Fuck Me in the Ass because I love Jesus.

In high schools girls, Christian girls, all across America are saving themselves for marriage. Many of these "virgins" are having anal sex because the Bible does not specifically forbid it. This practice is called "God's Loophole".

Do I look like a Heroin Addict to you?

As some of you who read my blog regularly know, I was diagnosed with early onset male menopause a couple of years ago.  And yes, that is a legitimate thing.  And no, I have not started growing boobs and getting my period.  People this might come as a shock to you but I don’t have a uterus or a vagina.  My body just started producing less testosterone than it should and consequently I had to get hormone replacement injections.

It’s like getting a vitamin B shot.  Only it’s not vitamin B.  It is hormones.  I had to get a shot once a week and I use to have a nurse at my pharmacy who gave it to me.  Then she resigned and I was left with a conundrum:  Do I find another nurse or do I give the injections to myself.  As things turned out, in my cornucopia of options, there was a third option – my husband.

Look, I probably am one of the few people who are not afraid of needles or injections.  I guess the fact that I have had so many injections in my life probably desensitized me to it.  I have even given myself a few injections in my day.  Both times were out of sheer desperation and both times involved my back going into spasm while I was working away from home.  Both times also involved dodgy medical facilities with questionable hygiene which was the reason I opted to rather inject myself.

When I learned that my regular nurse resigned at the pharmacy I normally go to, I did not think of it as a huge train smash.  I was in no mood to test drive the new student nurse who was there in the interim.  So I asked my pharmacist if I can’t just administer the injections myself.  To which she rather nervously answered “Well, I suppose you can but I don’t recommend it”.  In my mind this meant she was saying “Sure, knock yourself out.  Just don’t hit a vein, ok.”

So I bought some syringes, needles and alcohol swabs.  When I got home I tested to see if I could inject myself in my bum but soon learned that it would not be possible.  I did not want to inject myself in my leg muscle, because you know – the vein issue that the pharmacist warned me about.  Then I realized that hubby could do it.  He loves me after all and won’t intentionally hurt me.  Besides, it’s only an injection and it’s not like I would be asking him to perform major surgery on me or give me stitches.

When hubby arrived home that evening I told him about the nurse that resigned and that I did not feel comfortable allowing the student nurse to inject me.  I told him that he had to do it.  To which he responded “Let me get this straight.  You’d rather have me give you an injection who has never done it before rather than have a professional do it?”  To which I responded “Yes, if you love me you will give it to me in my ass”.  Sometimes my husband does not get my sense of humor.

After some negotiation hubby eventually agreed.  So we went into the bedroom.  I drew the correct amount of hormone out of the vial, replaced the needle with a new one and handed it over to hubby.  I then downed a glass of chardonnay and presented my ass to my husband like a mandrill monkey during mating season.  I told him to stick it in me already.  At first he was hesitant but eventually he did and he injected me flawlessly.  There was no bruising and very little bleeding.

It was then that I realized we are getting old.  I mean if the most exciting thing you do on a Friday night is downing a glass of chardonnay and getting a hormone injection from your husband then it is probably a good time to start shopping for a retirement home.  But you are only as old as you feel and since my hormone levels started stabilizing I had been feeling younger, had more energy and certain other areas in our marriage has also greatly benefited.  And yes, I am talking about the sex.

Hubby gave me my shot every Friday and we did this religiously.  The doctor said that I would have had to do this for a year and then we will re-evaluate if further treatment is needed.  The downside of all of this is having had to buy the syringes and needles.  For some reason people always gave me “that look” when they saw what I am buying.  It’s the look that says “I am judging you.  Are you a drug addict?  Or are you dying of something.”

For some odd reason I always felt like I had to explain myself in such situations; that I have to reassure those judgmental assholes that I am not a heroin addict.  But I never did.  Out loud that is.  But in my mind I was storming up to them and getting into their personal space, up so close that they can smell my onion breath from the salad I had for lunch that day and I screamed “These fucking needles and syringes are for my hormone injections.  I have fucking menopause.  Mother! Fucker!”  In my mind this was highly effective but in reality I’d probably get punched in the face or kicked in the balls.

One Friday night as we went through our new ritual I accidentally stabbed myself in the finger when I did the needle swop.  So not only did hubby have to deal with injecting me he also had to deal with the blood fountain squirting out of my index finger.  Those needles are damn near lethally sharp.  Had hubby not seen that the needle I stabbed myself with was in fact bent the injection would have been very painful.  We look out for each other that way.

So what if people thought I was a heroin addict once a month when I went and bought my four syringes, four needles and alcohol swabs.  So what if the cashier looked at me with those eyes that has more questions than answers.  It is none of their damn business it was for.  It is however a tad strange that part of our Friday evenings now included syringes and needles, but you know what they say – a couple that inject hormones for menopause together, stays together. Luckily my hormone levels eventually stabilized and there are no more reason for people to think I am heroin addict any more.

Till next time.

What happens when a Go-Go Boy grows old

We all dread growing old (turning 30, 40). But what happens when a Go-Go Boy enters his twilight years.

Almost 40 and Ancient

I am almost forty. It's like I woke up one day and went "What the fuck?! Where did time go?" To most of the young gay people forty is ancient: ancient like you were part of the creation and saw the dinosaur extinction. I think being about to turn forty is more traumatic than actually turning forty. They say your forties is the best years of your life; you know who you are, you're settled in your career and you have disposable income that you actually can enjoy spending. I hope all this is true because if it's not I will hunt that person down, who said this, and threaten to kill them to their face. I won't actually kill that person because I am too pretty for jail and have terrible food allergies. Ok, I just made up the food allergies but still, prison food I assume is really bad.

A lot of things change as you approach forty. You realise that you're no longer in your sexual prime, you're sprouting grey hair (even your pubes which is stark reminder that your penis is old too) and you tend to become set in your ways. It's like you have reached a point in your life where you no longer are willing to tolerate shit from other people, you re-evaluate your friendships and attempt to have an uncomplicated life free of bullshit. In essence you are cleaning house in preparation for the next phase making sure you no longer have excessive baggage.  Because frankly who needs it.

The most obvious reminder that I am almost forty is when I drop off or pick up my son from kindergarten. Most parents there have just started their families and are young. Every time I am there I am reminded that I am one of the older parents. You know the ones that had little oopsies. However, I don't particularly care. We are all going through the same shit with our kids and we can stand in solidarity with just a sympathetic look or a nod of the head. The scary thing is that when my son finishes school I will be fifty six. That sounds ancient to me now but I guess only until I turn fifty. Oh dear god, the thought of that makes my head and Botox hurt.

