Girls Who Like Boys Who Are Girls?

by Diego

McNally Robinson Bookstore (on Prince St., between Mulberry and Mott St. in NoLiTa) hosted a reading of "Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys: True Tales of Love, Lust, and Friendship Between Straight Women and Gay Men" on Thursday, July 26. The collection includes anecdotes by both fags and hags from various generations. Four of the many authors read part of their essays, which ranged from obtuse observations of awkward High School existence (yawn) to melancholy tales of being young and lost and ridiculously in love in the 90s (remember that?). One highlight when it comes to hilarious lines coming from a hag's mouth was: "I didn't wanna, like, swallow it, so I had to transfer it to the mattress."

Another highlight of the evening was one of the stories read by a fashionista fag hag (the co-founder of Gawker.com). Her piece, overflowing with David Sedaris-esque wit, explored life "before the gays", when she grew up in rural Alabama and without a fag to call her own.

But the truth is, it's hard to even remember exactly what these people read. As much as one must appreciate the fact that the relationship between hags and fags is being explored, it's also inevitable to notice the degree of superficiality with which the issue is being treated. Yes, gay men make for great shopping alibis, and hags are funny and insecure and just as slutty as gay men are -- which may give them all a little solace. But whatever happened to thinking about what really lays underneath the fun and glitter? Who can handle one more coming-out story set in rural Iowa, involving a laundry-folding mother and a truck-driving father? And "Will and Grace" comments just aren't funny anymore. The show has been as dead as dial-up for a good five years.

The whole "coming out struggle" and "having a gay best friend is so cute" thing had it's rise in the 90s. A decade later, it really seems obsolete to be regurgitating the cliches. What we need is a deeper philosophical curiosity, instead of being caught up in the "fun-obsessed" flatness of celebrity-hetero-ism. If one doesn't have fundamental metaphysical questions to investigate, maybe one can grant oneself the right to check PerezHilton all day and rehash drunken stupor anecdotes over happy hour five days a week. But if one's gay -- and, thefore, has a deformed and incomplete sense of identity -- then one should be devoted to more meaningful literary pursuits.

I'm not really sure what we gain as individuals or as a community by consuming stories of how much fun it is to hang out at the mall flaming out together. I am sure "Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys" has much more than just these anecdotes of hollow gay fun, but from the reading, it also showed little interest in finding out the whys and becauses. It seemed more invested in the celebration of the masking of our problems (via "fabulousness"), than in what really moves us, disturbs us and defines us.

I understand everybody needs to make their buck, but it may be wise to leave that kind of entertainment for cyberspace and safeguard literature as a place for nobler pursuits.

Either way, you can click here to buy the book.

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Week in Review: The Construction Worker Is Mine!

by Diego

Uh, so I just got this phone call -- blocked number, of course -- from a girl. Which is
strange enough. If it's past 10pm and my hag is asleep, ain't no girl about to call me, trust me. I pick up and first thing I hear is: "So tell me, Diego, are you gay, bi, trans?"

What?

If this was a guy's voice, I'd answer it. Even if I had no idea who the guy was. I mean, most likely it would have been a long-lost trick. And if, at the time, I gave him my number, then, I'm sure he'd passed my litmus test (which is basically "Are you mostly straight? Cool, bring it on").

But a girl's voice? Honey, you ain't getting nothing from me. I asked "Who is this?". Twice. Until I realized "The fuck do I care?". She isn't fucking me, so there is no reason for me to waste my time with her illusive ghost-like presence on the other line. I hang up on her and she calls right back. Are you stupid? You block your number again and you think I'm still gonna pick up?

Now I realize it is most likely the girlfriend of one of my straight tricks from the Bronx, who sneaked into their email account or phone book and is trying to make justice with her own hands. Honey, I'm sorry, I am not responsible for your lack of cock-sucking skills. Deal with your man, leave his crossdressing Manhattan fags alone.

It would be funny though if she found my address and came knocking on my door asking for explanations, like only a hot-headed Dominican girl would. Catfight! Hot! Specially because my Pakistani roommate's entire family is currently visiting. They are devout Muslims who told me that "this thing that I do" (being a faggot) is "big sin in Pakistan, we punish with throwing little stone". Ouch.

Anyway, they would certainly be rather befuddled if some random mami from Queens stormed into the apartment accusing me of stealing her 6-foot-4, inked up, construction working Puerto Rican man from her.

