Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Why Kate, Why?

(Sorry this post is late Loyal Reader. Took a while to get it right sinze it's a touchy subject. Probably still not perfect)

“Maria, my mighty heart is breaking.” –Rainier Wolfcastle

Today is a sad day. Kate Upton, my future trophy wife—and her trophy boobs—have turned on me. There I was, minding my own business and fast forwarding through the ads during Monday Night Raw, when I spotted her in a commercial and threw it in reverse. Because not only can girls with huge tits not lie, like I said before, but every thing they say is super important. And smart.

Of course, this is only true if the boobs are in proportion to the body, so don’t get any ideas about trying to grow your boobs by getting really fat. And remember, there is a limit to how big boobs should be. Once you can squash beer cans with them, they’re not  turn-ons, they’re weapons.

But I digress. What awesome wisdom was about to spill forth from Kate’s heavenly hooters—great band name—and, more importantly, what product did I need to buy to make them happy?

Imagine my shock and horror when that suave douche entered the scene and said “Kate doesn’t mind a man with a little hair on his chest,” and then Kate cruelly raised her eyebrow and said “but definitely not on his back,” then made a “Sorry back-haired guys, you won’t be touching these” face.

Talk about a boner killer. It was if the gates to heaven—ie, Kate’s vagina—had slammed shut. Because, of course, I have tons of hair on my back, way more than I have on my chest. Or on my head. I guess I could buy the shaver they were selling, but how am I supposed to shave my back when I can barely even wash it? My back is so broad, I can’t even reach parts of it without a (manly) loofa. And I don’t know what I’d do if someone hadn’t invented backscratchers.

With my dreams crushed, I could barely enjoy watching two oiled-up musclemen grappling in nothing but their manties. Instead, I was transported back in time, back to when Becky was still in law school.

I was visiting for the weekend and we were down in the student lounge to shoot some pool. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, a bunch of allegedly intelligent women were watching Sex in the City.

This episode centered around the prudish one. Well, the prudish one compared to the other ones on the show. Why they would choose to make the only young and attractive woman play the prude while the older women were constantly getting naked is beyond me, but that’s just one of the many reasons I didn’t watch this show. The main reason being, of course, Sarah Jessica Parker’s face.

I’ll never understand how Sarah Jessica Parker has a career playing anything besides wicked witches. I’ll also never understand how women can constantly whine about how the media creates impossible standards of beauty and unrelenting pressure to be skinny, yet still love Sarah Jessica Parker. She’s a stick. Actually, she’s like one of those stickhorses kids used to ride. It’s like she knew that if she ever got even slightly chubby she’d be called Sarah Jessica Porker—sister of SpiderHam—and decided to stop eating for the rest of her life. If there’s pressure on women to be ridiculously skinny, it’s coming from Sarah Jessica Parker, not from us guys. Contrary to popular opinion, most of us don’t like super-skinny waifs. I never met a guy who was attracted to Kate Moss in the 90’s and I’ve never met a guy who liked Sarah Jessica Parker ever. But Kate Upton and Scarlett Johanson...yeah we like them. And before you parrot the media’s BS about this being some new thing where “all of a sudden” men are starting to like curvy women again, go back and watch Dusk Til Dawn. Salma Hayek was all curves in that movie and there was no one hotter. Hell, go back and look at Kelly Bundy. Then look at these pictures and see if you’ll ever find a man who thinks they’re attractive.

(And this is after she's been airbrushed to look her veiny, horsey best)

Case in point, when men talk about Modern Family, they talk about Sofia Vergara, not Julie Boney—er, Bowen. Almost all of us prefer Kat Denning to her moppish co-star. We like curves and always have. We like boobs, not bones. We want some flesh, something we can grab onto, not just hang clothes on. Ok, sure, we do love some skinny girls like Megan Fox and Nina Agdal—mmmmm, Nina Agdal—and that’s a pretty high bar, but we’re not the ones who made the unhealthy anorexic the “standard of beauty.” That’s all on the gay fashion designers and Sarah Jessica Parker. And women went along with it. For some reason, women held this bag of bones up as a fashion icon when they should have chased her out of town with pitchforks and torches, and maybe tossed her into the river to see if she can swim. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure she can.

Anyway, this episode of SITC centered around the prude who had just dumped someone or been dumped or some other damn thing that no sensible person would give a shit about, maybe she broke a nail. So she was feeling depressed and unattractive, even though she surrounded herself with three hags, when suddenly she found herself being seduced by a stranger. At first she was disgusted because he was bald (ugh!) and pudgy (gross!) and short (vomit!), but somehow he charmed her back to his apartment.

At this point, I felt like I was watching a horror movie in a Harlem theater. All the girls were shrieking “No girl, don’t go in the house!” “Run Charlotte, run.” “Nooooooo.”

But Charlotte must not have heard them because she still decided to get naked. And that’s when things took a turn for the macabre as Charlotte made a terrifying discovery. Not only was he short and bald and pudgy, but he had...BACK HAIR!!!!! AAAAAAAAARGH!

And now I was intrigued. Could this horribly deformed man overcome his disgusting handicaps, thwart God’s will, and score the only attractive woman on SITC? Yes, somehow Charlotte managed to swallow her revulsion and presumably something else as she soldiered on and fucked him. What a trooper. But as I silently gave a fist pump of solidarity with my blobby, balding, back-haired brother who had beaten all the odds, the girls watching were pressed back in their seats, covering their faces. I can still hear the screams.

“Ew girl, nooooo!”
“Oh, this is sooooo gross!”
“I think I’m going to hurl.”
“Ugh, I can’t watch. Is it over yet?”

And suddenly, I understood why serial killers do what they do.

Flash forward 10 years to when I was watching some quality television—wrestling—and I was once again assaulted by the same vicious hate. Was I seriously expected to be tall, skinny, with hair only on my head and not on my back? How could I possibly meet this impossible standard I ask you, how?

Now if I was a woman and I killed myself in some horrible back-shaving accident, everyone would be furious. The media would never stop blaming itself for daring to tell me that I wasn’t perfect, thus giving me no choice but to take insane risks and torture myself trying to achieve the unachievable. Those monsters!

And yet, no one’s going to complain about this ad, unless there’s a woman somewhere who’s got her panties in a wad because it objectifies women—even though they’re the ones describing how men need to look—not to mention the fact that they mostly remain silent and look pretty while a man does the talking for them.

But imagine what would happen if this commercial was flipped around. Imagine if an ad starred Channing Tatum, Justin Bieber, and Ryan Gosling hanging out in a bar until some good looking woman walked by and said “Sorry ladies, Ryan Gosling doesn’t do fat chicks.” I bet you’re already cowering beneath your bed. A thundering herd would descend on Washington, angrily waggling their fists and crying out for justice. “How dare you suggest men don’t like fat women!” they’d wail, “We’re all equally beautiful, like delicate but enormous snowflakes.”

