The Lady Vs. The Whore

I have not seen a penis other than my own since New Year's Eve.

That took more out of me than admitting that I'm slowly going bald.

I was lamenting this sorry state of affairs last night with my friend D-Man (real name changed to protect the guilty), who has, on the other hand, been averaging about 5-7 different phalluses a week for the past few months. In fact, over a recent late night supper at Cafeteria, I found myself stranded at the table while D-Man hooked up with someone he met on the line for the men's room. In the men's room.

There is absolutely nothing more depressing than being abandoned at Cafeteria, at 3 a.m., staring into a lonely plate of mac 'n' cheese, while your friend is blowing someone in the bathroom.

And, in defense of that little slut, D-Man isn't a "slut" in the proper sense of the word: he doesn't go around hunting for cock. It just comes to him. Like pigs sniffing for truffles, they just pick up his scent. (I use Dior Homme, myself, but must consider switching.)

Now, I wouldn't want any of my gentle readers to think that I admire or envy anyone who gets it on in a space which uses an automatic hand dryer and paper towel dispenser for decor flourish, but my point is that it's been a long, hard dry spell for TJB, and such spontaneous bursts of uncontrollable lust directed towards my person are but a dim memory. In other words, I don't want to give a blow job in the bathroom at Cafeteria. It just would have been nice to be asked. I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, as I was discussing this with D-Man, it suddenly hit me: I was Audrey Hepburn to his Marilyn Monroe. D-Man favors tight tee shirts with plunging necklines. I prefer smartly tailored jackets and suits. D-Man has bulging curves. I maintain a sylph-like silhouette. He's been known to use peroxide, for God's sake!

You may admire Audrey, you may put her up on a pedestal and fawn over her impeccable style, but you want to bang Marilyn. Fair enough. But elegant swans need their feathers stroked every now and then, too, y'know. Where are Gregory Peck or William Holden or Cary Grant when you need them?

Because we gays are such a clever, inventive bunch when it comes to fetishes, I briefly flirted with the idea of seeking out someone with a suit fixation. You know, get some action while still looking dapper. Then I thought about having to explain various stains to my already-inquisitive Korean dry cleaning lady, and abandoned the idea.

D-Man tried to soothe me by saying that he'd always envied me, my style, my demeanor, my wardrobe. I replied that he couldn't fit his curvy ass into my wardrobe if he tried.

Involuntary celibacy is a bitch, and consequently, so am I.


TJB


D-MAN