Chick a with a Dick

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Sex with a Horse

by Diego

We at the BGA had the chance to check out the movie "Zoo", which opens officially in May. Director Robinson Devor explores the true story of a Washington man who died after having sex with a horse. Through reenactments and audio interviews, "Zoo" manages to transform the way "normal" people feel about zoophilia, exposing the absurdity of the term "normalcy" itself. (We know that if you are a fan of the site chances are you don't think having sex with a horse is that big a deal, but you are aware that straight people think anything outside of missionary is a big deal, right?).

For those hoping for steamy sex scenes between human and stallion, look elsewhere. While the film briefly shows a man-horse sexual encounter, it is all done with very dim lighting in a respectful, factual way. Apparently, the man had a group of friends who used to meet up at his farm, where they would regularly chat about their problems and have sex with livestock while at it. One fatal day one of the horses got carried away and fucked the man in the ass hard enough to pierce some of his internal organs, so he bled to death (yes, they barebacked).

A sort of witch-hunt against the surviving horse-loving buddies later ensued, along with the castration of the poor horse (to avoid other "pervs" to try to do the same thing). A law was also passed to make zoophilia a felony in the state of Washington, punishable for up to 10 years in jail.

The strangest thing about "Zoo" isn't the notion of inter-species fucking, but the fact that while we come in already judging it as gross, we leave the theater with a sense of sympathy and understanding for the horse lovers. Almost as if we could draw a parallel between zoophilia and homosexuality (or any other misunderstood way of existing). Intimate love for animals suddenly becomes closer in nature to persecuted gayness than, say, pedophilia. I mean, it's not like the horse will grow to be a traumatized adult. Or will he?

Even if we don't truly grasp the way a horse's psyche functions and experiences the fucking of human ass, we quickly catch ourselves feeling like conservative right wing nuts for preemptively deeming the horse lovers dirty old perverts. The men allegedly believed they were doing the opposite of mistreating the animals; they truly loved them. And as one journalist put it "there is just no way a horse could have done that to a human being if he hadn't given consent".

For more Diego, click here.

My Hag Splits My Porn Bill and Yours Doesn't

by Diego

Okay, I've got to give props to my fag hag. She is the ultimate altruistic hag. We've always shared everything; from nail polish to bisexual thugs from the Bronx. And very rarely does it become a problem. The newest addition to the list of things we share is my Brazilian porn bill.

The great thing about checking out porn sites owned by 3rd world country entrepreneurial pervs is that 1) Guys are hotter 2) Membership is cheaper 3) They eat pussy out of sheer pleasure, not duty. There are some drawbacks. Their server can be inexplicably down for a couple of days and they rarely uploaded new stuff. Still, Brazilian porn is Brazilian porn. Even their "mild" videos look like gang-rapes. That's just the way they think of sex: an opportunity for men to humiliate women/or fags (they don't discriminate, as long as you squeal like a bitch -- even hens and piggies are fair game, sources tell me).

I discovered this site called Tufos (which means "tufts of pubic hair" in Portuguese -- go figure), and have been addicted ever since. So I told my hag about it and shared my password info. She quickly became as addicted as me. Being the giving hag that she is, she thought it would be fair to send me a check in the mail for half of my monthly membership. The only thing is that we can't both be on the site at the same time. Which is fine, she's always been a "let me finger myself right before I go to sleep" kind of girl, while I tend to do it first thing in the morning (you know, to get it out of the way.)

The inconvenient thing about Tufos is that you have to download their videos onto your desktop before you view them. They also promise you dozens of "attractions" (rape scenes, bar in the slums orgies, yellow bus gangbangs), but only a portion of them are Brazilian. Some feature American actors and are, thefore, pretty boring. The difference between Brazilian porn and American porn is that in the American videos sex seems like a transaction: you can almost see the dollar signs glowing in the peroxide vaginas. But in Brazilian pornos, it feels like you are a fly on the wall gazing at a daily occurrence: ripped dark-skinned thug raping the fuck out of a piece of ass that suited his fancy. It feels natural, not insipid; organic, not over the top; real, not manufactured.

So the hag and I started psychonalyzing their differences, because we also share takes on Foucault and Freudian theories between blow jobs.

For more Diego click here.

Thug Today, Bitch Tomorrow

Check out the trailler for Big Gay Apple's upcoming video "Thug Today, Bitch Tomorrow", featuring two real thugs from Harlem: lots of spanking, trash-talking, deep-throating and ass-eating. You know, the basics.

Three's Company

Saturday night. drunk. Boysroom. East Village. Horny.

There, now you have the background. This sort of hot guy came up to me with a Marlboro hanging out of his mouth. A real rebel. He was pretty beefy and masculine, mid-thirties. Good top material for sure. Just like dogs that sniff each other's butts to get acquainted, we did the fag dance to get to know each other. You know the routine. It's dark and late (or early in morning-same difference) so you're not in the mood for small talk bull shit. He bought me a drink and we sort of grinded for 5 minutes and then decided to catch a cab to my upper west side apartment. I prayed that my roommate would be sleeping when I got home so he couldn't see my tragic 4am behavior. He was!


We snuck into my room and had sex? It's been a week and I still can't place my finger on what we did. I woke up naked and cotton-mouthed at 5:30am and noticed there was no one in bed with me...hmmmm...was I that drunk that I hallucinated the whole cab ride home? A few minutes later, Marlboro man came back into the room and slipped into bed with me. Damn, he had a nice bod and smelled a musky masculine smell. I asked where he had been and he said he had a cig in the living room. Cool. Sleep.

Morning! More like, Moooooooooringgggggg?!#$ (barf). I stumble out of bed and noticed that Marlboro man had let himself out while I was sleeping. Double bonus! No awkward morning after shit. I hate that whole, "sooo, you want breakfast? When yah leaving?!"

I ran into my roommate on the way to the bathroom and I noticed he looked pretty haggard himself and avoided eye contact. I was like, "wooo, what happened to you last night". He was like, "umm, nothin'". Over breakfast, he finally told me HIS Saturday night story. He had a fight with his boyfriend and slept alone here (angry, horny, drunk). All of a sudden, he felt a warm body climbing into bed with him at like 5am. (Okay, so now my wheels are turning). He thought it was his boyfriend coming to apologize. Well, there was cumming, but it wasn't apologetic. Anyway, the "warm body" started to enter the back door of my roommate and as he reached over, he noticed a much more sculpted physique than he was used to. Shock! My trick was fucking my roommate! Drunk bitches.

