The Story of a Psychedelic Shit

Posted on May 10, 2013 by my gay mom under humor

The last time I took magic mushrooms I shit my pants. And I can say with absolute certainty, this was the worst moment of my life.

Let me set the stage:

Autumn, New York City.

I was in my first year in grad school. I’d made fast friends with two jovial drunks, Adam and Mike. Adam had lived in the city for years and took us to some of the filthiest bars and terrifying neighborhoods in Brooklyn.

One night he scored some shrooms and invited Mike and me to a rooftop on Flatbush Ave. I ate a stem and a cap. Mike shoved a fistful in his mouth and kept snacking every few minutes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What? You eat until you puke, and then you trip.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t know. Some guy.”

“Jesus…”

Ten minutes later, Mike was…

When the drugs took hold, the New York skyline danced and jittered on the horizon, beckoning us off this rooftop prison.

I suggested we take a walk.

“Dude, you don’t want to walk around here,” Adam said.

“Then why the fuck did you bring us here?”

“To do drugs. And now we’re tripping and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well…I can’t stay here. I’m losing my fucking mind.”

I pestered. I whined. Finally, we took a stroll around the block. The place was like a demilitarized zone. Mike started writing our obituary.

“Let’s go uptown,” I said and we got a cab and Adam kept asking the driver if he wanted some of our mushrooms. We ended up at a bar. Adam started chatting with a few girls. I couldn’t stop sweating. The faces in the bar kept morphing.

Adam asked the girls if he could do drugs at their table.

“No,” the girls said in unison. They told him to go away.

I pulled him and Mike out the door. “Let’s go to campus. We can sit on the grass.”

“Whatever.”

We walked the five blocks to Columbia. I had to piss. I wanted to just whip it out and go on the lawn, but I knew I’d get arrested that way. So I took a deep breath, walked into Dodge Hall and headed for the men’s room. The stream hit the urinal and I farted, only, I didn’t just fart. I followed through.

Oh God…Oh God…Oh…GAWD!

Luckily, I was alone, so I jumped into a stall and assessed the damage. It was fucking awful and I was still high, which made it so much worse. I stripped down and tried to clean myself up.

How is it on the front of my knee?!

The door opened. “Anthony?” Mike said. “You alright, you’ve been in here forever.”

“I’ll just be a sec.” I used my bare foot to slide my shoe closer to me.

“Well, hurry, Adam’s climbing on stuff in the lobby.”

I finished wiping and tossed my underwear in the trash. I found the two of them on the steps. We sat there for a few seconds before Mike turned to me.

“Hey, man, I…I know what you were doing in there.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

Oh Jesus! I just started school, and now I’m going to be the pants shitter. Fuck.

“You were… You were masturbating.”

“Masturbating…Yes, I was. I was masturbating.”

“Well…why’d you have to take off your pants?”

“I don’t…know…”

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/vaxzine/3544061128/”>vaXzine</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/dorkstyle/2992721179/”>Nick DeNardis</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>

Why Would You Call Your Restaurant That?

Posted on May 1, 2013 by my gay mom under humor, Uncategorized

This arrived under our door today:

Normally, I don’t pay attention to delivery menus. I just stuff them in this binder we keep above the refrigerator, but I couldn’t stop staring at this. What in the hell is a “Surprise Pizza Restaurant?”

Do they turn out all the lights and jump out with a slice? “SURPRISE!”

Do they label the boxes “Pumkin Pie?” so when you open them, they can say, ”HA! You though pumpkin pie. But it is pizza!”

I can’t solve the riddle. I even enlisted my wife to help. She suggested that the owner might not speak English. There is a large Russian population in the area. Maybe it’s just Google Translate’s fault?

But it feels like there’s something more, something sinister. I kept asking my wife to throw out possibilities. She grew tired of my pestering. She got up to pee. I waited a few minutes before sneaking up, throwing open the door, shoving in the menu and screaming, “Surprise!”

She nearly fell off the pot.

I went back to pacing, turning the name over and over in my mind. “Surprise Pizza…Pizza Surprise…Surprise…Surprise…”

I’m still confounded. I can’t believe anyone would think this is a good name for a restaurant.

