Forbidden Fruit

While searching for really inappropriate things on the internet such as worldwide ages of consent for male to male sex, I came across this picture of a very attractive young man... wearing a priest's collar. He is featured in the 2007 Roman Priest Calendar.

I don't know if they are actual Roman priests or just actors. Either way, I'm feeling the urge to get on my knees and receive the holy spirit (and by the holy spirit, I mean the luscious father Marciano for June 2007). Amen!

Why is this such a turn-on? I think it's because the thought of breaking taboo like making a nubile young priest go against his vow of celibacy is very attractive to a thrill-seeking gay man. Homosexuality is still considered taboo in some parts of the world (like my ex boyfriend's parents' house in Houston) and a gay man's need to fully come to terms with his sexual identity is what drives him to act out against the social 'norm' by calling his boyfriend's mother "honey" and talking about the fine points of crocheting vs. knitting.

Whatever Happened to Baby Richie?

I was talking to my sister a few days ago and we were discussing my favorite holiday, Halloween. It's gay Christmas, and anyone who thinks otherwise should be tied to a tree and beaten with braided chicken wire. Sis says that my nephew is torn between Batman and Captain Jack Sparrow, which is weird because last Tuesday was International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

My sister went on to describe how my nephew took items from around the house to convince her how much he could pull off being a pirate. He put a pair of his underwear over his head to use it as bandana. Then he took the top of his crayola crayon coin bank and put his foot in it to use it as a peg leg. To finish it off, he held a wooden spoon in one hand and a plastic coat hanger in the other to use as a sword and a hook. He kept going up to her and saying "aaarggh!"

Instead of being amused and proud that my three-year-old nephew was being creative and funny, I was filled with a little bit of doubt. How can a little boy be so clever? After hearing about the simulated peg leg, I got a little jealous.

I was the clever one in the family! I was the one who modded the fans in our house to make them spin faster. I was the one who wrote a report about Indians in the fourth grade and got an F because we were told to write about "Indians" (native Americans). I was the one who put a series of mirrors on chairs so that I could watch television from the other room while washing the dishes in the kitchen. Now I'm just a 27 year old, stale has-been who clings to old memories of his superstar childhood the way that my ex boyfriends cling to the notion that they were better at sex than I was.

I can just picture myself in thirty years, dressed in my old child pageant robes and serving dead rats to my nephew who is in a wheelchair because I got drunk one night and ran him over with my car.

I guess it's silly of me to be jealous of a kid. He actually is very cute and I'm very proud of how clever he is becoming. I can't be the cute one in the family anymore, so I'll just have to settle for cultivating the cuteness that blooms in the other generations. I'll be standing in the shadows with my martini glass, muttering to myself that one day my nephew will have children who will be even more clever than he used to be. HA HA HA!

Molly... You in Danger, Girl!

My crazy aunt thinks that she's an extension of God's voice, a holy messenger. She told me recently that my grandmother was trying to tell her something. Then she asked me if I knew what my grandmother was trying to tell her. Hmmm!

I've always thought that people who claim to relay messages from the great beyond are just plain nuts. Have you ever seen an episode of "Crossing Over with John Edward?" There's a funny episode of South Park where Stan debunks John Edward, utilizing his method of cold reading to perform a fake connection with the spirit world for a member of the audience.

Unfortunately for my aunt, I am too cynical to believe any word of hooey that she spews. I just don't believe that my grandmother would have to go through someone to speak to me. Grandmother was a very efficient woman, always cutting out the middle man and going straight for whatever she wanted to accomplish. And if grandmother did go through my crazy aunt, how do I know that the message was accurate? Ever see the 'purple monkey dishwasher' episode of The Simpsons?

My aunt and John Edward take advantage of people who are vulnerable because they're too distraught or desperate for answers. I may believe in something that I haven't seen, heard or felt (God), but heaven help the person who mistakes me for someone who fell off the turnip truck and tries to take advantage of me.

That really makes me mad. If she wanted to put one over on me, she could have picked a cool power to intrigue me like the ability to predict what happens on Grey's Anatomy this season. I would have listened to that.

Lights... camera... orgasm!

I've been watching free porn on xtube and I found the Colin Farrell sex video. It's actually the most watched video on that site at the moment. Then I remembered that I used to make sex tapes with my now ex boyfriend from early 2005. When I went to get the tape out of the camera, there was a little note from the lying dumbass, stating that he didn't want anyone to see it.