But then again, maybe the Pakistanis wouldn't be that shocked. They were telling me about this tribe in the northwestern part of the country, by the Himalayans, the Pathans, where the men are known for being gay. "I mean, not gay, they do it to small boy". Oh, okay, so like tops. Or any given straight Brazilian guy.


For more blogs by Diego, click right here.

StraightBoysFucking.com: Hetero Cock for Gay Boys to Watch!

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STDs: Which One Are You?

by Diego

Don't you just love it when you get an email from some guy saying: "Hi, it's Sammy, what's up tonight?". Excuse me? It's who? And then you trace it back and you find that the last time you communicated with this online trick was 4 months ago. So Sammy actually expects you to remember who he is? Even if you had sucked Sammy off you wouldn't remember who he was. But you two haven't even met. In fact, you've only exchanged a couple of emails, but it was 2 in the morning on a Tuesday and you guys decided to take a "rain check" -- gay code for "I'll never see you again ever".

Emails like Sammy's are just rude. Like a straight nurse asking you "How many partners have you had in the past 6 months?". Excuse me? Haven't really learned how to count to infinity yet, mam. What the fuck? Which fag actually counts? Are straight people so sexually miserable they can count on their fingers the amount of cock they've sucked throughout six entire months?

And, then, if you decide to guess a number (ie. lie, subtracting 36 guys or more), they also expect your figures to be under half a dozen or something. These people need to be re-trained, I'm sorry. You do not deal with gay sexuality in a clinical setting the same way you deal with straights. It's like apples and oranges. Or nuns and hookers. Or Brits and Brazilians.

Anyway, this brings me to the original reason for being of this post: STD testing. If you have nearly as much sex as I do, you should also be visiting your local STD Clinic as often as I do too. I know it's scary and all. It's like going to Target: you know you will get out of there with something. Crabs if you're really lucky, gonorrhea if you're medium lucky, herpes if this is not your day, and we all know which one if you've been reaaally bad. In fact, that's the thing, you never know. So even if you haven't been reaaally bad, you could come out HIV-positive, right? And what does "being bad" mean, anyway? You swallowed a couple of times? You barebacked with a boyfriend, or two, or three, or nine? You let a Craigslist trick "loosen you up" bare, but he never came in you? You never even barebacked, but the condom broke once. Or maybe it didn't, and you're still freaked out?

The truth is being gay is a neurotic affair. It never feels like real sex, there's always that latex wall in the middle. And if it does feel real, it's not even worth it, because we will likely be"punished" by some nasty STD later. So might as well just fucking settle, move to Long Island and raise a couple of Golden Retrievers and a few Asian babies and call it a life?

Well, in the meantime, getting tested is the least you can do. Below you will find every single FREE STD Clinic in the New York City area. My fave is the Chelsea one (on 9th Avenue), because it's the only one I've ever been and I'm against going north of 28th street -- there's just nothing to do (you can import Harlem boys without having to go anywhere -- they always travel).

The Chelsea Clinic recently got rid of their bulky 1989 TV set and got a plasma-like one for their main waiting room. But the DVD is still the same, "Philadelphia" every day, all day long. Maybe it's time we make a new AIDS movie, anyone?

You take a number, fill out this form, sit down and wait for some matter-of-fact large black woman to call you out. On a good day (Tuesday at 10 a.m.), it'll take only 15 minutes, but during peak hours (see, it's like the gym) expect a 1 hour wait.

Then, she'll ask you why you're there. You can get tested for any STD or HIV, or everything at once. The first time takes longer, but once you've become a regular, you're out of there very quick. They give you a folder (free!) with a testing tube in it and some other stuff. You go to the 2nd floor, drop off the folder and wait. Between 10 minutes to 1 hour and a half.

The clientele is very mixed: from tex-messaging teenage girls to Wall Street types. It's less awkward than you'd think. It's New York City, so you're not gonna know anyone there, trust me. This is the worst part because you have to endure this particularly awful educational video about people discovering their HIV status. And you have to watch the whole thing twice: once in English and once in Spanish. Of course all the "actors" in the video are minorities, which is fine. But most of the acting is pretty horrific (except for this one black girl with a hat on), but one of the guys is pretty hot -- and he turns out to be negative in the video too.