I’m tempted to order, but I’m frightened. I won’t be able to stay calm. I’ll just be staring at the windows, the balcony, waiting for some crazed deliveryman to pop up with a pie.

“PIZZA, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Why did they have to slip this under my door?

Why can’t I let it go?

Yes, I realize it’s not as bad as the Worst Restaurant Names in the World, but still, it’s driving me mad.

Have you ever seen a restaurant with a terrible name? Have you dared eat their food?

Five-Year Anniversary

Posted on April 27, 2013 by my gay mom under humor

Five years ago, Jess and I did this:

I said this:

“I dropped to one knee. You asked if something was wrong with my leg. I said, No, nothing is wrong with my leg. I asked you to marry me. You cried and said yes. That night I was so confused as to why you loved me. I watched you sleep and thought about all the things we’ll do, like buy a house and a car with air conditioning and open up a theater and take trips to Brazil and laugh at Americans trying to order Churrascaria and we’ll kiss in the Parthenon and ride camels and go to the premier of our first movie and take the stage to accept our Oscar and get so drunk at the after party that you pee on Steven Spielberg’s lap and I break up with you and tell you to lie down in the grass and you cry and say you will and I feel awful and pick you up and we give up drinking for two months and get into the best shape of our lives and you say we’ll never drink again and we get drunk that night and make love on our new deck and we’re so loud the neighbors put up their house for sale and we buy that house too so we can build a wiffle ball stadium in the backyard and you tell me you’re pregnant and I kiss you because we’re ready and we raise the kid to be an atheist even though I read God is Gay to him when he’s sleeping and you tell me I’m a good father and I tell you that you’ve never looked more beautiful and you say it’s because of the fake boobs and I shrug and a month later I finally finish writing Why Can’t I just Die because for the first time I don’t want to kill myself and we take jobs at a college and teach and write plays and screenplays and you say we should go to the Himalayas and so we go to the Himalayas and meet a boy who recognizes you and says he loves Charlie Moose and Hatch Lemon like brothers and we laugh because the kid has never even heard of Kraft Cheese and you start to worry that we’re not doing enough with our lives so we go to New Orleans because for some reason things never got fixed and we help an old saxophone player build a new house screw by screw, and I notice that my finger skin starts to dent in like my grandmother’s and you take my hand when the doctor tells me I have lung cancer and we laugh and say, Thank God I quit smoking fifty years ago, and I go through chemo and get better and help you with your physical therapy for your new feet and I say it’s about time you got that hearing aid and you finally say okay and we hold our grandchild and sit in the living room as he watches Nick the Saint for the first time and he says it was the bestest best movie ever and I walk out into our tomato garden and see your legs lying lifeless and I hold your hand and tell you I love you and I find myself laughing because your socks never did match and we bury you behind an oak tree and I kick myself for not buying side-by-side plots and I have to wait until no one is around so I can dig up the guy next to you and put him somewhere else and then hire an immigrant from that new country of New California and have him shoot me in the gut and dump piles of dirt me and I start crying and I whisper through the earth and tell you I’m scared and that’s when I hear your voice for the first time in months and you say, It’s going to be okay, Anthony. I’m going to take care of you. Nothing bad is going to happen, and I say, How do you know? and you tell me it’s because we were wrong, Heaven does exist.
Two months ago you saved my life, and I promise I will do everything to make sure you never regret it. I love you and I will never, ever quit us.”

Then we did this:

Then this:

This:

And this:

Somehow we made it.

My Adventures at the Sperm Bank – Part 1

Posted on April 20, 2013 by my gay mom under humor

After grad school I masturbated into a cup. It wasn’t on a dare. I didn’t have a fetish for plastic containers. I was broke and there was an ad for a sperm bank. I’d found the ad on Craigslist, so there was a little concern I might end up murdered, but it was fifty bucks. Plus, I was curious, and I was planning on doing that that afternoon anyway. Figured why not get paid?

So I drove to the sperm bank’s office, which was next to UCLA’s campus. It seemed like a legitimate medical building, so I walked up to the second floor. A group of college guys sat in school desks filling out forms.

