Gay Agenda

Takin’ a spin on a Gigolo +PLUS+ Didja notice…?

There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay

men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store.  (“Shop till you pop?”)

Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.

Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.

This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”

F Machine Gigolo

Hey, Big Spender! Who’s a naughty 2017?

Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?

Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.

We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.

Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :

Jim:   Sweet F-Machine Gigolo, dude!
Fred:  Frickin’ AWESOME!
Bert:  Sweet ride, man!


You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—!  Whaddaya know! Eureka!

I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:

Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)

Take America.  Please.  Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down.  Prepare to die, America!  You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!

Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.

Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency.  The first being, you know.  His Presidency.

Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas?  Something along these lines?

Hey Mel. Mel?”

“Yeah, what?”

“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”

“Yeah, what?”  

“How much did I spend on that.”

“You like, baby?”

“They’re fucking awesome.” 

“This I am also thinking.”

Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water:  “This is big water!  The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mara-Lago!  This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water! WOW!”

Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.

As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.


Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford?

But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions.  How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!

I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.

“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up.  I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.

The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.

There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own.  Score: Dave, 1.

Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!

Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!

Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.

Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.

Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom).  I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.

I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.

Things just might be looking up.


Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?

Even better:  My online store is now at  That’s right.  I configured a sub-domain.  The tits are off the bull!

Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page.  Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise.  Kind of thing?

And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1.  Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3.  Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse.   I could really use the support right now.

And a Gigolo.




All About the Eve of Destruction +PLUS+ Finally: The Gay Agenda so REVEALED to make your jaw!?? drop!?!???!! UNBELIEVABLE??!! (with half-hearted extra special bonus Gay Porn Titles of the Week)


So many roommates… so little time…

Tick tock tick tock  Time goes by… so slowly…  

except when it accelerates, like the last weekend of summer scudding into the chilly shadows of responsibility and consequences. I face the dark-suited members of the Rent Tribunal on Monday at noon. For the little matter of my

being late with the rent for four months.  In a row.

Lest you think this is serious, let me bray with defiant laughter as I tell you about the 10 years previous that I was NOT late with the rent, and do they count for nothing?  Am I only as good as my last performance?

Let me tell you about every month paid up within the month, and if that doesn’t herald the advent of pull-up pants and a Beatrix Potter training spoon, what does?

Let me enlighten you about a shadowy global conspiracy: a secret underground organization dedicated to the provisioning of bad roommates, that allegorical repletion of vapid millennials who stand, like the self-styled “Phoebe” in the last shot of All About Eve, smirking the smirk of the damned as they clutch the object of their desire: my now-turned-brass-monkey balls, rendered cold and sterile as a witch’s twat.

Scene:  The final smirking Phoebe struts offstage, having effected my spiritual collapse, but I manage to lift my aging goomer* head, as always, to croak:


Oi ve voy.  Next is Mr. March, who goes mid-month to visit grandma’s house, tra-la, tra-lay, and is eaten by a wolf.

I’m just guessing about the wolf, but his cheery goodbye is the last I see of him.  He doesn’t return with the April rent, he doesn’t answer the phone,  and when I message him online the message is immediately marked “read”, which I immediately understand as meaning:  “read by his captors”.  He’s vanished. Is he abducted? Intervened? Amnesiac? Done in? Do I care anymore?  Next!

The next, current iffy choice gets arrested before moving in, which leads me to take on his iffy one-night-stand girlfriend as roomie – anyone, darling, anyone will do! – only, miracle of miracles, the current one turns up again, released on bail!   It’s rainin’ iffy roomies!

Too bad I wrote to the welfare office to cancel his funding!  Does it get any better?  You bet it does!  To wit:-

I was snarky with my friend.  I told my snark, my friend did end. Oops!

Cast your memory back, if you will, to the night before my appearance at Estreat Court, a mediaeval label for a joyless public shaming which currently does not involve entrails and a wheel, but rather a sharp slap on the wrist from Your Honor for my failure to hunt down my other friend—for I have learned to rotate them so as not to wear them out so quickly—and frog-march him to 51 Division.  I imagine holding my torch triumphantly aloft as I do so, like one of the villagers in Frankenstein.