Now, you may think that a lot of sissy hair pulling ensued. Wrong! I laughed so hard I actually threw up. Ahhh, New York. Tricks come and go, but gay slutty roommates are forever. "Come and Knock on my back door". We've been waiting for you...okay, enough "Three's Company" jokes.

The Child Molester Trick

by Diego

If you are a serial Craigslist poster, you know that the more you post, the less responses you seem to get. And the later it gets into the night, the less likely to get good cock you are . So here I was in the comfort of my 5x5 Manhattan bedroom posting ad infinitum. And it was past the timeframe where you’d realistically hope for Grade A Puerto Rican cock, black DL types ain’t taking the L all the way from Brooklyn no more and all you seem to see is Chelsea Meth queens who “host only”.

So when this self-described straight guy replied saying he was willing to drive from Jersey to my place to “feed me till I choked”, I didn’t hesitate and invited him over.

Idiot was as familiar with the streets of SoHo as I am with the streets of Bedford-Stuy. So I have to give him directions over the phone, all the while already jacking off to his hetero voice. By the time he gets to my apartment I’m pretty much sore in the dick, ass popped open over the bed, foaming at the mouth. At that point, anything remotely male that walked through the door would have been okay with me.

He is slightly overweight, which gives his self-entitled heterosexuality a sense of legitimacy, and is sporting an 11-o’clock shadow (the kind that adds sandpaper magic to the rimming process when the top is feeling creative).

He wastes no time, puts his dick in my mouth before I even have the time to decide whether he is a 6 or a 5-inch loser. He, then, proceeds to say things like “You like that, little girl? You want a new car? Suck daddy’s dick then”. Which is totally fine, except that he seemed to believe his incestuous fantasy so much I almost felt like I was his 15-year-old daughter – so ready to compromise her squeamishness for a hot new ride.

“You wanna suck daddy’s dick while mom is at work, don’t you?”, he said. And “You gotta suck daddy’s buddies too if you really want that new dress, little slut”.

At that point I was so stunned by this man’s psychological issues I could barely concentrate on the cocksucking. So I started asking him questions. He said he was a NYPD officer, which was hot. And that he was married, which was hotter.

But when he said he had a 7-year-old step daughter I began to worry. The more he stuffed his tiny cop dick inside my mouth, the more I had visions of this poor little girl, fruit of a bitter divorce, being subjected to the vilest sexual molestation acts by this sicko.

So I told him my roommates where coming home so he had to cum quick. Which makes them totally panic and wanna leave. Heteros just cannot cum on command. So he makes up some story of how he already came three times that day and can’t cum anymore. I pretend I believe him. He puts his clothes back on and heads out. Not before turning around and whispering in my ear, “You gonna let daddy come back for some pussy later?”

And I almost feel like calling the police, except that he was the police. So I just go back online, defeated and unsatisfied, almost willing to cab to some Chelsea Meth party to suck some limp STD-ridden cock that, at least, hasn’t raped 7-year-old step daughters in the ass.

For more Diego click here.

Anal Beads

by Chicklit

I won't say I'm religious; in fact the closest I've come to the man upstairs is screaming "Yes God, fuck me hard!" while getting my booty worked. But the Lord, he does work in mysterious ways, my child. Let me tell you about this guy named Ron that I met. Nice Italian boy from Bensonhurst that I met last summer, a total Guido; hair gel, Drakkar cologne, showed up at my place in Williamsburg in his old school Camaro. What a trip! Like most gay Tony Manero wannabes he was a little bit tentative at first, giving me that bullshit "I have a girlfriend but I'm curious" shit- till I whipped my thick 9'' meat missile. He dropped to his knees and slobbered on it like a starving Sicilian on hot pepperoni.

I fucked his face with gusto, grabbing a hold of his thick, gel caked black hair. As he sucked on my tubesteak, he stripped off his clothes, his muscular body naked except for his black socks and rosary around his neck. I quickly pulled the rosary over his head, and he stopped sucking me off. "Ay..whatcha doing?", he asked, and while I was momentarily stunned
that he'd strung two syllables together, I regained my composure as I got an idea.

"Turn around and bend over", I told him. He did so- rapidly I might add, and as if he could read my mind, put his head down on the floor and spread his plump, slightly hairy ass cheeks apart with his hands. I worked up a gob of spit in my mouth, and spat it at his exposed butthole, which clenched ever so slightly. I dangled the rosary beads over his opening teasingly, then slowly pushed the first bead into him. I could see him tense up, but continued on, pushing in one tiny orb at a time, as he arched his back. Finally, I had the entire strand inside him.

It was then that I heard him whispering Hail Marys, fervently and shamefully, and without even touching himself, he shot a
huge wad of spooge across the bedroom floor.

The power of Christ compelled him!

He Donkey Punched Me!

Looks can be deceiving. The roughest looking dude is always a big nelly bottom, and the nerdy types? Well….

I was at Tek-Serve on 23rd Street, having my iMac repaired for the zillionth time. I made eye contact with a geeky-looking cutie browsing the store; kinda thin, Elvis Costello glasses, slacks that were a little too short. But there was something…he was young, 25 at the most, with plump lips, soulful green eyes, and a nice round ass from the quick glimpse I got when he turned around. Cut to the chase, 30 minutes later we’re at my place on East 38th street, rolling around on my bed, buck naked and sucking face like 2 horny high schoolers. I grabbed a hold of that meaty booty, and thought for sure I was about to be fucking that sweet Weird Science ass till his eyes rolled. But no.

I was stunned when software boy slapped me hard across the face, and quicker then a Pentium 4 had me face down and legs spread. Goddamn he was strong for a lanky kid! I succumbed to the moment; I lay motionless as he spat on my butthole, and rubbed the head of his cock against it. I was totally shocked however when he rammed it full into me in one move, and I yelled out in shock. He paid me no mind and just started fucking my ass furiously, pounding away like a crazed rabbit. This guy is nuts I thought to myself, but the best (worst?) was yet to cum.

“I like it really tight” he whispered, and then BAM! I felt a fist pound into the back of my neck, hard and brutal- this motherfucker donkey punched me! I got dizzy and felt my asshole spasm, vibrating wickedly around his angry geek meat. He shot his load; uploading a copious blast of dickjuice up into my ass. Ouch…and mmmmm.

Fuck it, next time I’m getting a PC.

My Blind Date Showed Wearing a Pirate Shirt....

Call me old fashioned, but these quick and easy internet hookups just aren’t for me. I can’t just see someone’s dick photo, trek across town, and show up at a strangers place for a little slap and tickle. Needless to say, I don’t really date much!