Being almost forty and having a two year old also comes with both positives and negatives. The positive side of it is that I have more patience and have learned to pick my battles. The negative side is that I have never been a person who yells or even raise my voice, but now I am. I have patience but it is constantly tested. After the forth "No, don't, stop it" I tend to go into angry dad mode and my commands turn into "NOOO! STOP IT!!! I AM GOING TO COUNT TO THREE!", but three always come and everything calms down. Then five minutes later we are at the exact same situation. I am now a screamer.

I have also caught myself saying things like "Just wait until your dad comes home" and then immediately thought 'God I sound like my mother!".  

I am now at the age where I don't take myself that seriously anymore. A good example is when my two year old throws the mother of all tantrums. Depending on my day I will throw a tantrum as well mimicking his. Usually he reacts with total confusions like he's thinking "What the fuck is wrong with you?" normally this reaction causes his tantrum to seize out of pure shock. After all I'm the parent. The good thing is that we both got rid of our frustration in a "healthy" manner and I still maintain a small degree of parental control. I have not tried this in a shop yet. But when it happens I am sure it will have the same effect.  I just hope when it happens the people who witness it have children because they will be the only ones that would understand.

Almost turning forty also meant that I lost a couple of pets that I had since my twenties. In the last year I lost my two cats due to old age. It was sad as I had them for fifteen years. This also reminded me that life is short.

Turning forty has also seen my body go to hell. I got fat. Loosing weight is fucking hard. Diets can only do so much but you need to exercise too. I am not a fan of exercise at all. However, I did start. You see I don't want to fall one day and break a hip. I also don't want the get obese and have to be removed from my house with a crane. So I do my thirty minutes on my stairmaster every day. I despise that machine more than I hate homophobes and I have a mostly hate relationship with it. But the machine that was designed by the devil himself is yielding some results and I continue to torture myself daily.  Its like I am atoning for all my sins of my twenties and thirties.

I am thirty nine and one year away from the big 4 0. In a strange way I am looking forward to it. I have come to accept that I am ageing and that Botox and facial creams can only do so much to reverse the ageing process. I have no wrinkles or frown lines on my face but I am going grey and packed on a few pounds. As I am preparing for forty I hope I will be older and hopefully wiser. I am determined to enter that phase of my life with enthusiasm and glee. Well, I will try to anyway.

Till next time.

A Cure for Homosexuality. Who knew?

Oh.  My.  God.  Apparently there is a cure for homosexuality and it is to be found in Ghana! Who knew, nobody informed Queer HQ and I sure didn’t get the memo! The Presbyterian Church of Ghana (PCG) apparently is established therapy centers for homosexual “victims” to undergo counselling, rehabilitation and some good old fashioned let’s “Pray the Gay Away”. According to the PCG homosexuality is spreading there like the herpes and they have taken it upon themselves to curb the infection rate with their unique cure. How utterly noble of them, don’t you think? With my homosexuality threatened with a possible cure, and my fagalicious ass quivering with excitement at the prospect of some steamy homosexual therapy, I could not help but wonder just how exactly the PCG plans on rehabilitating the Queers of Ghana or possibly, if they get their way - the World!

Firstly as an experienced professional practicing homosexual I must say I never felt like a victim of my sexual preference. Sure there was that time that I had to concede that I no longer fitted into my sexy leather pants and had to accept that my six-pack was a distant memory. And even though I did cry like an emotionally disturbed child whilst wiggling around on my bedroom floor still trying to force myself into those pretty tight pants, still I did not feel like a victim - I just felt fat! Sure, after that experience I joined the gym and for months was tortured with endless hours of cardio training, lifting weights and running like a gerbil on the treadmill, but not once did I feel like a victim of my homosexuality. So why do the PCG believe homosexuals are victims?

Well, to label people as victims of homosexuality and suffering because of it creates the impression that queers need saving. After all if there is nothing wrong with a group of people why try to fuck with their lives? The only thing that is truly causing suffering for the queers in this world is the utter ignorance and intolerance of people whose target audiences are the uneducated masses resulting in us being forced to suffer their stupidity. I mean really, do you think it is fun for us walking around in our well planned and immaculately accessorized outfit and it not be celebrated. Instead, many queers in countries like Ghana are too afraid to express themselves with their clothes and are burdened with having to tone down their appearance and go into hiding in plain sight. God forbid you look gay in Ghana! But for the queers in Ghana the PCG professes to have a cure, a cure that will miraculously alleviate the symptoms of homosexuality like being fabulous, well groomed and happy. So what would that cure be?

Apparently the PCG will cure homosexuality with the establishment of therapy centers. Oh my... what a well thought out plan. We all know how effective therapy is in converting homosexuals now don’t we. I am a living walking example of the fact that therapy is as likely to make a gay guy straight as it is to make a straight guy gay. Sure you get the odd porn star that is gay-for-pay, the prison inmate that indulges in a spot of prostate thumping, but being gay is so much more than just sex. Something the PCG clearly do not understand. No amount of therapy will take away a gay person’s attraction to the same sex, it will only repress it. Nor will trying to pray the gay away succeed in producing a well adjusted happy heterosexual, it will only result in a self-hating, deeply fearful and inhibited person who will end up pretending to be something he/she is not. As for rehabilitating homosexuals don’t get me started...

What will happen to the gay guys being cured of homosexuality if they fall of the proverbial straight wagon and right onto a penis? Will it be like the AA where there’s a 12 step program and meetings start with “Hallo, My Name is Pierre and I am a Homosexual. It’s been 3 months since I last sucked cock”. And if you do end up with a cock in your mouth will you lose your sobriety pin and have to phone your sponsor? Will they enforce laws further criminalizing homosexuality and threaten gay people into faking being straight? Uganda is again trying to push for the acceptance of their genocide bill, not only criminalizing homosexuality further but could even see homosexuality being punishable by death. Will Uganda also be interested in Ghana’s earth shattering, psychological breakthrough new gay cure? Well I would not hold my gay fairy assed breath. It is an idea dreamed up by an ignoramus that probably secretly yearns to get some dick up his anus. What is Africa coming to?

Sitting here on the Southernmost tip of Africa and looking up north, I am nothing less than ashamed of the continent on which I live and the way it treats its people. People are dying of famine in Somalia, there is civil unrest in Libya and I won’t even talk about Zimbabwe. HIV, poverty and violence are rampant and yet some countries choose to focus their attention on homosexuality. Like it’s the gays’ fault the economy has gone to shit, there are droughts, crime and that there are civil wars. But, like I have said so many times before, this will not stop certain organized religions and their morally corrupt benefactors to savagely exploits minority groups for their own evil gains. Unfortunately for us, the gays make for easy pickings on a continent that seems to lose more of its integrity each passing day. I am so not rushing out to buy a plane ticket to go to Ghana. I am perfectly content being gay and that’s not going away.

Till next time.

Camping When Nature Hates You.