My hapless friend, for whom I was surety, broke on a July Friday the promises he made to Her Majesty forty-eight hours before, leaving me holding the bag of hapless.  He’s just been released after serving his sentence, which tells me that four months at large plus a whole cartload of drugs in your possession yields thirteen months in captivity for lack of stick-to-it-tivity, it’s right there in the Charter!

This is my failure, what I could not imagine, try as I might:  “Halt, vile absconder! Peace Officer Roddis commands you to accompany him forthwith to the common gaol!”  Elmer Fudd, in drag, could issue this order with more red-meated authority than I.

But I digress.  That fateful night before my estreation – a word I just made up – I call out my other friend – that’s friend number 1, if you’re keeping track, and you really should – on some supremely prissy judgements he’s making about surety friend (#2).  I get, in Dorothy Parker’s words, the frankies.

I am frank with him.  High as a kite frank.  Snarky frank.

I snark at him via text, “Are you by any chance turning into one of those Tut, tut – aren’t I wonderful tut tut aren’t they a loser sanctimonious bores?  Because it sure sounds like it.” It starts there and builds to delirious, Wagnerian levels.

I’m on a roll. I tell them in no uncertain terms and I lay down the law, then for extra measure I give them a piece of my mind.  I hesitate, drawing my snark warmly about me—then press “Send”.

Immediately I regret it.   I work through the night, feeling vaguely nauseated about my toxic SMS and ponder my obnoxious sense of humor. Maybe I should have added an “LOL”? Maybe a couple?

At the proper time, I don my estreating clothes and head to court.

It is during our court break time from being estreated when I get a text from snarked friend conveying his offense at my snark and announcing, as drama queens do, be they gay or str8, his intent to block my number.

Block my number!?  Holy Facebook, it’s Mean Girls, but – with boys!  What will they think of next?  Flavor drops for water?

Turns out he’s been holding a grudge for two years about the time I snapped at him while he was stripping some paint in my dining room.  Two years!  I manage an apology, the one that sounds sincere on a good day, but snark friend telephonically storms off in a sanctimonious huff for, in the end, it’s str8 dudes who are the sensitive ones, not us tough-as-nuts gays.  Lordy, no!

So, two years ago I snapped and said something cunty. “WhatEVERRRRR!” I think, in tune with the Mean Girls vibe. Who will cut me a great big bleeding side of slack? Not he!

But how will he survive without my Sunday psychotherapy as he upgrades his fifth simultaneous house, texting me hysterically to complain: “We dropped the chandelier while installing it.  Now we’re going to have to have a crystal specially made!”

OK, fine, WhatEVERRRRR. Block my number, honorary Heather-cum-Holly-Golightly! Off you go lightly, back to your bitch mistresses, at least the ones who are female.

Here, take your pick, old pal:  Lie in the bony death-clutch of the shrieking crack-banshee from hell, or loll in the dull-as-ditchwater snuffle of your tediously faithful high-school sweetheart as you sing the Sesame Street Songbook.

For whoever the fuck it may be this week who tells you “come to Momma”, they can’t prevent me blowing, in your general direction, what may sound like a kiss.


My verdict from Estreat Court:  Her Majesty commands me forthwith to top up her already bulging coffers with fifty bucks, not five hundred.  No good deed goes unpunished, but Her Majesty knows a really good deed when she sees one, and punishes me just enough.


Apart from all that, pretty  uneventful.  Maybe I should get friend number two to move in with the guy on bail?

Yes, no?

You remember that “Gay Agenda” the right is always on about?

Well, I found this week’s update. It’s even worse than you thought…. Blessed Judy, Mother Of Liza, pray for us now and at the hour when we attempt “reverse cowgirl”.

