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!!”
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?”
“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”
“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 Mar–a-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.
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 shop.slowpainful.com. 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.