So I was pleasantly surprised when my friend Robert told me he had arranged a blind date for me with one of his co-workers. “You’ll like him’ he promised. “Very smart, and sexy and very very stylish”.

We arranged to meet at the Starbucks on 43rd and 8th, since we both work near Times Square. I sat there, nursing a Caramel Macchiato and fantasizing about my mystery man, hoping this blind date would lead to friendship, hot sex, and- dare I think it?- true love. Knowing my terrible luck, I recognized him the moment he stepped into that coffee-scented tourist trap. Yes, he was handsome, breathtaking actually, with wavy dark hair, and steel blue eyes. He looked to be very muscular as well, but I couldn’t get past what he was wearing. A pirate shirt.

Yes, a puffy sleeved, billowy shirt with a huge ruffle going right down the center. Oh…My…God. Who did this guy think he was, Adam Ant? Holy shit, man overboard. I can overlook a lot, but there are some things I simply cannot stomach- back hair, Republicans and pirate shirts. I was not about to walk dead man’s plank. As his gorgeous blue eyes nervously scanned the room, I simply got up and walked out, right past him. Thank God he’d never seen my photo! I felt just a smidge bad for the imitation Johnny Depp, but this date had a skull and cross bones all over it. Hopped up on caffeine, I exited Starbucks and ran all the way over to 42nd to catch the E train, Disappointed, yes, but at least I was dressed for this century.

Ahoy matey!

Straight Men Anally Humiliated by Women

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Commando

I met a real show-off recently. Literally, he's "full" of himself. You might say to yourself, "ugg, stupid Chelsea Queen." This one, totally hot.

I met him at Posh Bar in Hell's Kitchen and he bought me a drink. Well, he had an extra drink ticket and that's all I really need. A free drink and I'm your's. So anyway, he was like 35 with brown hair, brown eyes, businessy smart-looking type. Love that. He was pretty masculine too, but not too perfect. He has a definite gym bod and looked totally hot in his tight, but not too tight G-Star shirt. Hot pecs and from what I could see a great ass. One of my favorite things to do is check out guys' packages and asses in jeans and figure out what kind of underwear they're wearing...yah know, jock strap, boxers, briefs, bikinis. I'm a definite underwear fetish girl.

As he walked away to the bar, I noticed that his jeans were really tight and I couldn't see any lines. Okay, he's got to be a briefs guy. He's not faggy enough to be bikini or thong/jock type. Good, I love briefs, but what kind...hmm. He's back with my "free" drink. He takes a stool at my table and we start talking. It was really crowded and we frequently lost eye contact because guys were squeezing by our table. This gave me tons of opportunities to glance down at his crotch. My first look nearly threw me off the stool. I noticed his long thick piece was snaking down his left leg. He had a definite semi going on, and I could easily make out the shape of the head (GASP) he was going commando. I felt flushed and needed to go powder my nose in the bathroom. I had to see more. I am obsessed with commandos.

We finished our drinks and headed for the door. We decided to make a second date because he had plans with his friends that night. On the subway ride home, I was already scheming ways to see more commando action on our second date. He called, like, two days later and asked me what I wanted to do...I said, "let's go for a jog in Central Park". Don't make fun of me, I am so not the "jogging in Central Park as a date" kind of person, but come on! I'm thinking...workout clothes! You see my priorities. Sure enough, he wore fucking work out pants for the occasion! As he came walking up to me at the park entrance on 72nd Street and Central Park West, he was sporting some major swingage. You know, you can see it swinging side to side in work out pants. I was in heaven. We jogged and every chance I got, I looked down to swinging side to side. I can't wait for our third date. I think I'm going to suggest ladder climbing in short shorts and he'll have to go first. Hahaha!

Sex with a Clown

Some people find clowns scary, but not me. Maybe it’s big floppy shoes, or cheerful attitude, or the mystery- who’s under all that white make up?- but the sight of a clown always makes me happy in the pants. When my next door neighbor told me his friend was a professional clown and coming to stay with him for a few days, my curiosity was piqued.



Well just yesterday, I ran into Clownie Boy in the hallway. He was in full get up, having just returned from work with the Ringling Bros Circus at Madison Square Garden. I was about to launch into my "circus are cruel to animals" speech, when I noticed the fly of his blue polka dotted pants was open…and Bozo here was going commando. “Dude’ I said to him, “looks like you came all the way down to Chelsea with your pogo stick out”. He looked down at his crotch and then back at me, smiling that scary/sexy grin. He reached one white gloved hand in and pulled out his cock, a fat, swelling hunk of dickmeat that made my mouth water.

Right there in the hallway, I dropped to my knees in front of Faggety Andy and gobbled that chunky, sweaty hogmeat into my mouth. Bozo quickly braced my head with his hands and started bucking his hips, ramming the back of my throat with his hard clown cock. I sucked on, slobbering, my face mashed into his moist pubes, the scent of circus popcorn and broken dreams filling my nose.



Harder and deeper he fucked my face, and I reached up and cupped his balls with one hand. There was spit and clown sweat dripping from my mouth, and I had to stifle a giggle as a squeak rang out from the prop that had fallen from his pocket. I felt the head of his cock swell, and he pulled out, jacking it, and blasted his hot jizzload all over my face and into my open, hungry mouth. Squirt clown, squirt! He walked away without a word, entered my neighbor’s place, and shut the door.

I can still taste that clown cum in the back of my throat. I can never enjoy the circus again.

Boiler Room: The Revenge of The Pink Triangle

Since I have come to my emotional nadir (that is "lowest point of despair" for the illiterate fags out there), I ended up going to The Boiler Room last night. 'Cause that's not the trashiest bar in Manhattan or anything. Think a plethora of scruffy middle-aged (>35yo) queens doing the Ellen dance around the pool table.

But the drinks are cheap and it's walking distance from my luxurious SoHo loft. So, why not. The thing about The Boiler Room is that it's so unpretentious that people actually approach you. You know, human interaction?

So this guy at the bar asks me: "Do you come here a lot?". Which is code for "I wanna approach you but I have zero creativity so I will just spew the most cliched pick-up line ever".

He has an accent so I ask him where he's from. He says Germany. I guess I'm feeling ballsey, or just protective of my Jewish hag, so I say: "Germany? So, why did you guys have to kill so many Jews?"

He pauses for a minute, completely incredulous that I just asked him that. "Why are you bringing up something that happened three generations ago?", he asks. "Because that's just mean. Killing so many Jews", I say. Pause. Then he says: "That was completely offensive, I cannot believe you said that." I say: "That was supposed to be a joke".