No, you’re not. Sorry, you’re just not. You’re not Heidi Klum or Padma Lakshmi, just like I’m not Colin Farrell. So what? It doesn’t mean you’re not attractive or beautiful, just not as beautiful as they are. You’ll have to work a little harder to succeed or get out of traffic tickets or find a lover, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. It doesn’t make it impossible. Hell, even Roseanne’s been married 4 times. And she’s rich. So however you look, and however bad you feel about how you look, you can find success and you can find love. And all without lying to yourself or complaining about some impossible standard or pretending that fat is beautiful. That’s not productive and it’s not healthy.

Because we’ve got this other problem; Our kids are giant fat fucks. They all look like Augustus Gloop or Violet Beauregarde after she chews the experimental gum. (Hey, these jokes are current again. Finally, something good about Johnny Depp’s Chocolate Factory remake.) And how are we supposed to do anything about childhood obesity if we’re too busy lying to little girls and telling them that fat is beautiful? Years ago, even before they named Gwyneth Paltrow their “most beautiful person in the world,” People magazine revealed their list was a sham by putting Gabourey Sidibe in it. And everyone was so happy. “Oh, what a victory for fat people, how progressive, what a triumph”. Are you kidding? Gabourey Sidibe looks like a chocolate munchkin. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, she probably just polished off a peanut butter waffle pizza and got that much closer to her destiny of replacing Wilford Brimley in those diabetes ads. That’s who you want to hold up as a role model? Do you really want to point at her and tell your daughters not to worry about their weight because Gabourey is beautiful?

But we still need to do something to keep girls from feeling bad about their looks and starving themselves to live up to “Hollywood’s” impossible standard, right? But even if we changed Hollywood, and made Melissa Mccarthy and Gabourey the lead of every romantic movie, there would still be a problem because good-looking women exist in real life. And men don’t need the media to tell us that we like them better. Maybe we should throw all the good-looking girls out of school and force the boys to only date the homely ones? Anything to keep girls from feeling bad about their looks. Because being beautiful is impossible. Unattainable.

Except it’s not. There’s literally a thousand of those impossibly beautiful women in Hollywood, in the music industry, in professional sports, and in the pages of the Sears underwear catalogue. And for every one of those, there’s another thousand still waitressing or stripping. There were gorgeous girls in my high school and college and now there’s even more at my office and, more importantly, at the gym. At any given moment, you can walk into a spin class or a yoga class at any gym in any major city and see a dozen fantastic looking women. But how? How are they achieving this impossible goal?

Well, for one thing, they all look different. There is no “standard of beauty.” Much as people like to pretend that men and Hollywood just love big-breasted blondes like Pamela Anderson and Kaley Cuoco—Kaley is fucking awesome by the way—there’s still Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell, Halle Berry, Beyonce, Shakira, and that fucking gorgeous Indian girl from college. Some people even think Khloe Kardashian is attractive. All different shapes, sizes, and colors but all equally awesome—except Khloe. And they never decided that they didn’t have a chance of being beautiful because they didn’t look like Barbi. They believed in themselves and they worked hard to be beautiful.

And that’s the other key. Hard. Fucking. Work. Yeah, some women have the genes, but the rest have to work at it. That’s why they’re in those spin and yoga classes. I see these women in the gym, doing work, kicking their own asses, and I want to applaud—which  I never do because complimenting a woman is creepy and should be outlawed—and not just for the skinny ones. They all deserve it, because they’re not quitting. They’re in there every day earning their beauty.

Sure, some of them are just doing it to get a man—or woman—which is apparently a terrible thing to do. But most of them are just doing it for themselves, to feel healthy, to feel the pride of a job well done.  

So maybe the problem isn’t that there’s a high standard, but that we spend so much time telling girls that it’s impossible. You might be saying “Don’t worry about being as skinny as her because it’s impossible,” but they’re hearing that they’ll never be beautiful. So they either quit or they go insane trying to prove you wrong. And the sad part is that it’s totally possible. Yeah, they’ll probably never be as skinny as Mila Kunis or Keira Knightley, but they don’t have to be. They just have to not be as fat as Gabourey—and really getting that big is the thing that should be considered impossible. It just takes some hard work and willpower, and they’ll be able to be a healthy size that they can be proud of. 

I’m not saying it’s easy. I’ve been a fat guy all my life and probably always will be. I’ve been working on it for 20 years—done every diet, every exercise, crossed the world on treadmills and bikes and ellipticals and rowing machines—but I’m still fat. So I know how it feels to try and to fail, to be the one that doesn’t fit in. Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I don’t understand. Do you think I enjoyed watching shows that only portrayed fat boys as evil bullies or pathetic jokes? Do you think I enjoyed standing in the corner at every dance, every event, never even kissing a girl until college? Do you think I ever noticed that all the girls who said they just wanted someone funny wound up with someone handsome, that I didn’t know every girl who said she wished she could meet a guy just like me meant a guy like me who also skinny? Do you think I never noticed that I don’t look like anybody on the Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues or the underwear ad or pretty much any superhero besides The Blob? If you want to talk impossible physiques, then pick up a comic book. Oh wait, you already have and for some reason only complained about the impossible looks of the women—who, by the way, typically have huge hips.

Why? Because only girls have feelings? Because only women ever think of dying alone? Men think about that stuff too. We just don’t let it control us. Either we get over it or we focus on fixing it instead of whining about it. Do women even realize how weak they make themselves look by always complaining and blaming everyone else for their problems? It’s almost as bad as admitting that you can’t figure out whether the toilet seat is up or down.

So stop worrying about it and stop pointing fingers at everyone. It’s not Kate Upton’s fault she was blessed with tremendous ta-tas, and it’s not the media’s fault that men dream about them. And it doesn’t mean that you need them to be happy. Just deal with it.   

Yeah, it hurt to hear that Kate Upton won’t have sex with me. But I’ll get over it. I won’t cry and chug a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, I won’t decide that I hate myself and never eat again. I won’t start worrying that Becky’s going to leave me for some smooth-backed stud. I’ll just keep working at losing weight and being ok with myself.

Besides, it’s not like I really ever had a chance at sex with Kate Upton. But if I did, you can bet I’d be willing to swim a mile in a lake of Nair for it.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Size does matter

You can tell a lot about someone’s wife by the size of the shower in their house. A regular bathtub shower combo was probably there when they moved in, but still means she might be adventurous. A tiny standup shower means she’s a prude. A spacious shower with a detachable showerhead or, even better, multiple showerheads means she’s a freak.

Because the bigger the shower, the better the possibility—and possibilities—for sex in the shower. There’s room to do it standing, sitting, lying down, bent over. It’s a kama sutra shower. Nothing’s holding you back besides a lack of adhesive ducks.

But tiny showers are worthless. You can’t do anything. Well, one thing, but it’s difficult and uncomfortable. If that shower gets put in, she’s saying the shower is for showering and the only sex is happening in the bedroom.

And you know the tiny shower stall was chosen by the wife because no man would ever choose it. Not that we love shower sex—ok, we totally do—but we want to keep the option open. The more possible places for sex, the better.

It’s the first thing we think of when we look at house or buy furniture. We’re checking out the size of the shower, the height of the kitchen counters and arms of the couch, the slipperiness of the floors, the softness of a carpet, the placement of the heating vents, the sightlines from the windows. We want it to be possible to have sex anywhere, any time, any way. Because then as soon as you even think of sex, we’re ready. We’re not wasting time getting to the bedroom. Too risky. Who knows what might happen on the way there. So we’re ready to do it on the floor, the stairs, the pooltable, the treadmill, against a wall, in a closet. And if we can get you to be adventurous in the house, maybe we can extend it to the outside world. Which is even better, because if we get you horny in a restaurant, we can’t risk losing that on the way home. That’s partly why we don’t like to talk in the car. What if we say something stupid and blow the whole deal?

So we always fight against redesigning. Fancy counters make the kitchen off limits. Hardwood floors are too slippery. And designing a fancy just-for-show living room is like announcing a death in the family. Because if the kids can’t play in there, neither can daddy. Next thing you know, we’re only having sex in the bedroom. And we’re always worried we’re not going to make it there.

So next time your husband is arguing about that new kitchen, don’t be mad. Be happy. Because it means he wants to fuck you. All the time. Anywhere and any way he can. Isn’t that better than granite counters?

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Hey, wait a second

Am I the only one concerned that this commercial seems to endorse abduction and gang rape?

Monday, May 13, 2013

The Best Day Ever

To imagine how a Crusader would feel upon discovering the holy grail, one must only look to a seventeen year old virgin feasting his eyes on his first pair of perfect, naked breasts. Could there be a more religious experience?  Firm, rounded flesh covered in smooth, pale skin like the marble of an altar, stained only by two dark red circles, like the dried blood of countless sacrifices to goddesses with breasts not half as beautiful as these.  It’s enough to make one drop to one’s knees and thank whichever deity was wise enough to craft these magnificent mammaries, and beg that this moment last for an eternity, for surely it could not possibly be surpassed in seven hundred and fifty nine lifetimes, let alone the paltry seventy or so years likely remaining. Unless, of course, if it wasn’t asking too much or upsetting some divine plan, maybe one could perhaps, possibly, pretty please, actually touch the breasts?

It is in just such a situation that we serendipitously stumble over Kyle Pozair, a rather tall epitome of a seventeen year old virgin.  Kyle had grown rather tall rather quickly at a rather young age, the sort of rather young age at which his rather young friends were rather in a lather regarding his rather remarkable resemblance to a chap named Frankenstein (we rather like saying “rather”). Yes, many a child had perched behind the pituitarily-powered Kyle in class attempting to affix a pair of bolts to the expanse of his neck or planted a bucket over the doors to douse him in green paint.  Kyle had often lamented his long lanky limbs and harangued his humiliatingly high head for making him the target of these cruel cruel hilarious children, but now he blessed his Brobdingnagian body, for though he had lost all feeling in his extremities and dropped to his knees an instant after the baring of the bounteous bosom, his height left him in a splendid situation, eye to areola as it were.  Kyle immediately understood the mythic tales of the Gorgon, for now, as he stared at those red unblinking eyes, peeking out from behind serpentine curls of long luxurious black hair falling from a head he could no longer remember, he realized that at least one part of him had quickly, quite understandably and almost painfully turned to stone, possibly explaining the aforementioned loss of feeling and cognitive ability. 

Kyle could not believe his luck as the leather bodice, which seconds ago had secured those succulent scarlet-tipped casaba melons, was slowly peeled back even further, revealing more flawless alabaster skin tautly stretched over a magnificent midsection marred—if you could call it marred—only by the most beautiful button of a bellybutton, which practically winked at Kyle as if to say “yes, this is really happening.”  His eyes tore themselves away from those titanic tits and sprinted down the belly to see—no, it couldn’t be but...but it was—a perfectly trimmed triangle of lush, silken black hair pointing at the holy of holies, a treasure trove of decadent delights that Kyle had only dreamed about when not watching them reenacted by marathon men and women as flexible as the plastic that made them. And yet, though this was no dream and surely no video, Kyle was sure he would not be allowed to finally experience this carnal cornucopia  if he couldn’t stop making that unfortunate fish face.  For what felt like forever, he’d been begging his eyes to cease their infernal goggling, struggling to wrest back control of his lips  to end their unseemly puckering, but his efforts were for naught.  He knew he could only have a moment or two before he was recognized for what he was.  Not the manly, macho, randy savage he appeared to be, a chained and leather stud who couldn’t properly turn his back on society because he was too busy lying on it while women fought for the right to ride his orgasmic obelisk.  Oh no, Kyle was a scared little boy playing a man’s game and now that he’d been handed his finest fantasies on a naked platter, he was—like a handless man with toilet paper—stumped.  He didn’t know what to do but he was sure that if he didn’t pounce on those plump pontoons soon, they would be put away and he’d be kicked to the curb, laughter ringing in his ears and an erection wilting in his pants, the perfect ending to this night that had started so poorly before taking a strange awesome turn.

But actually it wasn’t just tonight that had gotten off on the wrong foot, it was Kyle’s entire life.  Seventeen years ago, the womb had opened up beneath Kyle and started him on a downward slide that seemed to continue to this day.  After being forcibly evicted from his cozy home of nine months, he blinked the muck out of his eyes and found himself in a hospital in the suburbs of Lawn Guyland and immediately exploded with an impressive wail that could have catered to the finest waul in the country.  Fortunately, Kyle’s father knew just what to do for he was, after all, the city’s foremost gynecologist.  In fact, it was he who moments ago had grabbed Kyle by the ankle and yanked him from the uterus.  Grasping that same ankle, he had flipped Kyle upside down and administered a quick rap to the rump, the last spanking Kyle would ever receive, and handed him to his mother, a plastic surgeon who clearly would never do unto others without first having done unto herself.  And so, it began.

Kyle’s parents were unfailingly cheerful, all smiles all the time, even moreso since the wondrous advent of botox.  As far as they were concerned, everything was super duper, simply spectacular, just really great, thank you.  Life was a big bowlful of Thai food at a silent auction, all country club and cordon bleu, gin, tonic and Harry Conick.  God they were so lame!  They thought Kyle was happy with his DVD’s, HDTV, PS1, 2, 3 and P, I-everything and no less than three family dinners a week with them and their precious pigtailed little Suzie, but alas,  that was not the case.  Though the uninitiated and unintelligent may think it’s wonderful to have rich doctor parents, in reality the peculiar double whammy of a plastic surgeon mother and gynecologist father sucked more ass than Mrs. Pozair’s Liposucker 3000.

Let us begin with his mother, the plastic surgeon who was her own best customer.  As a young boy, Kyle always feared the pool parties where his mom would act as a living catalogue, displaying her wares in an eensy weensy, teenie weenie yellow polka dot string bikini and all the men’s pants would give her an exuberant thumbs up.  It only got worse as he grew up and he had to listen to his classmates graphically ponder what they would do to her gargantuan gonzagas or be forced at wedgie-point to graphically recall what it had been like to suckle on her bodacious balloons (slightly salty actually).

But even that paled in comparison to the problems caused by his father.  A gynecologist’s son can only get by for so long saying that “boys have penises and girls have vaginas” before his life is permeated by the pungent stench of his father’s work.  It all started to go wrong when Kyle was 7 and “Take Your Son to Work Day” landed him in detention for playing a most explicit game of doctor.  As he grew older, he came to the horrible realization that, between the two of them, his parents had already poked, prodded, probed, penetrated and pried open every piece of female genitalia within fifty miles.  If you took the ten greatest minds in history and locked them in a room for a hundred years, they would be unable to conceive a more frustrating situation than being a young man surrounded by all manner of pretty girls, cheerleaders, MILFs and dirty, perverted teachers evil enough to fulfill a high schooler’s wildest wish, and knowing that your father has already been wrist deep in their vaginas.  And, of course, they are all justifiably concerned that cold hands might run in the family.

Yes, poor Kyle Pozair’s life was replete with a multitude of miseries, each exacerbated by his cacophonously cheery parents and their unbending optimism.  Kyle didn’t belong with those smiling simpletons and, as a matter of fact, he didn’t belong anywhere. He was doomed to wander the world, alone with his misery. But one dreary, drenching day, he had an elating epiphany.  Misery loves company and there before him, sitting on the curb in front of Kmart, with rain running over their pleather jackets and mascara running into their eyes, with their heads bowed in despondence and an attempt to keep their cigarettes lit by shielding them with their overgrown bangs, were the most miserable people Kyle had ever seen:  The Goths.  They understood that life was like a box of shit where you always knew what you were going to get. They didn’t care that nobody cared they didn’t care nobody cared about them.  As an added bonus, their scorn of superficial beauty and their fatalistic attitude meant that they had surely never visited his parents.  In fact, Kyle imagined, the Goth girls would likely forgo tampons and menstruate down their legs just to rage against their machine.  While their lack of vaginal hygiene was truly disgusting, Kyle felt they more than made up for it with their possession of vaginas which, like pizza, are good when they’re good but even better when they’re greasy.  Kyle was so eager to join this cult of countless sorrows, he rushed home to empty his walk-in closets, grabbed his parents’ credit cards and bought every piece of black clothing he could find at the Gap and Banana Republic.

Going Goth was the greatest thing Kyle had ever done.  He’d never been happier than when he was sulking outside of Sears, snickering and spitting at the mindless middle-class, middle-management minions mincing about mired in a pool of suck.  But there was one problem, one miscalculation.  Kyle hadn’t realized that, unlike normal women, the FemiGoths tongue piercings and lower back tattoos were carefully chosen to conform to the accepted norms of rebellion, not to indicate their propensity for promiscuous cocksucking and anal love.  And so, Kyle, like all Goths, remained a desperate virgin.

But Kyle had resolved to resolve that problem tonight.  For on this glorious night, he was going to see every Goth’s dream team: the Suicide Girls:  A traveling troupe of traveling trollops, naughty nymphs and pierced prostitutes who desperately gyrated naked on strangers’ laps, praying that one of them would turn out to be Daddy finally paying attention.  Kyle hoped that they would come for his dollar bills and stay for his unparalleled tale of woe.  Decked out in the blackest of his black clothes, he headed out with high hopes, a wad of cash and four pairs of boxers.

But sadly, it was not to be.  The beagle nosed bouncer easily sniffed out Kyle’s fake ID and—more biceps and triceps than man—easily and literally bounced Kyle out of the club and onto the street where, suddenly, sitting on the curb and crying had lost its luster.  But then, between sobs, Kyle noticed a pair of wickedly pointed leather boots which seemed to go on and up, somehow disappearing underneath a leather minidress so tight it seemed to be painted onto the most beautiful women Kyle had ever seen.  One look up into her night-black eyes told Kyle there was more sexual pleasure in her right nipple than in an entire squadron of Suicide Girls.  And somehow, his pitiful weeping had been mistaken for the dark, sullen brooding of a manly Goth with a mountainous member and he was dragged to a seedy motel where he would surely be ravished and ravaged like never before.

And so, we’re back where we started, watching Kyle and the arousing Aphrodite, looking back and forth between the two, like tennis fans wondering when the match will start.  Kyle was frozen stiff—in more ways than one—by  a true case of his eyes being bigger than his penis.  Should he start with the left breast or the right?  Should he dive right in, face first,  or play it cool and order her to turn around so he could see the sweet can that put the “ass” in “fantastic?”   

As his mind ached with possibilities, his concentration was broken by a throaty chuckle which performed the amazing task of wrenching his eyes back above the neckline and back to those black eyes, which now twinkled in amusement.  Rapt, he watched as her hands rose to her neck, then slowly traversed the gentle slopes of her breasts until they were cupping the copious comely flesh.  After a quick squeeze, her fingers began circling her nipples until they grew even more erect,  an astounding feat matched only by the Herculean efforts of Kyle’s penis. Leaving the right hand alone with its happy task, the left slid over her belly and came to rest between her legs where her index finger vanished in an eye-popping display of prestidigitatory  prowess.  Kyle’s Adam’s apple jiggled frantically as her middle finger followed the index into the void.

Finally, Kyle could take no more and he leapt into action, pouncing toward her, ready to squeeze whatever he could grab and suck whatever would fit in his mouth.  With lighting speed, her fingers reappeared  and her left hand flew up, grabbed Kyle by the scalp and firmly held him at arms length.  Arms flailing, desperately trying to at least brush against those tantalizing ta-tas, Kyle nearly burst into tears, sure that this was the moment the football team would burst from the closet and reveal this to be an elaborate practical joke, ending in an atomic swirlie.  But all his fears, in fact all rational thought, was wiped away as she yanked his head back and kissed him hard, mashing his lips against his teeth.  He barely noticed the metallic taste of his own blood as her tongue invaded his mouth and used his uvula like a speed bag.  All the air seemed to be sucked out of him and he would have collapsed if she hadn’t ripped off his shirt and flung him onto the bed.

Dazed, Kyle watched as she smiled, wiped his blood from her mouth with her disappearing fingers and then slowly, leisurely licked them clean, before crawling onto the bed and reaching for his pants.  Joyously realizing her intentions, Kyle patted himself on the back for having the foresight to masturbate ten times before he left the house that day, almost reaching to record he had set on the day he had discovered his mother’s supply of implants.  As she peeled off his pants and boxers, Kyle’s penis, finally sensing salvation after years of loneliness and abuse, sprang forth like a humpback whale breaching the surface, poised to unleash its most massive eruption. As her hair cascaded over his groin and her blood red lips approached his trembling penis, her soft, pink tongue darted out and ran over her teeth, which seemed a lot sharper than Kyle remembered.  Actually, he couldn’t even remember that she had teeth. Then her lips closed over Kyle’s shaft and his mind went blank faster than Michael J. Fox’s etch-a-sketch. 

From behind the bathroom door, I listened to the loud slobbering and sucking noises coming from the bedroom, as disgusted as I was aroused. And though nothing could stop me from entering the room—and my woman—I felt Kyle deserved these last few moments alone for, after all, they were his last.

When I entered the room, Lucretia was sitting on the bed, wiping the last of Kyle’s fluids from her chin. I was tempted to lick the few stray drops that had sprayed her bosom, but my appetite was soured by the sight of Kyle’s deflated—now detachable—penis lying in the corner staring at me with it’s unblinking eye, as if to ask “what the hell just happened.”.

“Did you enjoy the show, my love?” she asked, arching her back, raising her eyebrows, knowing full well that the show continued..

“Of course, but I’ll never understand why you can’t just bite them in the neck.”

“I could” she ran her tongue across her red-stained lips and teeth, “but I like having all the blood in one place. Didn’t you ever shotgun a beer when you were mortal?”

“That’s a delightful image. But why do you even go through this charade? Why not just hypnotize your meals like the rest of us?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she smirked, crossing and uncrossing her legs, watching my eyes react. “Any Vampire can control a mortal with their mind, but controlling them with your body”—she wiped a drop of blood from her breast and licked it from her finger—“now that’s special.”

I smiled and reached for her. “You know you could control anyone with a body like yours.”

She grabbed my hand and brought it to her mouth. “Yes, but after a thousand years of controlling the same thrall, it’s nice to see I still have the touch.”

“I’m hardly your thrall.”

“No?” she laughed, licking my finger “How many other Vampires watch their lovers with other men?”

“Please, they’re hardly men. Besides, I enjoy watching you debase yourself.”

“I’m not debasing myself. I’m debasing them. I’m in complete control.”

“You have a cock in your mouth.”

“And when I do, their life is in my hands. I can give them immeasurable pleasure, or unbelievable pain. I can make them do anything I want.”

“Yes but, I repeat, you have a cock in your mouth.”

She laughed and stood from the bed, pushing me away from her, before stretching herself like a jungle cat on the rack.

“You’re right as always my darling, I am debasing myself” she leaned forward, putting her hand on my chest and looking straight into my eyes, her eyes twinkling like a burgeoning galaxy, “I guess I’ll just have to never put another cock in my mouth—or anywhere else—ever again.”

She turned for the bathroom, then looked back over her shoulder, laughing at the look on my face.

“But maybe I’ll change my mind if you clean up this mess. Darling.”

I could still hear her laughing through the door, even as I bent to pick up Kyle’s discarded ding-dong. Poor little fella, at least he died doing what he loved. I flipped it onto Kyle’s still smiling corpse, then wrapped the body in the sheets and flung the whole bundle over my shoulder, like a demented Santa Clause preparing to bring a shocking present to an extremely naughty little girl. As I walked into the night air, I once again wondered if I’d been blessed or cursed to fall under the spell of this evil-woman child.

Ah, the things we do for lust.    


This story was partly inspired by a college debate when we were discussing the sexual dynamics of Basic Instinct. Yeah, that was a college class. I had to take Basic Instinct out of the library and watch a naked Sharon Stone on the library TVs, fast-forwarding and rewinding and using slow-motion to capture every nuance of the movie. Totally worth thirty grand a year.

We were discussing the first sex scene between Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone. Someone suggested that the scene was a fight for control, with each character trying to get on top and be in the dominant position. I pointed out that Michael Douglas must have won because he got Sharon Stone to go down on him and it doesn’t get much more dominant than that.

A heavily tattooed girl with lip and tongue piercings argued that Stone was actually in control, because she had all the power. She could give Douglas a lot of pleasure or she could stop and make him beg for more or she could just bite his dick off. My response was simple: “But you have a dick in your mouth.”

Victory! (Did I mention college was thirty grand a year?)

Of course, I have to admit that she’s not totally wrong because I’ll do almost anything for a blowjob. I’ll go the mall, watch an all-day Dallas marathon, or spend the day with my mother-in-law (obviously the blowjob doesn’t come from her). And of course, a good blowjob will make me forgive and forget almost anything. Erased all my wrestling from the DVR? Forgiven. Broke my PS3? Don’t worry about it. Kicked me in the balls? Just kiss it and make it better. There’s almost nothing that can’t be fixed by a blowjob...except maybe giving one to someone else.

So yes, I will admit that blowjobs give women a lot of power and control. But still, you’ve got a dick in your  mouth.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

The Billboard

The billboard

“Reality is very disappointing.” –Jonathan Switcher

I think I'm in love. With a billboard. Seriously.

It started a few months ago. I was trying to think of ways I could make better use of my time and realized I was completely wasting 40 minutes of every day walking from the Port Authority to my office and back.

For years, I've just plugged in my headphones, tuned out the world, and taken the same route to and from work, only changing it if I miss the lights. I'm in arguably the greatest city in the world—New York—and I'm just walking the same streets over and over again, barely noticing my surroundings unless I have to avoid a pile of horse plop or I get hit with a blast of warm, fetid air, like the city just farted on me.

So I unplugged and started trying to vary my route every day. Sure it's only a square mile, but I'm getting to see and experience more every day. When you walk the same path every day, just looking straight ahead, it's like you're walking through tunnels of grey buildings, chain restaurants, stores, and gaudy signs. But if you look around, and more importantly up, you discover the beauty all around you: Great architecture, beautiful fountains and sculptures, all kinds of hidden gems. I even found an MMA studio.

And then one day, I found her. The new love of my life. The Aeries girl. Oh my god.

I was walking through Times Square when I saw her in all her 2-story glory. It was just like all the cliches. I stopped in my tracks. My jaw dropped. For a few minutes, I was just another slackjawed tourist blocking the sidewalk like an idiot and staring up at something no one else seemed to notice. Her breasts, supported and plumped so nicely by a sparkly black bra, were amazing but it was really her face and personality that got me. There she was in nothing but a bra, smiling and staring you right in the eye, as if she was just the girl next door and there was nobody but you and her, and you'd known each other for years and what's the big deal if she's not wearing any clothes, I mean, you've seen all of her before, hundreds of times, because you're high school sweethearts, and you've never had eyes for anyone else and why would you when you're coming home to this every night?

There was another billboard above her, broken into 8 smaller frames, showing her in the same bra but making all kinds of goofy faces, to show she was a quirky fun gal—like Zoe Deschanel but actually sexy—but it was that first image that held me, lost in what could have been. Then the board changed to an American Eagle ad and I staggered away in a daze. I didn't get much work done that day.

That might have been the end of it if I hadn't walked by again a few days later and realized that there was more, oh so much more. This wasn't just 2 stacked billboards. They went to the corner of the building and connected to 2 more giant billboards, plus a long skinny one on top. And after randomly cycling through some other fashion ads, they all came back to the Aeries Dreamgirl. And not just still images, but glorious video.

Sometimes the screens combine into one huge shot. Sometimes they each have her from a different angle, in different clothes. In one screen, she's just wearing a men's shirt. In another she's lying down in a red bra and panties. In another she's jumping. Then she's taking off the shirt, rolling around in just her grey underwear. Some shots are focused on her breasts, or her flat stomach as she laughs, or her golden hair. But in all of them, she's in bed. And smiling. And looking at you.

And it's not even a “come hither, let's get it on” look. It's a “good morning on another great day together” look. An “it's great to be alive, what are we going to do today” kind of look. A “sure we could have sex right now, but maybe we'll have breakfast first, maybe we'll go walk the dogs—two labradors—around the lake and up the hills before we come back and have sex” look. Or a “should we just stay in bed all day, reading books or watching TV” kind of look.

