I don't cook.
I'm not sure what my problem is.
I love food. I love good cooking.
I just can't seem to bring myself to prepare a meal.
If it takes more than 2 steps or has more than 2 ingredients, I'm
All those dishes to clean. All that stuff to put away when you're done.
All that effort that must take place between NOW and FOOD TIME.
I kinda revert to scavenger mode when I am hungry. I look through the
cabinets and fridge for pre-killed carrion.
Common lunches for me include: a can of Tuna eaten straight from the can.
A bag of turkey Jerky. Leftover pizza.
When I am feeling bold I actually heat something up. Like a single serving
microwave meal. Or a can of soup. When I see people eat meals with
multiple dishes (i.e. a side dish of vegetables) I'm so impressed.
I watch my brother prepare a salad and I'm awed by the sheer number of
ingredients. You cut up 6 different kinds of vegetables?! Is the Queen
coming to dinner?!
Now, I should be clear that it is not that I don't appreciate food. It’s
just that I'm clinically impatient. I want to eat. Now. Preparing food
means that I will be eating later. You see my dilemma?
The odd thing is that food is actually very important to me.
And I mean that in more than a "I am a human and therefore require food to
Maybe it is my difficulty with making food that makes me so appreciative.
I truly see cooking as an art form. And one that is every bit as beautiful
and worthy as something on a museum wall.
Its very Burning Man -- transitory art --To be appreciated in a moment.
One way that I remember to stay appreciative of the art of cooking is by
My brother, his fiancé and I say grace whenever we eat together.
We thank the farmers for growing the produce. We thank the animals (if
there are chicken or fish in the meal) for giving us their energy. And we
recognize that the food was prepared with love.
It’s rarely a religious grace. Just 5 to 20 seconds to remember our blessings.
Think of family and friends. Try to glimpse the miracle of existence. And the way this meal fits into that whole mind-boggling occurrence called life.
Just 10 seconds in that space can make a huge difference.
Maybe someday I'll have the discipline to meditate. Maybe someday I'll
have the patience to prepare an entire meal.
Until then I'll keep scavenging…and trying to take a breath once a day to say
How cool would it have been if the nickname “dog-shit guy” had stuck with me? Unlike the nicknames I’ve given myself (Big Dawg, Captain Funtime, Senor Smooooth and Smarty McBrainenhauser), this one was associated with an unfortunate step and some canine fecal matter. Not the ideal way to be remembered and definitely not how you want to start a relationship.
Let me take a step back, I no longer date. Not because of my remarkable ability to seek out and step in dog droppings nor my interest in self-love – but because I’m engaged to be married to a wonderful woman. She’s truly an amazing person who gushes with love and positive energy. She makes me laugh, she makes me feel loved, she makes the world a better place and she makes me a better person.
She does not, however, make me miss dating.
I never really went on ‘dates’ that frequently. I often had girlfriends and spent most of my dating years in monogamous relationships, except for a few exciting times and many more celibate ones. Meeting women was never a pleasant experience for me and dating isn’t really very fun. The prospect of having sex with someone new is exciting, but the effort to getting to that point can be exhausting and fruitless.
While I’ve always been confident that I was a good guy to go out with (and given the award in my college freshman dorm “Most Likely to Take Home to the Parents”), I tend to shine after knowing me for a bit as opposed to a two minute conversation yelling over music at a dance club. Like the gangly guys on the track team, my strength is in the marathon as opposed to the sprints.
Knowing that I become a more attractive partner after being around me for a while, first dates are tough to get excited about. Scheduling a first date is exciting (oh, the possibilities! Will we kiss? Should I bring a condom? Is she really a man?), but actually going on the first date tends to be anxiety-riddled and brutal.
When you first date someone, you get to learn different aspects of their life – then judge those aspects accordingly. She’s in a band? Cool. A Christian band? Oh. She doesn’t like avocados, does that matter to me? Her nostrils are different sizes, will that mean our kids will look this way? And before anyone feels that I’m being rude here, she’s doing the same thing (He wore his high school letterman jacket, is that cute or sad? He referred to the waiter as ‘strapping’, is he gay?) Each person then weighs the pros and cons of each quirk (and how much can be ignored based on how attractive they are) and choose to move on or not from there.