I guess that's all it took for him to forget the whole deal, 'cause he immediately asked if I had "party favors" -- cuz that's not trashy or anything. So I told him: "I think that's completely offensive -- asking me if I have 'party favors'". To which he says: "We're even then".

So I ask him what he does for a living in Germany, and he says that he works in the "travel industry", and went on and on about the details of his job, which totally triggered a few yawns on my part. If you're not in the entertainment industry, or if you are unable to help me advance in my career, don't talk to me about your job at a bar, you know? Unless your intentions are to prove you're a real top, then you can tell me you are in finance -- but that's it, no need for specifics. These out-of-towners come to the NYC expecting us to have the kind of attention span they produce in the Midwest. We don't have time for that which isn't fabulous. We don't have time for that which we gain nothing from.

So I tell him I'm going to Urge, and he comes with, the Jew-hater. If at least he looked Nazi. I mean, if you're gonna be German, at least look menacing, you know. So I can play out all sorts of Stasi officer rape fantasies inside my head as you eat me out for a couple hours. But no, he has dark hair, dark eyes and is 5 foot 7. Unforgivable.

At Urge he says he has to go to the bathroom so he can "powder his nose". So I tell him in New York we don't bother using code words for "I'm gonna snort some coke, want some?" anymore. That's just 90s. We say it like it is. With that in mind I tell him I'm leaving because I don't feel comfortable hanging out with someone whose grandparents probably gassed half of my fag hag's relatives. He looks stunned, as if I had just ruined his entire New York weekend. And I think "good", grab my jacket and walk down 2nd Avenue with the feeling of having added my 2 cents to the road for peace in the Middle East.

Ass Wednesdays at URGE

Wednesday nights URGE (2nd Ave. and 2nd St.) hosts Ass Wednesday, a contest in which fags from all walks of life (from vacationing Midwesterners to jaded LES queens) try to prove who has the best buttocks by mooning the audience.
Oversized drag queen (and Long Island native) Gusty Winds hosts the always laid-back evening with funny anecdotes about her Hell's Kitchen existence. On a recent Wednesday, the recently laid off queen recounted her first brush with the escorting world (on the receiving end). The photo above shows Winds smacking last Wednesday's winner of the Ass contest (the winner gets $100 cash and a one-week membership at Crunch -- the crappy gym no one goes to).


URGE offers a tantalizing, straight-acting, mostly Latin assortment of go go boys, the one pictured above is from Puerto Rico or the Dominican Republic, or something hot like that. The atmosphere is no-attitude and getting a drink is not the desperate, please-look-at-me, endeavor (akin to hailing a Cab at 10pm at Times Square) that it is at, say, Gym Bar.

Shocker: A Top at Stonewall!

Talk about a needle in the haystack. I managed to find a top on Christopher Street last night.

My French flight attendant friend, Gilles, was in New York for one day, between flights. Every time someone from out of town is visiting, I try to venture out to bars I never go to (i.e. all bars other than Urge). After a quick cameo at Hangar (not!), we end up at Stonewall (53 Christopher St., between 6th and 7th Ave.), which is apparently "where it all started".

While the clientele was mostly arch-eyebrowed 60-year-olds making cookout plans for their 100th birthdays, the bartender immediately caught our attention. He had "Brooklyn" and "Italian-American" written all over him. We could almost see the white towel hanging on his shoulder, tank top-clad, wiping sweater droplets on his forehead with his coarse hands -- helping his pops at the family pizza joint. The too-manly-to-be-skinny body, the theatrical masculinity, the surprisingly innocent smile, the tacky golden chain. Don't you just love real men?

Gilles doesn't live in New York and I'm just shameless, so we fiercely stare at him until he approaches us and starts talking. Except that a top's conversation is usually limited to "You guys having a good time?", "Where in the city do you live?" and other boring crap. If you say anything outside geographical coordinates they just sort of nod in confusion. Which is totally fine, we don't want them wondering the meaning of life like a New School fag.

So we find out his name is Mike, he is, of course, born and raised in Brooklyn (he probably doesn't even know what SoHo is - hot!), Italian-American (but probably never boarded an airplane) and is 38. Which is ideal -- too old to still be a whore, young enough to make us babies.

And if you're 38 and from Brooklyn and all you've done with your life was cross the river and bartend at Stonewall you are automatically a top! The lack of ambition, the oblivion to anything non-pragmatic, the repulsive shrug at life's more abstract questions -- that's just the definition of manhood.

So he gave me his email address and winked. Who winks in 2007? Only trashy straight guys wink these days, which got him a few extra points. I could already envision our email exchanges. Me, writing a 12-paragraph confessional on how hard it is to exist and digressing on the possible outcomes of our "relationship". Him, a laconic string of words started by "yo", less than two sentences long, ending with "peace", without any punctuation.

Why can't tops punctuate? Why can't tops write emails longer than two sentences? Why don't tops ever change the subject line in their emails? (after the 5th exchange it reads something like "Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: hello there"). And, mostly, why do tops feel the need to SIGN their emails? (as in "jKing" or "-gEasy" or "-KDub"). I recognize the email address, sweetheart, no need for gangsta monikers.

Still, that's what makes them tops: the sheer incapacity to think outside the obvious. Which is totally what us bottoms need, if they ever did consider that which isn't immediately tangible, they'd find out the benefits of bottom-ness and never come back!

For more Diego, click here.

Locker Room

I love going to the gym. I love doing a really good treadmill and, then, moving on to the stairmaster and, then, lifting some weights. YES! I just love fitness and being healthy.

Okay, all of that was bullshit. I believe Samantha Jones said it best on Sex and the City, "Gay men work out so much because there's always the possibility of sex at the gym." You said it sister! Samantha Jones is my idol. Yes, the movie is finally in production (fingers crossed!).

There's something so hot about the locker room scene and I know it's cliched, but god dammit, I'm addicted. Sometimes, I go the gym just to go to the locker room. I know it sounds lame, but come on! You know you've been there.

I'll never forget my first time..it was Bally's Total Fitness in Chelsea. Not the nicest gym, but I was a fresh baby in the city and hadn't learned the ropes yet. Not the gayest gym either so I didn't get it right away, but one day after my treadmill I was towelling off near the entrance to the showers. The showers have this common area where you can technically towel off, but it's in full view. Mostly the 70-year-olds towel off there so I never bothered to look.

