Er…ignore the teeny!goth bleeding heart…uh…thingy. I was just being silly and playing around with Photoshop. I know the comic’s a bit early for Valentine’s, but I didn’t feel like putting it off and doing it Thursday instead. I kind of like to keep on schedule with this thing. (Hush, those of you who used to follow the old comic. I know. I know. That’s why I try to be diligent on this one.)
So…I think that makes my feelings towards Happy-Make-Singles-Feel-Like-Crap-Over-Cheap-Chocolate Day. “Let’s waste tons of money on fake bullshit to prove we really love someone!” Shitty excuse for a holiday. No further elaboration needed. (Although I will admit to being a tiny bit of a hypocrite, since I did splurge on a Valentine’s gift for one person this year, just for the fun of it…) I think this will be the first Valentine’s Day that I’ve spent single in a good ten years. Sad thing is, I don’t really think I’ll be able to tell the difference.
Bleh. Happy early Valentine’s, anyway.
To swerve off on a different note: It’s around that time when I try to decide if I should do another Darkside Rainbow Live Webcast. The first seemed to go over well, and a surprising number of people showed up for the second; we had a few technical difficulties with some interference, but I bought a new microphone headset (well…got a new one for free using the Dell gift card that came with my new laptop) so hopefully there won’t be any more creepy transmissions from the underworld.
I won’t be able to do it this month, since I have that whole “y halo thar, five jobs at once” thing going, but I can probably do it some time in late March when even sleeping no longer requires multitasking. Let me know if you guys are interested and I’ll set a date and try to think of more things to ramble about, or dig through some old reader letters I haven’t answered. (And we’ll stay away from religion for poor Mizuki’s sake.) There may be another prize giveaway; I’m thinking of doing a range of T-shirt designs, most less embarrassing than the ones currently available. We’ll see what comes out in my sketches and if I have anything ready in time.
And Hikaru, before you say a damned word: if you misbehave in the chat room while I’m live on the webcast, I’m calling you during the webcast and putting you on speakerphone. Remember that.
I’m not even sure why I’m trying to post this when the site’s tanked and has been for almost two days now. If this ever shows up (since my admin console on WordPress is working but the rest of the site is redirecting to the main 451 Press site), sorry the site’s been down. Some sites on the network are suffering from huge scraper attacks and our head honcho is swamped trying to block them as they come and keep things running, and a few sites are suffering as a result.
On the topic of the film: seriously, forget the worst effin’ pies in London. That was the worst bloody film in London or anywhere else, and after sitting through it last night, I’d like to be reimbursed for those lost hours of my life that I can never regain.
I love theatre, musicals (well, to an extent; they have to be good musicals, but if I can enjoy Ewan MacGregor in Moulin Rouge I should have loved this), Tim Burton, Johnny Depp, and grim, grimy, gory scenarios. Sweeney Todd had all of those, with a dark psychological edge and fun flips of the macabre counterpointed by the whimsical…and it fell completely flat. I don’t understand how it gained such widespread critical review, or made it into the IMDB top 250.
Though I’m pretty sure the singing had nothing to do with it.
I was shocked that Johnny Depp could sing at all, especially in such a clear, angelic voice…but that doesn’t change that most of the singing was pretty lackluster, random, and seemed to be done just for the sake of singing. It wasn’t music; it was just singing one’s lines rather flatly, and not a single melody stuck with me after the film. Don’t get me started on the leading lady, who was likely only the leading lady because she’s boning the director. Good gods, I thought my eardrums were going to pop when she hit a few high notes. The entire thing was listless, washed-out, and even the actors seemed bored by their parts. If they can’t be bothered to take interest, why should I?
Stop looking at me like that. No, seriously - this is so, so not my fault. Even I’m not this tasteless and crass. No, in order to find that, you need to turn to the higher levels of government. Only they are refined enough to produce this level of crassness.
Well, them or their kids.
Think I’m joking? Think again. The son of Gov. Kathleen Sebelius of Kansas actually designed this game for a class project at the Rhode Island School of Design.
The scary part?
My version is tamer.
His version has bags of cocaine, guns, a guy in a wheelchair…gods. ~facepalms~ Just read the bloody article. You’ll get the idea. If you want to see even more of the glaring, hilariously awful, I-know-I-should-be-offended-but-I’m-laughing-too-incredulously wrongness, check out the site for the product.
And while you’re clicking links, check out this radio podcast of a talk show host’s call with Shirley Phelps-Roper. That’s right, Fred Phelps’ nutty daughter. The best part is when they call her out on her illegitimate son (after she’s been hurling insults and accusations at everyone else) and all she can say is “So? What about it?” I’ve never heard that much deep-fried crazy in that little time before; that woman is riding around with a bucket of Colonel’s Extra Crispy perched on her shoulders. I don’t think she was even responding to what they were saying; I’d wonder if she was even speaking English, but those were English words coming out of her mouth. Not in any comprehensible or sensible order, but…still English words.
It’s kind of like a three-year-old who makes up their own sentences from the words they know. “Daka bear baba-booie truck” means “I want ice cream.” Phelps-Roper isn’t quite so easy to translate.
