Twin Peaks

Howdy queers!

It's my last week of the year out on the road. 

My job is a contract job - every year, you have to sign up again.
 
You have to physically put a pen to a contract and sign it, year after year, essentially saying:

"YES. I am a masochist. I want to do this again. I want to go to a different city every day for nine months. I am interested in premature aging, hotel food, and rental car shuttles. I want this. Do it to me again. Just like last time, but harder. YES."

You know, next year, I may just not sign.

Today I'm in Buffalo, NY, just a few short minutes away from Niagara Falls. 

And you know what's a little bit sad?  You know what's making me think I shouldn't do this job again?

I am less than 10 minutes from Niagara Falls, one of the wonders of the world, and I'm not even fucking going.

I've seen it. 
I've seen it 7 times. 
I've seen it in the winter (wear mittens, jesusgod); I've seen it in the summer; I've seen it at night, all lit up with its tawdry lights; I've seen it from behind  (heh) wearing galoshes and pretending I'm Marilyn Monroe in that movie. 

I've seen the Canadian side. 
I've seen the American side.


I've seen it in the blinding afternoon sunlight, when you couldn't even squeeze through to the railing for all the Japanese tourists, and I've seen it without a soul around, at midnight, my breath catching in my chest and freezing.

I've just....seen it.


And that's how I feel about America right now. 

I might have to stop travelling this country to love it again.

Now, fagelles, before we even get started on today's topic, I have to tell you I'm having a little problem.  I'm not sure what to do about this. 
I'm all distracted.

I have to ask y'all:

Does anyone else find this picture hot?

                                                   via cuteoverload

'Cause I do. 
I can't stand it.  I keep looking at it!  I even saved it in my "special" folder on my desktop so I could pull it up at will! 

*Tip!* Name your wanking file something really super boring, like "Tiffany's Wedding 2008 Rehearsal Dinner Part III".  That way only the only person who would ever be interested in that is Tiffany, and you made her up.

What is the matter with me???

I am so attracted to this picture.  And that disturbs me.


I want to be that goddamn hamster.  All nestled between two jiggling boulders.  Smug bastard. 
Tiny mammals get everything.

                                              via cuteoverload

Well, I'm a large mammal, and I want to be pressed right. in. there. 

                                         via cuteoverload

Imagine how nice your ride would be if it had firm (yet not unyielding), soft, heated cushions.

Cushions with a built-in thumping disco dance beat.
Buoyant.  Warm.
Jiggly.


Is it wrong to find that picture hot?  Is it weird?  Is it animal cruelty? 


Let's be clear here:  I'm not into the hamster.


I'm just jealous.

Homos, I've never really thought of myself as a "boob person."


I'll take 'em however they come:  big, little, non-existent, pierced, surgically removed, muscular, fake -  you name 'em, I will put my hands on them in a crowded bar bathroom.

I mean, I like tits a lot. 
But kind of in the way that gay boys like them - I'm continually surprised and delighted by them.  They're so magical!  You have two of them!  And they match! 
Aren't they so bouncy!

So mysterious - the way girls just give a hint of what their breasts are like with their clothes on and you think you know what to expect but then you see them undressed and you're like, "I had no idea about the nipples, whoa" and then you pass the fuck out in a cold sweat.

                                                         [via capturethismoment-deactivated20]

I always want to bury my face in boobs.
Ohhhhhmigodthey'rejustsowonderfulIneedtotouchthemrightnow!!!

I mean, yeah, boobies.  Sure.  I get it. 
All my life I've been into them, in what I thought was a nebulous sort of way.

But today, I think it might be time to admit it, officially.


I have spent 3/4 of my life looking down women's shirts.
I am that dude.
I am into boobs.

In a major way.


Sometimes, when I'm sitting on the airplane, going through my daily mental images of a huge mid-air collision, I worry about what my last real thought will be.

Will my life flash before my eyes? 
What will be the last thing I think about?

I'd like to hope my last thought will be about my family. Or my favorite lil' piece. 

                                      
I'd like to face an afterlife thinking, "I lived a good life.  I am ready."

So it worries me that one of the finer memories of my life is being held down by two strippers and titty-slapped on a blustery March afternoon.

The smell of Thierry Mugler's "Angel" lingered in my hair for days.

Seriously, faggots, I think about that exact moment quite enough for it to very well be my last living thought.

So boobs are that important to me.
But you guys -what is it about breasts?
What the fuck is it?

I understand why men are into boobs. 
They're new and different from what a guy has got. 
He hasn't got 'em.  He wants to see yours.

But what is the problem here?


I have boobs. 
It's not like they're a fucking mystery.

I can see them whenever I want.  I can put both hands on them and make motorboat sounds. 

I can dress them up in lacy little bras.
I can flatten them in something hideous and spandex-y.
I can let them bounce freely like I was leading the conga-line at the Michigan Womyn's Festival. 


I have 24/7 access, for the rest of my life!

But I don't want to see my tits.  I want to see yours.
Because they're new and different from what I've got.