The last date I went on before I began dating my fiancée was a fitting end to my wild and not-so-crazy dating days. She was an attractive woman I had met out dancing. She was sexy and fun with an alluring tattoo on the small of her back that peaked out of her jeans. We made plans to go to sushi and see how we hit it off. This would be the time that she’d figure out if I was scary or not and I’d figure out if she was more than an attractive shell.
Needless to say, we didn’t exactly have a meaningful conversation at the dance club.
“Hi, I’m Jim.”
“What? I met you at the gym?”
“No, my name is Jim”
“You go to a gay gym?”
I arrived to pick her up, psyching myself up for the evening. “You’re a cool guy, Jim. Any girl would be lucky to date you. No pressure. Talking to yourself as you walk to the door is endearing, not creepy.” We greeted each other and walked to my car.
Of course, as a gentleman, I went to open the door for her. I walked around and the car and grabbed for the door handle. As I opened the car for her to enter I felt a peculiar sinking sensation in my left foot. “Hmmm,” I thought, “the grass here is suddenly suspiciously soft.” I smiled at my date as my mind raced with alternate possibilities (A small mound of dirt? A malleable tuft of grass? Some child’s play-doh left out in the yard?) Truly no just universe would be so cruel as to have me step in dog shit on a first date, right?
Once she was safely in the car I walked a few steps away and confirmed my fears. I had indeed stepped in a pile of shit and it was not pretty.
Could I get away with not saying anything? Maybe I could just drive to the restaurant, get through the meal and drop her off without her noticing the smell or appearance of my shoe? “That’s crazy!” My non-insane conscious replied, “the grooves on the bottom of your dress shoes are filled with crap, you have to do something about it. The alternative means she doesn’t think you stepped in dog shit, but that you smell like it.”
I took a deep breath and told her that I had to go inside to clean my shoe. I had stepped in dog shit and if she could kindly erase any memory of the event, or at least stop giggling, that would be just great.
After several minutes of scrubbing my shoe (Does it still smell? Do I smell? Why is this so hard to clean? Am I the worst date ever? Will I ever be clean again? Is there any chance that she’s into freaky fecal fetish stuff and this is turning her on?) we went on with the rest of the date.
Dinner was fairly unmemorable. She was looking for a husband and I was looking to end the date and soak in and drink rubbing alcohol until all odor and memory of the evening was gone. I dropped her off and we said we’d talk again. I think we both knew this would be a tough first date to recover from.
I ended up running into her a few weeks later. She introduced me to one of her friends who promptly exclaimed, “Oh! You’re the ‘dog-shit guy’!” Yep, that’s me…but feel free to call me ‘Senor Smooooth.’
I’m not exactly sure why, but it seems to me as if the majority of the people that were out this weekend were on a mission to get as absolutely shitty drunk as they could possibly get. Friends and strangers alike seemed to be keen on drinking beyond their means. If nothing else, it made for an entertaining weekend. Fortunately (unfortunately?) I haven’t felt that same need to become completely inebriated.
I’ve always been the kind of person that enjoys a good buzz. In college, I was happy with a bongload and a 40 ouncer of Mickey’s. Hell, I wouldn’t even be able to finish a 40 ouncer of Mickey’s nowadays. Even back then, I think I only really drank about two-thirds of the stuff. By the time I got down to the last third of the bottle, it was usually warm and even more awful tasting, if possible, than it was when I first opened it. Ah, the stinky goodness that is malt liquor! The appeal back then was to get the most bang for your buck. A 40 of Mickey’s cost about $2.50 and, coupled with a bongload of some chronic weed, it made for an evening of buzzy goodness. I didn’t need anything more than that. In fact, I was well aware that more of anything was liable to make me sick in some fashion.
Times have changed since my college days (10 years ago now?!). I’m much more selective about the alcoholic beverages I choose to imbibe and I still smoke weed, but I still take a more moderate road than some of the people I’ve known through the years. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about getting a good buzz, but I’m also about maintaining my faculties while I’m buzzing. Interestingly, it seems like many people don’t follow this same line of logic. They drink. And drink. And drink. And drink some more. Finally, they realize they’re completely shitfaced. So they drink some more.