When they call your name they hand you a cup for urine samples and explain how to do it in groups. So it's you and like five other kids with their own urine cups in hand listening to the Asian nurse. The nurses scream numbers out all the time, real loudly, like this was their momma's house. It totally seems like they are just belting out random numbers just to entertain themselves and fuck with our heads. A random viewer could even take the whole thing for an experimental performance piece at The Kitchen. Thirty Seven. Thirty Nine. Five Hundred. Letter B. Letter A. Five M. What? Is there a system here?

Anyway, you will then bend over and get a q-tip up your ass and then get your blood drawn. Wait a week or two to call for the results and good luck, bitch.

Manhattan

Central Harlem
2238 Fifth Avenue (137th Street)
New York, NY 10037
Travel Information: #2 train to 135th Street
Map

• STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, Hepatitis C screening for high risk patients, & HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
  Monday thru Friday, 8:30 a.m. - 4:00 p.m.
  Saturday, 8:30 a.m. — 12:00 p.m.
  (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00 P.M. EVERY THIRD FRIDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)

East Harlem
158 East 115th Street (off Lexington Avenue)
New York, NY 10029
Travel Information: #6 train to 116th Street
Map

• Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday
  8:30am to 4:00pm
  HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing only
• Monday and Friday — "NO DOCTOR SERVICES"
  8:30am to 4:00pm
  (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY THIRD FRIDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)

Chelsea
303 Ninth Avenue (28th Street)
New York, NY 10001
Travel Information: C or E trains to 23rd Street or #1 or #9 to 28th Street
Map

• STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B Vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, Hepatitis C screening for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
  Monday thru Friday — 8:30am to 4:00pm (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY FIRST WEDNESDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
  Saturday, 8:30 a.m. — 12:00 p.m.

Riverside
160 West 100th Street (between Columbus/Amsterdam)
New York, NY 10025
Travel Information: #1, #9, B, C, to 96th Street
Map

• STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, Hepatitis C screening for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
  Monday thru Friday — 8:30am to 4:00pm (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY THIRD WEDNESDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
• NOTE: Staff meeting changed from June 20th and will take place on Friday June 8th. Clinic will close at 12 noon on WEDNESDAY JUNE 8th for staff training.

Bronx

Morrisania
1309 Fulton Avenue (E 169th Street off 3rd Ave)
Bronx, NY 10456
Travel Information: #55 or #15 bus to 169th Street/3rd Avenue
Map

• STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, Hepatitis C screening for high risk patients & HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
  Monday thru Friday — 8:30am-4:00pm (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY SECOND FRIDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
  

Staten Island

Richmond
51 Stuyvesant Place (Wall Street)
Staten Island, NY 10301
Map

• Thursday 8:30am to 4:00pm
  STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid testing.
• Monday,Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday "-NO DOCTOR SERVICES"
  8:30am to 4:00pm (INTAKE CLOSES AT 11:00PM EVERY LAST FRIDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
  HIV Counseling and Rapid HIV Testing only.

Brooklyn

Crown Heights

The Crown Heights clinic is temporarily closed due to renovation. Relocated to Bushwick:

Bushwick Clinic
335 Central Avenue (between Linden St and Grove St)
Brooklyn, NY 11221
Map

STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, Hepatitis C screening for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
Monday thru Friday – 8:30am to 4:00pm (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY LAST WEDNESDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)

Travel Direction to Bushwick Clinic
By Bus: The # 46, at Utica Ave. bus, to Gates Avenue. Change for the # 52 at Gates and travel East to Central Ave. Walk on Central Ave., against the traffic, until you reach 335 Central Ave.

By Bus: The # 44 Nostrand Ave bus to Gates. Take the Gates Ave.# 52 bus to Central Ave.

To get to this Clinic from Crown Heights:
Walk to Utica Ave. and take the #46 bus to Gates. Change at Gates and take the # 52 to Central

Fort Greene (NOTE: The clinic will close at 2:00pm on 12/19/06)
295 Flatbush Ave. Extension 2nd Flr.
Brooklyn, NY 11201
Travel Information:
#2, #3, #5 trains to Nevins Avenue
N, R, D trains to Dekalb Avenue
Map

• STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
  Monday thru Friday — 8:30-4:00 (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY LAST FRIDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
  Saturday, 8:30 a.m. — 12:00 p.m.