And I love her. Or maybe, it's more the idea of her, of the life I imagine with her, the life I hope she actually has and the life I wish I had.

Now it's bittersweet when I see her. I still feel the love, the warmth, the joy of her beauty. But then there's the disappointment, the longing. That's not my wife. That's not my life.

My wife is fat and dull. Like my life. Two hours on a bus every day with a bunch of strangers silently dreading the day ahead. An hour every day walking across the city with millions of faceless worker ants. At least 8 hours in a little grey box that's just one of many little grey boxes inside one bigger box surrounded by other boxes, pushing papers, trying to be “creative.” Maybe an hour at the gym, lifting things for no reason or running in place. By the time I get home, it's usually dark and I've got maybe 3 hours before I need to go to sleep so I can wake up bright and early and do it again. And what have I got to do in those 3 hours? Eat dinner which probably isn't ready even though my wife got home before me, so I have to spend time cooking, do the dishes if I'm ambitious, put together our lunches, that takes an hour or more.

Two hours left, but for what? Not sex with my wife, of course. She's gone through a similar day (except she didn't cook or do the dishes) and maybe still has more work to do. And by now she probably has a headache. Or she's stressed out from yelling at her mom. Or she's just too exhausted. Or can't stop thinking about work. Or it's too cold. Or she doesn't feel sexy because she's "so fat and disgusting," even though I still think she's beautiful and I still want her. Want her so bad it hurts. But asking her is just asking for rejection since it's not the weekend (which is still no sure thing).

But I try anyway. Because I want her. So bad. But no, rejected again. Soundly. Usually yelled at for having the temerity to try to make love to my wife, to give her another thing to worry about. Don't I know she's too busy/tired/cold/stressed for this? I think that's why she spends so many nights going "oh, I've got such a headache" or "I'm so tired." Preemptive rejection. Hoping I’ll just take the hint and not bother asking. Nights like that I just head to the upstairs bathroom with my phone for an "epic dump" and wonder if she knows what I’m really doing. Sometimes I get lucky and she gives in, but only after sighing "fiiiiine," as if it's just another chore she has to do, as if she wants to make sure I know she’s only doing this for me and couldn’t be less interested. But I ignore that and we actually enjoy ourselves.

So another 15-45 minutes gone, maybe an hour and a half left. Should do something productive, maybe write something, but I've spent all day doing that. And I've spent all day talking too, so I don't want to do that, not that I'm a sparkling conversationlist anyway. And what would we have to talk about anyway? Work? What exciting things could have happened in the 10 hours since we saw each other last? Not much. That’s why married men can’t keep their friends’ secrets from our wives, because we’re so desperate for something to talk about.

So it's TV. Another night on the couch, sometimes on opposite sides, sometimes with her resting on my shoulder or on my lap, watching something brainless, bored but content.

But there's still the weekend. Two full days of freedom and excitement right? Nope, two more days of sexual frustration. Because now it's the weekend when we should finally be able to have sex. Plenty of time, nothing else to worry about, no responsibilities. Should be a slam dunk, right? But she's so exhausted from the whole week. Friday night, she passes out after dinner. I'd pass out too but I've got to stay up in case she wakes up and we can have sex. Sometimes I get lucky, but usually I realize she's done for the night—even though she said she'd wake up—and I go to bed.

Now Saturday, the Sabbath. She either wakes up before me, eats breakfast and goes back to sleep, or she just sleeps straight through until noon or later. Then, instead of finally having sex, she has lunch and goes back to sleep. For hours. And again, I'm trapped in the house, waiting for sex. Somehow, she manages to sleep the whole day. Or she wakes up hungry, with bad breath, and then just wants to read a book or take nap #3 if there's time. Then once the Sabbath is over, we—I—have to do the grocery shopping and make dinner. And then I have a choice, stay home and do nothing hoping to get laid before bed, or go do something which—with or without her—means getting home late enough that it's time for bed again. And then I start getting pissed. We had a whole fucking day of doing nothing when it should have been a whole day of fucking, why the fuck didn't we fuck? Then either she's pissed or I get "Fine," clearly the sexiest word in the English language. Let's get this over with, even though she's cold and somehow still tired. So even crossing the finish line carries emotional baggage.

Same thing Sunday. Sometimes she has to work all day, sometimes she manages to sleep even more, sometimes we go do something together. But still, getting her to pull it out is like pulling teeth.

What's wrong with her? What's wrong with me? She seems to enjoy it, I don't think she'd bother faking it. She says it's not me, usually. Sometimes it is “my fault” because I said something stupid a few days ago that she's still thinking about even though she doesn't really remember it. But otherwise, it’s not about me. She says she's enjoying herself during sex, that I'm attractive, that she likes it. It's not me, it's her. But what does that even mean? And why won't she tell me what to do to fix it? Instead, I have to spend almost every day feeling frustrated, pent-up, rejected, depressed. It's easier to just take my phone and go upstairs.

This wouldn't happen with the Aries girl. Clearly the cold doesn’t bother her, she spends all her time in her underpants. She's in a bed but having fun, not sleeping. Not stressed, not mad at her mother. She looks ready for anything, sex or otherwise. She looks perfect.

I'm sure she's not, and life with her would have some bumps, but it's got to be better than this.

Imagine my surprise and glee when I received the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and saw my dreamgirl in a body-paint leopard print bikini. Turns out the girl is Nina Agdal, and I love her even more now that I’ve almost seen her nipples through an inner tube and a few wet gauzy t-shirts. Finally, the Swimsuit Edition had something worth masturbating to.

Also, turns out there’s a new video for every season so now I’ve seen her dancing around the house in her underwear, wearing workout clothes that may as well be underwear, frolicking on the beach, and swimming in the ocean. She really gives new meaning to the term “breast stroke.”

I’ve got to say this is horribly irresponsible. How can they put Nina Agdal on two-story video billboards in the middle of Times Square? Who can drive with her dancing around up there? They’re lucky she isn’t causing 10 accidents a day. I just hope word never gets out about the billboards because men will probably start flocking to Times Square, like people making the pilgrimage to the see the Virgin Mary in a slice of French toast. And if they ever stopped rotating in those other boring ads, men would just stand there staring upwards with their mouths open and drown in the rain like turkeys. If that board was just Nina Agdal 24/7, I’m pretty sure the streets would run white with jizz.

The Jason Collins Conversation

“Everyone’s funny. Now you funny too.” –George Thoroughgood

Everyone’s talking about Jason Collins, so I guess I will too. I don’t really care that much about the story—I have no issue with gay people and certainly not with gay people playing sports so it’s kind of irrelevant to me—but the conversation is interesting. I just can’t believe some of the dumb shit that people are saying, and I’m not just talking about just the ignorant bible-thumpers or the homophobes or the people making crude jokes—ok, maybe I don’t mind the crude jokes, excuse me for having a sense of humor.