Oh, by the way, the Akismet problem is fixed. I’m not going to say what the problem was, at the risk of sounding like I’m b*tching about my employer (because I am), but apparently whatever rectal-cranial inversion problem there was has been fixed. Yay. ~mutters~ “Patching”, my tarty little brown ass. Anyway, your comments should be showing up automatically now without me having to fish them out.
…okay, that’s a teeny bit of a lie. It was a bit of laziness, as I was too jittery about the second DR Live Webcast yesterday to do any drawing before the broadcast, and felt too much like a wet noodle after. Brain-fried. Totally. While being lazy, though, it’s also a tiny homage to the 500 comments contest and the sheer insanity that went on there. That post is going to live on in infamy for the rest of this website’s days.
So if you missed it, last night was the second DR Live Webcast, and it was a mess. There’s quite a bit of sputtering, growling, and cursing right there on the webcast, because there was something majorly wrong with the broadcast and either my computer or my connection was being evil. It sounds like something out of White Noise or Fear Dot Com. It should still be understandable, though…I hope. I can’t stand the sound of my own voice, so I’m not listening to find out.
Thanks to everyone who showed up, though; the turnout was surprising. It was fun keeping up with you guys in the chat room afterwards (and Hikaru, thanks for keeping up with the log for me this time so we caught all of it).
I’m out of things to say, except to backtrack to something a bit more serious: April Gilford, the one who tipped me off to the CWA article about gay men and staph infections, has done her own post on the article over at Life as a Christian Woman. In it she covers a lot of facts about MRSA, dispelling much of the fear-mongering and myth that the CWA article tries to spread. It’s definitely an insightful read, and worth every word. Head on over there and have a look.
That kiss? Not the best idea. But we’re…um…not going to talk about that.
What we are going to talk about, though, is the 100 Comments Party…which turned in into a 500 Comments Party. Holy crap. That…was bloody amazing, you guys. Seriously. It was also a little crackheaded. There were bulbous eyes, cabana boys, g-strings, cookies, body shots, baby oil, web designs, skinless ones, B-52s, bad singing…and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Over 500 comments of pure insanity in less than 48 hours…yyyeah. I don’t know what we were all smoking this weekend…
…but damn, was it fun.
Thank you to everyone for participating - and thank you to the winners: Sam, first-prize winner for 100, and Lessa, JM, and Indikaze as 2nd, 3rd, and 3rd runner-up. And let’s not forget Barbara, the winner for 500…who won with a comment about bacon cereal and is now the proud owner of a teddy bear with a rather questionable logo on its shirt.
…the comic title, by the way, is a little bit of homage to Lessa and Kaine with their B-52s. Love shack, baby. (Now I’m going to be singing that all day.)
Not much else to say; I don’t think we’ll do another comment party for a while, at least not until the Akismet spam filter is fixed - as having to monitor and approve everything was driving me out of my mind, even with Hikaru’s help. (Thank you, by the way. As much of a dick as you are, you’re also a darling. I owe you.) However, we can set the bar for the next general comments contest, in which we count comments accumulated over time on every post. We’ll say…hrm. We’re well over 2,000 now, so let’s set the bar for…3,000? Yeah, that’ll work. So the next prize will be given away when the overall comment count reaches 3,000. Er…no hurry on that. Really. I think we all need some rest.
I’m out of here. Don’t forget that next Sunday at 5:00p CST is the second DR Live Webcast, in which I may be giving away another prize to one of the listeners. Ciao.
Okay, here we go, kicking off the hundred-comments party. The aim is as follows:
Fill this post with 100 comments before the comic goes live around 12:01a CST Monday, January 14th.
There are three prizes:
1st place, 100th comment: A t-shirt of any style, with either the red or pink version of the Ten Speeds shirt design, from the CafePress store. You can pick out the style and color you want when the winner is determined; I’ll pay for it and have it shipped out to you.
2nd place, 101st comment: A mug from the CafePress store with either the red or pink version of the Ten Speeds design. Something a little less embarrassing than the shirt. Again, when the winner is determined, you pick out the style and color and I’ll pay for it and ship it out.
3rd place, 102nd comment: Little pin-on buttons with the designs on them. Do I need to explain about picking and me paying and shipping again?
I’ll post a link to the store after the contest is over, as I’m still fixing and re-uploading the designs. Here’s an overly-wordy version of the rules/things to try to avoid so we keep this to sane levels while still being fun:
Try to post something that actually has meaning, even if it’s not particularly substantial or thought-provoking. I’ll even take “I like pie” over “ljosjkljslkdfjslfdslj =)” or “OMG EPIC LULZ”. No just posting smilies or spamming meaningless crap to raise the post count. I’d prefer for your post to at least have a subject, object, and verb, and either throw a new topic into the mix (doesn’t have to be anything serious) or else respond to a comment someone else made. Have dialogue. Talk to each other. Have fun. Don’t make me shiv anyone. (…I will make an exception if anyone wants to follow the grand tradition of internet ‘tardia and post “FIRST!”)
Basically anything that comes from a person counts as a post; pingbacks from other blogs or sites don’t. I’ll allow the pingbacks to go through, but they’ll be subtracted from the overall post count - so if there are any there, it might be post number 104 or 109 or whatever that wins just because some of the posts won’t be counted in the overall tally.
