The BGA

I went to a secret after show dance party last
night. But I can only speculate that the secret was a DJ’d set by Peaches which
yours truly missed by virtue of the fact that I am one of those Torontonians
who goes home at 1:00 on a weekday if I have to be in the office at 8:00, I
know it’s so lame, and I wasn’t even tired. In fact to the contrary I was wired
and having a blast (at the beaver) with my new friend Tracy (whom I
accidentally renamed Gracie for the night)

A couple things to note, as this was my first
time going to the beaver for anything other than an overpriced under sized
latte en route to Price Choppers Saturday morning for beacon. It’s a nice
place, the backyard is a bit small but if you get there early enough to sit
down I’m sure it’s swell.  The bathrooms
are clean, like very clean for a place like that. The little bartender (I think
I heard people call him Gavin) with the baseball cap is very cute and oozes
humility. The doorman is even cuter, when he smiled I wanted to bury my face in
his armpit, can you imagine him beating someone down? And aside from this
miniature sized girl with messy hair and too much charcoal coloured eye shadow
and a bad attitude who kept giving me the up and down everyone there seemd fun. I don’t know what the
fuck her problem was, I wasn’t dressed to impress but I looked o.k. Jeans a
tank and sneakers, what’s the big? Meanwhile she looked like the poster of the
angry try-hards in their straight out of FLAUNT magazine get up who inhabit
every good corner of my neighborhood. I
don’t mean to be a sizist, but for real if I was as small as that chic I’d be
more careful who I gave cut eye, for real, one wrong turn and I could have
‘accidentally’ dropped my pint on her little mini fucking head.

At one point Peter being everything but subtle
and or coy (and by everything I mean hilarious, inappropriate, and
entertaining) started asking around the table (he stopped asking when it came
to the girls) about the dirtiest or nastiest place that we’d done the wild
thing in. At first the guy beside me who shall remain nameless cause I don’t
know that he’s looking to advertise, was being so boring. He’s from some small
town and I was convinced he had a couple good stories up his sleeve. So first
attempt: he got it on in the back seat of a drivers-ed car hands under the
blanket during class. I was amused but not impressed, the old hands under the
blanket requires courage, but at the end of the day it’s just a teenage
handjob. Peter confessed that he was vanilla and hadn’t even done the wild
thing in a public washroom, which I had to think about for a while until I
decided ‘no I haven’t done it in a public washroom, but I’ve done it near the
loo in a couple places…’ none that I will admit to here. But the real stories
didn’t start to come out until I confessed to a messy 69 behind a dumpster in
the loading docks of a grocery on St. Laurent in Montreal.

Next thing I know Country bumpkin is on his
knees takin the poo stab from a big black guy (who unfortunately for my fantasy
was not named Tyrone or Jamal, but was instead Chris. For the record none of my
conquests have ever had such a boring name) * I think I might be up for the
award for most horrifically incorrect use of parentheses.

Anyways Country homo is taking it in the
shitter from chris in the living room while Chris’ friends, none of who are named Tyrone, Tyrese,
Tekwon, or Jamal were sitting around chatting, and at some point one of Chris’
friends parlayed his presence into a BJ. I was pretty impressed by the solitary
marshmallow in the big cup of hot cocoa story, but wanted desperately for the
whole thing to turn into a good ol fashion gang bang you know for him to get
passed around to all four guys until he passed out with a dick in each hand
covered in semen and smelling like a tossed salad of sweat and ass juice. But I
mean doing it in front of three strangers is way kinkier than anything I’ve done
all my stories are about location, clearly I need to start participating in sex that might be described by some as demeaning. Ooh I just got a shiver.

It looks like that whole posting turned into a
sexy confessional. Oops, and I confessed shit that wasn’t even mine.

Before I leave off just yet I also wanted to
say that Country’s fave position is 69, Peter likes the poo stab, Chrissy likes
it all, Gracie likes the scissor kick and I like to be the corps while you be
the necrophiliac

BGA loves you xo.