There was a nurse behind a glass partition. She was pretty, which sort of creeped me out. I wanted this to seem more scientific, not just dudes whacking off for cash. I remembered what happened to Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights.

At the end of the hallway there were two doors. A guy walked out of one. He looked sweaty. He had a plastic cup and a DVD. He gave both to the nurse. She slipped the DVD into a thick binder. There must have been at least a hundred videos, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the plastic cup. It looked like watery mayonnaise.

The nurse slapped a label on it and stuck it in a mini-fridge. There were dozens of containers and a brown paper sack. I wondered if it was her lunch?

She handed me the forms, told me to bring them back when I was done. I squeezed into one of the school desks and started writing. The questions were fairly basic, stuff like height, weight, hair color, education, history of disease…

I couldn’t decide whether I needed to list my allergy to pollen when a guy passing by bumped me. He apologized.

I was about to say, “No worries,” when I saw his little cup of sauce. He’d almost spilled it on me!

I should have walked out right then. Instead, I wrote faster, turned in my forms.

The nurse asked if I had any preference.

“Huh?”

“For the video?”

She pointed to the binder. She wanted me to tell her what I liked. I felt the eyes of every guy in the room.

What was I going to say? “Well, I do have a thing for thigh high stockings.” I simply stammered, “I-I-I don’t care. Whatever.”

Carefully, she flipped through the collection and handed me a disc, along with a cup. “Now, it’s very important not to use any spit or lube. It’ll contaminate the sample, okay?”

I nodded, hurried down the hall and entered a tiny room. There was a TV and DVD player in the corner. The walls were covered with pages ripped out of Playboys and other nudie magazine. I imagined it’s what a serial killer’s bedroom must look like.

I set the plastic cup on a table. There was a folding chair. I thought about all the hairy butts that had touched it.

I’d have to do this standing up.

That’s when I noticed the DVD, Ass Blasters 3. The nurse must of thought I was into anal. I wondered what tipped her off? Do I have a tell?

Worse, she’d given me Part 3, assuming I’d seen 1 and 2.

I used my knuckle to press eject. I popped in the disc and looked around for the remote. It was on the table. I started to pick it up, when I thought about how many thumbs had been used to fast forward and pause. There were paper towels. I tore off a sheet and wrapped the remote, like you might do to a pickle.

Problem was, the paper towel covered the buttons, so I couldn’t see what I was pushing. I ejected the disc, brought up the menu and turned off the player before I finally got things going.

Ass Blasters 3 wasted no time living up to the premise.

This monster dude was pounding away at this tiny lady. They cut to a nasty close-up shot that looked more like torture. I wanted to fast forward, but I didn’t want to risk pushing the power button again so I let it play out. I needed to get this over with. I heard someone enter the next room. I focused on the tiny lady. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

So was the guy next door.

He started grunting. He said, “Yeah…”

This must be what prison is like.

I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t finish. I tried looking at the wallpaper porn. I tried closing my eyes and just listening to the DVD, but all I heard was the dude next door moan. A minute later he turned off his video and left the room.

How long have I been in here?!

I pictured the nurse checking her watch, pissed that I was taking so long. It was embarrassing. Did the other guys think I couldn’t get it up, or worse, that I was trying to make it last?

I closed my eyes and thought of Angelina Jolie, of the Sears catalogue from my youth. If only I had some lube. I was beginning to chafe. But I couldn’t give up now. I couldn’t walk out with nothing.

Finally, I felt a stirring, but just before the one gun salute, I remembered:

The cup!

It was behind me on the table. I had to spin, reach, bend over, line up the target.

Success, well, mostly.

I zipped, cleaned up, and brought my sample to the nurse. I couldn’t make eye contact. She told me I’d get a call if my sperm count passed the first test.

I’d only done this for the money, but now I was suddenly overwhelmed with a fear I might fail.

For two days I fretted, even though I had no interest in going back to that perverse place. Then my cell phone rang. I was almost too scared to answer.

“Mr. Szpak?”

“Yes?”

“We’re pleased to inform you that you’ve passed the first round. We’d like to schedule you for a follow-up. Are you interested?”

“Uh…”

“You will receive a hundred dollars.”

“I’m in.”