I don’t care about language, about possibly vulgar topics, etc., even if I may refrain from joining in in kind (because you can be damned sure I’m going to be right in the thick of this hoe-down). With that said, don’t post something disgusting just for the sake of being disgusting (no, Hikaru; just no - and you know what I’m talking about). Other than that, anything goes. Laugh, play, get in arguments, start flame wars (though if you do it on any other post, there will be much wrath). Just this once, you can take your adult hats off and have a free-for-all. Hell, you can chase each other with spoons if you want to. (…there’s an old in-joke that I doubt anyone else remembers…)
Posting links does not count as a post unless you actually say something and it’s not just linkspam.
Same with pictures.
Do not reply to different people in multiple posts all at once just to increase the post count. If you have something to say to multiple people at a time, do it in one post rather than in several.
If you have multiple topics to bring up, don’t post them in multiple comments all at once; keep them to one comment. Basically, just post one comment at a time and you’ll be fine. Give someone else a chance to respond before you dive right back in.
Unfortunately Akismet is still screwed to hell and back, which is going to put a bit of a damper on this - but I’ll do my best to keep an eye on it when I’m conscious and catch anything that comes through as quickly as possible. If you see others’ new posts showing up and yours isn’t, that means you were spamming gibberish or multiple posts and I deleted it. Or…it just didn’t go through properly.
Both Kaine and Hikaru are disqualified from winning, just to be fair - Kaine because he won the last contest, Hikaru because he won the first and because he’s a bastard. That doesn’t mean you can’t participate and join in whatever madness ensues, though. If either of you post the 100th or 101st comments, then the prizes will go to the next people to comment.
I know that looks like a lot, but it’s pretty simple. Basically just post as you normally would and you’ll be fine. Er…to get you started, let me give you a topic: a peanut is neither a pea nor a nut. Talk amongst yourselves.
…
Okay, I’m kidding. No getting veklempt here, or however you spell it. Topic…topic…hmm. How do you feel about the gay community’s apparent need to have separate events/hangouts/possessions labeled as specifically gay (such as gay cruises, gay cafes, gay etc…)? Do you think it provides a welcome retreat for those of like minds to seek each other out and share things in safety, or do you think it’s unnecessary elitism and isolationism - or does it just not matter? (I give that one ten comments max before the whole thing derails and goes swerving into madness.)
Knock yourselves out. Let’s see if we can get this biatch to 100 before Monday.
Holy crap, people. Less than 24 hours and you’re already over 100 comments? I thought it would take all bloody weekend! Guys, we broke the effin’ post template! Well, in Firefox anyway; I’m not opening IE to check, but in Firefox the three-digit comment numbers are overlapping the border area. Anyway…the winners are:
1st place: Sam, for the 100th comment. Once the store is live (give me a couple more hours, still tweaking things) you’ll be able to pick one shirt of your choice from the Apparel section.
2nd place: Lessa, for the 101st comment. There are three styles of mug in four different designs (well, one design, variations on color and with or without text); you’ll be able to pick one mug in the style and design of your choice.
3rd place: JM, for the 102nd comment. You’ll get two 3.5″ buttons, in your choice of four designs. (Edit: Actually, you can choose between 3.5″, 2.25″, mini-buttons, and rectangular magnets - one each of two different ones, or two each of one; still updating all the store stuff and it’s up to you which you want.)
3rd place runner-up: Indikaze, for the…um…110th comment, but the first one since 100 that isn’t Sam, Lessa, JM, or me. I wasn’t going to do a runner-up, but figured it wouldn’t be fair for two out of three prizes to go to 451 Press writers - but neither would it be fair to deny those writers when they contributed to the overall insanity of the contest. So Indikaze, you’ll also get two buttons/magnets in your choice of four designs.
Now, just for the hell of it…
There is one mega prize pack available if we hit 500 comments before Monday.
That’s one hell of a challenge, but what the hell, we just might make it. I thought the 100 would be a flop, and you guys proved me wrong.
There’s only one winner (because this is getting kinda expensive, and coming out of my pocket) - but no one’s barred from winning, since this is kind of an unpredicted bonus round. Hikaru, Kaine, Sam, Lessa, JM, Indikaze - you can all win, but you’ll still be competing with everyone else who comes to the site. The prize pack will include:
One white T-shirt with either the red/blue or blue/pink Ten Speeds deisgn on it;
One teddy bear with one of the four design variations on its shirt;
Your choice of either a mouse pad or a wall clock with one of the design variations on it.
To start off the morning, Kaine won the 1,500 comments contest and is now the proud owner of a horribly pink 1GB Sandisk Sansa MP3 player with FM tuner and voice recording capabilities. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but Kaine, I’ll be e-mailing you (I owe you one anyway, and got a little sidetracked) regarding where you want the MP3 player sent. Poor Lessa; missed it by just one.