I wasn't worried about him having the tape. Frankly, I looked damn good on it. It showcases many of our encounters in the second week of January. The tape held about two hours of intense man sex, starring me as the aggressive top verbally humiliating and physically plowing the hell out of my bottom boyfriend. We did just about everything you can do on a futon that was purchased at Affordable Portables without breaking it. I've always enjoyed people watching me have sex - from people on the street looking up at me from an apartment window to passers by catching a glimpse at a Houston sex club.

I told an acquaintance of mine (let's call him Barry) about this experience and was horrified to learn that he was a psychology major. Before I could change the subject, he began a huge lecture about exhibitionism and voyeurism. Apparently, the psychological community classifies both of these things as disorders and abnormal behavior.

Abnormal behavior? The world is full of teenagers who shoot their schoolmates and women who steal other women's babies. I hardly think that my case of exhibitionism should be classified as abnormal behavior. If I was drinking kitten blood and chanting in ancient Sumerian while I was pounding my boyfriend, then I can see why Barry would be verbally chastising me for making sex tapes. But I wasn't, so he shouldn't be.

I think that if you look good and feel good doing something with someone who obviously enjoys it (I'm pretty sure that the boyfriend made honking noises), then you should fucking do it and not care what anyone thinks. On that note, you should ask everyone you know if he or she is a psychology major... then never talk to him or her ever again.

Heir Supply

My mother is notorious for her guilt trips. She's put so many people on guilt trips that if Orbitz or Expedia had a "passive-aggressive" division, she'd be employee of the month every month. One of the things that she's always nagged me about was the fact that I am my father's last male child, so his last name will die with me. Yeah... NO PRESSURE, MA!

It's not that I don't like kids. I just don't like BAKs. That stands for bad ass kids. I actually love spending time with my sisters' children. They're smart, they're energetic, they're cute, and they think I'm super uncle. Let's face it - if the kid has any Filipino in them, they're naturally superior to all other children.

I'm not going to give in to the pressure from mama, or all of my high school friends who are popping out kids like there's no tomorrow. I'm afraid that by the time I decide that I do want to have children of my own, my equipment won't work as well as it does now. I'm referring to 'shooting myself in the ear,' mentioned in a previous blog post about boyfriends who tell each other everything. I've lived in my apartment for three years and I still haven't decided on a paint color!

That's why I'm looking into having my sperm frozen. I don't know how long it lasts when it's frozen, but I'm hoping that medical science will have progressed to the point where I don't need a woman to bring forth the fruit of my loins. I'd love for there to be a machine that takes care of all the good stuff like providing nutrients and regulating hormone balance for the growing kid. The less people involved, the better we'll all be. My friend Joe reminded me that I do need an egg, so I'll just have to find an egg donor. Bah!

If by then I am completely devoid of morality, I'm hoping to take advantage of genetic manipulation. Imagine a super child who looks exactly like me, equipped with lightning fast reflexes and built-in night vision. I'll even throw in the power to become invisible.

All that is fun to think about, but I think I need to find a paint color first. Baby steps!

Tooth Hurty Two

I had another lovely root canal session on Friday. It's a good thing that I'm slightly into pain, because I'd go crazy otherwise. Each throb of pain sends a naughty little shiver to my no-no spot and keeps me in a constant state of euphoria. It's nothing like being spanked, though. That's a totally different kind of pleasure.

Before last week's root canal, I requested that there be no music played in the room. I also asked that the picture of the cottage on the wall be taken down. Strange requests, I know. But have you ever had a bad experience that gets triggered by something like a sight, sound, or smell? I didn't want a repeat of my last horrific experience at the dentist.

The last time I had root canal was in 1997, almost ten years ago. I was a nervous, young, closeted gay boy in love with his young Jewish dentist. But my boyhood crush quickly dissolved when the seemingly simple root canal turned into a two hour pain fest. I passed out twice when I saw blood drip onto the yellow napkin thingie that was secured around my neck with alligator clips. During the most intense part of the procedure, I heard a song playing on the radio. It was Toni Braxton's "Unbreak My Heart." To this day, I cringe and hold my mouth when I hear Toni's soulful voice singing that song.