Why is that by the way? Does something happen when you hit 60 where you just decide that you need to be naked or in a speedo whenever possible? Discuss amongst yourselves. Anyway, a tall lean blonde boy caught my eye. Caught my eye hard. I couldn't breath. I looked over and he was towelling off slowly and looking right at me. He was like 6' with a BEAUTIFUL cock and body. Oh my god, he was from a fucking magazine. I was immediately trying to cover my "excitement", but couldn't look away. He was definitely showing off for me. Then he turned around to show his meaty ass cheeks and thick legs. I was drooling. He turned again to reveal his semi-hard on. Just enough bulge to show me he liked that I was looking, but not too obvious. I love that. I couldn't take it anymore and went back to my locker, stuffed myself in pants and left. My heart was fucking pounding out of my chest. Ever since, I am hooked on the locker room. I have changed gym memberships three times just to keep the scene interesting. I can't get enough!

Fresh Direct

If you asked me what song from the 80s could serve as the perfect soundtrack for my sex life (‘cause you would totally ask me that), I’d have to say it’s Lisa Stansfield’s “All Around the World”. Remember that? I’ve been around the world and I, I, I/I Can’t find my baby…

It’s the Christopher Columbus in me, I just have to fuck as many different nationalities as anally possible.

The good thing about living in New York, though, is that you don’t have to go anywhere, because the world comes to you. So you can cherry pick which “culture” you are in the mood for exploring that day.

It kind of reminds me of when I used to peruse the international aisles of Woodman’s – this 24-hour grocery store in Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin, where this bitch used to live -- when I was a struggling actress in the Midwest. They had little tacky paper flags representing each country (you know Midwesterners, so classy). It was pretty offensive shit too, like the picture of ultra-slanted-eyed children on the Thai aisle, sombrero drawings by the Mexican one. An illustration of Ground Zero, on the Middle-Eastern one.

But out of all the countries I’ve fucked, I’d have to say South America has been the most visited. And here is what I’ve learned about them:

1. Tunisia: they treat you like you are their property. Which is something American tops need to work on.

2. America: bring the Red Bull...Recommended for those who like to watch paint dry.

3. Brazil: perfect for lazy bottoms. Brazilians see you as a mere hole. They make no distinction between a woman, a tranny, a faggot or a hen. It’s all fuckable.

5. Trinidad & Tobago: Trinidadians won’t talk much, except to call you a bitch. Which is right out of “The Ideal Top” manual. Tobagoans will be married, which makes them must-fucks already.

6. Mexico: anyone who’s able to endure crossing the desert, barefooted and penniless, to live out his dream is an automatic top. And we like that.

7. El Salvador: they will cook you breakfast the day after, and take you out for wine. Oh, except that they will do that to a dozen other bottoms that same week.

8. Italy: fags. It still boggles my mind how Italian-Americans are so butch, but actual Italians are such pussies. Stay away. They will wrap their mouths around your extended clit and won’t let go!

9. Thailand: they don’t like foreplay. Just straight-up fucking. Which can be good if you’re gonna like, live with them so you don’t have to pay rent. They are done in less than 10 minutes. You can let them do their thing, pretend you came, then just jack off thinking about some other non-Asian dude.

10. Algeria: they not only slap your ass, they slap your face too. In public. Which throws you off the first time it happens. Then, you kind of get addicted.

11. Canada: bring a book. Seriously.

12. Cuba: they make no distinction between sex and rape. So it's basically like having sex with a rapist that you chose to rape you. And, then, have him cuddle with you afterwards. It's like the perfect rape.

I have a crush on Bam Margera from JackAss

Never have sex with me. Just don't.

After so many years of living in downtown Manhattan, I'm bored with almost everything.

Prince Albert? Done.

Electronic pulsating dildo? Worn out.

Amputees? I had a stump up my ass last week.

Midgets? I keep one in a cage in my bedroom. When you find a hole THAT tight - and that's legal - you don't let it go.

Not even shit on the dance floor of the Black Party can raise my eyebrow. Please, who hasn't seen shit? I haven't had a good house party until there's SOME shit, vomit, or piss on my floor by the end of the night.

Ho hum.

But Bam Margera from the JackAss videos? OMG. I'm in love.

In a past life I must have worked as a carni, you know, circus folks. The crazier, the better. The more obscene, I love it.

You must netflix JackAss, Number Two. I just did. For me, it's porn. It's better than porn.


Bam has the most beautiful hairless boy butt (well noted by his JackAss friends) - and he shows it throughout the video.

In one scene, he's sitting on top of a carnival high striker with a dildo at the bottom. His friend, Chris Pontius, strikes the bottom with a hammer, sending the golden dildo right to Bam's hairless asshole.

In another scene, Bam gets a red hot cattle BRAND on his ass, in the form of a dick.

He ends up with a few dicks branded on his ass, since he swirms during the branding. He calls it a "Dick Farm".

In the next scene he shows his mother his red, branded infected ass. She's appalled.

She says "Is that permanent?! You had such a beautiful butt!"

You find out later in the commentaries that Bam had to go to the hospital for his dick brand-infected ass.

In the deleted scenes, we get to see Bam's inked totally naked inked body, front view as he's standing in the elevator with a midget. His dick is at the same height as the midget's over-sized forehead.

THAT'S when I came.

Cute Boys From AREA Party this Past Weekend

ADAM FROM AREA

BRANDON FROM AREA

TOMMY FROM AREA

Our NEW BigGayApple.com photog was out on the town this past weekend, taking pics at AREA on Saturday night.

What do you think of these hot boys? Post a comment! It's free, it's anonymous!

photos by McMike. Contact him at McMike@BigGayApple.com

I Caught My Top Moisturizing, So I Dumped Her

There’s an old saying, "Two tops don’t make a bottom", which I have come to interpret as "personal boundaries are essential". Know thyself, yes? And I know thyself- I am a raging, cock-gobling, hole-spreading bottom. My boy-pussy has its own gravitational pull dammit. Like a black hole, nothing escapes, not even light.

There’s nothing I like better than dancing on the ceiling, ankles behind my ears, while a big nasty man plows my puckerbud
till it’s red and sloppy.

I thought I’d found the perfect top man right here in NYC. Big burly hunk of Puerto Rican hotness, his name was Hector, he worked at one of the last meat markets down by 14th street. I met him one night as I stumbled around
drunk looking for a cab. Something ‘bout a hot Latino in a bloody apron…magic!

Hector fucked me crossed eyed for the next 2 weeks and it was bliss. On my knees in his mamacita’s kitchen, standing up in a hallway at The West Side Club, sitting on his uncut hog at my kitchen table. That boy fucked me so
good I happily thought my kidney would burst.