This weekend, we’ll be having a comment party. Yes, a comment party, as weird as that bloody well sounds. The basic idea is this: at midnight CST on Friday, I’ll put up a post solely for the sake of commenting, explaining the full rules of the party…ish…thing. The purpose is to hit 100 comments to that post alone (comments to other posts won’t count) over the course of the weekend. You can’t just spam the hell out of the post, but like I said, the post itself will explain the rules. Whoever gets the 100th post will get a t-shirt in the Cafepress style of their choice with either the pink/blue or red/blue design posted in yesterday’s comic. There may be a runner-up prize for #101. I’d say if we really wanted to, we could hit 100 posts in one day; hell, if Hikaru and I start bickering, we can manage 50 of those ourselves in just a few hours.
Moving on to the usual mini-discussions of news that occur when Adri just isn’t in the mood for a high-blood-pressure sermon:
Arthritic, sporty, gay? Your finger ratio may tell you: Although it’s pretty common knowledge that apparently the lengths of your fingers in relation to each other can determine whether or not you’re good at math, researchers have also found a correlation between various other traits and the lengths of particular fingers. Long ring fingers indicate a likelihood for osteoarthritis; “male” finger ratios hint at lesbianism. I keep surveying my hands looking for “female” finger ratios to see if that’s supposed to be an indicator of my status as a fabulous king (one queen comment and I skin you) of gay snark. Funny how this one finger in the middle keeps popping up a bit higher than the others…
Gay bar’s straight bouncer wins discrimination suit: A straight woman who worked as a bouncer in a UK gay bar often dealt with harassing comments about her sexuality - a reversal of the usual harassment of homosexuals. She also claims she was fired for it and that her employer often called her a “breeder”; while the court determined that her firing had nothing to do with her sexuality, she was still awarded a settlement for facing discrimination in the workplace - and right well she should be. I still don’t know where we get this idea that because some heterosexuals are nasty to us, that gives us the right to behave in an equally bigoted, discriminatory fashion towards them. Two wrongs don’t make a right, more cliched BS, blah blah, the point is that no one’s sexuality gives anyone the right to behave like a complete douche towards them. It’s not all right to place the shoe on the other foot and “show them how it feels”. It just makes you as bad as the people that you mock and loathe.
Wasn’t asked, told anyway: In a refreshing change, a gay servicemember (who, if you follow the link, is not only brave but quite attractive) came out on public television and wasn’t in any way rebuked or confronted about it by his unit or his commanding officers - and he’s discovered that he’s not alone. Hundreds of gay servicemembers serve active duty with their sexuality fully known by their units. Their fellow servicemembers just don’t care. Out in the field, one’s sexuality doesn’t matter. What matters is capability, and whether or not the people in your unit can put their skills to use saving your life and the lives of the soldiers and civilians around you. Too many highly skilled individuals with knowledge and experience that could be valuable in avoiding bloodshed have been barred from service for the most idiotic reasons - the top reason being that the Pentagon somehow thinks that open homosexuality in the military will foster dissent in the ranks.
Guess which green-eyed mook was behind that one. Y’know, I have good friends, letting me publicly embarrass them for the sake of humor. Then again, there’s a reason that I rarely mention anyone by anything other than their first initials. I’m not that much of an arse.
So…I was lazy today and reused comic art. There’s a reason for that beyond me just being a bum, but I’ll explain at a later date. In the meantime, though…I did come up with something else. Don’t ask me what possessed me to do this, but the last line of the comic just screamed “tasteless, tacky t-shirt design”. So cover the children’s eyes and don’t click the cut link if you’re at work (and if anyone’s direct-linking to this without the cut, be nice and warn people of what you’re linking them to), because this is definitely NSFW and about as child-friendly as an electrical socket.
I know I normally only post updates to No Style on Mondays, but I couldn’t resist sharing this. Imagine my surprise to check my e-mail yesterday to find this:
I probably shouldn’t have read that while on the phone, because I ended up cackling in a friend’s ear. It’s…um…disturbingly accurate, right down to the “please kill me now”-style whining throughout that little…er…tour. Thanks, Lala. That really made my day.
On a more serious note, a new study has shown that while rates of new infections of HIV have dropped in the gay community overall, they’ve risen startlingly and alarmingly in young gay men. The demographic is limited to New Yorkers, but is likely frighteningly indicative of a national trend. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: we need more HIV/AIDS education - not just for gay youth, but for youth overall. Teenagers are going to have stupid, reckless sex; it’s what they do. It’s why abstinence-only sex education doesn’t work; it doesn’t stop them from having sex, it just keeps them from knowing the dangers when they do decide to throw caution to the wind and just screw it. Or just screw each other.
Although we do need more sex education particularly and openly targeted towards gay teens, primarily to make them feel that it’s safe to ask questions about the particular dangers that are more prevalent in homosexual sex than in heterosexual sex. I know that when I took sex ed in high school, after the section on STDs I really didn’t have the courage to walk up to my Biology II teacher and say, “Hi, I’m gay, and I’d like to learn more about HIV/AIDS prevention than the two-minute discussion you just glossed over. Can you point me to some resources so I can educate and protect myself?” Most of what I know about HIV/AIDS I learned from four years volunteering with NOLAN, a New Orleans-area HIV/AIDS education and assistance foundation. Not all boys that age have access to such a resource, and can’t always openly approach someone for assistance for fear of being outed to parents or other disapproving authority figures.