To be continued…

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/alancleaver/2638883650/”>Alan Cleaver</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>cc</a>

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/denverjeffrey/440247853/”>Jeffrey Beall</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/b-tal/166062391/”>B Tal</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a>

Brad Pitt Nude

Posted on April 14, 2013 by my gay mom under humor, lgbt, SO GAY

A few years ago, my wife found “Brad Pitt Nude” on my browser history. She refuses to let it go. She’s relentless. She’ll just blurt, “B.P.N!” out of nowhere and fall over laughing.

She’s whispered it during sex.

Before we go to dinner parties, she threatens to tell our friends. She never would, but she mouths, “B.P.N,” every time I get up to grab a beer.

I break out in sweats. My heartbeat gets all wonky.

My wife thinks it’s hysterical.

She taped this in our bathroom.

She likes seeing how flustered I get. She owns me and she knows it.

I can’t take it anymore. That’s why I’m typing this, why I’m telling the world, “I LOOKED UP ‘BRAD PITT NUDE!’”

And it wasn’t just once. It was TWICE. Go ahead and judge. I don’t care. I’m taking back the power. My wife can’t hold this over me anymore.

Thing is, it has nothing to do with me looking at a naked man. If my wife came home and I was beating off to two dudes on my computer, she’d say, “Oh, sorry, I’ll let you finish.”

It’s the fact that it’s so specific, that it’s Brad Pitt Nude.

She knows I’m a fan. We see all his movies. I own most of them.

And not that it matters, but I wasn’t jacking off to BPN when I Googled him.

I just wanted to see the picture.

Here’s why:

In high school, Brad Pitt was arguably the coolest man on the planet, at least for me. Fight Club changed my life, and after seeing Se7en I actually outran a cop.

In the same way boys idolized Steve McQueen and James Dean, that’s how I felt about Brad Pitt. I didn’t want to kidnap or rape him; I wanted to meet him. I was a fan.

And in 1997 there was an issue of Playgirl. There were pictures of him naked. People were talking about it. It made the news. I was curious. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But it was 1997, and the Internet wasn’t like today. You couldn’t just Google “B.P.N.” and scroll through a million images.

You had to get a hard copy.

I was too scared to buy it, so I got my girlfriend, H., to do it. She was grossed out at first. She thought I was gay. I told her that wasn’t it. There was a lawsuit. They were going to pull the magazine off the shelves. This thing would be worth money. I convinced her it was a business investment. She wasn’t very bright.

The next day she brought it over. I tried not to look too enthusiastic as she pulled it from her backpack. And there it was, B.P.N. Problem was, it was sealed in plastic. I couldn’t see the pictures.

The front door unlocked. It was my dad. I hid the magazine under the couch. Later, I hid it in my closet. It stayed there for months. I couldn’t open it. It was one thing to “accidentally” flip to an image, but to break the seal somehow made it perverse.

And to be honest, I was afraid of what would happen if I saw the pictures. What if I really liked them? What if they turned me on?

So B.P.N remained in plastic. It protected us both.

Over the years, I moved a lot, even across the country. BPN stayed in boxes, until eventually, he was lost.

I’d actually forgotten about it until a few years ago. My wife had bought us tickets to a double-feature of Se7en and Fight Club. Se7en actually held up better than I remembered. But Fight Club really jogged my memory.

And so later that night, after my wife fell asleep, I typed twelve letters into Google and finally saw what I’d denied myself all those years ago. I wasn’t giddy or aroused.

I was sad.

I thought about that kid in high school who just wanted to see a picture. He was curious, but he was scared. He was ashamed. He worried people would think he was gay, or that he really was, and he’d lose his girlfriend and maybe even his father.

But he had nothing to be ashamed about.

He was just curious.

And gay or straight, who doesn’t want to see a little B.P.N?

Have you ever been busted for something in your browser history?

