was gay at this point in my life simply baffles me.)
I walked down the hallway and as I entered my room, I was shocked and chagrined to discover Ann unconscious on top of her bed. I jumped over to her and began to shake her by the arms saying, "Ann... wake up... you've GOT to get out of here!" but she was completely knocked out and I could smell the unmistakable stench of whiskey as she exhaled.
I stood there for a few moments drunk and frustrated and realizing that my passage into manhood had presented itself and here it was, slipping through my fingers. I could not allow it.
With no other real options coming to mind, I decided I would do what any desperate guy in my situation would do. I reached down to the floor at the foot of Ann's bed, grabbed her comforter and pillows, and began making Ann's bed with her in it. Her comforter was plush and fluffy enough to disguise the fact that there was a body beneath it and once the pillows were propped up at the head of the bed, you could hardly tell that there was anything out of the ordinary at all. Besides... the lights were gonna be off. I was convinced that Mary would be none-the-wiser.
I went to retrieve Mary and we hopped into my bed and began making out and within about 5 minutes or so, we were completely naked. The moment was here and I was ready to say goodbye forever to Kerry the Virgin.
Now I don't know if it was all the alcohol I'd had to drink beforehand, or if it was sheer nerves, or both, or neither, but in the split second before I was ready to start, I..., uh... well..., I was already done.
I screamed inside my head, cursing the heavens above and it went something like this: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!"
I froze completely, then buried my face in my pillow and muttered a pathetic, "Oh god."
and then Mary said what girls are supposed to say in situations like that.
"Don't worry about it. It happens."
and that's when, MOR-TI-FY-ING-LY, a chortling, snorting drunken laughter came from under the comforter on the other side of the room.

Story #6: A NEW New Hope

When I was 8 years old I went to the movie theater 17 times to see Star Wars (now titled "Episode IV: A New Hope"). I couldn't get enough of it. Back then I was doled out $2 allowance a week, which was somehow enough to cover the ticket price.
As the action figures started appearing in the stores I stopped going to see the movie and started my collection, but at $1.89 a pop I only had enough money to buy one action figure per week. The first week I bought R2D2 and my mom, who had seen the movie twice with me said, "Now he's a robot, right?" to which I replied, "No, Mom. He's a DROID." That week R2 was my constant companion. If he wasn't in my pocket, he sat out on the corner of my school desk while I learned how to write in cursive.
The second week I purchased Princess Leia and although this raised my mother's eyebrows, she said nothing, happy in the satisfaction of seeing me learning the lessons of finances and the benefits of saving money to buy things I wanted instead of frittering it away on candy and soda pop.
The third week I came home with C3PO, the fourth week was a Stormtrooper, and then, completing a full month's worth of buying, I brought home Darth Vadar -- at which point my mother must have been seriously questioning my decision making abilities because she turned to me and said, "What about Luke Skywalker? Or Han Solo or Chawacca? Don't you like those characters?" I looked up from Leia and 3PO and R2 running from Vadar and his Stormtrooper and said, "It's CHEWBACCA!! Yeah, of course I like those guys!! They're the GOOD GUYS!!" So she said, "Well why haven't you bought any of 'those guys' yet?" I remember rolling my eyes and summoning a logic that would surely put her in her place, "because they're not in the movie yet!!"
You see, I was buying the characters in order or appearance. I still had to get a Jawa before I could pick up Luke Skywalker. Duh!!!
Years later I got the opportunity to work on Star Wars - Episode I: The Phantom Menace at Skywalker Ranch. Now keep in mind that this was before anyone knew about Jar Jar Binks, or the stupid walking stick -looking droid army, so I was considerably proud of myself for having fulfilled my destiny. I had somehow gone from fan-boy to actually working on a day to day basis with the man who had created the mythology that my entire childhood revolved around.
I was so jazzed about the accomplishment I even flew my mother out from Kentucky for Mother's Day to visit the Ranch about a month before Episode I hit the theatres. While there, she had this great moment when I saw her standing in the doorway of the bathroom next to my office, aiming a camera at the porcelain toilet inside. "What are you doing?" I asked, hoping none of my co-workers would walk in to witness this embarrassment. "You remember all those birthdays and Christmases growing up when I'd get you all those Star Wars toys?" she asked. "Yeah?" I answered, still bewildered. "Well, I figure buying that stuff must have at least paid for this toilet, so I'm taking a picture of it to show everybody back home." Regardless of her sass, I could tell she was very proud and during the visit she boasted of where life had taken me. It was literally and completely a Dream Come True. Then on May 4, 1999 something terrible happened… The Phantom Menace was released.
I remember as I watched it with everyone else for the first time. I could FEEL the excitement and anticipation in the air when the 20th Century Fox logo flashed up on the screen and the BUMP BaDA BUMMMMMM music roared. Unfortunately, nothing that followed in the movie rivaled the complete and utter high of those first 20 seconds. For a few days after I was in denial about how BAD the viewing experience had been but finally, about a month later, I accepted the fact that Star Wars had lost its hold over me.
Episode II came and went and although I had deeply hoped that George might get it right this time, I wasn't surprised when I was left less than enthralled after seeing it.
And now, in just 11 days, the saga will be complete when Episode III: Revenge of the Sith unspools. 27 years after first meeting the dark and ominous Lord Vader, I'll finally know what events made him the personification of evil.
To be honest, after the debacles of Episode I and II, I had stopped caring, but then - just a few days ago - I started hearing reviews from people who had seen previews of the movie. Rather than just spouting hype, they criticized the atrocities committed with I & II and praised the fact that George had returned the franchise to glory with this last installment. The positive word of mouth and eye-popping trailers have had their desired effect on me. I can't wait to see this movie. This morning I sent an email to my friend, Mr. Inhibit Kerry's Excitement (MIKE, for short), letting him know that my Star Wars love was rekindling, to which he attempted to douse it with the reply, " Did the country get collective amnesia? Am I the last one that remembers that Episode 1 and 2 were total jokes?… Apparently their non-stop barrage of a marketing campaign has suckered you along with everyone else. Get ready for disappointment."
Please, George, Please!!! Don't let me down. Allow me the pleasure of walking out of the theater and turning to Mike and exhorting a victorious "HA!"
And if I've indeed been suckered, and this movie blows, and you've managed to once again convince me to willingly put more money into your pockets, and Mike gets to say to me "I told you so"… well then… I'm coming up there to take my mother's toilet back.