I just don’t think, despite aggressive campaigning, that gay youth are aware of how dangerous HIV is - and it’s too easy to keep the “oh, it won’t happen to me if I’m careless just once” mentality. “Just once” turns into “just twice”, then three or four times, then every time…and yet later they’re surprised when the blood test comes back HIV+. I would blame the recklessness on the annoyingly stereotypical yet frustratingly prevalent culture of feckless youth among the gay subculture, but in truth that’s starting to die out and gays are slowly beginning to abandon the Peter Pan mentality to behave in a more mature, responsible fashion. I don’t know what to blame it on, and I don’t care. It doesn’t change the fact that further education is the most important first step in prevention.
Too many people view HIV as a disease that happens to other people, but that somehow won’t ever afflict them. It’s not. HIV touches everyone. Most people have had someone in their lives, whether friend, family, lover or spouse, that they lost to HIV. It happened to them. It can happen to you.
Do you really want to be just another name on a tombstone?
I know, I know, it’s not funny. It’s not meant to be, I guess. It’s faux-profound. Faux-profound because…it isn’t, really. I’d actually planned to do the second out of three comics detailing the rest of that scene with R and the mistletoe, but figured I might as well make some token acknowledgment that tomorrow is the start of a new year - especially with all the anticipation building towards 2008 as the year when the American people (supposedly) have a say in who will replace GW.
Since it’s New Year’s Eve, that means it’s time to make New Year’s resolutions - promises to ourselves that we know we won’t keep, but that we strive for anyway. My New Year’s resolutions are to:
Sell/publish my first novel.
Write a second novel - either the sequel to the first, or the completion of my NaNoWriMo project.
Some time between April and November, pack up and move out of this Texan hellhole and back to Chicago where I belong.
Advance my writing career in some way or another, even if it means just picking up another steady contract job on the side. Every bit of progress counts.
Take better care of myself and stop neglecting the gym so much, before I start to go soft. (Isn’t that everyone’s resolution?)
Work towards not just being content with my life, but being really, truly happy with it.
Try not to be such a crotchety, antisocial old bastard. Sometimes. For at least five minutes a week.
That’s it. I know some of it’s cheesy, some of it’s far-reaching and possibly impractical or unlikely - but it’s better to shoot for it and fall short with some progress made rather than to try nothing and remain in the same place, stagnant and rotting, forever. That’s why people make New Year’s resolutions: to give themselves goals to reach for, to enact needed changes.
Feel free to share your resolutions, or your plans for celebrating the new year and the inevitable midnight countdown. Whatever your plans, I hope you enjoy them. I know I’ll be enjoying mine.
Happy New Year, everyone. Here’s hoping that 2008 becomes a year of change for the better.
I feel as if I should write something profound this morning, and yet I’ve got nothing - and I’m out of Seagram’s. Anyone can be profound after a few shots of Seagram’s. It’s a pretty slow gay news day, there’s no point in spending more time hashing through the same recycled political points (just have the bloody election already; we’re damned either way) and the most interesting thing I’ve stumbled across lately has been some wanker in a local Iowa newspaper claiming that a barely-gay film on ABC ruined family TV on Christmas. The comments are priceless (and a little disjointed, but it’s Iowa, after all).
Yeah. Merry Christmas, we dragged your head out of the sand for you; no need to thank us. Gay people exist. We’re a part of the population, which means there’s going to be a percentage of representation on television - especially when television struggles to reflect real life. No one’s trying to force anything on anyone. You can’t close your eyes and wish your gay next-door-neighbor away. At least on TV you can change the channel, so stop your griping and use your thumb for more than a navel cork. Jerk.
Anyway. It’s been a little while since I’ve done an “Ask Adri” question, and I’d saved this one for a slow day when one might need some amusement. I certainly hope the person who wrote it isn’t serious, but either way, I’m going to take a stab at it.
hi Adri I really like your comic
I like to read yaoi slashfic
But its weird
No one uzes lube
Is that true
Do gays use lube
Sweet Pea
Kind of reads like a weird kind of haiku or tanka, doesn’t it?
Sweetie, here’s your first problem: you’re reading gay porn written by girls. Specifically by girls in their late teens and mid-twenties who’ve probably never taken it up the back door (or the front door, most likely) and thus have no idea how the mechanics of that work. I know there’s a huge craze in the female-dominated yaoi fandom; I used to help fuel it with a yaoi webcomic. (If you don’t know what yaoi is, have a gander here.) I know that porn written by girls is more appealing. It has plot, characterization, and descriptions of sex that don’t involve words like “sloppy”, “squishing”, “gaping”, “gushing”, and…well, I’ll spare you the rest.
But to dispel a few illusions created by yaoi fanfiction and slashfiction: the bum does not self-lubricate. It is not a magical transformative thing that instantly takes on properties of the vagina at convenient moments when the bumsexing is about to occur.
Water is not lube. Saliva is not lube. Blood is not lube. Cooking oil is not lube. And for all that’s holy, unholy, and somewhere in between, soap of any kind is not lube. Stuff a bar of soap up your nose until your mucosae rip, then give your nostrils a good swabbing with Palmolive before jamming a finger in and out of there a few dozen times at rapid speed. Tell me how good it feels, eh?
With that said, yes, real gay sex does involve lube (unless you’re dealing with an idiot or a masochist). There’s KY Jelly, Platinum Wet Glide, various body oils that do dual duty, pre-lubricated condoms, the list goes on. It’s not an option. It’s a necessity. He may say “oh, I like it rough” now, but he won’t be liking it so rough when his doctor is giving him a prostate exam and lecturing him about the damage done to his rectal tissue. Not to mention that penetration isn’t particularly easy without lubricant and preparation, and it’s not just uncomfortable for the recipient. Friction is a scabies-ridden b*tch.
Real gay sex is not as pretty as the fiction makes it seem. No sex is as pretty as fiction makes it seem. Sex is messy, crude, awkward, and funny as hell no matter the gender of those involved; human beings are some oddly-put-together things, and when you’re trying to cram two or more naked bodies together in certain ways the limbs start going everywhere like you’re doing the wild pony with a Gumby doll. Funny thing is if you keep a sense of humor about it and just relax…sometimes you find something even better than the fiction. It may still be messy, it may not be perfect, but there’ll be something there in that wild meeting of bodies and the hiss of skin on skin that makes it not matter anymore, because every touch is just right and it’s hard to care about how silly you both look when you can’t even manage to think for the distraction of each sensation.
I’d like to see any virgin-written fanfiction capture that.
Your 2.5mL of silicone-based lifesaver,
~Adri
Have a question you’d like to see answered on Ask Adri? E-mail your question to adrien-luc.sanders@451press.net with the subject “Ask Adri Question” or use the Contact Form to send your question in.
…yes, that’s pretty much the extent of my acknowledgment that it’s Christmas eve. Oh woe, etc., blah blah. Shut it.
Bonus points to anyone who can name the film that line came from.
The haircut is quickly becoming less and less of an option. The longer it gets, the more I start to look like a drag queen (…though that shirt probably isn’t helping…) or a sad little twee attempt to copy the purple-prose travesty that is Wraeththu. No bloody effin’ thank you.
I think everyone out there has that one friend who’s had a crush on you since time immemorial - or at least since you’ve known them - and who doesn’t give up hope no matter how many times you gently, carefully say no so as not to hurt their feelings so badly that it destroys a valuable friendship. One of those friends, for me, is R. R’s the big guy who’s embarrassed to admit that he cried during Waiting to Exhale; he’s a big teddy bear with a great sense of sardonic humor tempered by a sweet streak that’ll give you cavities, a gorgeous body, handsome face, and hair I could play with for hours. If he didn’t have a pot habit, I might consider dating him…but that’s a big, fat no in my book. I’ll look the other way when my friends do it as long as they don’t do it in my presence or bring it into my home (you’ll find yourself on the welcome mat staring at the closed front door so fast you won’t know what hit you), but I refuse to date anyone who routinely tokes up.
Not even if he offers to quit for me.
Especially when I don’t exactly trust that he’d stop that when he won’t even stop his at-times-amusing efforts to get a foot in the dating doorway. I still can’t believe he whipped out the mistletoe while we were curled up on the couch watching Vongo downloads on the laptop Saturday night. (By the way, if you ever get the chance to see The Quiet, take it. It’s not exactly profound cinema, but it will startle you with its depth and the direction it takes. I was expecting it to be awful, but was pleasantly surprised.)
I’ve even told him why we wouldn’t work out, beyond dating briefly; he’s too nice, and I’m too mean. I’ve been down that route, dating nice guys who have an outwardly thick skin but who secretly get their feelings hurt by the tiniest teasing comment, even if it’s said out of caustic affection by someone who isn’t comfortable openly expressing affection, feelings, etc. (what? I’m a guy; don’t give me that look just for being typical of the species). I’d break the poor boy just by being myself, and the worst part is that he’d keep forgiving me over and over again. Not only that, but he’d spoil me.
No, wait, wait - that’s a bad thing. Trust me.
See, when someone spoils me, I rise to the occasion. I can be a bit of a brat on a normal basis, but the more I’m spoiled, the more of a brat I become, until eventually I’d be able to score a 100% on the Diva Quiz with my eyes closed. Not good. Not good at all. It’s nice to be treated well, little thoughtful gestures and such, but taking it beyond a certain level will just bring out the diva in me and make me impossible to deal with.
I’m impossible enough already, thank you. As my friend Kate loves to point out: we are monsters, we are unrepentant, and we are glorious.
R, I know you’re reading this. I know you’ve heard all this before, too; it’s not news to you. I’ve told you why not a thousand times before, and I know you’re over there shaking your head and smiling, because you’re a persistent bastard. I’ve just about given up on getting you to quit; I guess it’s my turn to start smiling, shaking my head, and shoving a palm in your face every time you move in for a kiss. Guess I’m stuck with you. I could think of worse friends to be stuck with. Call me; we’ll go see Sweeney Todd next weekend.
And if you try to grope me in the theatre, I’ll break every last one of your knuckles, one at a time.
The rest of you: Merry Christmas, if you celebrate it. I’m out of here. There’s some brandy-laced egg nog calling my name.
Addendum: I don’t know why, but the Akismet spam filter recently started eating everything, and I can’t turn it off. Sorry if your comments don’t seem to show up on first try; I’m checking the filter periodically and fishing out the legit comments from the spam.
This morning in Wal-Mart, I got my a** pinched by some random little Hispanic rent-a-tart.
I swear to gods, every time I go into that store is an utterly surreal experience. The stories I could tell…
This time I was quite calmly perusing the men’s grooming section, trying to pick out a decent rotary shaver for under $100 and completely lost in my own world, when I heard a simpering murmur of “aiy, Papi” and suddenly felt the sharp sting of two fingers doing a quick topographical survey of my nether regions and possibly trying to snatch a sample of topsoil for further study (he pinched hard; that hurt!). I nearly jumped out of my skin, whirled around, and there was this tarted-up little culo, smiling at me like I’d just told him he’d won Diana Ross’s part in a Broadway adaptation of Lady Sings the Blues.
I admit that at first, I had no idea what to say. No witty retorts tripped off my tongue; no scathing remarks cut him down to size. I was too flabbergasted that I’d just been groped by a total stranger in the supermarket, all while minding my own business.
“Did you think that was cute?” I managed, amazed irritation dripping from every word. He actually batted his eyelashes at me.
I sh*t you not. I felt like I was dealing with a cross between RuPaul and Scarlett O’Hara.
“I think you’re cute, Papi.”
I suppose I should have been flattered. Instead I was just aggravated by the most crass, trashy, tasteless pickup attempt I’ve experienced in years, even if you have to give the boy credit for having the balls to pull something like that with a completely unknown entity. I guess he saw what he wanted, and he went for it. That takes courage. It’s also annoying as hell.
When I’m annoyed, I get a little caustic. Especially with uninvited physical contact.
“Mmkay.” I crooked my finger at him, beckoning him closer. “C’mere. I need to know you’re listening to me. You listening?”
He wiggled - yes, wiggled, I swear he made me look as straight as Chuck Norris - closer and smiled up at me, admittedly rather sweetly, and lisped, “Si, Papi, I’m listening.”
“Good.” I mustered the best smile I could, which probably looked more like a pained grimace. “Because I want to make sure you understand: if you ever touch me again, I will break your sh*t off. Mmkay, pumpkin?” Now granted, I stole that line from Alex Hitchins, but it was extraordinarily useful in that situation.
He pouted. I grabbed the Norelco I’d been eyeing and fled to the cash register.
I’m just…left in awe, honestly, that anyone of any orientation would think that was an acceptable way to approach someone. I suppose he thought since he was tiny and cute, I wouldn’t hurt him. If so, he was right, in a way; I wouldn’t hurt him, because despite my consistent snarling and threats I’m a primarily non-violent person. Basically I’m a harmless, crotchety old bastard. My friends know this and take delight in baiting me.
He didn’t know that, though. I could have turned around to plow a fist into his face. He was half my size, and I could have done some serious damage to him all because he decided to provoke me. Not smart. Not smart at all. I hope he doesn’t try pulling that on a meaner guy (or a straight guy angry that the little rent-a-tart’s gaydar missed the mark that time); he could get seriously hurt, and that’s a hard lesson to learn where a little common sense would suffice.
Besides, I really prefer a “hello, what’s your name” before anyone tries to cop a feel.
Honestly, what happened to a little tact and subtlety?
You know what? I’m not in the mood for serious discussion this morning. It’s Friday, it’s been a horribly long and busy week, and I have one more day of work to get through (and about six articles to finish) before I can go anywhere near my Don Rodolfo Malbec and a few chunks of nice, aged asiago. So you’ll have to pardon me if today, I randomly blurt out pretty much anything that comes to mind, tongue firmly in cheek and heavy on the snark. It will likely be silly and pointless, but most of life is anyway.
First, I really can’t imagine why anyone would care if Lindsay Lohan is potentially swinging from the fence. Who gives a rat’s? Celebrities play on ambiguous sexuality all the time, especially those noted for bouncing in and out of rehab like yo-yos on Prozac (or LSD, or heroin, or whatever the trendy drug of the week is…). They’re not gay/bi, they’re just vapid and indiscriminate in their partners, and think a girl/girl kiss makes them as edgy as Madonna. This is news pretty much only to Slashdotters and other such socially inept dwellers in the parental basement, who’ve just found new fodder for their Lindsay Lohan girl-on-girl fantasies. Make sure to lotion up, boys. Your palms will start to chap pretty quickly.
Despite aggressive spam filters, I routinely get hundreds of spam e-mails a day. The majority of them are overly concerned with the size of my endowments, with a fixation oddly reminiscent of my cat’s unhealthy obsession with watching me undress. (Or unsure of what they want to say about my pen, as they start out so often with “Your Pen Is…” My pen is what? It’s right there, on the desk. What about it?) The concern is admirable, really. Too many men aren’t concerned enough about their sexual health, so all these lovely solicitous e-mails are a heart-warming reminder to schedule my annual doctor checkup.