Camping is a queer concept to me.  I mean really, who in their right mind would willingly submit themselves to the elements if they are not homeless, raised by wolves or competing for a million dollars?  If humans were intended to live in the bush or mountains we would not have evolved to be able to build houses, nice hotels or invented electricity and room service.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do love to do quad biking, horse riding and I do appreciate nature’s absolute splendor.  But this doesn’t mean I want to spend a night in nature, sleep in a sleeping bag in a tent with God knows what crawling over me.  I have been camping twice in my life and this was enough times for me to realize two things:  One, I don’t like “roughing it” and two, I do NOT do camping.

About ten years ago hubby and I decided to go hiking with my sister, brother-in-law and some friends.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We would spend two days hiking up a mountain, walking about 10 kilometers a day (that is like 6.2).  The selling point for me was that we would not need tents as we would be sleeping in what they called “chalets” and they said there was electricity at both “camping sites”.  The only down side, I thought, was that we would need to carry everything we needed in backpacks with us.  Optimism never served well, and in this case optimism would once again dismally fail me.

Arriving on the Friday, the first “camping site” was basically a room with a questionable roof, holes in the walls that you could literally see through and stretchers to sleep on.  No electricity.  No indoor toilet.  That was the very first time I in my life that I saw an outhouse or as they called it - a “long drop”.  I was mortified!  It was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a toilet seat on top of it, smelled like shit and there were steam billowing out of it the following morning.  All I could do, when I eventually had to take a shit, was to go in there, hold my breath and pray that the whole thing didn’t cave in on me.  In retrospect, I think that’s where my fear of public toilets comes from.

The following day we started with the hike.  Ten kilometers is fucking far, especially if you are carrying 5kg on your back.  Needless to say I cursed a lot that first day.  My sister, the drama queen that she is, also had a complete dramatic melt down three quarters through when she had a cramp in her leg.  She was a whimpering mess and wanted to be medically evacuated off the mountain.  Needless to say that didn’t happen.  The rest of the hike she was whimpering out loud and I was crying and cursing on the inside.  Eventually, what felt like an eternity, we made it to the second camp and things only got worse from there.

Again the “camp site” was no Hilton Hotel and by all means worse than the first one, again with the outhouse, cracked walls and stretchers.  With blusters the size of plums on my feet and smelling like a funky monkey, I realized hiking was probably the worst idea I ever had.  All I wanted was to take a long hot relaxing shower.  Then came another shock.

The “camp site” had a shower but it was outside in the bush and if I wanted a hot shower I had to heat the water in a thing they called a donkey on the fire. Like primitive prehistoric men.  I remember screaming “No hot water, no indoor toilet, no indoor shower, no electricity.  Why the fuck did I do this to myself?”   I wanted to get clean so I heated the water, carried the donkey to the outside shower and hubby and I got in and opened the release valve.  First came the searing hot water then in came a snake.  I literally peed myself and that was the shortest and most traumatizing shower I ever had.  They said it was a harmless snake, but at almost a meter long it didn’t look harmless at all.  Besides nobody in our hiking party was a reptile expert.  We could have all died.

On day two we hiked back to the first “camp site”, completely paranoid about snakes,  but this time I was motivated by one thing and one thing only - I wanted to get the hell out of there!  It took us about six hours to reach the “camp site” and we left immediately.  I have never gone hiking again since but I did end up going camping a couple of years later.

My parents’-in-law are avid campers.  They own a caravan and all the camping equipment one would need to survive in the event that the apocalypse should destroy all man-made structures.  They go camping often and they invite us along just as often.  I have always found creative ways to avoid camping and declining their invitations.  That was until the one day about 5 years ago when I couldn’t get out of it.

My in-laws got me to agree to go camping and until this day I can’t remember how they did it.  They promised me that we will have our own fully equipped bathroom and that we would not have to share it with other people.  They also said there would be electricity.  The only down side was that hubby and I would have to sleep in a tent.  How bad could it be, I thought?  What is the worst that can happen, I thought?

On arriving at the camping spot I was delighted to find that my in-laws didn’t lie.  We did indeed have our own bathroom, kitchen and there was electricity.  I needed electricity for my portable air-conditioned, inflating our double bed, electric mosquito repellent, ice machine and emergency light. Once again I have to stress that I don't do the roughing it thing. We helped the in-laws unpack and then set about pitching our tent.  Pitching a tent in your pants is one thing but pitching an actual tent is a whole different story.

Tents are complicated assholes and the instruction manuals that come with them, I firmly believe, are written by people who are high on drugs or drunk.  They make no sense.  After a struggle, some sweat and an averted mental breakdown the tent was semi decently erected.  Our bed was inflated, the air-conditioner was running and mosquitoes were fleeing.  The whole camping spot was set up and I must admit I was rather proud of myself.  Everything was done and as I was standing there admiring our handy work, I thought to myself “So now what.  We are here; we are set up, so what exactly does one do when you are camping?”  As it turns out – not much! You drink.

The only things we had to do were to go down a waterslide and drink.  I broke my rib on the waterslide that day and later that evening I got drunk on vodka jelly shots.  I would have broken my nose too had it not been for the emergency light outside our tent.  You see, vodka jelly shot, darkness and tent ropes don’t mix.  Much later that evening, I sobered up a little and we went to bed and that’s when it happened.  Back then my father-in-law use to snore, the sound of which could scare away wildlife in a five kilometer radius.  His snoring sounded a lot like a mixture between a diesel engine coming apart and a pig choking on its own esophagus.  It kept me awake for a long time.

After eventually falling asleep I was roused from my not so peaceful slumber by something tickling my face.  I brushed it away and dosed off again.  Then it happened again.  “Stop it” I mumbled to which hubby mumbled back “Stop what?”

Just then the tickling went down my chin, down my neck and into my t-shirt.  I woke up, reached for my flash light lifted up the collar of my t-shirt and let out a petrified scream as only a twelve year old school girl can do.  I too am like Oscar Pistorius and scream like a woman when I am petrified.  There was a big hairy spider on my chest!  As I stared down at it in utter terror, its beady eight eyes stared back at me while its front feet were touching my nipple.  I felt sexually violated and petrified that it would bite off my nipple after it had finished molesting it.  Pandemonium broke out.  I survived.  The spider did not.  I lost three years of my life that morning and inhaled a whole can of Raid in the scuffle.  I still get nightmares.  We never went camping again after this.

