Tag Archives: sex

No Nostalgia Sundays: Of Pizza Pies & Semen Masks

Standard
No Nostalgia Sundays: Of Pizza Pies & Semen Masks

In 2011, I brought my life crashing down around me. It certainly wasn’t the first time and, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last. As a result of a few misunderstandings with the local police, I had been placed on felony probation. I had no job, no money, and no prospects. I was twenty-six years old and I was totally drowning.

I had miraculously managed to kick the two-gram-a-day heroin habit I had been operating on for the past two years prior, but I was still in rough shape physically, mentally, and emotionally. Simply put, I was fucking looney toons insane, and I couldn’t pull it together enough to formulate any real long-term plan that would get me out of trouble and get my life back on track. Somewhere along the line, I had lost the ability to think rationally and realistically about anything.

However, I was smart (or stupid) enough to figure out that I should probably seek employment. Aside from heroin hustling and street scams, I hadn’t worked in a year. Not to mention, my employment history was shaky at best and I was a convicted felon. It was irrelevant, or so I thought, that I had two degrees from UC Berkeley. I didn’t even attempt to find employment that would require any kind of skill or focus or talent; no, it would have been far too disappointing when I was surely turned down and, moreover, I knew that I wasn’t mentally capable of hacking it at a real big kid job.

So, at twenty-six years old, fresh off heroin and crazy as a fucking loon, I became a pizza delivery driver.

Read the rest of this entry

Advertisements

Scaredy Cats & School Buses

Standard
Scaredy Cats & School Buses

Scroll to the bottom to play the song that this piece concerns.

It was summertime and I was riding the bus to Santa Ana. I was dressed in denim from head to toe, despite the fact that there were ninety degrees of dry heat outside and probably at least a dozen more inside of that bus. I was sweating straight through my denim, but it wasn’t the heat—I was fiending.

Riding the bus to go pick up is a hellish endeavor no matter what the weather: four hours of slow window-gazing, plus a couple of transfers and however long the runner makes you wait when you finally get there. Sing those shaky, sweaty, sickly summertime blues, kid—ain’t no cure but the cause, dig?

Yeah, I dig: unemployable, clothed in rags, carless, and reduced to hunting down highs on a glorified Greyhound bus.

Read the rest of this entry

An Excitable Boy Reminisces*

Standard
An Excitable Boy Reminisces*

I became obsessed with Warren Zevon in college, although I first heard him when I was just a boy. My father loved “Werewolves of London,” which was the biggest hit Zevon ever had. My old man used to get especially excited at the line “I saw a werewolf drinking a Piña Colada at Trader Vic’s—and his hair was perfect.” He thought that was just the best. And so did I, which makes this instance one of the only things my father and I have ever agreed on.

By the time I made it to Berkeley, I had become a werewolf of sorts myself. I preferred straight rum to Piña Coladas and my hair was far from perfect, but I would find myself transforming into a beast rather frequently nonetheless. Empty bottles were my full moons, and Warren Zevon became my patron saint of lycanthropic alcoholism.

The first friend I made at Berkeley was a Zevon enthusiast and he quickly converted me. We were both artistic and misunderstood (by our own reckoning), and we related to Zevon, whose creative genius and reckless exploits we worshipped. The two of us talked about Warren as if he were a close friend of ours; we felt like we knew him intimately and that he was with us in spirit at all times. Despite the fact that Zevon had been dead for years, his cult of personality was alive and well in Berkeley, and we even started our own religious order in his honor: Zevonism.

Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XX: Book ‘Em, Crewcut

Standard
Dear Dionysus XX: Book ‘Em, Crewcut

Dear Dionysus,

Cad Bop had me alone now. I was, in the literal and figurative sense of the term, his captive audience. He was truly relishing the ordeal, Dionysus. Either he had truly convinced himself that I was a calculating sexual predator or he was merely another sadist with a badge who got off on making other people squirm. And squirming in handcuffs ain’t comfortable, love.

I could see his nefarious eyes in the center rear view mirror every time he addressed me with a question. The entire thing was a set up, and his queries were no exception.

Cad Bop: You know, I know your kind. I deal with them all the time. You think you’re real cool, a tough guy. And sometimes the girls fall for it, sure. But when they don’t, it doesn’t matter anyways because you have other ways of getting what you want, don’t you?
Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XIX: Cood Gop/Cad Bop

Standard
Dear Dionysus XIX: Cood Gop/Cad Bop

Dear Dionysus,

I can’t remember if I opened the door or the cops did but either way, the door was open and there we were struggling to get our clothes on. I was able to pull myself together to the point that I had my pants and my shirt on, although my shoes were on the floor of the truck, along with the bondage belt I habitually wore at the time (punk points +1).

As for Isadora, she wasn’t as quick on the draw: she was still in her panties, trying to pull her jeans on with one hand while she tried to shut the door on the male officer standing at the passenger side. It seemed to me that his eyes were zeroing in straight on her nether regions; she must have felt the same way, which is why she was frantically trying to shut the door. The perverted policeman didn’t like that very much, and he certainly didn’t like it when Isadora gave him a piece of her mind.

“Don’t look at me you pervert! I’m fifteen.”

Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XVIII: A Prelude To Handcuffs

Standard
Dear Dionysus XVIII: A Prelude To Handcuffs

Dear Dionysus,

Things carried on with Isadora in essentially the same manner after that minor indiscretion. Well, I’m not sure how minor it really was: Time and treachery have taught me that cheating is serious business, but at that point, I just figured it would be easier on all parties involved if I considered it minor. It would come to pass that I would view my offenses as falling into two categories: major offenses, which involved handcuffs, and minor ones, which didn’t.

Speaking of which, I suppose it’s about time we get around to discussing handcuffs, Dionysus. It’s one of my least favorite subjects, to be sure, but they would become a recurring theme in our relationship, wouldn’t they?

And, funnily enough, that first major offense was also a minor offense of sorts.

Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XVII: High Infidelity

Standard
Dear Dionysus XVII: High Infidelity

Dear Dionysus,

Yesterday I experienced quite an ordeal: I had my feelings hurt. Isn’t that something? I had forgotten I had any. It used to be that the only feelings I expressed were directly tied to bruised egos and broken hearts and blue balls. I could feel incensed and infuriated and shameful and guilty on occasion, but mostly there were just drunken highs and lows.

But what right do I have to feel hurt? I, who have hurt so many and done countless terrible, disgusting things (most of which I just can’t wait to go over in full detail with you, Dionysus), feel as if I gave up that right a long time ago. I didn’t think about how what I said or did might effect anybody else; that was completely irrelevant to me. All that was important was how things panned out for me and how they made me look and feel.

But it was a mild sort of solipsism, Dionysus. I usually didn’t go out of my way to fuck people over: It just sort of happened that way. You see, I’m not a sociopath or a sadist, just selfish. If what I wanted to do happened to be the most altruistic of deeds and made loads of people happy, then that was wonderful; If what I wanted to do made people cry or hurt or feel terrible about themselves, then that was just as wonderful. I did whatever I wanted regardless and passed off all I did as deeds bred of necessity. And a lot of times they were, Dionysus. At least you led me to believe they were: I did everything you told me to, mate.

Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XVI: Blue Roses & Red Tides

Standard
Dear Dionysus XVI: Blue Roses & Red Tides

Dear Dionysus,

I have a thing for blue roses. I have a bunch of fake ones in a Pierrot vase in my room; I have an antique blue rose pin that I wear on my overcoat; I have a blue rose hair pin that I stole from one of my romantic interests. I like blue roses. I always have.

It started out because I thought roses were aesthetic and my favorite color was blue. I had no idea that they represented unattainable love or, more specifically, staying hopeful in the face of unattainable love.

Without even knowing it, I was projecting what was an immutable reality for me: love was unattainable. I didn’t know what love was, Dionysus. I passed off inflated ego and sexual satiation as love, and whenever those were taken away from me, well that was heartbreak.

Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XV: Bon Voyage, Virginity

Standard
Dear Dionysus XV: Bon Voyage, Virginity

Scroll to bottom for song to be played whilst reading.

Dear Dionysus,

All this talk about sex has gotten me a little worked up if you know what I mean. I’m rather sensitive about the subject at the moment; sore, even. I won’t go into graphic detail (Protestant upbringing), but you can call me Onan The Barbarian.

I’m only kidding, Dionysus. There’s nothing barbaric about masturbation is there? It certainly doesn’t seem to me as primal or bestial as the coupled variety. After all, even the lower order of beasts copulate with one another, but only the more evolved species copulate with themselves.

Sexual urges are burdensome, Dionysus. They’re a nagging swarm of gnats that simply won’t go away. You can stave them off for awhile, but they always return, don’t they? And it’s especially tricky when the only swatter you have handy is your hand, dig?

Read the rest of this entry

Dear Dionysus XIV: A Jerk To Skirts

Standard
Dear Dionysus XIV: A Jerk To Skirts

Dear Dionysus,

Did you know that this is the longest I’ve ever gone in my adult life without any intimate physical contact with a member of the opposite sex? It’s true.

I hope you don’t misunderstand me: I’m not lamenting this state of affairs, but rather pointing out the fact as evidence of how drastically different things have gotten. There was a time where I would have lost my mind if I didn’t lose my pants, dig?

Oh but I loved them all in my own special, solipsistic way, didn’t I? Even if it was only for a night or an hour or just one drunken exchanged glance across a crowded barroom, I loved them all. Except I didn’t really; I loved myself. Or rather, I loved the way these women, whether they were dive trollops or convent nuns, made me feel. They gave me everything I could never give myself: validation, self-worth, a sense of importance. I wanted to be their chivalrous champion for all of eternity (or until I got bored of them or they got tired of my insanity, at least).

Read the rest of this entry