By Anna Merlan
By Anna Merlan
By Julie Seabaugh
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
Try to hold down your lunch for the second half of the Daddy Diaries, in which I describe the way my midlife crisis has yanked my guard—and my pants—down for some unexpected romping and whoring in the past year of late-night manhunts. In the first installment, I detailed the parade of young hotties and drunks forming a surprising conga line around my old maypole. I'd just hit a tragic snag with a bar whore who led me on, then didn't return my calls or glances, but it turns out that gonads are even more resilient than cockroaches, and mine clearly will outlast Cher. Here's how they kept soldiering on against all odds:
SUMMER '07 (CONTINUED FROM LAST WEEK)
Who needed the douche anyway? He was a three at best (three and a half if you count his penis)! Instead, I track down Cris, the photographer I'd made out with at Lincoln Center, for that intimate "dessert" he suggested. Alas, we simultaneously realize that two tops are as useless together as a pair of plugs without a socket. Worse, the 23-year-old trollop from Hiro stands me up on a date, and the 21-year-old Broadway queen says hello at Barracuda, then spends the rest of the night busying himself with someone not ready for AARP.
But I finally find a round hole for my square peg. At Beige, a cute twink with a bowler cut approaches to say he's loved my writing for 10 years. He must have started reading it when he was 12. "You're lovely," he adds. "I want you to ride me all night. Why are we still here?" Ah, logic. We end up at my place, where some riding goes on till about 4 a.m., at which point I feel him weirdly fiddling with my privates. I look down and realize the little mess is trying to remove the condom to trick me into barebacking him! What a freak! I'm not prepared to die for someone from central New Jersey! God, my life was so much simpler when I was the used-up troll in the corner, not some wizened icon for tina queens. But I guess in belatedly entering the dating pool, you open yourself to all sorts of wounds and humiliations. Annoyed, I switch on the light, dress the sloppy piece of fried chicken as if getting a child ready for school, and brusquely escort him out the door. Now I'm safe—except that on his way to the elevator, the creature vengefully sets off the fire alarms! All my poor neighbors are bolting out of bed, flinging open their doors, and wondering if they're gonna die—and I'm dramatically acting out the same scenario, so they won't catch on that it's my fault! That's it—no more druggies in my house. I'll stick to nightclub bathrooms!
I'm beyond appalled, but at least all this public carrying on is leading to more public carrying on. Faison, a twentysomething sometime-hustler friend, surprises me at Hiro by blurting: "I've wanted you for some time. I don't want a relationship—just sex. I want you to keep your glasses on, but nothing else." Hmm, my old-professor act is actually getting results! "Interesting, but wait—will you charge me?" I smirk, ever practical. "Fuck you, whore!" he shrieks, his sensibilities offended. I take that as a no. He reaches into my pants—ta-da!—and decides it's big enough, so he drags me to the bathroom to give me "a sample," but there are too many people there wanting a show. Never give the public what they want. I'm flattered, but I'm hearing an alarm that says maybe I should finally zip up and grow up before it's time for the iron lung.
And here's my chance: Jackson, an age-appropriate guy I care about, swings into town for his semi-annual journey of love. We share real intimacy, culminating our dates with meaningful sex in an actual bed. He loves me in a sober, sincere, and very romantic way. I can't stand it.
But there are other options, like Faison, who won't take ho—I mean no—for an answer. (Alas, I desperately want the guys who don't want me, duh.) That drag queen Glenn is still game, too, but like Mariah herself, he's going to have to learn to deal with some rejection from the public.
I've already moved on and like a wind-up bunny, I'm still prowling and scoring, baby. At a club, a 26-year-old hairdresser with penetrating eyes barrels up to me and says: "You look better in person." "So do you," I crack. "Where do you live?" he carries on without pause. "Let's go there and have a party." My, young people are so bold nowadays! How can this be happening? It didn't happen when I was 26! (Side note: The gay community really does provide for its own. If you get fat, there are always chubby chasers for you, and if you get old, there are gold-diggers and gerontophiles.) He ends up straddling me on a banquette, then dragging me into (but of course) the bathroom, and the next thing I know, we're in my apartment having rather spunky sex. I phone him the next day, but his cell has already been disconnected. God can be such a vengeful queen.
Still floating, I hit the same club, where an exotically handsome guy I once made out with takes out— everybody now—my schlong by the bathroom and gives it a festive greeting. By now, I know this act better than a seal jumping through a hoop to get an anchovy. "I've wanted you for five years," he says, drunkenly pulling pubes out of his mouth. "I've finally broken down your defenses." I'm stunned that once again my sheer lack of artifice has brought on some unexpected lovin'. But we've both got meetings in the morning, so we go home separately and vow to call. This popularity thing can be very bad for your ego.
By now, I'm confused, titillated, and repulsed—simultaneously proud and mortified. I won't even tell you about the dipso who told me I "elevate the discourse," while squeezing my crotch as if it were an empty tube of toothpaste, or the parade of other tipsy mixed-message givers dispensing both kisses and headlocks. Out of nowhere, Jackson calls to say he misses me more than candy. He's the real thing, not some wasted mess who simply needs a gonad to grab. If only that lil' sweetie lived here, all my problems would be solved, and we'd definitely be boyfriends. And I'd be cheating on him.
Update: Forget about any boyfriends—or even gropefests in the dark with the semi-conscious. Moments after writing this diary, my mojo simply rolled over and died like a dog that's been slipped cyanide. For reasons as mysterious as the ones that caused my Hollywood heat to erupt in the first place, I am no longer an appealing dish to anyone with a pulse and will clearly have to return to my fate as the ugly girl at the prom. Fine, maybe I can develop some character—or just go online.
But hold your piece once again! It's back! Just when you've given up and don't care anymore, that's when you once again start projecting something people want. In a period of just two weeks, a junkie, a fattie, a groper, a hottie, and a 21-year-old all threw themselves on me without any provocation whatsoever. I've been given one more chance to live out the horny adolescence I never had. Anyone got some easy-access Depends?One More Thing
If you're as fed up with hearing about my sleazy sex life as my poor mother must be and you're craving a return to trashy gossip about OTHER people, then click on the blog! Enjoy: La Daily Musto!