World War Pee

Posted on April 13, 2013 by my gay mom under BLOGS ARE DUMB, humor, Uncategorized

I sometimes pee when I’m sleepwalking, but I’m not the only inappropriate pisser in my house. I’m not talking about my dog either. My wife uses urine as a weapon, not just on me, on strangers. One time we were drinking at The Woods. The bar takes its name seriously. The seats are stumps, there’s a mural of a forest behind the bar, and all of the paneling is – yeah, you fucking guessed it:

The only redeeming quality is their happy hour. Hardly anyone goes to it, so you pretty much have the place to yourself. You just have to leave before the hipsters descend. The hipsters are assholes, and not ironically. They shove and sneer in their skinny jeans and skinny suspenders.

This particular night, we failed to vacate early. Some friends had come to meet us, and we were sitting on this long, communal booth against the wall. The hipsters kept squeezing in, and my wife kept getting nudged further and further away from our table. Twice Jess asked the girls to please stop pushing. She got dirty looks and eye rolls.

I suggested we leave, but our friends had just ordered new drinks, so I went to the bar and stood next to people who smelled like cigarettes and candy.

After about ten minutes, My wife ran up to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me in. She whispered, “We have to go now.”

“Why?”

“I just… We need to.”

“What happened?”

“I…peed.”

“You what?!”

Her eyes were wild and giddy. “I peed on their purses.”

I looked down. Her skirt seemed dry. “I…don’t… You…?”

“Yes, and we have to go. Now.”

We walked out, turned the corner. I asked her to tell me what happened.

“They kept pushing. Kept pushing. Then they started tossing their purses in a big pile. Right next to me. Kept pushing. I said, ‘Please don’t. Please stop.’ And one of them looked me right in the eye and she pushed again. So I waited a couple of minutes…lifted my skirt, angled and…I PEED! ALL OVER THEIR STUPID FUCKING PURSES!”

History told me she was telling the truth.

Two years ago, we’d gone to a wedding in Palm Springs. We were just out of grad school and broke, so we couldn’t afford a hotel. We were planning on not drinking and driving back to L.A. after the ceremony, but are friends offered to put us up in their room and we were having fun. Then we had more fun, like eight glasses of fun. We caught up to the other drinkers and raced past them to buffoonery. Jess dropped her wine glass on the dance floor. I dropped mine next. Parents had to grab their kids so they wouldn’t cut themselves.

Luckily, the reception was winding down. We were told there was an after party a house someone had rented. One of my friends handed me directions on a piece of paper.

I shouldn’t have been driving, but I was told the house was only minutes away. Within a few blocks, we were lost. I was so drunk I couldn’t read the words on the piece of paper. Neither could my wife. I found a McDonald’s parking lot, drove in, and tried to pull it together.

After few minutes, I said, “Okay, give me the directions. I can do this.”

“No.”

“Jess, it’s fucking late. Just give them to me. I shouldn’t even be driving.”

“No, we don’t need them.”

“What are you talking about? We don’t know Palm Springs. We don’t live here. We don’t know where this house is, and I don’t want to get pulled over by the cops.”

“We don’t have the directions.”

“Yes, I just gave them to you. Now give them to me.”

“Fine!” She pulled out some soaking wet paper, the ink smeared and unreadable.

“What the fuck is this?”

“I peed on it.” She sounded proud.

“What? Why – why would you pee on the directions?”

“I don’t know!”

“I-I-I don’t even know how to try and comprehend what’s happening here. Why did you pee on the directions?!”

“I put them under my leg so I wouldn’t lose them, and I must have forgotten when I peed.”

“Whyyyyyyy were you peeing in the car?!”

“I don’t know! Stop yelling! I’m sorry. I just started going and I couldn’t stop.”

Jess was crying. I felt bad.

She said, “What do we do now? I ruined everything.”

“No, it’s okay. We’re okay.” I had my cell phone. I could’ve called up my friends, but I no longer wanted to go. Jess was covered in pee. I was done driving. We simply crawled in the backseat. I covered her with my jacket and held her tight. I kissed the back of her head.

“You better not pee on me.”

What about you? Ever tinkled in public?

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/andy_burkholder/8207516333/”>Andy Burkholder</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeremybrooks/2260547281/”>Jeremy Brooks</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a>

My Wife Raced a Little Person

Posted on April 11, 2013 by my gay mom under BLOGS ARE DUMB, humor, STUFF

I’ve been reading comments praising my wife. It’s completely deserved. She’s put up with my Viagra boner. She’s handled my depression. She’s also cleaned up my pee. Two people asked for “Team Jess” T-shirts. I’m seriously thinking about making them, but I’m lazy so I doubt I will.

She is awesome though.

One night she raced a little person.

We’d been drinking at the Power House. It’s the kind of bar that only has PBR on tap. It’s located in the nasty neon heart of Hollywood and Highland, L.A.’s Times Square. There are souvenir stands, celebrity footprints, the Chinese Theater, Madame Tussauds, and The Gap. You’ll see people dressed up as characters from your favorite movies.

Tourists can have their picture taken with Spider Man, Captain Jack, or the Incredible Hulk.

The people behind the masks are typically out-of-work actors trying to make a buck. They earn cash through tips.

Kids seem to love it.

Personally, I get annoyed. I have nothing against people trying to make a living, but these photo ops clog the already crowed sidewalks. I’ve seen people nudged into the street. I’m sure some have been hit by cars.

But it’s not all bad.

Jess and I live in the area. Sometimes we’ll see actors getting dressed on our street. They park near us because it’s free and it allows them to put on their garb without destroying the illusion. I’ve seen Wonder Woman stuffing her bra and Edward Scissorhands smoking a cigarette. It’s surreal seeing these iconic characters half-dressed. You’re visually deconstructing your heroes, stripping them down to sad humans beings.

The Power House offers this experience, as well, because after a shift, some of the actors stop by for a pint. I’ve thrown back drinks with Darth Vader and the Flash.

Chucky from Child’s Play is a regular.

The actor is an African-American dwarf (I’m told by the Internet “dwarf” is acceptable. My apologies if it’s not.)

He’s almost always drunk.

My wife and I have bought Chucky a few drinks over the years. I’ve never learned his real name. I’m not sure want to. I like calling him Chucky. You see, he’s quite horrifying – not because of his diminished size or the rubber knife he wields, but because he’s an asshole. Not all the time, not when he’s sober. But after a few drinks, he starts talking shit. He’ll plunk down at your table and tell you to order him a beer. He knocks over glasses. He’s asked to fuck my wife more than once. I think it’s hilarious. Others don’t. Some want to punch him. They never would, because, well, he’s a little person. You can’t strike a dwarf without looking like a monster. And Chucky knows it. You should see his devilish grin when he backs a person into the wall. He gets off knowing there’s not a damn thing anyone can do.

One night Chucky was going on and on about how fast he is on his Razor scooter.

“I’m like a fucking bullet.”

Jess said, “I think you’re full of shit.” She’d had a few too many. I should’ve taken us home, but frankly, I wanted to see where this was going. No one had ever challenged Chucky like this. He was getting pissed.

After a few more beers, we were suddenly on Hollywood Blvd.

Jess and Chucky were going to race.

I said, “On your mark…Get set…GO!”

They tore off through the throngs of tourists. Chucky took the lead. Jess’s high heels were slowing her down, but she found an empty pocket and cruised through. Chucky and Jess were neck and neck, and then, out of nowhere, Chucky toppled. Jess was at least three feet away, so there was no way she touched him, because she herself has little person arms.

But to everyone else, it looked like she’d just shoved a little black person, which, I’m fairly certain, is committing multiple hate crimes.

Someone said something about getting the cops.

Thinking quickly, I said, “RUN!”

We took off, turned down an alley. We didn’t stop until we were home, both of us out of breath.

“Did that…just happen?” I asked.

“Yeah…I totally won.”

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/lobraumeister/3981952479/”>Kevin McShane</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a>

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/ibtrav/1307285673/”>ibtrav</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a>

Inappropriate Boners

Posted on April 9, 2013 by my gay mom under humor, STUFF

I took a Viagra in Mexico. I didn’t need it. I just wanted it. My wife and I were on our honeymoon. I felt a little pressure – not from her; I’d just heard too many tales of twenty-four hour fuck-a-thons from buddies. Plus, we were staying at an all-inclusive, i.e., “all-you-can-drink” resort. I didn’t need to knock out my favorite appendage. I wanted this to be epic, meaning I needed to be able to do it in anywhere, at any time.

See, usually, I have sex in bedrooms, sometimes the living room. I don’t have sex under waterfalls or on dirty sand or in public restrooms. I’m a germaphobe. I get grossed out and nervous, and when I’m nervous, my brain keeps all the blood.

But for this trip I didn’t want to be Regular Anthony. I wanted to be Super Anthony.

It wasn’t my wife’s idea. She didn’t need me to get hard while we went snorkeling, but I wanted the option. I wanted to give her an adventure, something she could fantasize about, even after I got old and fat.

I’m already on the downslope. I’m bipolar. My hair’s receding. I’ve gained weight. I get back pimples. Jess has put up with everything – the depression, mood swings, thoughts of suicide, and my sleepwalking. She’s cleaned up my pee.

I wanted to give her romance and a constantly erect penis.

Yes, I thought that was a good idea.

It was not.

There are sooooo many places where it’s inappropriate to have a boner, like the buffet or on a city bus or at the hotel swimming pool. There were children. There were grandparents doing water aerobics. I tried not to make eye contact. I just sipped my drink and faced the wall, elbows propped on the hot cement.

“Anthony, please go get us drinks.”

“Sorry. Can’t really move right now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrested.”

“What are you talking about?”

I had to come clean. I told her about the little blue pill, how I’d snuck into one of the Mexican pharmacies early that morning. They have absolutely no regulations.

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you…uh…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god!”

“I just wanted this to be memorable.”

“Well, I’m definitely going to remember you having a boner with children in the pool.”

“Shut up, Jessica.”

“Well…can you…get it down?”

“I’m trying.” I was actually mashing it against the side of the pool, trying to push it back in like a wayward mattress spring. It hurt, not just the mashing, the erection. I’d never been this hard in my life. I’m not even sure how I had enough blood to speak. I was thankful the water was only four feet. Any deeper and I would’ve sunk. Some lifeguard would’ve had to give me mouth-to-mouth while the other guests stared at the tent in my trunks.

“So…are we just going to stay here all day in the pool?”

“No, just…” I decided to go under. I figured the lack of oxygen might send a little blood northward. I sat on the bottom of the pool with my boner. It was like a perverted version of The Graduate. Thankfully, it started to work. I could feel myself deflating. I also saw a little boy in goggles.

“Gooo awwwwaaay!” I screamed, waving one arm, while covering myself with the other.

Finally, he spun and swam to his father. The man’s legs were as big as my body, hairy too. I pictured the kid telling him what he’d seen. I pictured getting choked, those giant hands cutting off the blood to my brain and returning it down below, which would make the father snap my neck.

That image did the trick.

Boner gone.

But I didn’t know how long it would last. I hopped out. We ran for the room. My wife stripped off her bathing suit. The boner was back. We decided to use it. It was fantastic. I was an animal. I was a porn star.

We did it on the bed, against the wall. My wife made noises I’d never heard. It was glorious. For about an hour.

Then it was painful.

“I’m sorry. I need a break, Anthony.”

“Just…a…little longer.”

Harder, faster…must…finish…

“Please, I can’t. You’re like an angry jackhammer.”

I stopped. I apologized.

“It’s okay, Anthony, I just need a little…time.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

I locked the door and flogged myself for another ten minutes. Still, nothing. It was like a champagne bottle with a stuck cork.

I gave up. After awhile it went down. We went to the buffet. I had lobster, then dessert. I felt a stirring.

What the fuck? Am I turned on by cake?

I had to flee. Jess met me later in the room. We tried again, and after another exhausting session…finally…

I was afraid a lung was going to shoot out, too.

Sadly and painfully, the next day wasn’t any better. We went snorkeling. I saw a group of jellyfish. I prayed one would sting me.

Finally, by the third day, I was back to Regular Anthony.

My wife couldn’t have been happier.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/curtisperry/64142166/”>Curtis Gregory Perry</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/alanenglish/2824228526/”>Al_HikesAZ</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a>

The Dangers of Sleeping Naked

Posted on April 6, 2013 by my gay mom under family, humor, STUFF

I sleepwalk. I’ve been doing it since I was little. It’s scary and gross. When I was five my father found me in the kitchen squatting on the counter taking a shit. It was dripping onto the floor. My father thought I was possessed, that he’d have to have me committed. But I was just asleep, taking a dump.

I’ve pissed in hampers and hallways and in the corners of countless rooms.

I still do. My wife has found pee in our closet.

She rarely gets a full night’s sleep. She’s always waiting for me to pop up and move. She’s had to chase me down the hallway of our building. Twice I’ve been completely naked.

Some nights she hears me in the kitchen having a conversation with myself. I’ve eaten half a stick of butter, while mumbling, “Good cheese.”

My wife videotaped one of my adventures, made me watch it the next morning. It was me, but not me, more like a zombie. I gestured a few times and kept trying to find a butter knife for my mug of water. It was disturbing and sort of heartbreaking, watching myself functioning with no memory of it.

The worst was when I was eight or nine. I was at Boy Scout camp. It was some jamboree or jubilee or something. All I know is I woke up in someone else’s tent. I was in my tighty-whities and nothing else. Before you starting thinking I was molested, I was simply trying to get in some other kid’s cot. I kept saying, “Get out of my bed.” He kept saying, “Get out of my tent!” I told him it was my tent. He finally woke up his buddy and said, “Craig, ain’t this our tent?” And Craig said, “Yeah, see here’s my canteen.”

And so I left, wandered out into the darkness. I was scared and freezing. It took me almost an hour to find my tent. I’d wandered almost a mile in my sleep.

I’ve read some people drive cars. One guy claimed he was sleeping when he murdered his wife. There’s all sorts of crazy sleepwalking stories.

For me, it comes and goes. I won’t do it for months, and then, out of nowhere, my wife will be dragging me back into our apartment. “Get in here, no one wants to see your dick.”

I’ve thought about restraints, but I’m worried I’ll end up hurting myself trying to break free. I’m like a werewolf, only less hairy. I just hope I don’t try to shit in our hallway.

Have you ever sleepwalked. If so, what do you do?

Your Dream is Boring Me

Posted on April 4, 2013 by my gay mom under humor, STUFF

My wife likes to tell me her dreams the second she wakes up. It’s like listening to a drunk tell a story — weird, fragmented details combining into nothing. I used to try to figure it out. Now, I hardly listen. I just nod and think about what I’m going to have for breakfast. I wish I had more patience, but honestly, dreams are like poems. I’m happy you have one, but I don’t want to hear it.

Occasionally, there’s a Bukowski, Byron, or Frost.

My wife once told me she had a sex dream with Frasier Crane. He was going down on her on a cruise ship. I was sitting on the poop deck crying, and she kept giving me a “thumbs up.”

Then there’s my father-in-law. He had a dream he was riding on a flying toilet. He was soaring over New York. Everyone below was so happy. They cheered as he waved.

I don’t put stock into dreams. I don’t believe there’s some sort of hidden message. I think it’s just your brain fucking off. All day it has to process information, you know, to help you not die. There’s a car coming. Move! That pit bull isn’t waging his tail. It’s going to bite you. That lady keeps looking at your crotch. Does she like you? Or are you unzipped?

Finally, your dumbass falls asleep, and your brain gets to screw around. What if your father had a dick growing out of his head? Or…OR what if all your teeth fell out and we replaced them with acorns?

Sometimes you just stuffed your poor brain with too crap, like Twitter and chemistry and porn, and it’s simply shitting it out before the next day.

At best, your mind is fulfilling your sick, twisted fantasies, which you can’t actually do in real life, because you don’t want to go to jail for killing your boss or biting someone’s tit off.

Last night I dreamt I started smoking again. Ten months ago I quit. Recently, I’ve been having crazy cravings. Sometimes they last for an hour. My brain tells me, Don’t do it. You’re addicted. You’re going to be back to a pack a day. And I bitch and groan and tell my brain, I hate you. My brain calmly says, It’s going to pass. You’ll be okay.

But I know my brain wants a smoke, so later that night, after I fall asleep, he lights up and takes a drag.

My brain just wants to have a good time.

Have you ever had a fantasy-fulfilling dream? (Yes, I actually want to hear.)

My Gay Mom

Category Archives: humor