One night after a particularly violent and delicious ass-slamming, I lay in bed catching my breath while Hector hit the john for his post-fucking piss session. Still feeling frisky, I got up to watch…and caught my Casanova with his fingers in my Estee Lauder Revitalzing Moisture Cream, and 50 bucks worth of the shit smeared on
his face! “What are you doing?” I shreiked. “Sweetie’ he replied in a suddenly snatchy tone of voice, “you want me to keep this face pretty don’t you?", rolling his eyes and dabbing at the glistening glob on his cheek.

Uh no, no I don’t. I threw his ass out quicker than a cha cha queen cashes her WIC check. Not gonna work. I know the tragedy that can happen when two cunts collide.

Shikseh's Schlong Up Feygeleh's Butt

Not to start a war or anything, but...
I suppose when you live in New York the line “Only in New York (this could be happening…)” comes up a lot. After a while you get used to the bizarre things the city provides. You realize coke is the new weed, and Meth is the new coke; bareback is the new normal, and group sex is the new three-way. And the strange becomes banal, the wrong becomes the inevitable. Little shocks New Yorkers.

Except when the third member of your Manhunt-enabled threesome turns out to be a Hasidic Jew. This black guy and I awaited for the third man to appear. I was already a little freaked out, because the black dude had asked me if I had ever had sex with a “little person.” “A midget?”, I asked. “A little person”, he replied, emphatically. I know one must make small talk, but outing oneself as a “small person” fetishist may make things even more awkward.

And then the Hasidic Jew arrived. With the little cap and the hair braid things. Now, nothing against the Jews, my main Hag is one of them, but isn’t it a little hypocritical to live for spiritual cleanliness, morning prayer and holiness of the soul – and then get tag-teamed on all fours in Alphabet City? Without taking the hat or the hair things off??

I kind of just stood there, in awe, watching the black guy fuck the Jewish guy in the ass. Total power bottom too. There was something unsettling about witnessing someone donning religious extremism iconography with a black cock in his mouth.

After all parties came, I couldn’t help but ask the Jew: “Is this, like, legal? In your religion…”. To which he replied “I gotta go”. Which I took as a “no”.

As he put his belt back on, I asked “What kinds of things are you not allowed to do?”. I mean, I had noticed he wasn’t feeling chatty, but when would I have the chance to talk candidly to a Hasidic Jew again?

Realizing my bottom curiosity, he said: “It is a bit strict, you know”, as he pulled out a cigarette pack out of nowhere. “And I gotta go back to Brooklyn”, he said.

When he left I turned to the black guy and said “Is it just me or you just fucked a Hasidic Jew in the ass?” To which he said: “Yeah, that was pretty weird, even for New York standards”. Daumn.

For more Diego click here

You know I fucked his straight mother-fucking ass

Child please, ain’t no such thing as a straight man. Straight to the next dick, mother fucker. Case in point, and I don’t repeat stories, so pay attention.

Honey, I was leaving Esquiltas the other night, and I was looking fierce- you know a bitch don’t hit the club till her shit looks tight. Anyway, I was trying to catch a cab, in my 5 “ Fredrick’s heels and my best honey blonde weave, and it was not happening. This man pulled up, right there on 10th Avenue, and offered me a ride in his hummer with the Jersey plates. He was a FINE ass piece too- swarthy dark looks, stubble, and yes, a wedding ring on that finger. I am no fool honey, I got the fuck in.

I had to keep from rolling my eyes during the ride as he told me all about his wife and she don’t ‘get’ him, bla bla bla. Mmm hmm, whatever. I just wanted to get back up to Washington Heights already. He kept looking at me sideways, and asked if I was a model. A model? For what, Popular Mechanics? I was at least 40 pounds heavier than he was! Then I felt his hand on my leg. Awwww shit…

We pulled over off of West End Avenue, onto a quiet street. Bitch, I pulled down my leather micro mini and my pantyhose, and unleashed the beats. This ‘straight dude’ bent over and sucked my uncut dick so fast I thought he’d get whiplash! ‘Suck my pussy stick!” I told him, and he did. Ooh, child, this one had practice. He was kicking off his sweatpants and his white BVDs without his hands. “mmm so pretty” he mumbled with my lady cock in his mouth. I reclined the seat back, and married man climbed up on me, not facing me, and positioned his juicy, hairy ass cheeks over my tool. He eased down on it slowly, then got into a hot rhythm, riding my girly meat. “Fuck me Clarissa!” he shouted. Who the fuck was Clarissa? Who cares? I pounded that Greek ass with all my drag queen energies, and slapped it for good measure. I busted a tranny load right up in that mother fucker. He drove me home in silence, ass full of jizz, naked from the waist down.

It was hot, but maybe not worth it. I lost a fucking earring in that car, and that shit was cubic zirconia!

I Saw The Kim Kardashian Sex Tape And You Didn’t

Just so you don’t waste $30 on watching a failed rapper and a half-famous pseudo-socialite have sex, I will tell you what you’re missing:

• Ray J.’s dick is pretty hot, it’s one of those cocks that sort of scoff at penile symmetry: a bit crooked to the right, an extremely thick vein all the way across it. I’m guessing it is a good 8.5 inches, cut.
• They bareback! What’s up with straight people thinking they are immune to stds? And they could even get pregnant too. Double whammy.
• Kim Kardashian embodies the stereotypical hetero female in a relationship: her “no’s” mean “yes”, her orgasms are pathetically fake and she is constantly performing – feigning shyness and disinterest. As if she is taking no pleasure in being a complete whore. When she is actually more of a freak than Ray J. While he just does his thing quietly, she is the one talking dirty (“Are you gonna cum right inside this pussy? I want you to fuck me hard until you cum”).
• Kim is such a lazy bottom! She makes no effort whatsoever. She just lies there, heiress-like, getting her pussy eaten, shouting the occasional “you’re gonna make me cum, baby” to let him know she hasn’t fallen asleep.
• Ray J. is one of those interruption-prone tops. You know, those tops who fuck you real fast, but then stop all of a sudden to do some unnecessary thing like make out with you or something. We'd get us a versatile if we wanted to kiss! Or a bottom, if we wanted "affection". Totally kills the mood. At that point, they should know to only stop pumping after pulling the hair, spitting on the face and having called us at least three nasty names (such as "cunt", "fucking bitch" or "faggot" -- my fave).
• Ray J. is not a boob guy. Although he spends a considerable amount of time eating Kim’s punani, he never once sucks on or even touches her tities. Which, even I would have done.
• The tape by Vivid Entertainment is a rip-off. Divided in 8 parts, half of which is just the same shots from the first parts repeated with different sound bites we already heard. Surprisingly, its most entertaining parts are the couple’s non-sexual candid moments in the hotel rooms, airplane and the beach. Specially if you don’t have a life, it’s quite fascinating to have a look into how strangers canoodle and play the love game.