Queens

Corona
34-33 Junction Blvd. (Roosevelt/Northern)
Jackson Heights, NY 11372
Travel Information: #7 train to Junction Blvd.; #72 bus to 35th Avenue
Map

• Tuesday and Friday
  8:30am to 4:00pm
  STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing
• Monday, Wednesday and Thursday -- "NO DOCTOR SERVICES"
  8:30am to 4:00pm (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY LAST THURSDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
  HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing only

Jamaica
90-37 Parsons Blvd. 1st Flr. (off Jamaica Ave.)
Jamaica, NY 11432
Travel Information: E, S, J train to Parsons Blvd.
Map

• STD Services, Emergency Contraception, Hepatitis B vaccine, Hepatitis A vaccine for high risk patients, Hepatitis C screening for high risk patients, HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing:
  Monday thru Friday — 8:30 - 4:00 (INTAKE CLOSES AT 12:00PM EVERY LAST THURSDAY OF EACH MONTH FOR MANDATORY STAFF MEETING)
  Saturday, 8:30 a.m. — 12:00 p.m.

Rockaway
(Operated by Joseph P. Addabbo Health Center)
67-19 Rockaway Beach Blvd. (Addabbo Health Center)
Queens, NY 11692
Travel Information: A train to Beach 67th.
Map

• STD Services & Confidential HIV Counseling and Rapid Testing
  Monday thru Friday — 9:00-5:00
  Please note: Addabbo Health Center is not a DOHMH site, and may charge for emergency contraception.

For more information on AIDS/HIV and other Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Call 311.

For more blogs by Diego, click right here.

I'm Not Bi, I'm Brazilian

by Diego

One would think that staying out of the gay world one would be immune to "identity theater". You know, pretending you are one thing when you really another. Say, writing on your Manhunt profile you are a "Top/Vers", when in reality the first thing you do is spread your legs wide open the minute somebody touches you. Or saying you are "str8-acting" when the only straight thing about you is the fact that you are not wearing a skirt. Or saying you are "safe only", unless people say they're neg!

Anyway, I was being a tranny for Craigslist tricks this week (surprise!), and this Hispanic guy came to my place from Sheepshead Bay or somewhere ridiculous like that. His name was Jose and he was a construction worker, so I assumed he was a total top. He said my ass was so hot "it's hot enough to eat, mami". I'm sorry, if you use the word "mami" and you aren't a total top, you should be sued for false advertisement.

Jose had a thick Brooklyn accent, one of those organically muscular bodies and a 9.5'' Puerto Rican dick. And if you are familiar with Puerto Rican dick I don't need to tell you that those things are massive. These bulky pieces of meat that seem to not even waste their time having a head. It's just this thick brick of a cock, born to do a faggot a lot damage.

With all those attributes, how could I suspect this man was not an uber-straight-guy? Those thuggish guys who are so straight, so ghetto, so hot, that they can't help but bone faggots. Not out of faggotry, just out of an overflowing sexuality. Out of their own Latin-ness. It's like one of my last week's trick said: "I'm not bi, I'm Brazilian".

Anyway, Jose fucked my mouth good, but by the time his Puerto Rican dick got limp (a sign that I was probably the 4th tranny he banged that night), he had already confessed that he a) used to escort, b) sometimes dressed like a girl himself (WTF?) and c) Only ate out shaved ass.

I'm sorry, buddy, but I'm not nicking myself in the butt just so I can have some of your STD-ridden Puerto Rican tongue. And you should have disclosed your secret cross-dressing desires way before you crossed the Brooklyn bridge, fool. What makes these guys think that we are compatible? It's not like my ads don't say "101% Bottom Slut CD Whore". What part of that sentence says "into crossdressing males as well"?

In the end -- his dick limp, my hopes for a New Jersey civil union broken -- I still had to ask: "You prefer to top or to bottom?". I was totally fishing for "I prefer to top, of course!", just so I could at least justify having spent 11 and a half hours posting on Craigslist to finally get some sort of Latino cock down my throat. And the motherfucker had the urge to say: "I think I prefer to bottom. I just love the feeling, you know?"

Yes, I do know! Boy, do I know it. And that's exactly the problem, be-atch!

For more blogs by Diego, click here.

Marched in the Pride Parade, and my groin muscles are still hurting

by Sean

If you're gay and you know it, take a drink of that screwdriver in a Vitamin Water bottle.