Until such time as North Korea starts nuking the shit out of the world or when the Zombie Apocalypse happens and we are all forced to flee the city and find refuge in the mountains, I do not see any good reason why I should ever voluntarily go camping or hiking again.  No amount of bug repellent, vodka or inflatable and portable luxuries will see me leave the comfort of my home, or that of a hotel, to go and spent a night under the stars with the wild life, spiders, snakes and other hideous and possibly dangerous insect and animals.  Sure Broke Back Mountain made it look sexy, but in reality I would have had no problem quitting Ennis Del Mar as no high altitude fuck can be worth being dragged up a mountain to sleep in a tent and being crawled over and molested by spiders and snakes.  I find no shame in admitting that camping is not for me.  I am a civilized human being. I am not meant to play survivor and submit myself to the elements ever again.

Till next time.

The Day I Shit Myself.

A while ago something really traumatizing happened to me. It was a Friday that started off like most of my Fridays do. There were no signs to suggest that my day would have a horrifying start. No sign that this particular morning would be the start of a particularly bad day; such a bad day that it henceforth will be known as “Black Friday”. It has taken me months to muster up the courage to write about it here because I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I just hope you, my readers and Facebook fans, do not think any less of me after reading this blog post. But, before my courage wanes let me tell you about that shitty “Black Friday”.

Fridays are my favorite day of the week. Mostly because I only have to endure 8 more hours of work before it’s officially weekend. Fridays are also the only day of the week that I can honestly say I am almost a morning person, with the emphasis on “almost”. On this particular Friday I followed my usual routine, woke up at 6:15am and proceeded to get my early morning caffeine and nicotine fix. I then sat down in front of my computer to update my social media and scan the interwebs for gay news worthy of sharing with my Facebook fans. It was a normal Friday morning by any means and there was nothing out of the ordinary, but that would soon change.

You see my bowel movements are predictable and they are regular and that is just the way I like them. I usually have them in between the time I spend updating my social media and the time I get dressed for work. On this fateful morning it was not to be any different. As I was finishing updating my social media presence I could feel a slight rumbling in my stomach. This is normal for that time of the morning and it usually is my body’s way of notifying me in advance of having to make an imminent deposit in the loo. Not concerned that the rumbling heeded a sense of urgency, I decided to hold off going to the loo and instead went to the studio to select my outfit for the day. That would prove to be a dreadful mistake.

As I unlocked the studio door the rumbling in my stomach went from a mild loo notification to a more prominent warning groan. But, I know my body (or so I thought), and believed that I still had a good 6 minutes before my loo call. As I was taking my outfit off the clothing rail, the groan in my stomach took on a more ominous tone. It wasn’t long before I realized that the 6 minutes I thought I had would expire earlier than what I had anticipated. So, I took the clothes and, this time with a sense of urgency, I attempted to lock the studio door. Then it happened, suddenly and catching me totally off guard I found myself at the wrong side of the loo count down.

My bowels were about to move and I wasn’t ready for it. All I could do was to clench my ass as tight as I possibly could and pray. It was crunch time! Out of absolute desperation I abandoned the key in the door all the while clenching my ass so tightly I could have made a diamond in there. Rather frantic I rushed into the house and as I entered I realized that only clenching my ass muscles was insufficient. I needed a backup defense system in case my rectum fails me so I proceed to also clench my rectum muscles as tight as humanly possible.

 “Holy Mary, Jesus & Joseph” I thought “this CANNOT be happening to ME!” In my final desperate moments I dropped my clothes on the floor and were about to leap into a sprint. But one thing no one ever told me is that if you are clenching every muscle in your ass and rectum to prevent yourself from soiling your pants, sprinting will nullify all those efforts. So I guess what happened next should not come as a surprise.

To my horror in mid sprint halfway to the loo the unthinkable happened. -I began to shit myself. At first only a little and then the flood gate opened only 9 feet away from the toilet. "I was so close! So damn close!!" I thought. Then a strange sensation overcame me, the sensation you only get when you shit yourself. Apart from your pants becoming heavy, I also experience an euphoria of guilt, disgust and shame combined with relief.  My self-esteem was also as soiled as your pants and I felt ashamed. Very ashamed! The kind of shame you cannot put into words. The kind of shame nobody who haven't soiled their pants would understand.

As the sensation of my own excrement was weighing me down, I went to the only place in my mind that would make my situation remotely acceptable. I went to my favorite place - denial. “Nooo, I didn’t just shit myself. No... not me.” “This didn’t just happen, it must be a bad dream, come on now, on the count of 3 wake up!” But it wasn’t a bad dream. I did shit myself! I shit myself right in our dining room. I shit myself and the proof was in my pants and whether I liked it or not I now had to accept it and I had to do something about it.

So I held my head high, breathed in deeply a couple of times and with my chest out and shoulders back I uneasily walked the remaining nine steps to the toilet, took off my pants and pretended to finish my business in a dignified manner. The last time I shit my pants was during the time my parents potty trained me and I really was not expecting to do it again until much later on in my life, like let’s say in my mid to late 90’s. But, at least when I am 98 I will be wearing an adult nappy so technically I wouldn't actually have soiled my pant.

After I removed the evidence of my hugely embarrassing bowel disaster, had a shower and got dressed. The trauma of my experience hung over my head and I had to share it with someone. So I phoned my husband “Honey, something awful just happened to me. I bet you will never guess what it was!” and I was right, he didn’t. The rest of that day pretty much went downhill from there. It was not my finest hour, proudest moment or fondest memory. May this never happen to you! Shitting your pants really has a way of ruining your whole day! And Black Friday was indeed really a shitty day.

Till next time.

No, I don't want to friend your cock.

I have been on Facebook since 25 June 2007.  That is like a really serious commitment or relationship in the cyber world.  I have been on Facebook longer than what most people’s relationships last; longer than what most people, including myself, stay at the same job.  Through the last nine years I had my fair share of dramas on and with Facebook. It's like having a really needy lover. I have also learned that there are seriously unstable people on Facebook who desperately need to be fucking medicated and in therapy.  They make me lean toward being a misanthropic person as I don't like to deal with fucked up people in real life nor do I want to in the cyber world. Reflecting back on my, sometimes tumultuous, relationship with Facebook I could not help but wonder, are people really as fucked up in real life as they seem to be on the internet.

During the last nine years I have been banned from Facebook twice.  Yes banned! Twice!  Coincidentally, both times were preceded by some rather disturbing hate mail I received from some fanatical religious freaks who took great umbrage at my mere existence.  These were the same assholes who, in all probability, reported me to the gods at Facebook who in return, instead of investigating the “complaints”, rather opted to disable my account.  Both times it took weeks and a torrent of emails for the Facebook gatekeepers to come to their senses and to reinstate.  It was much like being broken up with. It was horribly emotional. The most recent time they threatened to banish me was because I had too many friends.