For more Diego click on Don Diego Online

Poppers and Movies

I am at it again with the straights...yes, the roomies. I love them, but like most straights they are totally in the dark about sex. My boy and I recently introduced them to poppers like it was the first day of school.

Picture this, Sicily 1968..no, wait...I'm not Sophia from The Golden Girls! I can't help the gayness. Picture this, Washington Heights, 2 straights and 2 gays enjoying some booze and a movie. We're all completely buzzed and I brought up butt sex. Big shock. Anyway, we (the gay team) started talking about poppers and how WONDERFUL they are! I want to let the inventor just fuck me, they are so goddam amazing.

The straights had never heard of poppers (another big shock). My boy and I decided to let them in to the inner circle. We brought them to the Blue Store in Chelsea and showed them the world that is gay sex toys and accessories. They were in awe. They came. They saw. They bought the Jungle Juice Platinum.

The next night, we are sitting around with booze and movies again. Girlie roommate ( I mean the actual girl, not me) says, "The poppers didn't work last night". Femmey rommate (yeah, that's me) says, "I'm sure you weren't doing it right. Show me what you did.". Girlie pulls out the poppers and takes the whimpiest inhale ever!. Femmey takes out his stash and takes a big ole whiff. Girlie copies femmey and now both are in gay bliss on the couch. Soon enough the boys follow suit and we're all drinking wine, watching movies, and doing poppers. Just another Saturday night in the City.

Morning time! Girlie comes out the bedroom exhausted. Looks at femmey and says, "yeah, they work."

BigGayApple.com at the Grab Ass Party in Chelsea

BigGayApple.com hosts Mikey and Jason attend the Grab Ass party in Chelsea.

Watch the video clip here....was that Benny Hill in the background with a lawn chair?

The next Grab Ass party is this Wednesday, March 28.

Go to www.CumMonkey.com for more details.

The GLBT Expo at Jacob Javits this weekend..

I'm a cheap date.

Cheap, as in, like ZERO dollars, and I'll give you some "mangina".

I met this hot and hairy daddy-type at Nowhere in the East Village on Friday night, CRUISING....so fucking amazing. I LOVE hairy guys....and Nowhere was FILLED with the FUR!

Like, when hairy guys stay over and use the shower, then the bathroom drain gets clogged...

SO FUCKING HOT!!

Anyway, I live in Weehawken, and like, there's nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, anyway. I usually start drinking at two at the Hanger on Christopher Street, but he invited me on a "date" after brunch at the GLBT Expo at Jacob Javits.

I'm like "what ev...", I got nothing else going on....it cost nothing and you get all this free stuff.

You go in and there's drag queen on stilts from Atlantic City handing out salt water taffy....I ate it.

My mother always told me not to take candy from strange drag queens....but shit, if she only knew what else I put in my mouth.....nevermind...

Anyway, there was like ALL this FREE alcohol, in like little martini glasses. FAB!

Daddy's taking me to each one of the booths. I'm drinking, drinking, drinking...I'm a Latino twink, I only weigh like 110 lbs, so soon Daddy's holding me up.

More drag queens, more alcohol. I think I rode a bucking bronco. I think I bought a Toyota Prius.

I can't remember.

All I remember is waking up in Daddy's bed Sunday morning with cum on my ass.....and a lot of hair in my mouth.

I LOVE NEW YORK!

Watch Mikey from BigGayApple.com at the Woof Party Here!

Black Party Scat Extravaganza

In Psychology 201 they tell you parents must teach their kids to love their turds, "because it is their first belonging", something that comes out of their own body. So you're supposed to teach your toddler to say "good bye, mr. poop" every time they flush it down the toilet. Well, apparently some Minnesotan fags get so attached to their turds they take it out dancing when in the big city.

Sources are telling us that at the Black Party last Saturday, March 23, someone SHAT on the dancefloor. Yes, some Midwestern Meth queen got so tweaked out of their faggoty mind they just straight up took a shit in the middle of the club. Apparently people thought some nasty fag hag had released gas, but then they saw the big pile of dump sitting there. What do we need, port-o-potties on the dancefloor now?
If you party with assholes, you'll have to deal with shit..., as they say.

We all know fags are stuck on the anal phase (some more than others), I mean, who in their right non-faggoty mind would rationally make the case for ass-eating? Placing your wide-open mouth up the most pathogen-infested orifice known to the human body. One just can't rationalize such act. But in the heat of the moment we just forget that what we are actually feasting on is the bodily equivalent of a trash shoot.

Nothing against rimming, I mean, in the absence of pussy, one just has to go for the asshole, right. But excreting turds in a public place is taking the whole "pig" scene to a non-acceptable level. And I personally have this thing against using poop as anything other than flushable material. Probably because when my sister was 4, she shat her pants and decided to paint the ENTIRE bedroom (we shared) using her light beige excrements. It kinda stunk, and traumatized me.

At the Berkeley Parents Network forum, playing with poop sure is a popular topic for discussion. Someone's two-year-old does it every single time she goes down for a nap or to sleep. Someone recommends duct taping the poor child's diapers onto her body. Cuz that's not gonna traumatize the little dyke-in-training or anything. Or make her into a human poop bomb.

Some other hetero's kid "just squishes it in his hand" and "smears himself with poop from head to toe." Scat Queen at the age of 2 already!

If you don't believe us, watch this VIDEO.

Butter's in the Fridge

I like to play jokes on my poor stupid straight roommates. Yes, I live with straight people; pick up your jaw..I know. We've all been friends for like 10 years so it's actually fun and they're both kinda gay in a straightish way so it makes sense.

I like to add a touch of fairy to their lives by sharing my gayness with them. I feel it helps straight people (especially couples) become more interesting and they will have great conversation pieces for their next cocktail party with the Johnson's in Tribeca.

I love Boy Butter! Mostly because it's a non-sticky solution to lube. It's sort of like lotion for the motion and doesn't stain. The best part is that the container looks exactly like "I can't believe it's not butter"..trust me, it's not butter. I decided to test this creative packaging with true terrestrials yeah, the straights) and I put in it in the fridge (replacing the regular buttery spread). I then hid in the cupboards and waited for my subjects to approach. Sure enough, they buttered their buns with my ass lube. And ate it. Well, almost...ya know, straights don't know anything about swallowing. I then jumped out of the cabinets and yelled, "ha! you've been gayed

It's a fun apartment. I think they're planning retaliation though...as if.

How to Use Your HAG as Sex Bait

So, I decided long ago that I don't do gay men, only bi curious and straights. Like, if you don't also eat pussy, you have no business eating my ass. And if you want to cheat on me, fine, as long as it is with a girl.