You can see the original mind map here:



  • Hot House Hot Doctor Buttfucked by Aussie
  • IconMale Jerk off session interrupted by Hunk
  • Sleazy Raw Butt-Sex Bender for Popperbators
  • Tied up Tickled and Jerked 2
  • Polar Bear Interacially Barebacked after BJ
  • Pool party turns into a hot black gay gangbang
  • Bathroom make Hard Dick
  • Jocks Fuck BB CUMPIE
  • Use him to Fuck and Blow each other

and the winner, considering its positively Grace Kelly-ish restraint, is:

Ice Skating Bitch

I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places.

* goomer:  a gay baby-boomer.  You’re welcome.

The End of My Long Hiatus +PLUS+ Str8-tards should just STFU!

text-manipulateDid you miss me?


Come on, dudes.  I’m just looking for a standard portion of totally unwarranted validation here, so I can feed the ravening beast of self-esteem.  You know?  So stop making such a bernie-sanders out of everything.

Well, then. Poor Bereft You, aching with the manque de moi, staring at those used syringes and pre-mixed speed balls, praying for an overdose and that final passage on the Good Ship Lollipop – I do feel your pain.

(PRO TIP:  Be sure to have some old-style double-sided razor blades and a bottle of Percs handy, in the case the speed ball turns out to be just as much crazy-ass fun as the last one, thereby feeding your delusion that your life is not a fucked-to-Kingdom-come bomb-site, but a perpetually self-renewing gay-day pass to Canada’s Wonderland that you share with Athena, your personal purple Unicorn.  

Oh, yeah, don’t forget to run a warm bath.  You’re welcome!)

Now, and with a big, obvious sigh of relief, back to me.  For it’s been weeks since I posted here, after a veritable golden shower of inspired scribbling that will serve perfectly as the main corpus of my roman à clef-style autobiography and magnum opus, Runs Like A Girl.

Oh, boy oh boy oh boy!  They’re gonna eat it up in Des Moines!  All of it!  Eat it up like friggin’ corn dogs and red-eye gravy!   And I wanna tell ya, it’s a very, very happy camper called Dave who’s whackin’ off while fantasizing about his own personal five minutes of man-meat-drenched fame.

With the title of my life-story mind-mapped in its entirety, in part thanks to a couple of handy apps I downloaded from Google Play —“Trudly”, which takes your family tree and reworks it so you can plausibly pass yourself off as the 1972 love-child of Margaret Sinclair and some coked-up stud from Studio 54; and “Obaminator”, which pushes random insulting versions of “Obama” to your cell phone so you can intimidate those libtards on Buzzfeed—only the tedious transcription plus the creation of the actual text remains to be outsourced to an underfed, resentful Third World laborer.

That is, assuming there’s a feisty young Ahmed or Haizan with a typing hand and a few fingers remaining in any of the –istans who isn’t double-booked modeling for GAP or too busy figuring out how to wire his suicide bomb to his iPhone 5.

I tell ya, the global search for available slaves is getting so competitive, it’s hard to resist venting my annoyance with a nice, hard boot in the face to the Islamo-terrorist who polishes my shoes at Union Station.  So I don’t resist!

I mean, it almost takes the fun out of flying to Mumbai, rounding up a busload of civilians for “call-centre work”, shoving them into a concrete bunker containing a pile of un-sewn blue jeans, pointing a machine gun at them, then locking them up overnight with a couple of Happy Meals and setting fire to the place.

What burns me is I only included the Happy Meals ’cause it was women and kids. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s wasting perfectly good food.

Anyhoo, now that I’m no longer lightly beaded with sweat from laboring over my title, I am well disposed to begin Venn-diagramming my latest, in fact, my only, contribution to the literary schwa that is self-help literature, provisionally called:

“I’m OK, You’re a Retard:  Why White Str8 Males
Have WAAAAAY Too Much Self-Esteem and
Why I’m the Gay to Deal With It, Bro!

Oh, stop.

Oh, it is not.

Really?  You think so?

Well, believe me sincere when I say that the fun never pales when it comes to watching you squirm with discomfort as I fish for a compliment.  But Dude – you just have to remember:

Never, I mean jamais, I mean Nuh-nuh-NEVER forget how good I am to you.  Ja, OK? Bitte sehr please??