I woke up this morning drunk from last night,
again. I woke up cause someone from O town was callin my place at 20 past
eight. Thank god for that cause in my fumbling drunken stupor I had totally
forgotten to set my alarm. Point is I’m tired and drunk right now, so pardon me
my lack of wit and spell check.

So it all started with me waiting 50 minutes
count em: fifty! At the streetcar stop on queen hoping to head eastwards to meet up
with Erika, a.k.a the E-train, (a mode of transportation I’ve learned, best taken
on a full stomach) Anyways the streetcar shows up at 6, and I’m drenched in
sweat, no joke, my shirt is a whole other colour. The trolley proceeds to wait
at every fucking traffic light so 45 minutes later I get to the distillery, run
into Erika walking up Parliament and we get on the King car back to where I
came from. Erika brought this sweet young cunning blond with her, Claire, and
Claire took us to meet her friend Emily. Claire is seemingly inoffensive but
flirtations at the bar we went to would prove otherwise. Meanwhile Emily who is
slightly less attractive than Claire (with her never ending rolling locks of
blond hair and foundation covered perfect skin) is hilarious industrious smart
and even a little (very little) altruistic, not to mention she’s a hard working
rich girl living like a not that rich girl… come to think of it her dad’s a
diplomat, she aint no rich girl.

Anyways these two too skinny girlies take us to
some GOLDIGGER bar called KI, maybe you know it. Drinks are $100.00 each and
the place is swarmed I bottle blonds and financial advisers, most of whom have
yet to make their millions and deeply resent women expecting things from them.
I have 4 champagnes and one ‘yo mama’ competition, which I totally nailed with:
“Your mamas pussy is so flappy, I could just climb up in that bitch and throw a
party!”

Other than that I was feeling pretty invisible,
the two twinky girls were chatting it up with gray haired losers and Erika has
the rack to end them all, so excluding the times I was mistaken for a waiter I
was getting kinda lonesome.

So, I started finding out girls names and the
twinks had roped a couple guys into conversation, one totally gross jew they
called Bean cause he somehow managed to be skinnier than me (eeeeew) and these
other two guys from Montreal, Jim and Marc (Jim took my card (the one where My
dick is on my boyfriends face…) and Marc gave me his with that little Ontario
crest on it… you know the one with the moose and the polar bear on it) Anyways
I started playing matchmaker and telling hot girls that Marc was loaded and
then telling Marc that the girls were easy, and so forth, it was hilarious. But
even funnier still was when Erika and I were leaving and the guys conceited
that I was the most interesting person they had talked to, I turned two
government lawyers at a gold digger bar GAY! Hold onto that card Jimbo.

So I rode the E-train to Avenue and … I don’t
remember somewhere betwixt Bloor and Davenport, to some De-Lux condo apartment
to meet her friend Malcolm, who at this point was infamous to me as a good
times rich guy who like chicks, and tolerated they gays, but had no time
whatsoever for straight men, so automatically I liked him. Malcolm was m.i.a
but Rudy, his doorman, let us in thinking we were there to see (or service)
Jason??? Whoever that is. We get into Malcolm’s and Chris is there. He’s some
other rich kid, works in real estate and has pipes the size of my thighs, but
still couldn’t manage to open the bottle of Mateus rosé Erika and I ended up
mixing with our, I mean Malcolms Vodka, we called them Rolly Stollys. At this
point things get kinda foggy for me. I remember being an obnoxious sassy fag,
talking a lot about pussy, trying in vain to throw up in the bathroom (Rose you
are so right, with too much use you totally lose your gag reflex, no matter how
many fingers you stick down there) and having to stop because of it’s proximity
to the party room. I also remember finding a hideous HERMES tie (ORANGE! With
that little graphic of the horses repeated all over it in red, it looked like
the kind of shit some cheddar car sales man would wear) that Erika and I assumed must be a free
giveaway with the purchase of some $3000.00 bag… and I also remember, with a
little less pride perhaps, finding a roll on Hermes deo stick, and rolling it
on just for shits and giggles. It wasn’t till Malcolm showed up and freaked on
Erika, who at this point was totally rocking the tie, because I guess all those
très cher Hermes trinkets were in fact gifts for Malcolms daddy. He said his dad
didn’t really like him, I told him I didn’t think the orange tie would help his
case, then Erika and I serenaded him with a verse of “Daddy I love you”