I’m horribly distressed to see, though, that my spam e-mails just aren’t politically correct enough. They always assume that I have a girlfriend or a wife, or am desperately seeking one, or just “want to know her how she is from the inside”. For shame, spammers, for shame. Have you ever thought that I, your target customer, may not be interested in the young woman whose image you’ve kindly provided to illustrate your point, however lovely she may be? What if I want to know him how he is from the inside? I’m shocked and hurt by your lack of consideration, really. Especially since your constant comments that Concetta has a conspicuous f***stick are really quite insensitive to MtF transgenders.
Or is it a veiled compliment? Are you somehow implying that not a single gay man on the face of the earth needs your enhancement products, and that our online profiles tell the truth and we are, in fact, all gifted like John Holmes?
A weighty point to ponder, indeed.
Any transgendered individuals who read Darkside Rainbow will no doubt be relieved to know that, according to American Daily, your gender dysphoria is just an affliction indicating a disconnection from reality that should be treated and ultimately cured with therapy and prayer. Liberalism is also a mental disorder, transgender rights are ridiculous, and gender identity is pure nonsense. Prayer should be able to fix that, too. The FtM gay male he’s talking about in the article? Just a confused straight girl in plaid shirts and dockers who’s an absolute fool for trying to do anything that would allow her to live more comfortably with the lot she’s been given. There. Don’t you feel better now that Matt Barber’s cleared that up for you? Run along now, pray for a few hours, and maybe his God will be kind enough to “cure” your gender dysphoria and make you so happy with your birth gender that you’ll happily fall into your appropriate 1950s-esque gender role. Remember to start your prayers with “Dear Lord.” He likes being called “Lord.”
To close things off on a more serious note: I’m not a praying man despite my seeming familiarity with the Captain’s Almighty’s titular preferences, but if any of you out there are (well, or praying women, considering the demographics of my reader base) , keep Mehdi in your thoughts; the young gay Iranian is awaiting the decision of a Dutch court over whether to return him to the UK, where he will likely be summarily packed up and sent right back to Iran - and we all know that gays don’t exist in Iran.
I’m done, and out. See you Monday. Yes, I’m posting a comic on Christmas Eve. Just call me Scrooge, baby, and get your plebeian butt back to work.
Ah, yes, the joys of a bored Saturday afternoon in my apartment. Some people might not get part of that unless they’ve seen Hot Fuzz. I love that film; it’s hilarious, plus the subtext between Nicholas and Danny just leaves me rolling (and I don’t normally even look for things like that).
For the record, the other half of that conversation was:
“…you are going to put more clothing on if we go out, right?”
“Nope.”
“Heathen savage.”
“Tkele’cho’g.”
What? She calls me a heathen savage, I call her a dirty word in Navajo/Di’ne. Fair’s fair, right?
I could argue that that whole thing is about being politically correct and “reclaiming” derogatory words by using them ourselves and taking some of the sting out of them, but honestly? My friends and I are just a**holes to each other. It’s how we show love. Trust me, I’d never seriously consider calling anyone any of those names, and neither would they. It’s just something we do to mess with each other. (…does that sufficiently cover my bum? Yes? Good.)
For those of you who missed it, yesterday was the first experimental Darkside Rainbow Live Webcast, complete with musical interludes to give me a second to catch my breath and stop panicking. The people who listened in thought it was good; I thought it was a train wreck. Eh; subjectivity. I almost died when my landline started ringing in the middle of it; I don’t even use the thing save for as an anchor for my DSL, and no one ever calls it.
Until last night.
There’s an MP3 stream of the broadcast posted, along with a partial log of the chat that took place afterwards. (Parachat started eating things from the top down and I didn’t notice until I logged out; damn. Missed some of the best death threats.) Maybe if (big if) I do this again, next time I can calm down enough to speak with some hint of inflection beyond that of a prepubescent boy stuck in “omgscaredkillmenow” mode. I swear to gods I don’t normally sound that flaming; that only happens when I’m nervous and talking way too fast. I’m just amazed that Windows Media Encoder held out for the full broadcast, as on half my trial runs it copped out with random errors at various points.
…then again, in my trial runs I never tripped over my words. While live, of course I fumbled over a thick, clumsy tongue at least four times. Eh. You win some, you lose some.
Anyway, I’m roasted, done, and sorely in need of some Nyquil. Be back tomorrow with the usual ranting.
DarksideRainbow.net is 451 Press's look at the darker side of the
rainbow - where gay life takes a decided turn away from the happy, the
shiny, and the pink, complete with news, gossip, and a healthy dose of
caffeine-fueled cynicism from gay blogger Adrien-Luc Sanders. Check in
Monday through Friday for a decidedly tongue-in-cheek slant on current
events in the GLBTQ world, spiced with a few fun rants.
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Er…ignore the teeny!goth bleeding heart…uh…thingy. I was just being silly and playing around with Photoshop. I know the comic’s a bit early for Valentine’s, but I didn’t feel like putting it off and doing it Thursday instead. I kind of like to keep on schedule with this thing. (Hush, those of you who used to follow the old comic. I know. I know. That’s why I try to be diligent on this one.)
no style, gay comics, webcomics, humor, gay comic strip, valentine’s day, darkside rainbow live webcast, gay talk radio, CRIKEY! What’s with these tags?