Which segues like the grinding of unlubricated gears to the REAL topic of today’s post, namely:


Fig. 1:  Shutting the fuck up:  Correct placement of Duct Tape

(a.k.a. Str8-tards)!  (Fig. 1)

Yeah,  you heard me.  SHUT THE FUCK UP,  ’cause no matter where I roam online in my hunger to hear the IQ-destroying, toxic talk radio that is the “Innernet”, white straight guys are the static.


Static!  Sound and fury, and oh boy, the fury – signifying nada.  Niente.  Gar nix.  They out-pontificate Pope Francis – shout-out to Francine, BFF!  Love ya, girl! – and they out-entitle – hmm…

I’m stumped, cause there ain’t no one more fucking entitled than a white straight male.  To wit:

We have Gay Pride?  They’re all worked up.  They gotta have Straight Pride!  Down with the oppression of the one human class who’s never actually suffered any, and down down down with one nano-second of paying attention to anyone but these spoiled-rotten rejects from privatized childcare.

I want to marry my partner?  Nuh-nuh-NO!  That’s not traditional!

I’m gonna take this real slowly for you:  Equal marriage is just as traditional as traditional marriage. It’s the same institution of marriage, get it?

See what I mean?  Dumber than cum!

As for your spiteful, slippery-slope argument that equal marriage means we’ll all be hooking up with our pet hamsters in mass ceremonies and fucking dogs in the town square, I wonder if you’re just jealous about the options available to the broad-minded now that you’re squirming with boredom in your sex-less common-law arrangement with your high-school sweetheart, “Suzy behind the goalposts”, and driving a second-hand Ford Focus, that kid-crammed, four-wheel-drived slap in the face, the vehicular expression of your thwarted Lamborghini dreams?

Dumb, and lacking in gratitude.  I wonder if you geniuses have ever stopped to think about the selfless service we fags have performed over the years?  Namely:

There’s at least ten percent more women available for you, and all because of gay men!

Yeah, not so clever now, are we? But instead of thanking us, you sit there in your soiled bathrobes, mouths glowing orange in the dark from powdered cheese and masturbating compulsively as you post misspelled comments online about abortion, “gay” marriage and socialism.

DUDES! Get out and objectify some piece of tail!  Now!

Surely it’s no secret that the online static is all about male bonding; the actual content is just a good old stinky red herring. (Notice how they always go off-topic? Exactly.)

Str8-tards care about only one thing:   that other str8-tards see how MANLY they are <scratches balls, farts>.

It’s the VR edition of hangin’ out with their bro’s at Fred’s Garage and Live Bait, where they can snicker at the Sports Illustrated calendar and tinker with their camshafts.

But I bet you a triple-triple at Timmies that all you’d have to do with some of these hammer hawks is bring ’em  home, sling ’em a couple of beers, and they’d be down on all fours sucking dick faster than you could say “pedophile hockey coach”.

I’ve written about these Geezer Libertarians before.  But now I’ve reached the tipping point.  I tell ya, I’ve had it had it had it up to the very tops of my Louboutin pumps – the ones with the plexiglass soles and nine-inch heels that I wore to Pride with my chain-mail jockstrap, and you gotta admit, it’s a look! – with the stupidity, the ubiquity and the iniquity of the belly-scratching, Fox-watching, wind-breaking, closet-casing, homophobic, racist, misogynist, all-denying, all-knowing, asshole-speaking white male str8-tard-iverse.

And there’s only one way to deal with it.

Luciano?  Take a memo, baby!

TO:  All Str8-tards
c/o the Str8-tard-iverse.

Hey, Str8-tard!

Are you gay?

First, look down and locate your penis.  I’ll give you a few minutes.

Ready?  OK.  Is it hard and in another guy’s mouth?

Are you now, or have you ever been, ejaculating all over another male’s pink, gaping hole?

Check your left nostril:  Is it shoved half-an-inch deep onto a bottle of amyl nitrate?

Have you recently tag-teamed a barely-legal twink (proof on file) with the other members of your all-male show-tunes choir, “The Sondheim-ites”?

Was there ever a night where you got trashed on girl drinks, acted out the entire party scene from “All About Eve”, then faked a suicide attempt?

