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Archive for October, 2010
(Continued from CHAMPAGNE DREAMS 2)
It may come as a surprise to the depraved readers of this blog, there actually exists a species of glittery gay that enjoys the viewing of professional sports. Like a unicorn or elf, this mythical beast is the stuff of lore and is sometimes spotted in it’s natural habitat – a sports bar or (heaven forbid) a HOOTERS where it lustily enjoys the requisite high-fives and butt slaps of drunken straight dudes, the dried out and inedible chicken wings not to mention the omnipresent fake tits of the HOOTERS bar maids. While I also enjoy a drunk straight dude for my own dark reasons, I can’t say that I would want to spend an entire afternoon discussing statistics or player salaries while blue cheese dressing drops from his mouth.
Years ago, my spouse and I befriended one of these elusive sports gays and were even invited to it’s house to attend a super bowl party. Like most COMPLETELY clueless gay boys, I assumed that purpose of the Super Bowl party was to view the expensive, over-hyped spots that ran during the commercial breaks, not to actually view the tedious game itself. I was wrong, shockingly wrong. Sports gay invited over a gaggle of it’s breed to view this ‘happening.’ The moment the game began, the party came to a complete standstill and every carefully moisturized, maniacally manscaped face was glued to the idiot box. After each play, this band of sports gays (an oxymoron) would hoot and holler vocalizing their pleasure over some yardage gained or their disappointment over some ref’s call. After a rather viscous on-screen tackle, the gathering’s gays oohed and ahed as you might expect a room full of dreary straight guys would do, however, with one small and telling difference.
Our host suddenly announced his supreme disappointment that the player at the bottom of the pile, who at the present time was being airlifted to some medical facility, would no longer be playing and was like…’totally cute!’ Suddenly, all hell broke loose and each attendee began to debate which player was the cutest and who among them had the hottest body. It dawned on me what this Super Bowl party was really about. My husband George and I had inadvertently fallen upon a group of men into the kinkiest, vilest, most twisted fetish we’d ever heard of – professional sports teams!
(To Be Continued)
(Continued from CHAMPAGNE DREAMS)
My eight-year-old Ethan needed new cleats, and I wanted to get fucked up in a picturesque Parisian cafe – What to do?
While smashing around the french countryside this past summer, I had the fortune to visit the holiest of francophile shrines. If in your naivete you’re thinking the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or Notre Dame you’re way the fuck off. No my dears, I refer of course to Les Caves de Veuve Clicuot Ponsardin, makers of the best champagne on Earth – Veuve Cliquot. In the annals of this blog, I’ve often extolled the virtues of this magical elixir and it’s fanciful, yet frightening effects upon yours truly. Others (those less informed than myself) have stubbornly tried to steer me towards Dom Perignon or Crystal (Ugh) but I’ve remained faithful to my true love – Vivie. You may think that it odd that I’ve chosen to give an inatimate object a nickname, but that in itself should give you some idea as to the esteem by which I hold my true love.
Going to Les Cave de Cliquot was like visiting the White House . The place reeked of history, solemnity, and unrelenting arrogance. Despite spending ungodly sums of money on their wines stateside, les staff de Veuve Clicquot viewed me as a typical American tourist and when not outright insulting me, treated me with calculated indifference. I found myself nearly begging the perfectly coiffed, silk scarf and pearl-wearing clerk to PLEASE, PLEASE take my money. When that little bitch finally consented to run my card, she did so with such contempt, that you would have thought I tried to blow a booger on her.
‘Merci’ she sneered, as she tossed the wines into a carrie-all.
In hindsight, her magnificently choreographed hostility gave me insight as to why straight men like to visit Dominatrixes. The pleasure one gets from ‘Vivie’ after enduring such Chanel-scented abuse, almost gave me a boner. Thank you, ma’am! May I have another?
Why couldn’t my son Ethan be like that gorgeous bottle of ‘Vivie’ that sweated sweetly before me in that darling little french cafe? My bottle of ‘Vivie’ never whined, was never over-tired and sure-as-shit never called me ‘fat ass.’ Not only that, ‘Vivie’ didn’t need cleats for some dogshit baseball game, or was it soccer? Goddamn it, why did I have to be so gay and know absolutely NOTHING about sports? I was on the verge of a full-on. glitter-infused bitch fit when Pierre, the swarthily handsome waiter whom I’d been lusting after, warily approached my table.
“Pardon, Monsieur – is there anything I can do for you?”
“Oui, Pierre, there is ABSOLUTELY something you can do for me,” I answered lecherously, “something most important and most personal.”
(To be continued)
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