I'm starting to catch on! I thought everybody just REALLY liked Vitamin Water, but that boy came up to me and said, "You look hot."

"Thanks," I replied. "I love your pants. Those strings are really cute. Gives me something to grab onto, you know?"

"No, no." He winked at me the way only a black man can wink, "You're lookin' kinda shiny. Here, have a drink."

---

If you're gay and you know it, grab that bicycle seat like it's your throbbing member.



He knows exactly what I want. I just wish he would have sat up straight and stuck his tits out. But he's totally been in porn before.

Or at least the J.C. Pennies catalog. (Joke stolen from my boss, Rich.)

I tried to catch him. I really did.

---

If you're gay and you know it, wear that cowboy hat like you mean it!



Is the naked cowboy I heard about upstate on the news? No, I hear he's not gay. This man is from West New York, where the pizza is still good and the rent is only a little bit cheaper. Or that's what he tells me, anyways.

Well, he's closer to Texas than I am, so who am I to argue?

---

If you're ga - *sound of a needle scratching off a record*



Wait a minute! What's an ex-con doing selling us pride flags for 10 bucks a pop!? This asshole was going up and down the street telling us that we gotta represent. Then he'd go to the cops and loudly tell them how much he values and desires the female genitalia.

I took that picture of him and told him that he was going to be in gay porn. Also, I resized the photo to be very small, to reflect his personality.

Tranny Binge: Sexual Rehab is for Faggots!

by Diego

This whole "dress like a tranny/post on Craigslist/get fucked by copious amounts of real straight dick" thing is akin to Meth binges. I swear. I haven't slept for two days. I skipped my psychoanalysis session and was late for work, I haven't called my hag for an entire day and I've eaten maybe twice all week. One just can't stop posting when the more you post, the more real hetero cock is offered to you on a silver platter.

I am almost running out of foundation too. And I already had to take a pair of scissors to my tube lip gloss to use up the rest of it. Silly me, telling the Sephora lady that it was not like I was gonna be using the make up every single week.

By now I can do it with my eyes closed. Granted there are clumps of powder on certain areas of my face at times. But guys don't really care. They think you are "so passable" with the littlest effort. I don't even bother to shave my chest anymore. Only when it is long enough to make my cleavage look monstrous.


Highlight tricks of the week:

1. The black rapper who came in with a pocket-size bottle of Bacardi in his hand at 9 in the morning. His answering machine had his kid saying "Leave my daddy a message" too. And the dude was only like 19.

2. The white guy who came over completely intoxicated, but at least kept referring to me as a she as if there wasn't even a question about the clarity of my gender.

3. The millions of guys who say they "only do it raw if they know the person is clean". Hahaha. 'Cause we've always heard someone say "Actually, I am NOT clean".

4. The 40-year-old Wall Street married guy who came over for a "lunch gangbang" and told me I wasn't "passable" enough, but then added: "But now that I'm already here..." Next thing you know, I had his 9-incher attached to my tonsils.

5. The sweetest Puerto Rican guy who made out with me like he was in love, but suffocated me, smacked me and immobilized me like a murderer when it actually came time to fuck. Too bad he actually sucked my dick (as if he was chewing on a pussy though). I was already thinking marriage, but then he turned around and expected me to fuck him. Hell to the naw!

I am hoping I will hit rock bottom this weekend, with an uninterrupted 96-hour tranny sex spree, and call it quits. Though having sex with a gender you actually lust for is extremely rejuvenating. The idea of having to settle for the "least faggie" gay versatile/top is as appealing to me as...ass. Not exactly on my Moleskin calendar!

It is self-destructive though. Because you waste time that could be spent reading amazing books, bonding with your friends and making fun of your fag hag. Plus, the whole STD factor. But it is so hard to give up what you always wanted to have and never could, once you finally get it: the straight male gaze. Perhaps the real challenge is not giving it up, but having it in moderate doses. Being choosy. Maybe if I lived in fucking Iowa or Wisconsin or whatever, I would. But New York just has too many haute couture cock prominently displayed at every corner, or mouse click. And a tranny is only human!

For more Diego blogs, click right here.