Story #5: My Night With A Porn Star

I'm sort of an uneducated puruser of gay porn. I'll watch or read it but when it comes to the names of the faces I'm seeing, it's all a blank, forcing comparisons to better known celebrities like "that guy that looks like Paul Walker" or "you know…, that one that sort of looks like Brad Pitt?". There are some names that stick in my head but mainly that's just because they SOUND like porn names (i.e. Ryan Idol, Jeff Stryker, Andy Dick, Marcia Gay Hardon, etc.)

I'm also not an avid purchaser of porn, preferring to surf the net or come across a magazine or video at a friend's house then begging to borrow it. This is not to say I'm a prude about such things. Well…, not anymore. (Once upon a time I was the guy who would sneak covert glances at Playgirl in the bookstore while hiding it between the pages of ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY but when I realized that no straight guy stands at the bookstore and reads Entertainment Weeky I figured the jig was up so why bother with the charade?)

Actually, the last time I bought a porn mag was when I was browsing at a local magazine stand and saw a copy of UNZIPPED with the most gorgeous man on its cover glaring back at me. My first thought was, "Wow… he's amazing! WHY is he doing porn??" I purchased the issue and learned that this specimen of perfection was Jeff Palmer. He had black, straight chin-length hair, pouty lips that covered a golden-boy smile, a chiseled jaw-line, a fantastic package, an ass you could bounce a coin off of, and dark, dreamy eyes. All in all, a five-dollar investment that never stopped paying off. My relative porn-ignorance being what it is however, I immediately forgot his name, opting instead just to call him my Porn Star God.

About a week after buying the magazine, I was with some friends at L.A.'s popular Tuesday night gay club, Beige at 360, on Sunset and Vine. As I opened the bathroom door to head inside, none other than
Porn Star God exited. He was shorter than I expected but looked exactly as depicted in the magazine. "It's the guy from the porn mag I just bought," I exclaimed to the friend behind me. As he passed by, he thanked me for holding the door open for him while I said nothing in return and watched him walk off. There it was… the one chance with my bronze, golden-boy smile, straight-dark haired, Porn Star God gone forever -- mainly because I couldn't take that leap of simply talking to someone who did porn for a living.