Except that it's hard to get straight men to fuck fags, because they've been conditioned to think they should only fuck women. (As if fags weren't women). Anyway, so last summer my fag hag and I were sitting at home bored (braiding our hair, day-dreaming we were Jessica or whatever), and it hit me: adding a girl to the equation has got to make straight men more comfortable with fucking a fag. Plus, hags have got to be able to perform more tasks other than holding our tank tops at the club, asking random dudes if they are tops or bottoms and keeping track of our carb intake.

So, to convince the hag to serve as sex bait I had to intellectualize the scenario in a way that made it seem like she was gonna benefit from this. Not me, I was just being altruistic. And you know hags, they'll believe anything fags tell them as long as we tell them they're pretty afterwards.

So I made her post on Craigslist something to the effect of: "You can fuck my pussy, but you gotta fuck my fag first". And, I shit you not, her inbox was FLOODED with hundreds of hot straight men willing to come over and do us both. We had to keep up with the demand, so we couldn't just host one guy at a time -- we had to bring them in groups. Like Hollywood week on "Idol". And to the hag's astonishment, she quickly became that threeway dud, cornered on the edge of the bed, untouched and unwanted, watching these tattooed "straight" brothas from the Bronx work my nipples, feet and underarms.

But, then, I reminded her that she "liked to watch", so she was actually the one benefiting from it all. I was just doing her a favor.

ROCK BOTTOM: Gay Men and Meth

Directed by Jay Corcoran
Playing at Quad Cinema (34 West 13^th St.)
Showtimes: 1:00 2:40 4:20 6:00 7:40 9:50

The most striking thing about this doc on gay New Yorkers who’ve fallen victim to the mind-numbing forces of “crystal sex”, isn’t what it says about its subjects. But what it says about its audience. The film serves as stark reminder of the gap of consciousness between gays and straights. While tales of meth binges have become commonplace in gay circles (“Meth is the new weed”), they will sound as anything but banal to heterosexual eyes.

Which brings about the metaphysical question of whether or not real life never seems actually real unless it is witnessed by the heterosexual/hegemonic gaze. Gays may be doomed to self-flagellation as long as they cave in their own sexual eremite caves of self-sufficiency (high speed Internet connection, a room of one’s own and some party favors), away from heterosexual reality to serve as moral compass.

The problem is that adding drugs to an already confusing sense of self proves to be recipe for an existential bomb. A bit like allowing two different kinds of parasites into one’s body that get acquainted, fall in love, learn to co-exist and never let the other go.

While “Rock Bottom” is, structurally, pretty mediocre, the issues it sheds light to couldn’t be more urgent. A public service announcement of sorts to a generation of gays grown uncannily accustomed to emotional masochism and borderline bestial satisfaction.

It is also a more intimate experience for New Yorkers to watch the film, as we recognize local spots and familiar faces: such as the self-delusional Meth-addict-in-training J. – an ubiquitous New York nightlife gogo-dancing figure.

The film is preceded by the horridly campy short “Karen Black Like Me”, by David Briggs, about a sexually repressed geek who gets attacked by an oversized dildo and an overbearing mother from Long Island.

The 10 Types of Craigslist TRICKS

Which one are you? Or which one did you get stuck with last time?

1. The Trick That Will Not Leave: You start making the bed, putting the lube away, texting your hag, but they just will not leave. This kind of trick is either new to New York and, therefore, unaware of the rules of thumb of Internet hook ups (i.e. leave as soon as you cum), or they just think they fell in love with you. Well, guess what, you didn’t.

2. The Poppers Sniffer: I am a pretty open-minded person, and if you really have to snort some sort of trashy chemical into your brain in order to perform that is okay. But not if you have to do it every three seconds! It interrupts the pumping and ruins the mood. This one Colombian trick was such a poppers addict he even said “My friends make fun of me all the time because I do them so much”. Uh, not only you cannot have intercourse without poppers, but you publicize that to your friends? Yeah, you are a real winner, clearly.

3. The Liar: I am not sure which is more pathetic: the fucktards who send 30-pounds-old photos of themselves or the irrationally horny idiots who don’t close the door on their faces once they get come in the bedroom.

4. The Faggie Top: guys, it is not that hard, but jot it down if you have to: being a top is not just about sexual position, it is about identity. So if you act like a girl you are NOT a top. If know fashion you are NOT a top. If you go to graduate school you are NOT a top. If you live below 110th St. you are NOT a top. If you go to gay bars you are NOT a top. If you suck dick you are NOT a top. If you moisturize you are obviously NOT a top. And if you roll your eyes like a girl you are NOT a top either. So stop the false advertising and hook up with those versatiles, they won’t mind your ersatz self-entitlements.

5. The Sudden Barebacker: it’s amazing how quickly they go from “safe sex only” to “anything goes”.

6. The Demanding Trick: “can I have a wet towel?”, “do you have any tissue?”, “is that the only lube you have?”, “Do you have a cock ring?”, “Can I have some water?”, “Do you have any alcohol?”, and the killer: “What kind of phone do you have? Can I borrow your changer?”

7. The “I don’t have a bathroom at home” Trick: what’s up with that? It’s not like you came from Staten Island. Why do they have to ask to use “your bathroom” right after hello?

8. The Silly Trick: the one who thinks he will see you again.

9. The Nomad: listen,I know you came from Jersey but this is Manhattan, don’t bring your lap top bag, your NYSC backpack, three layers of winter gear and your manpurse in my 10x10 room.

10. The Prissy Trick: he acts all shocked when he pulls out and there’s a quarter of a turd hanging off the condom. Dude, you just stuck 9 inches of limb up somebody’s asshole! What do you expect, Pollyanna.

(Image source: "Watersports - 48" ad from Craigslist 03/09/06 Piss Play)

Just Spotted!

Recent divorceé and fag hag institution Reese Witherspoon, walking on Houston St., between Mott and Elizabeth in NoLiTa. Girlfriend was looking fierce, hiding behind huge black shades and a ginormous trench coat that all but buried her.
Not sure if the surprisingly slimmer starlet was in our 'hood checking out some Tori Burch clutches or chowing down them classic, I-need-dental-floss-right-now Cafe Habana grilled corns. Either way, poor Reese, donning the black and somber outfit, was probably still mourning the oh-so-shocking discovery that Ryan was a fag after all. (How many straight men do you know perch their lips like that, Reese?). It's ok, bitch, all hags have to go through the "I've dated a closet case" phase at some point for credibility sake. Now you know!