"Let's Fuck, I Mean, Kill Him"

by Diego

The Associated Press is reporting that David Ritcheson, the 18-year-old Mexican-American who was a victim of a hate crime in Texas, has killed himself. The boy was beaten unconscious and sodomized with a "patio umbrella" by two men shouting "white power". He underwent more than 20 operations after that, and jumped to his death off a cruise ship in the Gulf of Mexico. The incident seems like the extreme physical version of what goes on metaphysically with gay men all over the world -- whether we are conscious of it or not, whether we can admit it or verbalize it or not. So if you're not in psychotherapy yet, go find an analyst now. Interestingly enough, if the crime had been committed against a white woman we'd be all up in arms, CNN's crawler going berserk with updates and things. But it's a Latin victim and a buttocks-related crime. So, shhhh...

The above image is of a white boy (left) who beat and sodomized, of course, yet another Latino, 16-year-old Keith Turner (right), back in April. When you look at a homophobe's eyes you realize, very clearly, that there is a fine line between wanting to kill someone and wanting to fuck them. The attackers in this case dragged Turner to a back yard, kicked him in the head with steel-toed boots, sodomized him with a plastic pipe and carved something on his chest. Turner also had bleach and cigarette burns all over his body. And, still, for some reason, one has to dig deep into quirky queer-devoted small blogs online to find out about these cases. While Katie Couric smiles and talks about talking pandas and fun fourth of July recipes for the entire family in the evening "news".

My 21st birthday as a drag queen

by Sean

My best friend and I had it all planned. Go to the casino, sit down at a poker table, excuse ourselves, and come back as a fabulous drag queen.

I had to wait till twelve bells tolled, just so it could all be legal, but getting to Atlantic City took us almost that long anyways. We went to the Taj poker room, isn't the most fabulous poker room in the world (try the Borghata), but they serve the strongest drinks.

And I needed a couple. A few even.

We changed right in the Taj's swanky bathrooms. I put on my stuffed C wonder bra and a curly blonde wig I had lying around. To round out the ensemble I tucked, put on a pair of lacy silk panties, black tights, strappy sandals, and finally squeezed myself into a swanky see through sequined dress. He was wearing your traditional naughty schoolgirl outfit complete with pink pigtails. Doing our makeup was wonderful, because old men would walk into the bathroom, take one look at us, and walk right back out.

We walked back to the poker tables flanked by the Atlantic City police, The New Jersey State Troopers, and Casino Security. Which was great! We wanted to get SEEN! I don't think they had a problem with us being in drag, they were just afraid we were two stick up queens. Which is why we didn't rag on the men in uniform TOO much.

Boy were we ever a distraction! We flirted, nagged, and embarrassed the straights right out of their money. Once we had made three thousand, we called it a night.

My friend made his money before I did, and had found a spot in the casino where his phone worked. He was texting when an older gentleman came up to him and asked to use his phone. My friend obliged. The old guy was obviously talking to his wife (he stood close enough that my friend could hear) when the guy reached out and grabbed my friend's tit! My friend stood there laughing, getting fondled while the guy said his I love yous. The closet case eventually hung up, and the guy said, "I've got a big dick. Twelve inches."

Not wanting to be impolite, and wanting his phone back, my friend said, "That's a little much for me." And held his hand out like a doorman who wants a tip.

The guy put the phone in my friends hand but didn't take his hand off, "Maybe it's not that big. Maybe it's only eight. But it's got a nice head."

My friend grabbed his phone and his hand away, gave the guy quick head in the bathroom stall, and came and told me the story. We left the casino and went to sleep on one of our friend's couches.

I was woken up by my friend's phone ringing. He's sprawled out on the couch with his skirt half way off, one stocking on, still in make-up but with his wig off, and I'm sure I didn't look any better. I knock him and tell him to answer his goddamned phone. He grunts. I open it and hold it next to his ear. He grunts again.

"Who?" My friend says. "No. Who?"

A mask of realization appears on his face. "OOooooohhh. No, I don't even know Johnny, he just used my phone. But listen lady, I can promise you he's not with another woman." And closed his phone.

Revelations of My One Week As a Tranny

by Diego

It is basically like when a fat fag hag loses 50 lbs.: bitch has got to have sex with as many people as possible because God only knows the body won't last! That's how being suddenly a tranny feels like. The amount of real straight cock you get lusting after you is unbelievable, so you just cannot stop yourself from hunting after it.