It wasn't until a year later, doing some bar-hopping with friends, when I got a chance to see if I'd vanquished my pre-conceived porn-star prejudice notions. Over the course of many drinks we had made our way to The Sunset Room and found ourselves welcomed in to a half-filled table of acquaintances. I quickly started chatting up the handsome, curly golden-locked fellow wearing braces on his teeth who was sitting next to me. He gave me his name and (partially because I'm terrible at remembering introductions and also because I was buzzed) I immediately forgot it.

We talked easily even though I had a little trouble understanding his English through his thick Argentinian accent (which was further masked by the lines of metal in his mouth) and he laughed during all the right "getting to know you" moments. I bought him a drink (actually, just bottled water) and when it came time to ask that most L.A. of questions, ("So…, what do you do?") I was surprised at his frankness when he told me that he was a porn actor.

"O.K.," I said to myself, "don't freeze up. He seems like a nice guy so don't just up and write him off because he does porn." Somehow that little mind trick worked and I casually responded that it seemed like it might be a fun way to make a living. In the nanosecond of composing my thoughts after his revelation I also decided that being an Argentinian porn actor just might have less stigma attached to it than being an American porn actor. After all, aren't we told over and over again how repressed we Americans are? Looking back on the exchange I realize that I was making excuses for it to be o.k. for me to talk to (and more importantly) flirt with him.

As the bar began to shut down and my friends broke apart and shuffled out the door, my new foreign friend invited me to grab a bite to eat with him. Now, admittedly, I had some reservations about where this was heading but I also had some self-esteem issues that were rapidly vanishing as the Argentinian inflated my ego. To think, the possibility that even little old me could leave on the arm of a drop-dead gorgeous porn actor, well…, it was a whole new spin on my reality.

Driving through the streets of Los Angeles, we tried three or four different places to eat but found each of them dimming their lights and closing up their kitchens frustrating us both to the point of exhaustion. "You wanna get a motel room?" he asked me. I tensed up at the notion. "Um…. Well…. Uh…. O.K., sure. Just to be clear though… we're not gonna fuck." He nodded and answered "o.k." as though it wasn't even a thought and I immediately relaxed (even though part of me was slightly offended that he didn't put up more of a fight on the subject).

The Argentinian shed all of his clothing the second after the door was shut to our motel room and he began to smoke a cigarette out the open window that looked down onto Sunset Boulevard. He looked amazing in silhouette with the street lights shimmering off of his tight toned skin and perfect perky butt. Definitely my idea of a porn star. I threw my clothes to the ground, we both fell into the bed (and since I wasn't willing to risk the consequences that might come with sex -- and he didn't seem to want it anyway), we simply spooned into sleep.

The next morning we were awaken by the desk clerk ringing to inform us that we had fifteen minutes to check out so we quickly showered and I was pleased to see that I hadn't been wearing beer goggles the night before. The Argentinian was absolutely gorgeous and that perfect perky butt had not been alcohol induced. I did however experience some shame over the fact that I'd just spent the night in a cheap motel with a complete stranger and I was now looking to bring the date to a quick and tidy end.

We dressed, returned the room key, and he asked where I needed to go as we climbed into his car. I told him he could drop me off at my friend's house that just happened to be around the corner. "Which street?", he asked. "This one. Turn right here," I responded, hastily choosing one and then a specific house at random. As he let me out I thanked him for a great night and simultaneously feigned receiving a call on my cell. This tactic allowed me to wave the Argentinian away and I stood on my "friend's" porch talking on the phone until he drove off around the corner. Once he was out of sight, I pocketed my cell and headed off on foot down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. He was cute and fun but did I really want to get involved with a porn actor???

About a month later I was at my friend Alex's house and he asked me if I'd seen Jeff Palmer lately. "Who?", I asked, the name not ringing a bell. "Jeff Palmer, the porn guy," he reminded me. He had to show me a picture from UNZIPPED before I finally clued in that he was talking about my Porn Star God. "Oh my God, I LOVE that guy!!! No, I haven't seen him lately. Why??"

Alex began surfing for pictures online as he informed me "Well…, he looks so DIFFERENT." The screen page he was looking for finally popped up and my jaw dropped. Side by side on the monitor I saw pictures of Jeff Palmer from his Unzipped shoot next to those of him wearing braces and sporting curly golden locks on his head. "Oh My God," I said (and then repeated it three or four times as my mind began to blow apart). I'd actually spent a night sleeping with, nay…, CUDDLING WITH my Porn Star God without even knowing it was him!!! In a cheap motel room no less! Worst of all, I'd totally kissed him off in my haste to be rid of my "Argentinian porn actor date."