You see, Facebook has a 5000 friend limit.  I have reached that limit a couple of times at which point I was instructed by a faceless bot message to clean up my friend list OR ELSE.  Facebook can sometimes be a very mean and domineering lover. Do you know how long it took me to scrutinize my entire friend list?  It toke not take days – it took weeks!  The last time I was threatened to clean up my friend list was last year and it took me a whole week to delete just over 2000 people.  My criteria was simple:  If you don’t have a profile picture of yourself, you were unfriended.  If your name is “Gay Love”, “iFuck a Lot” or “BJ King” or anything ridiculous like that you were deleted.  And if you have your private parts as your profile picture you were unfriended.  And this leads me to my next point.  Why do some people think you are primarily on Facebook for sex?

My Facebook profile clearly states “married” under my relationship status.  Surely the people who inbox me on Facebook can’t be illiterate?  I have gotten countless messages over the years ranging from people who were soliciting sex from me, wanting to know if hubby and I were into gang bangs, asking how big my dick is, what fetishes I am into and the best ones were “ASL” (age sex location).  Now if you need to ask me that on Facebook you are either just fucking retarded or super lazy!  I mean honestly, don’t these people read your profile before sending you profanities and wanting to have carnal knowledge of your body?  If I don’t know you chances are good that I also don’t want to play occupy the anus with you especially if we are not even on the same continent. Have these people never heard about fucking Grindr?

And then there are the people on Facebook who firmly believe that their dicks are their best physical attribute.  They are so very proud of their penises that they prominently display it as their profile pictures.  Now if you invite me as a friend and all I can see is your erection that is pointing the wrong way which barely disguises your unkept bush and hairy balls, chances are good that I will not accept your request.  Chances are even better that I will report your profile to Facebook and the message you will get in your inbox from me will read “No, I don’t want to friend your cock!”  I mean seriously, would you walk around in public with your crown jewels hanging out of your pants?  Doing it on Facebook is pretty much the same thing, don’t you think? You should be ashamed of yourself and possibly be arrested or lewd and lascivious conduct. There should really be a law about stuff like this. Just saying.

But Facebook don’t just have overly horny folks on it, they also have the spammers.  You know who I am talking about.  Those people who like to post products on their timelines, obsessively tag you in photos of brands, inbox 50 people at a time with “You can win an iPhone 6S” and those folks who troll groups and pages and post links to websites ranging from pornography to dating sites.  I believe there is a special place in hell for these fucktarts right next to telemarketers, homophobes, Hitler and Robert Mugabe.  I don’t know why Facebook doesn’t ban them.  Most of their profiles are fake anyway and this is why I never accept friend request from girls posing in sexy positions that have a lot of friends but never post anything on their timelines except for spam. Spam like dildos and cock rings. The latter making the song "If you like it you shoulda put a ring on it" pretty indecent. Shame on you Beyonce. Shame. On. You.

The other crowd of the people who occasionally annoy me on Facebook are the folks who clearly need to be in therapy and who are always airing all of their dirty laundry in public.  Sure sometimes it is entertaining reading their status updates in my news feed.  Following their mental meltdowns during the course of eight hours or reading how they are trying to get rid of their one night stands the next morning is quite entertaining.  But have these folks no shame?  Are they not aware that their friends are reading these status updates and are judging them?  Some days while reading my news feed on Facebook I feel so much more normal and mentally stable in comparison to some of my internet friends.  Watching their shit go down in real time feels a little voyeuristic, but hey if they post it who am I not to read it. The little melodramas is like watching a soap on television the only difference being that you can comment and engage with the characters. Not that I do that but I have been very tempted to.

Lastly, I have a certain group on Facebook which I have been trying to close down now for well over three years but with little success.  Apparently winning a war in Iraq is easier than closing down a group on Facebook.  I decided to close the group down due to spam, people using it as their personal sex hookup spot, endless “add me” posts and a few other unsavory reasons.  I have closed the wall, banned hundreds of folks and outright threatened people.  Yet, the group continues to grow and currently have well over 22 000 members.  It boggles the mind.  Why would people stay in a group where they can’t do anything?  Moreover, why the hell would anyone want to join the group either?  The group is called “Gaywarfare” but it should be called “Whores, Orgies & Spam” instead.

Yes, Facebook is filled to its cyber brim with some fucked up people.  Perhaps some folks on Facebook think that I am fucked up as well, the lord knows I too have my moments. The internet and Facebook is the one place where you can truly embrace how fucked up you really are. You can confess all your secrets to your lover called Facebook. You can tell him about all your problems and have a meltdown in front of your laptop and Facebook will comfort you. You can be a hot mess and Facebook will love you anyway. And we will all read about it and secretly judge you while liking your posts. Facebook never said he was the monogamous type. You should really have read his terms and conditions. I think all relationships should have them. If I had terms and conditions which you accepted you cannot later be all like "I did not sign up for this" because you did.

*mental note: start writing my terms and conditions*

Till next time.

Woolworths is Evil

Recently a friend of mine was betrayed by Woolworth and made us loose all faith in them. It's too hard to explain so read our conversation instead.

Friend: Was very proud of this rare species until I watered it and the white pebbles turned orange because... the red is paint!!! Well done Woolworths, well done.

Me: That's false advertising. You should sue!

Friend: When the power goes out... when the water in our tabs dry up... I always held fast to woolies as the last vestige of civilization... absolutely devastated.

Me: They helped me through my paternity leave. If it wasn't for them I would have starved!

Friend: Heck yes.

Me: And they delivered. If I were you I would write them a strongly worded letter about how spray painting plants is inhumane and how it destroys marriages.

Friend: Absolutely and how I expect woolies vouchers to make up for my pain and suffering.

Me: AND an apology to all horticulturists. Because they are the real victims here.

Friend: True. I now expect all plants to come in exotic CGI quality colors.

Me: That is how they ruin lives. They have an evil agenda and creating unhealthy expectations. I always thought their sugar gauntlet was a way they encourages diabetes for pharmaceutical companies to make a greater profit. I have not yet been proven wrong.

Friend: They are probably owned by the Illuminati too...

Me: ...who hates parents who they force to navigate the sugar gauntlet with greater trepidation especially when you have a sugar craving toddler with you. We should protest and have your plant as our mascot. Think we should call her Jezebel.

Friend: Don't get me started... those bags of "big spender chocolate coins" - the worst.. this is what I found on our carpet.

Me: That's how they taunt us. Even their chocolates are full of lies and deception!

Friend: And apparently these chocolates make kids lose their minds. Found our two year old dancing naked on these empty wrappers. We are yet to locate her pants!

Me: Bastards!  Are we going to spray paint ourselves, in solidarity with Jezebel, stage a violent protest so that the riot police have to hose us down with their water cannons so that we can all be like "see, this is what you did with Jezebel, you assholes!!!"

Friend: Yes, let's take a leaf out of the student protester's book and burn something!

Me: We should burn their newspapers. Also, their newspapers makes one depressed just as you enter the sugar gauntlet and that's how they make us fat - they force us to eat our emotions. First they make us depressed and then they offer us chocolates for comfort. Jesus they are evil! We should totally protest for all the fat people too!