Anyway, let’s break down some of the things people are saying

1) This shouldn’t even be a story
I understand this and not just because Jason Collins is barely an “active” basketball player. It’s because he isn’t the first gay athlete to come out or the first male gay athlete or the first gay male athlete in a major sport. He’s the first active-gay-male-in-one-of-the-four-major-US-sports to come out. Any time you need to put that many qualifiers on something, it automatically seems like less of a big deal. But more importantly, no one’s really surprised about this. There have been so many athletes coming in other sports or after they retired from a major sport, so it was pretty obvious there must be a few playing somewhere in a real sport. Besides, anyone paying attention to the tone of the whole “when will an active gay athlete come out in one of the major sports” conversation could tell that there wouldn’t be any serious backlash to someone coming out.

Every time an athlete—even one as prominent as Kobe—said anything remotely homophobic, the media and the league fell on them like a ton of bricks and got an apology. There have been many prominent football players speaking out for gay rights and many athletes taking part in anti-gay-bullying PSAs (Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Anti-anti-gay-bullying PSAs?). Yes, Jason Collins is probably going to get some nasty emails, maybe a crazy stalker or too, maybe even a difficult teammate or two, but that’s it. Anyone in the stands or in the locker room who makes some crude comments is going to get shouted down and embarrassed. It shouldn’t really be surprising that most the uproar is coming from the media.

But I’m straight, as are most of the people saying this shouldn’t be a story, so obviously it doesn’t matter to us. But anyone with a brain should be able to see why this is important to the gay LGBT community.

Sure, it may be hard to understand why people are calling him “courageous” or “visionary” when it seems clear his career was never in danger, but that’s us looking at it from the outside. I’m sure Jason was pretty confident that he’d be ok too, but he couldn’t know for sure. There was still that little risk that he was doing something he couldn’t take back, that he was about to do something that would ruin his career and his life in a way that could never be fixed. It’s probably the same way people feel the first time they go sky diving. You know you’ve got a parachute, but there’s no getting back in that plane if the parachute fails, so that first step out is still terrifying.

And I’d guess most people in the gay community feel the same way. They probably—hopefully—feel some level of confidence that coming out will be accepted by their friends, family, and colleagues, but there’s always a chance that it won’t. And if it goes wrong, there’s no going back. So to see someone risking his livelihood and his reputation because he feels the need to tell the world who he is, to finally freely live his life the way he wants without hiding, is probably pretty inspiring.

Even more for gay athletes in high school or college, especially in Texas or any of the square states. And I’d guess they’re still pretty hesitant because they’re not as well-established as Jason Collins. Even though he’s not a superstar, his body-of-work already removes all the concerns that seem to surround the gay athlete—that they’re not tough enough or they’re going to eye-rape their teammates in the locker room. No NBA GM is suddenly going to change their opinion about him now that he’s “suddenly” gay. They know whether or not he can play and that’s really all they’re going to care about.

2) Why is this such a big deal and Brittany Griner’s announcement wasn’t? How sexist!
This is so dumb it boggles the mind. If you’re making this argument, please sterilize yourself before you infect the gene pool with your stupidity. There are so many reasons why the Brittany Griner story doesn’t matter that I can’t understand how any editor has let one of their journalists print such nonsense.

Jason Collins is a first, Brittany Griner is not. Let’s put aside the literally dozens of open lesbians in almost every women’s sport and focus on Griner’s league, the WNBA. Some of the biggest legends in the WNBA have been openly lesbian, and a good portion of the league still is. This isn’t just the typical “Oh, all female athletes are lesbian” stereotypes, it’s a fact. Cheryl Miller and Sherryl Swoopes are two of the biggest WNBA stars ever and both came out (apparently, just like the name Suzanne makes chicks grow huge boobs, the name Sh/Cheryl makes you a lesbian or a great basketball player). Brittany Griner doesn’t matter because she’s just the latest in a long line of lesbians.

“But she’s such a prominent athlete, way more prominent than Jason Collins” they say. ‘He’s just a journeyman, she was the #1 pick.” Yeah, in the WNBA. You notice how all the headlines about Jason Collins mention that he was in a “major” sports league? The WNBA is not “major.” It’s barely a step up from bowling.

And there’s another reason it didn’t matter when Brittany Griner came out. She was never in. We knew without being told. It’s like when Lance Bass came out and the cover of People (or US or one of the other magazines for morons) was a picture of him with the headline “I’m gay!” When I saw that, I turned to my wife and said, “That headline should say “No duh!” It probably would have even worked without the headline. Not everyone is as dumb as middle aged women in love with Clay Aiken. Brittany coming up was not surprising or unexpected, Collins was.

3) I don’t get it. Tim Tebow (or whoever) talks about his religion and people tell him to shut up. Jason Collins talks about sucking dick and everyone calls him a visionary.
Again, if you’re making this argument or something similar, please don’t have kids. Sure, people seem to get overly upset about Tebow’s religion talks, but that’s mostly because they hate Tebow. And also because Tebow is at least partly trying to force his views on everyone with his anti-abortion agenda and some other stuff. Jason Collins isn’t trying to force anyone to go gay.

But let’s put Tebow aside and just talk about athletes who talk about Jesus and why they aren’t considered “visionary.” The main difference—the one that you can see from space—is that these guys are talking about something that hundreds of millions of people agree with. They’re in the vast majority. They’re not in any danger of losing sponsors or getting fired or getting attacked just because they love Jesus. In fact, you can make any shitty movie or song you want and just say it’s about Jesus or Christians, and you’ll make a billion dollars. Just ask Kirk Cameron or Cartman.

Jason Collins is in the minority. In some ways, he’s the only one of his kind. It actually took some bravery to do what he did. He’s going to be under a microscope, even as he sits at the end of the bench doing nothing.

Hey, just like Tebow.  

4) He’s like the Jackie Robinson of gays!
Nope. First of all, Jackie Robinson wasn’t just the first-active-Black-male-athlete-in-the-4-major-sports. He was the first Black athlete in a major sport, period. Much bigger deal.

Secondly, he obviously couldn’t wait until the end of his career to pull of a Scooby Doo mask and yell “Ha! I’m Black. I was Black all along you honkies!” He had to put up with the hate and the vitriol from day one. He had to prove himself every day as the hate rained down. And if he ever fought back, it would have just been taken as proof that the haters were right.

Jason Collins had an entire career where he didn’t have to worry about the hate—although granted it was surely difficult living in secret, but that’s not the same. Also, at this point, the announcement won’t have a significant impact on his career. He is already established and proven. Everyone knows he can play. Everyone knows he can be in the locker room. This isn’t going to have a major impact on people’s opinions of him.

And he’s not going to face nearly the hate that Robinson felt. Anyone in the stands who yells “Fag” or “Homo” is going to be ejected. Anyone in the media who makes even the slightest negative allusion to his homosexuality (cough Broussard cough) is going to be crucified in social media. They might not get fired or even fined, but they’re going to think twice before saying anything. Robinson didn’t have that kind of protection.

Yes, Jason is and will continue to be an inspiration. But he’s not Jackie Robinson.

5) Somebody has to sign him now. Otherwise, everyone will think the NBA is homophobic.
This is ridiculous, but sadly true. Jason Collins is 34 and a marginal player who just sat on the bench all year for the worst team in the league. There was probably a decent chance that he wasn’t going to get signed and there’s no question he knows that. But now, if someone doesn’t sign him, the media will fall all over themselves to label the NBA as homophobic. Anyone who knows the facts will know it’s not true, but that’s never stopped the media on either side of the aisle.  Even serious journalists like Jason Whitlock have suggested that David Stern should force someone to sign him.