Have you ever attended Wagner’s Ring Cycle at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden dressed in leather harness and chaps, and sporting a butt plug that doubles as a puppy tail?

Are you holding crumpled, autographed programs from every city in Madonna’s most recent world tour?

Do you make protest signs, take off all your clothes and march against oppression and bigotry at Gay Pride, then say to your friends, “I wouldn’t be caught dead at Spa Excess! It’s full of Asians!”

If you answered NO to all of the above, I’ve got news for you: You’re not gay!

So SHUT THE FUCK UP about gay rights.   Next:

Are you a woman?

Look at your chest :  Are you at this moment nursing a minimum of one infant?

Do you take to your bed with “the vapours” every lunar cycle?
While in bed, do you hug one of the many adorable stuffed animals to hand because they care?

Does your boss chase you around your desk brandishing a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, while you simultaneously make half his salary cause you were passed over for promotion?

Have you recently, or ever, been the victim of an “up-skirts” video prank?

Do you wait in the rush-hour cashier line-up for twenty minutes, then, when all your groceries are totalled, open your handbag, rummage around for your change purse and say, “Twenty-nine ninety-nine? Let’s see, I’m sure I have some nickels I need to get rid of! Let’s count out the exact change! By the way, your new uniform looks just darling!”

Do you wear your hair in a girlish, Marlo Thomas-y flip, and was there, last time you checked, a vagina between your legs?

NO?  You’re not a woman!  Congratulations, dude!

SHUT THE FUCK UP about women’s issues.  Furthermore:

Are you black?

Turn out the lights and look into this mirror.  Can you see your eyes, and only your eyes? Now smile. Exactly.

Do you find yourself from time to time craving a mess o’ grits and collard greens?  Jerk chicken?  A bit of man-pussy on the D L?

Do you experience an irrepressible urge to get shot while at a full stop at the traffic lights?

Do you find yourself spontaneously rioting in economically-depressed urban centres due to decades of oppression?

Are you 85 years old yet still manage to put on your Sunday Best all-white zoot suit and shoes with spats, then head cheerfully to the only available polling station in your county with your walker and 14 pieces of ID cause you can’t afford the bus?

Do you use, in your casual, day-to-day conversation, terms such as gangsta, fuck that shit, homey and bootilicious?

Do you have, or have you at any time in your sorry life had, rhythm?    NO?

Then you ain’t black, muthafucka.  SHUT THE FUCK UP about Black Lives Matter.  


One, two buckle your shoe, three four SHUT THE FUCK UP.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Why did the chicken cross the road?  To SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Knock, knock.  SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It was the best of times, it was the SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Romeo, Romeo, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Oh Jerry,  let’s not ask for the moon.  We have the SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Get the idea?

And never, I mean NEVER – you know.


Seen on “Living Blue in a Red State“, a Facebook page devoted to keeping the discussion going around Liberal values:

“Scientifically speaking, punching Donald Trump in the mouth
would be considered fisting.”

Talking of Michelangelo


Part 1:  Floppy blond hair and hot pants

We’re all adults, right? I can talk freely?

This is the speed-dating portion of the story, so let me just dump everything on you all at once and confess — and this may represent the “deal-breaker” — I’m gay.

You know. “That” way. Artistic. Theatrical. A flick off the old limp wrist. Wearer of white socks. Swishy, lispy, queer, camp. A poofter, a nancy boy, a ponce. A friend of Dorothy. Whoever that is, and should she need another.

And it’s Gay Pride, and I’m 60, all of which combine to create, I’m awfully pleased to note, the ultimate, full-bore all about me scenario.

So let’s get started!

What was it like to be gay back in the ’60s and ’70s, when I was growing up? Everything was just peachy until 1969, when, for the record, I was a precocious 14-year-old with floppy blond hair, early-adopter hot-pants and a 24-hour-a-day hard-on, attributes which, at 60, and usually minus the hot-pants, have approximately reversed themselves.