I know there's a lesson in all this. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I lied to get rid of the Argentinian and therefore put myself on an even lower moral standard than the one I was judging him on for just being himself... You know... that "Don't throw stones if you live in a glass house thing." Or maybe it's that whatever we think we want in our fantasies turns out to be something totally different in reality. Or maybe it's that you don't know what you've got even when it's right under your nose.

After that day I wondered what would have happened if I would have stuck with Jeff/The Argentinian for the rest of that morning instead of bailing on him. Maybe we would have gotten along great and had tons to talk about and I would have realized that I'd put my trepidation about dating porn stars behind me. Hell, it could have even turned into a loving and supportive relationship! A couple of years later I ran into Jeff at a Folsom Street Fair booth in San Francisco where he was making an appearance. When I saw him standing in front of a crowd of people, cumming on some guy's face, it dawned on me that I probably still have some issues in that area to work out.

Story #3: from Guestblogger Mike : Hooters

(Mike B. wrote this about our dining experience yesterday evening so I'm posting it for your enjoyment.)

I went to Hooters last night for the first time in my life. As anyone who knows me will concur, I don't belong at Hooters. I knew this before going of course, but it was still nice to have my prejudices against the Hooters type be validated. But no matter how out-of-sorts I felt last night, my gay friend Kerry probably felt that same feeling times ten. I may not be your classic Hooters Man, but at least I like chicks and football.

The decision process went something like this:
Me: I'm hungry.
Kerry: Me too, wanna go to Hooters?
Me: Uh, I've never been to Hooters.
Kerry: Me neither, wanna go?

And then all of a sudden it sounded like a fantastic idea so I said yes.

This naturally begs the question of, "why would a gay man suggest a place like Hooters?" Well you can ask him yourself if you like, but my guess is that he wanted to see if the world would explode when we stepped foot through the door.

We were served by an attractive girl named Raven who was very good at doing what she does, which is to make men in Bud Light t-shirts feel like they have the special attention of a hot chick. But Kerry and I clearly didn't know what to do when confronted with a professional flirter. All meal long she made flirty gestures and suggestive smiles, all in the name of large tips. And with each subsequent visit to our table, our discomfort increased exponentially. We squirmed in our seats and gave terse responses to her questions. I think I may have commented on something being "cute" as in "attractive", which was a great way to sabotage my own heterosexuality.

At the end of the meal, Raven asked if she could get us anything else.
"No thank you," we both replied.
"Are you suuuuure?" she insisted, again with that suggestive smile. We both looked at each other with expressions that asked what is the correct answer to this question?
"Uh no, we're fine. Thanks."
She walked away and Kerry leaned across the table to whisper, "I feel like I'm failing a test."

Story #2: Parenting 101

I was making myself a grilled cheese sandwich today and when I got the bread out of the cupboard, I noticed that only the heels of the loaf were left.  I don't know about you, but when I get a new loaf of bread, I sort of skip over that first piece (a heel) and go right for the 'meat' of the loaf.  Somehow or another, as the bread diminishes with each slice taken or sandwich made, that front heel works its way down further and further until finally, the meat of the loaf is all gone and the two heels sit together waiting either to be grudgingly eaten or wastefully thrown out if a new loaf arrives in time.

Anyway, I was fairly hungry and didn't want to make a trip to the store so I decided to make the grilled cheese sandwich out of the two heels.  As I waited patiently for the cheese to 'grill', I had a flashback to my childhood.  

I remembered standing in our old kitchen next to my mother watching her make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, both for her and me. On occasion, she'd hand me my PBJ, one side of which was a heel, whereas her sandwiches were ALWAYS made from the meat of the loaf.  

I would complain, "Mom, I don't like this," pointing to the all-crust, heel side of the sandwich and everytime she'd reply, "Go ahead and eat it Kerry.  Those slices are healthier for you."  So, defeated by adult knowledge, I'd go off and eat my sandwich.

So I'm still waiting for the cheese to grill as this halcyon memory plays out in my head when I suddenly realize, "Wait a second! The heels are just baked bread! It's not like the skin on a potato!  It's just baked bread!!!"

I have to believe my mother wasn't stupid enough to think that the heels of the loaf were actually healthier for me, but what I can't believe is that she'd sink so low as to dupe her child into eating something she didn't want.