Whereas in the past I've always had to settle for the least faggie gay top, now I find myself in whole different league. Every guy in my pool of choices is basically super straight, so I can actually pay attention to other attributes. Like if they are hot enough, muscular enough, nasty enough, tall enough. Where if I'm choosing from a pool of fags, the amount of butch ones is so little you almost have to settle for anyone who doesn't take yoga and watches "Top Design".

It's a bit like grabbing a starved little boy from Malawi and dropping him in a candy store where every candy is free. Girlfriend ain't gonna be very rational about it.

So I am basically on Craigslist 24/7, I'm about to quit my job or something. There just aren't enough hours in the day to consume all the cock there is out there willing to poke tranny ass. If they only knew that 20 minutes before they get to my place I was a total boy. Well, they probably do know, and that may be part of the turn on for them. In fact, I was surprised to realize most of this "tranny-admirers" love to touch dick (stopping very short from sucking it). They also do not mind at all getting their ass licked and, often, even fingered. I even heard some grown-ass motherfuckers say " I do get fucked, but once in a blue". What-ever. Goes to show that no matter what league, false advertisement is always fucking there. Careful, girls.

I seriously don't even sleep anymore. Why bother, there is always some Jersey trucker willing to cross the bridge for some tranny coochie at 4, 5 or 6 in the morning. Going to the gym in the morning? Why? It'll just make my biceps larger and, therefore, make me less passable. It's the perfect excuse to skip it.

Another astonishing fact is how desperate these men are to believe in my femininity. My wig can be lopsided, my beard almost showing, my voice barely girly and they will surrender completely, even saying "You look so passable". Pure wishful thinking. I guess that's what sex is in general, though, this intense self-delusional effort to make oneself believe the other is really what we wish them they were. Tranny or not, it's all about theater, bitches.

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Tranny for a Night

by Diego

Due to peer pressure (i.e. my Hag begging me to do drag), I finally got around to dressing like a tranny and hitting New York City's She-Male nightlife.

My Fag Hag and I hit up Broadway for the essentials: Victoria's Secret $25 push-up bra (I'm a 36-B), frilly pink dress at Express ($35), cheap Sephora make-up (their own line, $6 per item), black cardigan to cover up the biceps at H&M ($19.99) and a silver clutch at one of those shady Chinatown kiosks ($12).

I didn't know about any Tranny bars so I posted a "Anybody knows of Tranny bars for tonight?" ad on Craigslist. Most of the responses were versions of "Why go to a bar when you can just come over and suck my cock?". But a couple other trannies were nice enough to suggest a couple places, so we ended up cabbing to Maya Lounge (on 14 E. 33rd St., between Madison and 5th Ave.).

My Hag did a good job covering my beard and making me look like a chic She-Male, not some cheap-ass crack whore. So I was feeling confident. Interestingly enough, I feel more "in drag" when wearing a suit and tie than when wearing a brunette wig, high heel fuck-me boots and a push-up bra.

The place wasn't packed, but the atmosphere was surprisingly friendly. The bar changes colors and the light is dim, which shows they know their clientèle (God only knows how fast my beard grows). There were plenty of post-op-looking trannies in skanky-ass outfits and acting like total whores. So I was the demure, sophisticated bitch by default.

This black guy approached me and started chatting me and my Hag up. Drinks were $13 a piece so I was hoping the motherfucker would buy me one. But he didn't want to waste any time: "Let's go to your place; you can suck my dick while I eat your friend's pussy". Which is a black man's version of white men's "Can I take you out for dinner?".

Anyway, I wasn't about to stick around all night waiting for Prince charming. I could always post "Tranny Whore Needs Some Pounding" on Craigslist, have a couple of Brazilians over and call it a night -- in case the black guy disappointed.

Which he did even before he took his clothes off. "Are you gonna rape me? Are you gonna dress me up in a thong and rape me?", he asked. Excuse me. Way to not have no idea of what this is really about, fool. I'm the bitch, you're the rapist. Anyway, he was married and had 6 kids, so whatever, that was hot enough.

He drove us home and my Hag immediately opened her Mac -- bitch can't stay an hour without her Craigslist. So I brought black dude to my room and he flipped me over and touched my body like only a straight married man does: with actual lust. None of that theater gay guys have to go through: pretend you're butch and I'll pretend I believe you.