Friend: Count me in!

Me: I will start a Facebook events and call it "Justice for Jezebel".

Friend's husband: And here I was thinking you're a cat person? Get the Claws out.

Me: Don't involve Killer Pussy in this. She has access to nuclear weapons. We don't want to start a war with the Jews!

Friend's husband: I was actually talking to painted cactus's owner... get the claws out and tare open some woolies bags in their entrance.

Me: You are a very supportive husband encouraging your wife to be violent. Once you've open that pandora's box there is no closing it. Just saying. Also, Killer Pussy would be proud.

Friend: Was considering asking for Killer Pussy's help but then North Korea will want to get into the action too...

Friend's husband: I thought the pandora's box was already opened when the pebbles turned orange by the bad paint job from woolies... I am very supportive... I will drive my wife there and sell tickets at the door for the claw bag fight.

Friend: Heathen!

Me: Was just informed that woolies sells Fancy Feast and Killer Pussy wants nothing to do with this. Also she is half Russian and half Jew. 

Friend: Deadly combination!

Me: They suffered under the Nazi's and it's a very sensitive topic in our house.

Friend: I will be sure to bring it up then when I see Killer Pussy.

(We never did protest woolies because we are lazy like that. Also, Jezebel died and it was very sad and she would not want to be remembered as the cause of a riot).

Weird Questions Gay Couples Get Asked

Let's face it, gay couples get asked a shit load weird of questions. Here are just a few...

There's Porn in my Backyard.

There are a few things in life that makes my blood boil.  Well, actually that is a lie.  There are a great many things in life that causes the veins in my head to throb.  I can often successfully overcome such emotional inconveniences by counting to ten or proactively popping a pill for it.  However, every now and again I am caught off guard causing me to briefly behave like an emotionally disturbed child accompanied by a nervous tick in my left eye.  This past weekend was one such an occasion as I was confronted again with one of my top ten pet peeves which is sex littering.

Now before you ask me what sex littering is let me explain.  Sex littering is when someone leaves behind, in public, certain items that they used either during coitus or when a certain deranged bitch throws her husband’s porn DVD’s over your wall and into your back yard.  I am aware that the latter is unusual and doesn’t happen to most people.  However, it has happened to me not once, or twice but three fucking times!

You see our neighbor’s, which I have always referred to here as the “undesirables”, has an extremely tumultuous relationship combined with a cornucopia of emotional instability.  Sometimes their insufferable negativity interferes with my inner peace and I have called the police on them before.  But this new turn of events had me utterly bemused.

Sometime during last year I was sauntering through our backyard when I saw something shining as the light caught it in the foliage.  Upon closer inspection it looked like a CD or DVD that was lying face down.  Being naturally curious by nature, I Indiana Jonesed my way through the foliage and picked it.  When I eventually got it and turned it around I was both shocked and very confused.  After all I am a very innocent, sensitive and impressionable person.  Well, not really but it is fun to pretend to be.

Upon inspecting the DVD cover I was mortified to discover that it was a hardcore straight porn DVD.  “What. The. Fuck.” came out of my mouth before I could help it.  "Why was it in our backyard and who left it there?" I thought as I could feel that I was becoming unhinged by the trauma.

Nobody expects to find porn in their garden, especially when it is not your porn.  Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against porn as such.  What I do have a problem with is when someone throws it into my garden.  It is not only inconsiderate but irresponsible.  What if the bunnies we had tried to eat it or if our garden services found it. I mean really.  If you want to toss porn into our garden at least make sure it is gay porn.  Generally homosexuals do not get off on straight porn and I thought people knew that.  Also, our garden services are very judgmental. 

It wasn’t long before my exceptional sleuthing skills helped me track down the sex litterer.  It was our neighbor (the undesirables).  I once overheard her and her husband fighting about porn.  From what I could tell she didn’t like it being in their house and she doesn’t like him watching it hence, her throwing it over our wall.  I honestly think that woman is a few potatoes short of a potato salad.

The only rational reason I could think of for her to choose our yard as her personal porn dumping site is because she is batshit crazy.  Still, that is no excuse for exposing us unwillingly to their straight pornography. Also littering our garden with her husband’s debauchery and sinful endeavors and her condemnation thereof is just wrong and they should be ashamed of themselves. I might be an atheist but my husband is a Christian and Christian folk don't do things like this because they will go to hell. Or so I'm told. I really know nothing of religion, but I digress.

I am a firm believer of the theory high fences make for good neighbors.  I don’t really care what goes on in most of my neighbor’s lives.  I don’t snoop and I respect other people’s privacy.  Most times anyway. As a general rule I don't gossip about my neighbors because that is what my blog is for. But when our neighbor’s shit start affecting my life and encroaches on my little bubble of peace and tranquility I tend to get annoyed.

Thinking that the sex littering was a once off thing I decided to let it go for the sake of not embarrassing anybody.  Also, I didn’t want to talk to the undesirables especially not about their twisted taste in porn or, even worse, their sex life. That is just gross and would be awkward for everybody involved. Unfortunately nothing in my life is ever uncomplicated and optimism has never served me well.

So this weekend when I was searching for other spots where our chickens may be laying their eggs I again stumbled upon sex litter.  Again it was straight porn and again it was the undesirables' doing.  My blood pressure went up and this time I was furious.

I remember thinking “What the fuck is wrong with these people.  Why can’t she just throw this shit in their dustbin or dispose of it in any other way?  Why us?  Why our garden?” Also, do we look like the kind of people who would want to watch a porn movie titled “Sex starved fuck sluts”? After hyperventilated I caught my breath and the twitch in my left eye subsided I thought of the best way forward.  I decided to leave them a harshly worded letter:

Dear Neighbors,

Your sex life is none of our business however you have now made it our business when you first threw the porn DVD “Backdoor adventures of Butthead and Beaver” into our yard on 6 February this year.  Now, again you decided to infringe on my right to privacy and choice to live in a straight porn free environment by having thrown the porn DVD “Sex starved fuck sluts” into our yard. 

If you have some sexual issues, including but not limited to porn, please don’t make your fucking problem ours.  Go see a fucking therapist.  Also, our yard is not your personal sex litter dump.  Use your dustbin.  That is what it is there for!

Lastly, by throwing your porn into our yard is not the solution to your problems.  The internet is full of free porn that could meet with your sexual desires and fetishes.  I know you have internet at home because I can see your WiFi on my phone.  Use it.  Delete it.  Just for the love of god leave us out of it!

Sincerely,

Your GAY neighbors.