Gullible's Travels

I saw Andy last week and he told me that Wednesday was Hump Day. I'd never heard of Hump Day and I just assumed that it was another phony holiday like Sweetest Day.

Side rant:
Sweetest Day? I'd never heard of it until I moved to Chicago. It's a stupid made-up holiday that gives couples another chance to act like dopes in public. They delude themselves into thinking that they're better than single people because they can walk around with flowers and they assume that single people will be jealous of them that they're going home to see their lover. The truth is that their lover is fucking the neighbor and getting syphilis. Sweetest Day, MY ASS!

Back to Hump Day...

Andy told me that Hump Day was a day on which you were supposed to have sex with someone. I was thinking that you meet someone on the street and you both say to each other: "Hump Day?" Then you go back to your place and shag his brains out, all the while thinking that you fulfilled your duty as an American citizen. You pull up your pants, wipe your mouth, and salute the nearest American flag.

I asked a lot of people I know about Wednesday being Hump Day and they told me that it was because it was the middle of the week and after Wednesday, you get over the 'hump' of the week and it's closer to the weekend. Then I realized that I got bamboozled yet again. I'm just too naive sometimes.

Remember the Bloody Mary urban legend in elementary school? We'd all go into the boys bathroom and they'd turn out the lights so that someone can recite BLOODY MARY three times. After the third time, she was supposed to appear in the mirror and kill everyone in the bathroom. I was the little pussy who believed in it and would run away during the second BLOODY MARY. I only went in there because I'd be alone with boys in a dark bathroom, which was one of my favorite fantasies as a child.

More than a bird, more than a plane...

I was poking around on my computer last night and I decided to watch an episode of Comedy Central's "Drawn Together." It was the episode where Captain Hero was sad all the time because he never knew his mother and father. He later finds out that they sent him to Earth because he was fated to be the lamest superhero ever. In the episode, he sings Five For Fighting's "heart-wrenching power ballad," Superman (It's Not Easy).

When I got dressed to go to the gym, I reached for the first shirt in my closet and it happened to be my Superman tank top. Hmmmmmm!

After my workout, I went to Subway to get a yummy sandwich and the Five For Fighting song started to play over the radio. Hmmmmmm!

A friend called me to tell me that she wanted to see the movie "Hollywoodland." It's a movie about the death of George Reeves, the original Superman. Hmmmmmm!

I've never believed in coincidences, especially after watching that episode of Star Trek: TNG when Data kept encountering the number 3 and it turned out to be a message that he sent to himself to help the Enterprise escape the temporal causality loop. I kid around with my friend Joe because he keeps encountering the number 1209 and it makes him crazy. I think that things happen for a reason, so I need to examine why Superman keeps coming up in my life.

Could it be that I'll be learning how to fly soon? My first attempt at flight was at age 2, when I jumped off the roof trying to fly like Superman. That lovely experience landed me in the emergency room and I ended up with a big scar on the back of my head.

Could it be that I'll travel faster than a speeding bullet? Some bullets travel at a speed of about 1500 mph. That's about Mach 2, so that means that I should be on a supersonic jet in the near future.

Stupid theories, I know. I need to believe in crazy and far-out things in a world where our president claims to have read sixty books in one summer while I only read two.

Silence of the Yams

I've never been a model Filipino boy. I didn't have high spiky hair in junior high. I've never worn a barong. I can't speak any of the languages, and I don't point at things using my lips. A lot of my Filipino friends would hunt me down for this next confession, but I need to get this off my chest. I really hate ube.

Ube is simply purple yam. I've seen it take several forms - all different, yet eerily the same. The flavor is very hard to describe. It's very sweet because of all the sugar they add, but it's got this distinct rooty quality to it. I've seen it appear as ice cream, cake, and gelatin covered with crumbs. I think I even remember seeing ube farm animals shaped in a manner befitting of marzipan.

Ube is also an ingredient in another Filipino dessert that I never liked. Halo halo (pronounced 'hollow hollow') is an "anything goes" melange of shaved ice, beans, coconuts, opaque tapioca balls, and condensed milk. There are so many variations of halo halo that there are no actual recipes for it. It's kind of like Japan's okonomiyaki, which coincidentally also contains traces of yam. INTERESTING!!!

It's perfectly okay to not like certain things about your culture. That's one of the great things about being a sentient life form in America. I'm sure that there are Irish people out there who hate Riverdance.