At some point I abruptly excused myself and
fumbled down stairs to get a cab. I ran out of money before I got home and had
to crawl the remaining five blocks. I have no idea what happened next but I
woke up naked on the floor with a bloody asshole…. Just kidding, sort of. I
woke up naked, that part is true, but I was on my bed, and by on my bed, I mean
on top of my bed and everything I had left there yesterday, this morning I had
the impression of c.ds, keys, and a stapler on my ass, and as I previously
stated I was drunk as a skunk, still am to be perfectly honest. I was 20
minutes late for work and had to leave the office to get some grease and
coffee.

So barring the fact that I made it home before
midnight, I almost proved I was nobody’s homebody, and I think I can really
make it next time, if only I can bring myself to eat first.

P.s. I am way to
drunk to proof read and the words wont stay still, so if this is fucked, that’s
just tuff shit.

Oh Rosary,
I feel so beaten down by the world, and only a couple hours ago I felt I might
once and for all hold onto it by it’s massive golden balls, alas no I have
fallen flat face down, once again, humbled by my inescapable fate as a wannabe,
loser, no money, hobo.
This world is unapologeticly geared towards the rich and I’m running out of ideas
as to how to make something for myself. I obviously am not rich, and so I have
to make the concessions of a poor person, for instance I cannot work in some
dream job placement close to my field because I was not born rich and cannot
accept the meagre wages or no pay at all offered in these sort of internship
scenarios. Since I cannot do an internship I cannot garner the experience
necessary to break through to the paying jobs I want to have in the first
place.  My lack of experience effectively holds me back from any paying
position, and my need to be paid to deal with my debt and regularly
accumulating bills means I have to have a full time job. a.k.a no volunteering
my services in the fields where I so desperately need experience. So then I say
I will take it upon myself, make my own experience and then show the people who
pay what I can do… but guess how much it costs to make your own experience???
More than one quarter of my monthly salary, half of which is already accounted
for to pay my rent. Not to mention the beastly burden I call my pathetic and
never ending financial woes.

Obviously there are ways to get beyond all this but I
evidently haven’t figured them out yet and aint nobody tryin to help. And I
have this sneaking suspicion that if I had C cups and a sweet cooey voice and a
moist juicy pussy, that there would be people lined up around the block to help
me jump-start my career. Sometimes, being a relatively self-sufficient gayloard
can be such a drag.

and my boyfriend called me a homebody. (cue swelling strings)
Obviously I’m not that worried about being to boring for my man… even though I
heard him and his friends refer to another boring boyfriend as ‘Brad the Dad’
which would make me, ‘Alexandre the gets drunk too quick, heard of hearing,
catatonic, pervert uncle’

But I feel like all of this ‘boring boyfriend, no money,
motivated but sitting on your hands’ shit is all symptomatic of the same
problem… oh and check it, apparently Bell media, a.k.a ONYX corp. bought CHUM
yesterday (so they now own all of Canada… a.k.a the rich just got richer, and
the standard of living for the non-rich just went down like five notches. I’ll
officially be chasing my tail like a third world country till the day I shrivel
up on the dance floor surrounded by happy partygoers enjoying some down time
from their high placed internships at gossip magazines, snorting blow out of
silver spoons

Oh yeah, and what do you suppose BELL did first after
acquiring CHUM for $1.4 billions? You guessed it they promptly fired 400
employees; so getting a job over there is sort of out of the question as well.
Not to mention that show I auditioned for last week is prob totes been
cancelled (not that the producers had even showed any interest… but who are we
kidding, they met me on a good day they loved it.)