I am still checking our mailbox for their apology letter.  So much for being “good Christians” who go to church every Sunday.  The worst part of their sex littering is the fact that we are then forced to throw their porn into our dustbin.  What will our housekeeper think if she were to accidentally see a porn DVD in the trash.  It has been enough of a culture shock for her to work for two homosexuals with a child.  I think discovering a porn DVD in between broken egg shells and potato peels might just give her a heart attack which she could benefit from as she is not a very good housekeeper anyway. We have fired her last week and she is working her notice month but that is an entirel other blog post on its own.

I thought moving to suburbia would be peaceful, quiet and private.  I never expected people to throw straight porn DVD’s into our yard and that our neighbors would be perverts with a preference for entering through the back door and being into sluts.  Also, I never expected that I would need to have awkward conversations with my neighbors about their sex lives, fetishes or taste in porn.  I guess it is what it is.  At least they are not terrorists or god forbid Mormons. After my note they hopefully would be too ashamed to even look at me.  And ashamed they should be. Perverted freaks.

Till next time.

Things I’ve learned in my Thirties

I am now closer to my forties than what I am to my twenties.  It is kind of depressing because I still don’t always feel or act like an adult or act my age for that matter.  In just a few years I will be forty and be expected to have gotten my shit together.  To a certain degree I am ready for it but mostly it terrifies me.  Fortysomething has always seemed so old to me especially when I was in my twenties.  But now that I am almost there myself it doesn’t seem that old anymore.  Funny how life works, isn’t it?

In the last few years of my thirties I have come to realize what an idiot I was in my twenties.  The things a twenty year old worries about are so frivolous, yet at the time these things seem so important.  There are a couple of things that I know now which I wish I had known in my twenties.  For instance, don’t worry about what people think of you.  It is exhausting and a total waste of time.  Conforming to what is expected of you slowly massacres your soul.  It’s like trying to fit into a pair of jeans that is two sizes too small for you.  Not only is it uncomfortable for you but everyone else will notice that you got fat.

In my thirties I have also come to accept that deep down I am a very neurotic person.  Instead of seeing this as a negative thing and hiding it from the world, I decided to embrace it.  After all that is a part of who I am.  I have realized and accepted that I have flaws and that it is ok.  Nobody is perfect and perfection is fundamentally boring and most certainly unattainable.  Whenever I doubt this I just remind myself that even the people who I may have thought were perfect have also had, at one time or another, raging diarrhea.  This has always made me feel better.

I wish I enjoyed being young more, having had a great metabolism and being able to eat whatever I wanted.  After I turned thirty everything went to hell:  Things started to sag, got flabby and I realized that the saying “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” is totally fucking true.  My thirties was also the first time in my life that I actually tried diets.  They all failed because I am a non-conformist and measuring food just seems like too much work.  Naturally, I developed body image issues as well and a strong aversion towards scales.  I also came to realize that mirrors in changing rooms are designed to shame you from all angles in the most unflattering of lighting. It's like they want you to feel bad about your body. Sadistic bastards!

I had body image issues until I finally realized and made peace with that we cannot all look like Greek Gods and that is ok as well - the world can do with more chubby people.  We stand a much better chance to survive a famine than skinny people.  That being said, it is important to accept yourself just the way you are (I once read that in a self-help book.  It sounds like bullshit but it is totally true).

In my thirties I learned not to prophesize about the future.  Shit happens and not always the way you planned it.  In my twenties I never wanted children.  Children scared me and I thought they were annoying.  I thought all babies were ugly and I considered people who brought their little brats to restaurants as just plain inconsiderate.  Well, today I am a parent and one of “those people”.  I now also bring my child to restaurants and on planes.  It’s not like I am being discourteous, it’s because I don’t have a bloody choice.  It’s not like I can leave my two year old at home alone.  Duh!  Or that there are nannies sitting next to their phones just waiting for my call and are willing to work for free.  Don’t be an asshole.  Some of us love our children, love their company and love taking them to places.  Get over it.

The one thing I did right in my twenties, that I have never regretted, was meeting my husband.  We were so young when we first started dating and this year will be our eighteen year anniversary.  However, one thing my twenty year old self did not know, at the time, was that making a relationship work takes a lot of work.  I will not lie and say that it has been sunshine and roses all these eighteen years, because it was not.  That shit only happens in fairy tales and movies.  When you meet “the one” you must be willing to suck it up through the tough times in order to reap the rewards during the good times.

In my thirties I have come to realize that marital spats become less of a “who will win the fight” and more of a negotiation.  You learn to pick your battles.  Neither one of us are screamers and we tend to resolve our differences in a more mature manner – through passive aggression, as it should be.  We would do this until the other one eventually catches the hint and asks “what is bothering you?” and then we will have a discussion.  However, sometimes the issues are more complex than just the habitual non-compliance with filling empty ice trays or the inability to close drawers.  For instance, when it comes to religion we differ fundamentally and eventually agreed to disagree.  Also, my views on religion are the correct ones and hubby's views are wrong.  Just saying.

Lastly, in my thirties I have come to realize what is truly important in life.  I am sure this will mature even more as I grow older.  I no longer have time to indulge in bullshit if it interferes with my happiness and/or that of my husband and my son.  I have learned that being happy is a choice.  If you allow negative people into your life and invite them to stay or dwell in the past you erode away your own joy.  Sometimes you just need to move on and not look back.  Sometimes all you need to do is focus on your priorities and your future.  In my twenties I was incapable of doing this and I wish I had this realization sooner.  I am now closer to forty than what I am to twenty.  And thank god I am.

Until next time.

Conversations that make me sound crazy

Sometimes I have awkward conversations with friends that makes me sound crazy. This one is about our chickens:

Me: So our garden service informed me via sms that they quit.

Friend: How professional of them.

Me: I know right. And that right after I sms'd them to be careful because we have chickens now.

Friend: Maybe they have a chicken phobia.

Me: Bastards! Now we have to get a gardener who isn't afraid of chickens. I mean really. Who the fuck is scared of chickens?

Friend: Your chickens are cute. Not threatening at all.

Me: I know. I still don't get why people are scared of chickens. Especially two hens who I saved from a rapist rooster who tried to pull out their feathers.

Friend: A rapist rooster?

Me: Yes. They have been through so much already and now they also get discriminated against by people with chicken phobias.

Friend: Shame man. That's a tough life.

Me: I am serious! They are also even too scared to lay eggs. I would be too if I lived in constant fear of being raped and plucked. But now when the one hen lays eggs she makes this agonizing sounds. Think it is stretching her pooper of vagina. I don't know chicken anatomy at all.

Friend: You do have a point.

Me: I think they suffer from PTSD. Are there therapists who specialize in chickens? Like a chicken whisperer?

Friend: Only you would ask me that.

Me: There should be if there are dog and cat therapists. Or are chickens too low on the food chain for psychotherapy? They have feelings too you know.