(And for those of you for whom history begins with the appearance of Lady Gaga, mentions of “Stonewall” refer to our gay watershed moment, in 1969, when patrons of an illegal, Mafia-run gay bar in New York City, tired of police harassment, fought back, precipitating a gorgeously dramatic full-blown riot and giving lie to the notion that the queer community can never agree on anything, because that was the night we did.

Weird coincidence: Judy Garland died the same day, adding a dollop of tragedy, not to mention her finest moment of theatrical one-upmanship, to the proceedings. And please don’t ask “Judy who?”,  we’ll be here for hours.)

Well, then. Until 1969, you lived your life like anyone else did: Going to school, riding your bike, playing whatever sports were suitable to the season, except curling; taking out the garbage, raking leaves and shoveling snow; listening to Ethel Merman in “Gypsy” and watching new episodes of “I Love Lucy”. It was nice.

10636302_747399865306150_5945500856163671888_nOf course, there was that little extra task—of keeping under wraps the shameful secret of your terminal faggotry, your vileness, your perversion, your queerness; of containing the malevolent genie of deviance who, should he escape, would — with one twitch of his nelly, Arabian Nights curly-toed slippers — compel your parents to throw you out, or possibly declare you dead, depending on what passed for god’s tough love in their chosen rite; force your friends to abandon you, utterly, in disgust (unless you’d already gotten drunk on “Baby Duck” and made a sloppy pass at the latest target of your free-floating man-crush, which meant you’d have to leave Dodge City anyway); and ensure your condemnation to an eternity of various fiery and hideously ironic tortures in the innermost circle of Homo Hell.

Otherwise, it was all pretty low-key.

Social life for gay men was similarly pared down. There were in fact two options.

To meet someone in the conventional manner, if you’d managed to work out that there was probably another one to meet, you went to a gay bar, often just a regular men’s tavern that either “tolerated” you or hadn’t clued in yet that there were cuckoos sashaying all over the nest.

If you were lucky enough to live in a big city, there would be a bona fide, dedicated gay bar, where you could butch it up or camp it up, drink cocktails instead of beer and tomato juice, and listen to your preferred music, even dance.

This was like attending gay university and getting your credentials for a lifetime of alcoholism and “Carpenters” albums, a surprisingly popular career track.

Or, second option, there was meeting someone in a public washroom — the microwave method, as it were. Quick and dirty, this made up in sheer outlaw terror, speed and quantity what it lacked in anything approaching your preferred candlelight-Champagne-Swan-Lake vibe or attentive quality, demonstrating once and for all that the genie in the bottle was actually that genial but unruly fellow between your legs; and that the nuns had been right after all for insisting on “hands above the covers” (though how on earth did they know?).

If you are aware of the tendency of gay men in those days to sit at home after dinner enduring the screech-issimo of Maria Callas; or getting all weepy on gin, acting out the entire party scene from “All About Eve” then deliberately botching a suicide attempt, these two options were why.

This, then, was pre-Stonewall, and our camouflage, developed over centuries, was chameleon-perfect. All we required was no rocking of our tiny, exquisitely decorated life rafts. After Stonewall and its rioting drag queens, as if there were any other kind, and the emergence of “Gay Lib”, came the abrupt loss of our protective coloring and underground status.

Now we needed to cope with our fabulous new problem: For with a sudden flare of police searchlights and a sounding of emergency sirens outside an obscure Greenwich Village bar, we had been rendered visible, like helpless specimens of exotic small game chased from their dens, easy pickings for the hunters’ clubs and nets.

Without rights, respect, dignity – without a flicker of understanding or compassion – our Pyrrhic victory had won for us a freedom that could only be endured, not yet lived.

At least now, with our new visibility, we could be certain of one thing: that the people who’d called us “vile” really did mean it, after all. They really, really did.

continue to Part 2

Big Gay Pope David : Let the healing begin!

Hey Francine! BFF♥!!! Lookin' good girl!! (He just won't listen to me about the white-on-white thing. Let. it. GO!)

The Other Pope,  Francine!  Shout-out!! BFF♥!!!   Lookin’ good, girl!! (He just won’t listen to me about the white-on-white thing.)