I love boobs. I really do.
God bless tits.
And God bless summer, when sundresses happen. 
And white tank tops. 
And also God bless dykes, who are more apt to not wear bras and walk into coffee shops and distract me.

I've always kind of thought I didn't have a favorite body part; that I was a lover of all lady-parts.
But that's crap.
I'm full of crap.

Boobs win. 

They always win.


What's your favorite place on a girl?

Tell me tell me.

Smirking Off

How ya doin', tramps?

I'm in Long Island.  

Shit.

I hate Long Island.  The part where I am is exactly what I imagine Hell is like. 

There are no flames in my Hell. 
There are no devils. 

In my Hell, everyone is white and everyone is straight. 

Everyone is married and everyone belongs to a polite non-denominational Christian church where they have "rockin'" Saturday night services and a balding, 'funky' pastor named Mike. 

All women over 30 wear pastel golf shirts, tasteful gold-charm necklaces (shaped like starfish!) and use "fun" as an all-purpose adjective. 

Try it in a sentence!

Example: 

"Oh, those are such fun earrings!"

"What a fun salad, the crabmeat makes it so different!"

"That's a fun bag - what is that, wicker?"

OMIGOD DON'T YOU WANT TO SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE FUCKING HEAD??

 Me too.

My vision of Hell scares the shit out of me.

But don't worry, gayelles.

I have something to take our minds off Long Island.

Today, we're wading deep into the murky waters of Advanced Gaydar. We're ready, no?

                                              via hipsterdykes
It's body language time.

In particular, we're talking today about a particular kind of body language that is peculiar to lesbians:

The Smirk.

Dykes smirk. 
Do you know what a smirk is? 

Wikipedia tells us "A smirk refers to a smile evoking insolence, scorn, or offensive smugness."

Offensive smugness. 
Hah.
That pretty much sums up homos in a nutshell.

Why wouldn't we be offensively smug?
We have all the answers!

                     Like,

Q: How do you have endless orgasms?

A: Get a partner that trained on the same equipment you did.

Q: How do you stay rich?

A: Don't accidentally make something that will sullenly bleed you dry for 18+ years.


Q: Who's better: Lady Gaga or Madonna?

A: Omigod that is suuuuuch a hard question, it's like we're talking about two totally different things!

See, we know all the answers.  We gays are offensively smug.
So we smirk.

Twinks, a smirk is a smile with one side of your face.

Try it. Smile with just one side of your mouth.
Instant smirk!

It makes you look like you know something others don't.  Niiiice.
A smirk is annoying.
It is superior.
It's naughty.
And it's super fucking gay. 

**Sidenote!**
I never see straight girls smirk.
I can only conclude that this is because they do not fuck other girls, and therefore have fewer things to be smug about.


Recognizing a smirk is a useful gaydar tool.

For instance, smirking is how we know that Shane on the L Word is actually gay (despite her refusal to state the incrediblyobvious fact). 

Shane is the gayest of the gay. 
Watch any scene where she's making out with any woman. 

She has the most evil fucking smirk on her face. 

You don't learn that at Method Acting School. 
That kind of pleased-with-yourself cannot be taught. 

Every time Shane is fucking a girl on-camera, I can guarantee you she is thinking one thought only:

"I can't believe I'm getting paid for this."
 

Conversely, this is also how we know that most of the rest of the cast of the L Word is straight.

Seriously, look at Bette's face sometime.  It looks like this when she's having girlsex:

Bette never smirks.

Only the truly gay smirk when having sex.
We smirk because we are so fucking pleased with ourselves.

                                                    via trophyeyes.tumblr

Smirking is the exclusive territory of dykes. 

Instead of answering a question like, "Do you like Kya?", a lesbian will smirk. 

The smirk says, "Maybe I do and maybe I don't.  She wishes I liked her."

                                            via crooksandqueens

Instead of just telling your best friend when she asks you, "So, did you guys do it, or what?"  all you have to do is smirk. 

You don't need to answer. 
The smirk answers for you.

                                                via debbielu
Easy!

Smirking = Lesbian.

Ta-da!  Now you can spot gay women.

                                         by Laura Encursiva


**A WARNING**

Sometimes women smirk without meaning to.  Don't get confused.

There used to be this public access show I was obsessed with called Sewing With Nancy. 
Nancy made hideous quilts and doll clothes and really unbelievable two-piece jogging suits.
 
I could. not. stop. watching.

Now, Nancy only smiles with one side of her face. 

But Nancy has had a stroke. 

Not smirking.  Stroke.
Don't mix it up.  Nancy was not (to my knowledge) having graphic lesbian sex. 
That might have kept the show on the air, though, right?


Also, the reigning queen of the one-sided-smile is Katie Holmes. 

Decidedly not gay.  Just deformed.

So it can be tricky to figure out who is actually smirking.

But once you

a) see the smirk on a woman; and

b) determine that no one is having a stroke...

just start looking for other clues. 
She's already gay, Tiger. 
Find more proof!

Not that you need it. 
Smirking is for dykes!