So it’s understandable why so many people are cynical about the announcement, saying that he only did this to extend his career. It’s pretty clear there weren’t many teams who thought he could contribute last season, but now there may be one or two desperate enough for good publicity to stash him at the end of the bench. And for all the jokes about David Stern trying to choreograph the playoffs (JR Smith anyone?), there’s almost no doubt that he will be going to teams and begging someone to sign Jason so that the NBA and the media can pat themselves on the back all year.

I think that would actually minimize the impact of Collins’ announcement because it’s going to feed all the cynics. Yes, coming out won’t be as impactful if he retires because he’ll go from the “first-active” player to just another retired player coming out of the closet. But still, if he gets signed and then just sits on the bench, we’ll be buried in articles saying that he did this to further his career and it will also taint the achievements of all future gay players. People will just say they got where they are because they’re gay, just like what sometimes happens with affirmative action.

Of course, if he doesn’t get signed, we’ll get buried in the ludicrous “NBA/Sports is soooo homophobic and that’s the only reason he didn’t get signed.” So we’re screwed either way. Thanks Jason.

6) Sports is somehow different than the rest of the world. It’s the only place that’s still homophobic.
This one’s pretty annoying. Gays are thriving in the entertainment industry, from music to movies. Ellen and Oprah dominate the talk show scene and no one seems to mind. There’s plenty of openly gay people making millions in TV and the movies, even playing womanizers like Barney Stinson or the guy from Fifty Shades of Grey. (No, I’m not going to say it, it’s a lay-up...oh, not saying that one either.)

So why should Sports be so different? This argument is basically a referendum against men because it always comes down to “Sports are so manly and chauvinistic and there’s so much testosterone in the locker room, they’ll never accept gays.”

Shut the fuck up. Most men are fine with them, we just don’t talk about it. Guess what, we don’t talk about anything. Except sports. And if a guy can play, then no one will care. And if he doesn’t, we’ll make fun of him just like we’d make fun of anyone, like that fucking buttfumbler Sanchez. And we’ll make fun of the most obvious thing to make fun of, like buttfumbling. If that happens to be the fact that a guy’s gay, well hopefully most people have the sense not to go there. But even if they do, it doesn’t mean they hate gays. 

And there’s probably a tinge of racism here. The 4 major sports—well, not hockey but I’m not sure why that’s in the 4 anymore—are dominated by Black athletes and minorities. Apparently, they don’t like gays so neither will Sports. Seems pretty ridiculous.

7) This is great. Watch the twitter feed of every athlete, call every dumb athlete you can, get them on the show and start asking them about Jason Collins. If anyone says anything stupid, we can judge them for another 24 hours. –ESPN and almost every media company
This is the thing that’s bugging me the most about this story. Any athlete who says anything that’s slightly off message—the message being “This is fantastic. Go Gays!”—is being labeled a homophobe and judged by self-righteous anchors who sit there and look disgusted that anyone would have a differing opinion. Or by people on Facebook and Twitter who just want to show how progressive they are.

And I’m not talking about someone coming out and saying “G-d hates Jason Collins. He’s an abomination and shouldn’t be allowed to play sports anymore,” because, guess what, no one’s saying that, not even Broussard. Or at least they’re smart enough not to say it in public (how long until it shows up on a secret cell phone video, though?). But Mike Wallace says he doesn’t understand gay people—not that he hates them, not that they disgust him, not that they should be banned—and he’s a monster. RGIII questions why people aren’t allowed to speak their minds and have a differing opinion, and he’s a mad man. (And again, the only reason people are so concerned about football players is because their sport is so “manly” they can’t possibly accept homosexuals).

Just last night, I saw Asante Samuel getting grilled by Hannah Storm because he said he doesn’t understand why people have to announce who they’re having sex with and he doesn’t want to discuss this stuff with his kids. It’s a dumb statement that shows a lack of empathy or understanding for the position of many homosexuals, but it’s not virulently homophobic. You wouldn’t know that from the interview though. From the look on Hannah’s face, I’d guess Asante had just taken a dump on the floor of the studio. Then she asked a bunch of leading questions clearly designed to get him to say he thinks gays are disgusting and he doesn’t want him on their team. He was smart enough not to answer them but too dumb to do it in a very political way. The look on Hannah’s face (and then Lindsay Czarniak and Linda Cohen) clearly conveyed “can you believe this homophobic caveman?”

Of course, what he said isn’t even really that bad. Like I said, he obviously doesn’t understand why this is important, but is it so bad to not want to hear about this stuff or to not want his kids to hear about it? It’s not just necessarily that he doesn’t want them to hear about homosexuality, just sexuality at all. He’d probably say the same thing if Matt Ryan said he really liked having sex with old ladies or if Mark Sanchez said he liked performing his eponymous sex move on Rex Ryan’s wife and the random floozies that don’t realize he can’t play football.

It’s gross and, face facts, straight guys think gay sex is gross. That doesn’t mean they hate gays or don’t believe they deserve equal rights, but go ahead and see what happens if you show straight guys a video of two guys kissing—or worse. It’s a visceral response. And it’s hardwired into our brains. Look, we’re fine with you guys doing what you want to do, we just don’t want to hear about it. I remember when one of my friends in college finally came out—as surprising as Britney Griner—and we were all fine with it. But then he tried to tell me about the first time he sucked cock and I had to run away. Sorry, that’s just the way it is. Do whatever you want but just keep it quiet and we won’t tell you about how we were balls deep in a stripper last night. Fair, right?

And, even though I don’t have kids, I can understand why Asante and others wouldn’t want to talk to their kids about it. Because, face facts again, nobody wants their kids to be gay. Sure, most people will be ok with it and still love their kids, but nobody straight ever has a kid and says “Boy, I hope he grows up to be gay!”  Partly because they don’t want the kid to deal with the hardship but also because they just would prefer straight kids who could give them grandkids. And, as much as a father never wants to think or hear about his daughter sucking dick, he definitely doesn’t want to think about his son doing it Again, sorry, but that doesn’t mean we hate gays or we’d hate our kids if they tell us they’re homosexual

There are serious conversations to be had here, but SportsCenter isn’t the place for it (just like it wasn’t the place for graphic images of the Boston Bombing). Actually, pretty much any news show is the wrong place for it because the level of discourse has sunk so low. There’s no real conversation anymore. It’s become “you’re with us or against us” on every topic, especially this, and that’s not doing anyone any good.

Yes, I’ll admit, I’m disgusted when I see two guys kissing, but that doesn’t mean I think they shouldn’t get married. I do, because who gives a fuck? Their marriage won’t affect you or me in any serious way except that maybe we’ll gross ourselves out by accidentally imagining them doing their thing, and that’s our problem, not theirs.

So fine, let’s talk about this. Let’s have a conversation, preferably in person instead of on Facebook. But stop pointing fingers and stop insulting everyone. Be reasonable, try to see both sides, and let’s see what happens.

Congratulations Jason. Good luck to you and those you inspire.