A great big Hail Mary, Hello Alice to all my flock of gay dudes, lesbian dudettes and those who have not yet found The Way, The Truth and The Lifestyle™!  This is Big Gay Pope David, your “host with the most Host”! ™

You didn’t hear?  Well, yes indeed, my fine feathered friends, and in case you missed the smoke signals, I’ve just elected myself Big Gay Pope, which can only mean one thing –


I’ve spent the last twelve hours at The Golden Griddle, blowin’ a few Hallelujah clouds of glory with Francine and some of the other local trannies while we brainstorm best practices for framing apologies, re-framing our prejudices and winning back the trust of “The Gays”.

Don’t you just go all shivery when I call us that?!  “The Gays”.  Admit it!

You may be wondering about certain impediments to my being Pope.  Oh ye of little faith!. Yes, it’s true, I am a practising homosexual. But Francine (BFF!!! ♥) says that’s OK – I just have to keep practising and practising until I get it right!!!

Kidding!!!  LOL !!! Big Hugs ♥!!  Love you guys!!!  In a Big Gay Pope-y way of course!

And guess what else?  Shhh!!! Secret!!!  Francine says the apology portfolio is mine!    So me and that annoying dove that keeps flapping around, you know, with the circle of gold rays emanating from its head, we’re gonna get that apology bit between our teeth and knock it right outta the ballpark!

Oh lord, I beseech thee – heal my metaphors!

Kidding!! Love you guys!! Big kiss, no tongue!!!

luscious lavori

Luigi, one of my team of luscious, hand-picked lavoratori, on his cappuccino break!  Ciao, bellissimo!!

But first, a couple of urgent, as opposed to important, tasks – top priority is whipping my hand-picked team of luscious half-naked lavoratori into shape as they slap some cheerful Debbie Travis pastels on that, and pardon my French, but, totally OTT,  fucked-up Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Sistine Chapel! As Francine likes to say, “Oi ve voy!!” which is Latin for “talk about gloomy!”.

You know, here at the Palace of Popery it’s all S & M, all the time, but hey, Vatican – change your pace, no disgrace!  How about a little gnocchi-naughtiness for us vanilla girls?  Seriously??  After all, you know what they say:

“The religious classes
avoid those masses
where all they can see is
Michelangelo’s asses!”

It took a bit of convincing, but after a heated brainstorm with Joshua bar Joseph I chose ‘Crucifixion’ Chartreuse edged with ‘Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me’ White. So when the ceiling’s done, and Debbie says it’s gonna need at least three or four coats, there’s the swag curtains – I’m thinking moss or maybe taupe – some “faithful flock” wallpaper, and a disco ball, obviously, for a little altarnative – geddit – nostalgia!

big gay sistine

Work proceeds apace on the Sistine Chapel refresh – devout yet cheerful! Shown:  “Crucifixion Chartreuse” edged with “Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me White”.

I tell ya, once my Intelligent Redesign is complete, this place is gonna scream ‘devout-yet-cheerful’ from here to Des Moines!

The second task is spritzing a little spiritual Agent Orange worldwide to completely defoliate all that shrubby homophobia, ’cause I’m sorry to have to tell ya, but those friggin’ Evangelical Protestants are at it again.

Evangelicals!!  Not a flicker of humor in a clapboard chapel full of you!   Church-going isn’t supposed to be like attending the annual reunion of the Hillary for President campaign, you hear what I’m saying?

Methodists!  Oi ve voy!! Hillary’s the kind of girl who’d sit in Grade 9 biology class with a box of tissues on her desk, vivisecting a frog with one hand and blowing her nose with the other, and telling everyone to shush. It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work now!

All good practice for freshman year at college, when she entered the charity swimsuit competition then spent an hour in the Green Room sitting on a wicker chair! Downersville!

Which is just your li’l freckle-faced Big Gay Pope rascal gently suggesting to Evangelicals—take a tip from us Cat-lickers, have a little confidence – pizzazz, even! –  and think Broadway musical!