Friend: If you find one I need one too. Long story.

Me: PTSD is tough on chickens. Especially ones who apparently are "scaring" people away from working in our garden.

This Is How We Jew It.

Gay parody from the 2015 album "Christmas Queens" produced by PEG Records also available on iTunes.

An Unconventional Lesson in Anal Sex.

Oddly, there seem to be a couple of evangelist pastors out there who allegedly are experts on gay male sex. I kid you not.  Apparently they seem to know a great deal more about gay sex than what the average homosexual does.  Especially surprising to me is the resilience the male sphincter muscle (aka your asshole muscle) has according to them.  Apparently you can shove a whole baseball bat up there, your iPhone and a gerbil.  No wonder so many people get rectal exams in prison:  You never know what they could manage to smuggle in there; it could be anything from a nail file to a ladder.   Reflecting on some past comments of a certain Pastor Patrick Wooden I could not help but wonder, have we gay guys even begin to explore the wonderland that are our rectums.

Pastor Wooden seems very preoccupied with gay male genitalia the and male anus.  After all it is in that general area where we like to keep things neat, tidy and in some cases bleached and pierced.  But, in Wooden’s defense, the anus is a wonderful organ.  It is resilient and can stretch when needed.  And the best of all you don’t even have to be gay to have experience this phenomena.  Straight people can experience this too.  I'm speaking to all those straight guys out there who like it when their girlfriends stick her fingers up their ass. You know who you are!  And I know that you are worried and wondering about being fingered and if that makes you gay.  The answer is no, it makes you ass bi-curious. But it's not just through sex and ass play when you can experience this.  Normal bodily functions also helps you experience the elasticity of your sphincter muscle more frequently than what you may think. 

If you have ever been constipated and finally had that bowel movement that sets you free, you probably have experienced that glorious sensation.  You know that feeling when you push and push and you feel it is just too big to come out.  Finally, as the monster turd crowns and you feel like your asshole just is not big enough and about to exploded, it makes it’s way through and takes its final plunge leaving you relieved, proud and semi euphoric.  Well, gay anal sex is not completely unlike that.  Apart from the turd being a cock and instead of it coming out it goes in. I apologize for this graphic image that will now be stuck in your head for weeks to come. In my defense I did not make you read this, so technically it is your own fault. But I digress, lets get back to your asshole.

Like any good homosexual I am also partial to some ass play.  I, like some gay tops, can also be “ass curious” at times (If you don't know what that means Google will explain it to you).  But I can honestly say I have never shoved a baseball bat up my rectum nor have I attempted to insert any live stock or rodents.  Mostly, because I do not understand the logistics of it and I don’t condone animal abuse.  I mean honestly, how exactly do you force a little gerbil into a dark crevice if it doesn’t want to go in.  Doesn’t it have teeth and sharp little nails?  Or is that part of the fun?  I’m sure PETA would have a lot to say about this issue.

Inserting foreign objects into our rectums is something gay men do.  As per definition a foreign object is anything “originating elsewhere” or simply put “outside of your body”.  So it can be pretty much anything including someone else’s penis, which is predominantly what gay guys prefer.  Some gay guys are also over achievers and sometimes like to have more than one penis up their man hole.  It's true, I have seen it in gay porn.  It doesn't look comfortable at all and not something I am inclined or interesting in doing. Ever.  In my case we have a drawer in our bedroom with preferred foreign objects.  Now don't pretend to gasp for air, you know you have a secret sex drawer too. 

Our drawer contains nothing particularly out of the ordinary for a professional homosexual on the go.  We have the usual socially accepted objects, you know what I mean.  My father-in-law, a few years ago, accidentally opened this drawer thus destroying any illusions he may have had of his son and I being celibate and not engaging in anal sex.  He emerged from the ordeal pale as a ghost and dramatically quiet for the rest of that day.  He’s probably still traumatized and digesting what he had seen.  I believe that mental pictures that were inadvertently burned into his mind still haunts his dream till this day.

Using foreign objects that you can buy from any sex shop or online to enhance your sexual experience is one thing, but what if you don’t have the time or money.  Well, like any resourceful homosexual will tell you, there are a plethora of everyday household objects that you can safely use.  Let’s turn our attention to your kitchen.  Fruit and vegetables like bananas, cucumbers and carrots are perfectly safe.  You won't get any nutritional value from them but you will have fun and in some cases vegetables can be orgasmic. Just don't use them in a salad later.  That would just be gross.  Butternuts on the other hand are not safe nor are any frozen items, fish or cutlery.  The broom closet is pretty self explanatory as most closeted right wing evangelist pastors will tell you.

When it comes to the bathroom and the bedroom wardrobe it could get a little dicey.  Firstly, it is not good hygiene to insert anything into your ass that you will not be able to get out again later, having to wash your face with or have to put in your mouth.  Secondly, electrical items and anything bigger than your hand and arm could pose some serious medical repercussions and should always be used with extreme caution.  I would advice you to first consult with your physician but I can see how that conversation could be awkward.  It is also extremely important to remember that KY conducts electricity extremely well, as I can attest to from personal experience, and electrocution does not enhance an orgasm, it does quite the opposite and it's not fun nor is it sexy!

My iPhone is the one item I have never considered inserting into my rectum and people who do clearly have no respect for their phones, themselves or other people and they should be ashamed of themselves!  Honestly, what if you get a very important call, a Facebook message or a tweet?  Are you going to phone, message and tweet that person back apologizing by saying “I was busy stimulating my prostate, and thank you for calling me at exactly the right time – you really hit the spot for me!  It was the best orgasm EVER! Thank you for making me cum!”  I didn't think so people.

  

Contemplating the good Pastor’s recent comments and especially the part about gay men’s rectums being mutilated resulting in some gay men having to walk around with butt plugs and diapers, I consulted with a medical professional.  My pharmacist told me it was bullshit!  Sure with regular abuse and inserting very large objects the sphincter muscle can get damaged and deformed over time; but for that to happen the person must have been doing some seriously fucked up shit to themselves and their assholes.  And surely this is not the norm.  To conclude, any person who walks around with a butt plug up his ass for a whole day has some serious skills and I am sure that would be dreadfully uncomfortable.  As for wearing diapers, I don't think I am into that baby fetish shit. I mean who would want to shit their pants on purpose?

Whether Pastor Patrick Wooden spoke from personal experience or secret desires, I guess we will never really know for certain.  His fascination with gay anal sex and brevity of knowledge on the subject does however slightly impress.  But, I am sad to say Pastor Patrick Wooden, there are some things gay men will not put up our asses and your dick ranks number one on that list.  Even though I do admire the fact that you are so very adventurous with your own anus, I will never be as able a power bottom as you do.  Your accomplishments are awe inspiring!

Till next time.