I remember getting to know a group of people about five years ago. They were going to Burning Man and a group of my friends and I were going to Burning Man as well. We decided to join forces and camp with this other group of people, even though we didn’t know each other that well. It ended up being a great blessing and we’re all still friends with each other to this day, but I remember being completely blown away by the excessive partying these people did. Compared to most people, I consider myself to be somewhat well-versed in the art of the party. I can hold my own when drinking. I know how to pass the roach of a joint without allowing it to drop to the floor. I can be entertaining and maintain most basic motor functions. Compared to this new group of friends though, I felt like a straight-laced Mormon. At Burning Man, they smoked weed first thing in the morning until they passed out at night. They started drinking at 10:00AM. They did ecstacy every day. True, we were at Burning Man, but they maintained a pace I simply wouldn’t even try to keep up with. Even so, hanging out with them always made me feel like I could increase my buzz even more if I wanted because, in comparison, I was still being pretty damn moderate.
There are a few different reasons I don’t like to get completely wasted. One of the top reasons has to be the way I feel the next day. We’ve all had those mornings where we just feel like complete and total ass. Your stomach hurts, your head is pounding, your leathery tongue tries to moisten your parched mouth which tastes like Ocean Beach at low tide. Your vision is blurry and light hurts your bloodshot eyes. Your clothes from the previous night are twisted around your body and cutting off the circulation to your extremities. Nine times out of ten, there is somewhere you have to be within 20 minutes of waking up and it usually involves your grandparents.
Despite the fact that I hate feeling hungover, there is an even better reason, which was illustrated to me amply last night, not to get too fucked up. I was hanging out at my neighborhood bar with a bunch of friends and acquaintances Saturday night. Everyone had already been doing quite a bit of drinking by the time I arrived there with a couple of friends. People stumbled into each other and were loud. There was nothing graceful about it. It was sloppy and unattractive. Also, many of these people weren’t the “lovable drunks with the hearts of gold” we’ve seen on T.V. and in movies. These people, who are the most respectful considerate people when sober, were mean-spirited and rude drunks.
One friend was particularly rambunctious last night. We had left the bar and were standing outside. My friend went back into the bar using a side door and left the door open. The bouncer walked over to the door and shut it behind my friend who, a couple of minutes later, came out the same door and, again, left it wide open behind him. The bouncer walked over again, shut the door and then, turning towards my friend, said, “Thank you!” in an irritated voice. My friend shouted back to him, “Thank YOU!” I had visions of my friend getting pummeled by the bouncer but, thankfully, nothing happened. Of course, telling your drunk friend that he’s being an asshole and expecting him to accept it is like trying to tell a Republican that Bush is a crook; no matter how you lay out the facts and how convincing your argument is, they will not believe you. They are able to feel justified in their beliefs through some completely inane logic. Both scenarios are frustrating beyond comprehension.
My point is, on any given night that I might go out to catch a buzz, the last thing I want to do is turn into a drunk asshole. I don’t want to fall into anyone. I don’t want to be obnoxious. I don’t want to spill my drink on anyone. I don’t want to yell nonsensical jabber. I just want to have a good buzz because it feels so damn good. Plus, someone has to keep their drunken friends out of trouble.
Today's entry is in honor of the Jewish holiday, Channukah. While I am not a practicing Jew, I was raised Jewish and it is, afterall, a culture as well as a religion. The origins of Channukah are pretty sketchy, but I believe that this holiday came about in celebration of a war victory sometime before Christ was born. In the Jewish tradition, it is important to keep the "eternal flame" in the temple lit at all times, thus the name: eternal flame. After this war, there was only enough oil to keep the lamp going for a day, but it lasted for eight. This is why Jewish boys and girls get 8 gifts during Channukah; one gift for each day the flame stayed lit.
What follows is a short one act play that I've entitled "The Fifth Day of Channukah: The Day of Uncertainty"
(Curtain opens. The scene is a partially destroyed temple. There has been a recent battle, but much of the carnage has been removed already. A group of elders are discussing something. Some children scamper in and out)
Shlomo: "Oy! I've got an ache in my tuckus that I can't get rid of!"
Herschel: "Damn it, Shlomo! No one wants to hear about the boil on your ass! We're all here to discuss what to do about this temple lamp."
Ezekiel: "Maybe you should try some ointment for that, Shlomo."
(The elders start to argue among themselves about what Shlomo should do about his boil. Rabbi Moishe steps into the temple)
Rabbi Moishe: "What the hell is going on here?"
(all the elders are silent. The tittering of the children can be heard quietly in the background.)
Shlomo: "Oh, Rabbi Moishe, we were just trying to figure out what to do about the eternal flame. There was really only one day's worth of oil to burn and, you can see, it's lasted us five days."
Rabbi Moishe: "Holy shit! Wow! Well, hey, how much oil do we have left?"
Ezekiel: "Well, we've used it all, but the damn thing keeps burning."
Rabbi Moishe: "Hmmm. There's no possible way that fuckin' thing can keep burning. It looks like this is the last day. What a miracle! We'll have to make some sort of holiday out of this where everyone gets five gifts to commemorate the five days that this lamp stayed lit."
Herschel: "Yeah, you're probably right, Rabbi. Look at that damn thing go, though! It's incredible. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that someone had added some oil, but Shlomo has been here the whole time tending to the flame. He said he hasn't seen anyone around."
Shlomo: "That's right."
(The elders and the rabbi start conversing excitedly about the miracle they have witnessed. Rabbi Moishe's arch rival, Rabbi Vader, saunters into the temple. All talk stops immediately)
Shlomo: "Oy vey! It's Rabbi Vader!"
Rabbi Vader: "So, Rabbi Moishe, news of your five day miracle has spread throughout the land. I have decided to come and witness this miracle myself."
Rabbi Moishe: (said disgustedly) "Hello, Rabbi Vader. Yes, please, look at this flame that has lasted five days but should've only lasted one."
(Rabbi Vader steps towards the "eternal flame" and tries to blow it out. He is knocked backwards by Ezekiel)
Ezekiel: "Look out! He's going to try and blow!"
Rabbi Vader: "Damn you, Rabbi Moishe! You and your followers have thwarted me for the last time! I challenge you to a fight so that all of the people in the land will truly be able to see whose kung fu is the best!"
Rabbi Moishe: "Alright, Vader, very soon you will see why I am the best rabbi."
Herschel: "Rabbi Moishe! No! You must let me fight in your place."
Rabbi Moishe: "No, Herschel, I have to do this myself." (to Rabbi Vader) "Come on. Let's go."
(Rabbi Moishe and Rabbi Vader square off. Vader moves first with a beautifully executed flying roundhouse kick. Moishe deflects it and performs his own special brand of kung fu chopping and kicking. A tremendous display of kung fu from both rabbis proceeds on the bima (that's the stage in a Jewish temple). Just when it looks as if Rabbi Moishe is about to win, Rabbi Vader shows that he has small, razor sharp knives attached to the long curls of hair hanging from his temples like all good hasidic Jews have. He starts whipping these knives around skillfully and dangerously.)
Rabbi Moishe: "Hm. I can now see what your kung fu is all about. It doesn't matter. You want to fight? Fight me!"
Rabbi Vader: "Yahhhhhhhhhhhh!"
(More fighting ensues. Fists and feet begin to blur. A cloud of dust envelopes them both. The scuffle stops and, after the dust settles, Rabbi Moishe is left standing holding Rabbi Vader's locks with the knives attached in his right hand)
Herschel: "Rabbi Moishe is victorious!"
Shlomo: "Rabbi Moishe's kung fu is the best!"
Rabbi Moishe: "Thank you. Thank you all."
Child #1: "Rabbi Moishe, will you teach me kung fu?"
Rabbi Moishe: "Yes, my child. In fact, every year from now on, we will celebrate the miracle of this light. We will call this holiday Channukah. We will celebrate for five nights because, really, that lamp couldn't possibly go for another day. On the fifth night of our celebrations, we will have kung fu fights between all the rabbis of the land to show which rabbi teaches their congregation the best kung fu."
And so, although Rabbi Moishe was wrong about the lamp, the rabbis get together on the fifth day of Channukah and challenge each other for the bragging rights of teaching their congregation the best kung fu in the land.
That's what Channukah is all about.
This is a story of misfortune, opportunity, triumph, despair and acceptance. We’ve all been touched by many winter holiday personalities. From the Frosty “the snowman” to the adorable elf who wanted to be a ‘dentwist’, we’ve welcomed these familiar faces into our homes year in and year out. But perhaps there is one face we cherish as much as the great man himself, Santa Claus. A face that has become synonymous with Christmas, celebration and overcoming adversity.
This is the story of reindeer named Rudolph. A so-called “red-nosed” reindeer who is known the world over. So just how did one scrappy reindeer turn a genetic mishap into a million dollar marketing machine?
Rudolph Reindeer was born to Walter and Loretta Reindeer during a particularly cold North Pole winter. Unlike other reindeer in the neighborhood Rudolph was born with a "special" genetic quality. A quality that would alienate him from friends and family, and drive him to become the most successful and famous reindeer the world has ever known.
Doctors call it "Scarlet Nasal Protuberance" or SNP but his friends simply called him "red-nosed". To put matters bluntly, Rudolph was born with a glowing red nose. This affliction occurs in only 1 in 350,000 reindeer births. Reindeer with SNP tend to spend their childhood days alone, often excluded from other reindeer games.
"Honesty, all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call me names. They never let me play in any of their reindeer games. Whatever. Those games sucked anyway. Can you name any specific reindeer games? (pause) That’s because they’re not very fun games."
Life had proven to be tough for young Rudolph or “Red Rudy” as he was known on the reindeer playground. With little support from a family that was embarrassed by his SNP and with peers who ostracized him, Rudolph turned inward.
“I spent a lot of time alone thinking up revenge fantasies. You know, your typical blowing-everyone-up type stuff. I was also writing a lot of angst-ridden poetry at the time. Pretty morbid stuff, lots of allusion to death and rejection. I was also pretty into Morrissey.”
This troubled teen would’ve never guessed that his revenge would be far sweeter than blowing up his community.
A typical Christmas eve around the north pole finds elves putting their finishing touches on toys, Santa double-checking his list and the reindeer elite preparing for their yearly marathon sprint across the globe. But then, one foggy Christmas eve, everything changed. Santa needed help seeing through the dense fog. It was too foggy to fly his sleigh…what could be done to make sure the Christian children of the world received their presents? An idea went off in Santa's head..."like a lightbulb".
"It was awesome. He came up to me and said to me in his cool, deep Santa voice, "Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?" I was all, "Hell yeah!"
Off they went, a jolly, red streak across the sky. The now-famous story was immortalized in song, books and animated TV specials. Rudolph, the reindeer with a genetic deformity, had become the wealthiest and most famous of them all. With this initial success came the thirst for more. More fame, more wealth, more everything.
Donner: "Being on Santa's sleigh team definitely gets you laid. But when you've got songs and TV shows about you...it's off the hook. He was out of control, man. I remember one time there must have been 8 female reindeer in his jacuzzi and he's yelling "which one of you (bleep) is going to (bleep) with my (bleep)!" It was crazy.
His addiction spread beyond sex and into snorting prescription synthetic lichen. While on synthetic lichen or "L-Train" he would become belligerent, bloated and tell bad jokes.
But one day, while telling knock-knock jokes to a limo full of reindeer strippers, Rudolph noticed the bright crimson of his nose fading. Doctors confirmed his fears, his excessive habits had not only dimmed his sense of good taste, but his nose as well.
Santa has little use for a drugged up, overweight reindeer on his team. Rudolph was eventually removed from his position on the sleigh team. After blowing the rest of his savings on L-Train and Swedish Elf porn, Rudolph found himself out of a job, out of money and the owner of a disturbing amount of Elf porn.
This dark period provided Rudolph with the motivation needed to clean himself up. He got off the drugs, began a high-protein, low-carb diet and saw the once proud glow of his nose return. Every day Rudolph climbs one small step back to becoming the reindeer that was once so idolized.
"I wanted to give back to the community that has given so much to me. I now work with SNP youths around the country and speak to reindeer high schools about the dangers of L-Train and knock-knock jokes."
Rudolph is building his life back one glowing day at a time.
"I'm thinking about trying to get a Holiday Stars reality show together. Like a ‘Temptation Island’ meets ‘Survivor’ type thing. I've got Frosty, the Grinch and the Abominable Snowman on board, but I'm still working on Scrooge, Snoopy and the Gingerbread man. I’d ask the Little Drummer Boy to participate…but, and it’s cool with me, I just think he’d be more up for a “Boy Meets Boy” or a ‘Queer Eye’ type makeover show…you know what I mean?"
Today (Dec 2) is the 5th birthday of cockybastard.com
A week later prehensile.com turns 6.
I can barely remember life before “@”. It’s hard to imagine not having a digital place to share.
I wonder where I would be without the net?
Sure, I’d be lost without mapquest.
I’d never make it to a movie on time.
And I’d have to read the newspaper to know what’s going on.
But I mean, deeper than that.
Who would I be?
I’ve heard of painters saying that they were married to their art…and that any woman in their life was a mistress.
I think I have a similar relationship with the net. When I say the net, I mean the amorphous input/output flow between online friends and strangers.
While I am immensely grateful for this 21st century existence, I wonder
about some of the consequences.
What important people in my life have I made to feel like a mistress?
I wonder if I would be a better partner in relationships if the net wasn’t there to tempt me.
And I’m not talking about being tempted by the AMPLE porn available online.
I mean the comfort it gives me. The ear and shoulder it provides.
Every girlfriend I’ve had (since falling into the digital world 6 years ago) has had an issue with my blurred boundaries of real life and digital life.
Is my inability to have a successful exclusive relationship tied to this input/output world view?
Despite my flamboyant photo shoots, I have devolved into a quasi-robotic USB compatible input/output device that shuns human contact.
Well, maybe not entirely robotic. But I am in front of a monitor way to much.
And sometimes that bums me out.
But sometimes it all seems beautiful.
Sometimes it feels like the world is becoming one big room.
And we’re starting to get over the awkwardness. We’re starting to make digital eye contact with all the “strangers.”
And the idea of a “foreigner” is meaning less and less.
We are forming communities based on ideas, not geography.
And some days, these digital communities blow my mind.
Even when I am all alone sitting in front of my glowing screen.
Yesterday while sitting at my desk in San Diego, I asked a question on my weblog about a neighborhood I’ve never been to in New York City. Within hours, half a dozen friends I’ve never met showered me with helpful advice.
Sometimes the global neighborhood feels so natural I almost forget to marvel at it.
Whether these are the first words of mine you’ve read…or if you’ve been subjected to my ramblings and webcams for years…Thank you.
Thank you from the core of my being. Thank you for helping me become who I am. Thank you for letting me break things along the way. Thank you for understanding that I’m not there yet.
And thank you for dropping by this little birthday party.
Before you continue on your digital path today, take a moment to think warm thoughts about all the other friends in the digital neighborhood.
And remember the mistresses, too.
My feet have always served me well. I’ve walked and run countless miles on them. They’ve helped propel me through water and have guided me on land by bicycle. My feet are my primary mode for getting around, even it’s to push the gas, clutch and brake pedals in my truck. For as much as my feet have done for me, I never thought that they’d actually start making me money. The best I’d ever done for them was cover them with good shoes and socks. Sure, I’ve scrubbed my feet with a pumice stone before and even lotioned them up, but I’ve never had a pedicure or anything like that. Nope, I never splurged on my feet.
With bills to pay and my finances on the brink of being non-existent, I answered an ad I saw online for in shape men with nice feet. Hey, my feet may not sparkle, but they look pretty damn good. Yeah, I’ve got a little bit of hair on each toe knuckle and a little bit on the top of my foot, but they look good. Some people will try to tell you that I have “hobbit-like” feet because of the little bit of hair, but I maintain that the hair is there simply because I’m a man. Regardless of the fact that my feet resemble those of a creature from Middle Earth, I answered the ad with a picture of myself (not my feet) and, like most ads I answer, forgot about it completely. Thus, it was with mild surprise that I saw a reply within a couple of hours of my initial email. Hmmm.
The guy explained that he was looking for male models for a foot fetish web site. He wanted to meet up for a few hours and take some pictures of me. I’d be making $50 an hour with the potential to make more if I decided to go completely nude. He said that I’d probably make about $200 from my first photo shoot and that there was the opportunity to potentially do another photo shoot down the line. I don’t know about you, but a couple extra hundred dollars for a few hours worth of posing in front of a camera seemed alright with me. He included a URL and password/login for the site so I could see what I’d be doing.
The site was as tasteful as a foot fetish site can possibly be. For the most part, the site is geared towards gay men, but they do have some female members as well. Most of the pictures were of guys in jeans and no shirt with their bare feet up on a table. Shit, I could do that. I didn’t delve too far into it, but was satisfied that, if I had pictures up on the site, I wouldn’t be completely ashamed.
After almost a month of trying to hook up with the photographer (he lives in Los Angeles), we finally set up a late afternoon session. He was driving down from L.A. and getting a hotel room. He had a few other men he was going to shoot while in the area. His plan was to drive down from L.A. on Friday afternoon and get to his hotel room by 4:00, so that we could then meet and do the photo shoot until 7:00. Of course, he had forgotten about the hellish traffic between L.A. and San Diego and arrived much later. We’d been in contact all through his harrowing drive from L.A., so I knew that our schedule had changed. Unfortunately, I was bound by obligations at 7:00, so our photo shoot would have to be cut short. Still, the photographer said that, if everything went well, he’d want to do another photo shoot within a few weeks. Sounded good to me.
I arrived at the photographer’s hotel right on time and made my way up to his room. I don’t mind telling you that I was a little bit nervous. He had asked me to bring 3 or 4 different outfits to change into. He also asked me to scrub my feet with a pumice stone and come unshaven. He wanted me to bring my shaving kit with me so I could shave while there. I knocked on his hotel room door and tried to maintain some semblance of composure.
Any doubts I’d had about the photo shoot evaporated within the first few minutes I was there. The photographer was a really cool guy. We talked for nearly an hour about all sorts of different things. He’s an aspiring fashion photographer and he showed me his portfolio (which showed some real talent). We talked and laughed and really connected as friends. Finally, it was time to get down to business.
The photographer asked me to put on my suit for the first series of pictures. He gave me a brief description of what he’d want from me. Apparently, when it comes to foot fetishists, some are very particular about what they want to see. Some have interest in the palms of the feet. Others enjoy looking at the tops of the feet or the toes. Still others get turned on by feet getting tickled. Furthermore, there is a contingency of foot fetishists who like to see people getting their feet tickled while bound. The many possible variations on the foot theme were staggering to me.
I did as I was told. The photographer took pictures of me sitting on a couch with shoes on. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. The photographer asked me to take off my shoes slowly, so I did. Next came the socks. Slowly. Meanwhile, as I was doing the poses, I talked seductively, “Oh yeah, big boy. You want me to take off my socks? Really? O.K. Oooo, look at that. I’m showing a little bit of my heel. Mmmm, you can just start to see the arch of my foot. Oh GOD! Look at my toes! Are you getting hot, baby?!” The photographer was doing his best not to jiggle the camera too much as he laughed.
Apparently, foot fetishists have a thing for socked feet as well as bare feet. I did a lengthy series of pictures with both feet up on a table, socked and unsocked. Every time the photographer would take a picture, he’d ask me to move my feet into a different position. Really, there are only so many ways that feet can be placed on a table. I think I went through all of the known ways and then made up a few of my own. The photographer was very impressed.
After awhile, the photographer had me do another series of photos; this time on the bed in my boxers (yes, I wear boxers). I went through a similar process of foot posing although I had a wider variety of poses since I was doing it laying down on the bed both on my stomach and my back. I was a natural. The photographer said I was very creative with my foot poses and he even talked about doing a video of me with my ongoing dialogue. There was more work to be done in the foot fetish market, that was for sure.
Two hours breezed by very quickly. The photographer and I agreed that we would work together again. In fact, I think I’m going to be huge in the foot fetish world. I’ve been waiting a long time to find a way to really succeed in life. I think I’ve finally found my gravy train! I’m wearing two pairs of socks at a time and polishing my feet every chance I can get. Look out foot fetishists, here I come!
Yes, I’m pretty gung ho about this opportunity. I’m very aware that, someday, these pictures could come back and bite me in the ass. I’m willing to take that chance. If my political career takes off and I’m asked to explain those pictures, I’ll tell the press the same thing I always hear. “I needed the money.” In the meantime, I’ve got another photo shoot set up for next week; 4 or 5 hours of my feet. This time, I’ll have to get a pedicure. Nothing is too good for my feet.
It’s a great time to be a nut sack.
Never before in history has so much time, research and technology gone into keeping a man’s goodies comfortable. While I’ve only taken a few courses in the history of male undergarments, I can assure you that we men (and our loins) have never had it so good. There is a below-the-belt, behind-the-scenes, under-the-trousers revolution going on.
I went into a Jockey store recently. Not the underwear section at a department store, but a Jockey-specific store. Had it been in a department store, it would’ve needed its own wing (perhaps the Wang Wing?) There were wall to wall undergarments. Like a kid in a…well, in an underwear store -- I marveled at what lay before me, behind me and beside me. So much underwear. How could shopping for underwear be overwhelming?
I knew I needed to get more underwear. While I’m partial to the metrosexual preferred boxer-briefs, I had a specific undergarment need to meet. When exercising I like the snugness of briefs to keep the baby-makers sheltered and close to the mother ship. I’ve worn boxers before, and frankly, I don’t get it. Besides the obvious tickling, when I have to hold my crotch while walking up or down stairs because my underwear offers no support, there is a problem. A woman wouldn’t wear a t-shirt and call it a bra, why do men wear a pair of thin shorts and call it underwear? (I also wouldn’t stick a feather in my hat and call it ‘macaroni’…but I digress.)
Wearing boxers only provides one positive outcome – it offers a layer of material between your nugs and your pants. In fact, preventing your genitals and their perspiration from rubbing on your pants *is* essential (and one of the top reasons for wearing underwear). However, you could be getting so much more from your chonies. Just as women find it uncomfortable to jog without a snug bra to support their breasts, don’t most men find it awkward to run (much less ascend or descend a staircase) without proper support? Wearing two pairs of shorts hardly seems like adequate support when exercising.
Which brings me back to the Jockey store. I figured I’d go in, find some skivvies in my size, throw down a few bucks and I’m out of there. In and out.
There would be no time spent in the changing room (I at least hoped they don’t let you try on the underwear). I wouldn’t be bogged down by an overwhelming variety of styles. And I imagined there would be no salespeople going on and on about how great my butt looked in whatever I was trying on (don’t the people at The Gap know I’m on to their little ‘ass flattery’ trick?)
Not so fast my friend. With literally thousands of different types of underwear to choose from, I was mesmerized.
How could there be so many ways to protect and provide comfort to my genitals? There were different cuts (bikini, Micro-3, classic cut, pouch brief, classic nylon, tall man, big man, midrise no-fly, classic low-rise, denim, stretch rib, no fly lo-rise, Dri-Y sport, string bikini and even thongs for men. Women, apparently, no longer have a lock on material wedges up their bum. Hurray for equality.), lycra, cotton, lycra/cotton blend, colors, whites, sport, casual, creamy, chunky, and on and on. It was as if NASA had taken an interest in keeping my groin comfy. What a time to be a nut sack!
My stunned look tipped off the saleswoman that I was stuck like a deer in…well, in underwear lights. At this point I imagined she was going to don rubber gloves and ask me to drop my drawers to make a proper recommendation for my particular genital covering needs. “Ah, the left ball is lower than the right and your wang has a slight curve to the left. You’re gonna want to go with the T-7 series lycra/cotton poly-blend lo-rise.”
After 37 hours of negotiating between hundreds of briefs and brief consultations with my attorney, the US Consulate and a 1-800 psychic line, I chose three different pairs (although, it’s not so much a ‘pair’ as it is one piece of underwear). One classic cut, cotton blue. One midrise, no-fly sport. And one Dri-Y ribbed. It sounded more like I was buying bait to go fishing. If we’re going to have the most advanced groin cozies in the world, I might as well take advantage of the variety.
I’ve been going over the owner’s manual for the undergarments I bought. I watched one of the instruction videos and it seems fairly straight forward. Apparently I can render myself sterile if I simply ‘throw-on’ my midrise, no-fly sport briefs so I’m not taking any chances. I’m on chapter 6 in the manual and I can now legally adjust the elastic while wearing the underwear. The Jockey apparel instruction night classes were part of the price so three nights a week I’ll be getting further teaching on how to get the most out of my bun-huggers.
I also applied for another pair still in development. If NASA decides that my sack fits their requirements, I could have the forefront of technological advancement literally grazing my junk with every step. Sure I have to wake up 2 hours earlier than I used to (per the instructions in the manual), but now my perfectly contoured bum will give those flattering Gap girls something to talk about.
Viva la revolucion!