You know, and could I just say, but really. How about some clouds of incense, or a few of those plastic Jesus statues that wink at you – a couplea nuns with guitars – turn some Wonder Bread into the Body of Christ, make it live up to its name!  Up your game a little!

I say this with love, which gives me just the tiniest stirring of a woody, because maybe- and don’t get upset – but maybe with a bit of quality distraction you wouldn’t, like—get all full of yourselves and start imagining people were taking you seriously.

There, I said it.  I mean, I’m sorry, and as Big Gay Pope I should probably soften the blow. But hey.

Anyway,  there I was, reading Francine’s piece on MSN, about how gay people are finally going to get some apologies, and maybe a box of Laura Secord “Turtles” and a Metropass – fingers crossed!! –  for all of the thousands of years of genocide and persecution and hypocrisy and child abuse and unspeakable torture and all that.

You know, “Catholic Outreach”.

And I was getting in the groove, thinking about how I might actually travel north of Bloor Street now, and then I saw them – not just Protestants –

Twat-estants!  Evangelicals!  With their Lakes of Fire and their “One Way” and, well, just listen to our wee Scottish-ly-named homophobe Charles here:

“The end of days is closer than you think… and as the Pope, you are wrong to ask forgiveness of Gays.  Do you think that God will be a forgiving God.  Maybe you should read the Bible again.”

Would you get a load of that!  Telling the Pope to read the Bible!  I called Francine right away on her hotline to tell her, and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

So there was nothing for it but to roll up my hand-embroidered Balenciaga sleeves and compose my very first encyclical – that’s Big Gay Pope for “bitchslap” –  and in fluent Scottish, so Charles will be sure to understand!  – Miracolo! miracolo! – Thanks, annoying dove with the circle of gold rays!

June 28th, Year One

The Big Gay Pope David His First Encyclical

Signed, sealed and bitch-slapped from the
Ruby-Encrusted Honeymoon Suite of the Blessed Jacuzzi
Vatican Hilton

To Charlene and all my overly earnest sad-sack flock

Inasmuch as

I, His Royal Majesty Big Gay Pope David is moved by the annoying dove with the circle of gold rays to speak to ye – and if ye’re too Protestant to get me drift, it’s like, I’m not just “la crème de la crème”, I’m Miss Jean fuckin’ Brodie herself, OK? –

I hereby exhort ye all

to prick up those ears, cause the Communion wine is startin’ to wear off and I’m losin’ me Job-like patience!

This is a matter of extreme urgency, which is why I decided not to just text you “Sup dude?” from the blessed jacuzzi, but to write to you on priceless vellum with a real quill pen, and what’s more, I “Nair”‘d me legs. That alone should tell ye something!

I’m just gettin’ the feel for this pontiff-y stuff – and to tell you god’s truth the robes are startin’ to ride up me crack – so forgive me if I’m blunter than a pair of lamb shears on Maundy Thursday, but Christ Almighty, lad!

I just read yer post on MSN and I have to tell ye, yer makin’ me all nervy with yer dour tone and yer evangelical ways, angry god this and brimstone that, and tellin’ me to read the Bible!

Well it’s a serviceable book, I grant ye, but yer takin’ it so close I’m beginnin’ to think you want me wee job!

Now I’m only going to pontificate this once: Take that oatcake out o’ yer arse if ye can manage to find it, let yer soul flounce out of it’s dark hidin’ place and – speakin’ now not as a Big Gay Pope, but as bonny lad to bonny lad – flip up yer sporran, waggle yer haggis and have a wee bit o’ fun with the boys afore ye croak, hen!

By the hairy balls o’ Christ, Charlie, it’s all a big fuckin’ leg-pull!

There, now I hope yer feelin’ a bit more pastoral and all that.  If ye be needin’ a prayer or a votive candle with a picture of me and Jesus on it, or just something tasteful for the home like a refurbished choirboy, be in touch with the Vatican adoption services gift shop. You’ll be glad ye did once the cold winter nights close in on those bloody Hebrides!

Hail, Mary!   Pope David loves ye!  Big kiss, no tongue!  LOL!!

Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma ..
Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma …