When I said I wanted my world rocked, I didn’t mean this!
I will bash the next asshole who talks about money; I’ve just about had it! I wake up each morning to hear about markets going down on me, how a fortune was spent in our banal federal election, how my RRSPs are down (while my debt stays strong), and my T cell count is down.
How someone gave someone else a $100 million behind my back, how the city’s building boom is slowing down to a bunch of potholes around, while sexy construction workers idle —papa!
I watch the Drive, still there, intact, harsh. Thankfully.
October marched in like a pack of lobos with fatuous election promises, gaybashings, and debt to our fantasies of easy life slithering down their fangs. Celine spread the cheese with her choreographed earnestness (and chest pounding), and a holographic, omnipresent, and fibrous Material Girl acknowledged our meagre existence on the map.
What these ladies have in common for gay men is that they are ultimate tops, alpha, in control, protective, if not necessarily warm and fuzzy. Doesn’t Celine belt out that bombastic ballad “The Power of Cock”?
November has not been getting any better. On Nov 4, the neighbours chose a leader way bigger and better than ours, inspiring, and seemingly rock-hard. No, I don’t have penis envy, there’s plenty of big juicy moody cock on the Drive —just check the local gyms.
What I have is a craving for that change juice my neighbour is sucking on.
Our feds let us down. The Premier only shows up for cocktails. Will Gregor Robertson come to my rescue?
I am sexist and old-school homo when it comes to choosing leaders (aren’t you a closeted one too?). Who the fuck really knows what our political leaders do! The fact is, we all kneel down in ignorance and suck it up for this British colony.
The more the exposure of politicos in the media, the less in control one feels. It is like those gay hook-up sites: so much personal and sex info to meet a sod who looks like shit anyway.
He who goes digging too much in somebody’s business is always bound to find something nasty. Lesson: never check your lovers/trick/husbands/and civic leaders’ email or drawers.
When you take home a stranger with a scar somewhere —very Looking for Mr Goodbar —you trust your instincts, right? He might turn either husband or killer or both, or a servant (civil, that is). I choose my leaders based on a good promise for a thick money shot —our neighbours did it!
Commercial Dr remains steady because we never had much of anything other than attitude going for us anyway; not too rich or too poor, a buffer zone between the downtown Hello Kitty and the suburban fleecy dreariness.
Our most livable city in the world paints a wintry picture, quite the vicious bitch, especially among the young (and not only targeted to gays), a generation that craves instant fame, gadgets and money, children in fancy strollers who don’t walk, the elderly who will live longer with pharmaceuticals (I foresee gaybashings with walkers at the wobbly hands of octogenarians), and a police force defensive and somewhat unreliable (isn’t former Chief Graham still under investigation?).
The media overexposes everything, we now know too much, too fast, and all the time. In the morning I twitter online like a fucking Tinkerbell!
This is what is still alluring on the Drive; it looks like not much is going on, but you just don’t know how big the mess you are getting into is, so you tread lightly with the gals and the guys.
Harsh times ahead, beware. As stress increases, watch for hypersexual uninhibited slippery patches. I see Sarah Palin running her manicured fingers through Stephen Harper’s fuzzy sweater, the perma-mop on his head, Stephen’s twisted child grin and rodent eyelids —it’s all so Karla Homolka.
Fittingly, it’s the season I get invited to a number of events to expound on “prevention” for gay men —ho-hum.
In locales as foreign as Toronto and Winnipeg, my colleagues and I, in ’80s rewind, read the riot act: sucking cock and eating ass causes HPV, barebacking gives you STIs, HIV, and/or Hep C, fisting gives you gas, and feltching puts too many ingredients in one single smoothie —you must live clean, long, and pious. Gag!
Salute to my friend Russel Odgen and his long struggle for our right to euthanize ourselves when necessary. Will any of it stop gay men from being pigs? It’s really about “being man,” taking risks, our aggrandized sense of self-entitlement about getting one’s rocks off, anytime, anywhere. Enter harsh economic times in this equation. Zap! There’s your warm glory hole, your Priceline ticket to mental vacation.
Indeed, Madonna reminded more than 50,000 Vancouver women and fags that sticky and sweet cock is boss, even at 50. Anonymous and impersonal sex validates us as men, or if anything, it sets us apart from the Kinsey 90 percent mainstream. We all want to curb illness, but how we do it without cancelling pleasure is the never-ending challenge.
Recession will bone us up. Why get fucked over so hard without any fun? If we’re going down with the stock markets, we might as well go down on each other, I say.
Everyone on the Drive deserves a good servicing of the joy stick or up the back road, a ride risky, electric, sloppy, sleazy, silent, and secretive, and musky in the winter.
Even if Gregor isn’t the mayor elect by the time you read this, I see my Gregor lifting me up there where I belong like Navy brat Zack carried Paula out of that factory in An Officer and a Gentleman, away to his happy planet so I can sip his Lost Lagoon Mango juice.