Thursday night on Folsom Street was every bit as odd as I imagined it might be…
I think today is the day that everyone who’s going home for the holidays finally leaves San Francisco. Which means tonight might be an interesting Thursday night out, with only the heartiest of the hardcores left in town.
Or something to that effect…
No, I’m not going home for Christmas. This will be my second year in a row of not doing so. There are a lot of reasons, but the main one is this: if I can only manage to go home and see my family one time a year, Christmas is definitely not the time I want to do it.
Aside from the insanity of trying to fly anywhere during the last week in December, it’s pretty crazy once you arrive where you’re going, too. Every minute is accounted for, with assorted gatherings and visits, etc. It’s not a relaxing way to spend a week or so. When I go home, one of the things I want is a little normalcy. There’s more of this to be had in January, which is when I’m planning my trip.
It could be a fun trip too. I may stay for three weeks or so, and I’m thinking of side trips. Charlotte, Richmond, Atlanta, Norfolk, and maybe even Baltimore and New York are under consideration, but everything’s subject to change. But if I went home for Christmas, very little would be subject to change.
Of course, there are a few other things I need to do while I’m in North Carolina too, many of which would be best done after the holidays. But I’m not talking about those things tonight.
Anyway, for those of you who are still near your computers: the divorce of Planet SOMA and The Other Stream is moving forward with a semi-finalized Other Stream design. I hope to have everything nicely separate by the first of the year.
Tonight’s sucky movie I’m glad I didn’t pay money to see: The Last Days of Disco.
Funny how, just as I find the time and inclination to catch up on email, new email stops coming in. It’s either the holidays or I’ve just pissed everyone off. Note that this is not necessarily a hint or a request. I like feeling like I’m getting caught up…
Sex is definitely more about psychology than about a series of physical sensations for me. I’ve always known this, but I never really thought about it much until I started writing one-handed fiction.
What I mean is this: some people fantasize about doing specific physical things, like having the tongue hit just a certain spot during oral sex or whatever. But when I’m fantasizing, it’s usually more about the situation which led to the sex rather than the actual mechanics. Or sometimes about the psychology associated with a specific act like shooting a load in someone’s mouth, etc.
That’s why, for example, one of my big turn-ons is when a guy does something that seems totally out of character. Like when some tight-assed little clean-cut preppy guy decides he wants to get pissed on by three punks, or when a decidely swishy sort turns out to be a really nasty aggressive “top”, or when a cute trendy young’un chases after older guys.
I don’t think my outlook is all that uncommon, really. It definitely looms large among many tearoom afficiandos, whether they get off on the potential for getting caught, or (as I did) because you meet some surprisingly interesting types there. It also comes into play every time a couple decides to have a three-way. And, of course, it’s a big part of most fetishes.
I don’t think this heavy-duty psychological approach to sex is necessarily superior, either. It makes the hunt difficult when you’re always trying to create a “story” with your potential victims. In fact, it even may have its drawbacks when push comes to shove (so to speak) as well. That’s why most fetish videos are so boring once you get past the boot-licking or armpit-sniffing.
But when it comes to writing stories, it means that I create (I think) really great and sexy situations. As might be expected, though, I’m weak on the bump and grind. I have occasionally had the same problem in the sack.
I’m babbling. This made much more sense when I was thinking about it than it did when I started typing. I’ll try to be better tomorrow…
There are few things more pleasant than waking up on Sunday morning to find Willie Wonka on TV.
I just had phone sex following a light two-hour email flirtation. I haven’t done that since about 1987. It was sort of nice, actually, and I got to meet an interesting guy I’d so far only known in ASCII format.
The miracle here, I guess, is that I actually answered somebody’s email in a timely fashion. Imagine what might happen if I did so more often. I might even have a boyfriend. Or a job. Or a life…
Went on one of those long drives in Mark‘s new car today. It’s rare that I hit Sacramento and Stockton in one day, especially with a side trip to Isleton for crawdad melts. It was fun. I may show pictures sometime. But not tonight…
At the cheap cigarette store in Sacramento, I started chatting with the woman behind the counter about matches (long story). Eventually, the subject turned to the fact that she has eight children and one grandchild. I was shocked, since she looked about 30.
As it turns out, she’s actually 34. Two years younger than me, and she has eight kids and a grandchild. That’s horrifying. I left feeling very relieved not to be heterosexual. There’s nothing wrong, mind you, with being heterosexual, but, given my occasionally slutty nature, it’s almost certain that I’d have a huge collection of devil spawn running around some double-wide in North Carolina.
I’m going to bed now and have a nice wank fantasizing about pregnancy-free sex…
I didn’t much care about the American version of Queer as Folk before it aired. I saw a little of it Sunday night at the corner bar, and I now realize that I seriously underestimated just how MUCH I didn’t care.
What a pile of crap.
I’ll say it again: stories which are about nothing other than “being gay” are boring. Period. To be interesting, a story must have good characters, which means they should do something other than look pretty and “be gay”. Just as in real life, a sexual orientation is not a substitute for a personality.
And frankness is no substitute for substance either. While it might be great that they said “buttplug” on the air, it might have been nice if they’d said something else too. ANYTHING else, as long as it might have made me care whether these people lived or died. The sermons and the dialogue were worthy of an ABC Afterschool Special, at best.
QAF makes Sex in the City look positively entertaining by comparison, which is no small accomplishment. I found that a half hour of this tripe was quite enough, thanks. There are enough personality-deficient professional homosexuals on the streets of San Francisco; I don’t need more of them on TV.
Give me Tales of the City any day…