This man's cock was so fat it seemed sick. Like bee-stung or something. His sexuality was so bottled-up (therefore fucked up), he kept uttering things like: "Am I gay? Am I a faggot too?". And I said "No", to which he said "Come on, tell me the truth". And the truth is, if you're 38 and you still don't know, then I don't think you have enough time left to figure it out, so go ahead and eat my coochie, fool.

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Brooklyn's Mermaid Parade!

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Flag Day in Hudson!

by Diego

Hudson, N.Y., population 1,000 or whatever, may not have a Gay Pride parade, but they sure have Flag Day! The event is the culmination of all things "small town": lots of cheap, bad food; absurdly high concentration of overweight folks; church-sponsored floats!; bank-sponsored floats!; intense clapping at anything remotely American -- but also a high concentration of HOT super STRAIGHT MEN. Men so straight they can barely walk and talk, they can barely fit their masculinities inside their bodies.

Check out the video of the parade the Big Gay Apple shot a couple weeks ago. Pay special attention to the little children (specially the dyke-in-training baby with the grumpy face and the little girl showing her panties) and the ending part -- a plethora of slow motion close ups of Hudson's finest straight hunks!

For more on Hudson, check out the town's only virtual gay escape at GayHudson.com

Pride Fun: How to Use Your Hag as a Toy

by Diego

I don't know about you, but I often like to regress. Meaning: act childish for the sake of acting childish. A way to rebel against this burden called adulthood. That usually happens in the shape of me making a toy out of my fag hag. More than just a Barbie doll too. Besides telling her what to wear and who to suck, I have fun using her for my own laughter. It seems a little unethical, but as long as she isn't hurt or too traumatized, I feel like it's fair game.

Our hierarchy is pretty clear: fag first, hag second. That is a non-issue. If we only have cash for one coffee, she goes thirsty; if one Metro card runs out of money, she stays home; if we both want the same trick, she goes home alone. That's just standard. But lately I've been trying to turn the whole play-thing up a notch. I figured, if she's gonna live on my bed for three weeks, I have the right to fuck with her. Just think about how many tricks I could be sucking were she not sprawled out in my living quarters snoring like a constipated piglet.

Like, she asked me for a T-shirt to serve as her pajama, so I told her the only one I had was this one that has "I Love Gay Porn" written on it. She hesitated but put it on. "No one will see me in it while I sleep anyway", she reasoned. Except that the next morning I told her she had to keep wearing the "I Love Gay Porn" T-shirt outside too because I was late and could not wait for her to change shirts. She was probably afraid I was gonna leave her at home alone and obliged. So here is this Midwestern chick parading around SoHo with this "I Love Gay Porn" t-shirt on giggling with her gym-bunny fag. The tourists were appalled, but she was too busy yapping to notice.

A few days after that I had to stop by the Big Gay Apple's studios in the East Village to pick up some "props", which included an 18-inch double-sided blue dildo. Guess who carried it all the way back to NoLiTa in broad daylight? Damn right. The hag, of course. She asked for a black bag, I told her that was offensive against the gay community: "It implies you think there is something wrong with our culture", I said. She felt bad, apologized and carried the damn dildo 20 blocks around Manhattan. Most people just assumed it was some sort of fucked up baguette, but some guys were laughing at her sorry ass pretty hard.

If you have any suggestions as to how to better humiliate my fag hag leave a comment. It's never too much. The bitches need to fucking learn.

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Happy Pride everyone! Just remember! This year's pride theme is Aliens, and I'm going as a chest popper!

I really can't wait to be out there in it, taking pictures. Here's what I'm going to be doing:

Tommorow, I'm going to wake up, wash out my pits and head over to Coney Island mermaid parade at 2pm in Coney Island. If I don't make out with a blue-painted twink on the Wonderwheel, I'm really not doing my job right. It's free, and it's supposed to be totally worth the long subway ride.

Then I'm going to the Cafe Con Leche reunion party at Pasha, (which is at 618 W. 46th St) $20 dollar donation to go to the Hispanic AIDS Forum. I'm going because that's what they call me on the streets of Harlem and I want to find out what it means.

Also, I'm going to two super secret parties. Email me for info.

Sunday, I'll be at my first NYC pride parade, and dance on the pier!

I find it particularly hard to make straight friends. All of the friends that I had in College from the sports teams all tossed me aside when they heard that I was gay. I blame it on the fact that straight men simply do not know what to do with a gay man, let alone what to talk about. It doesn't seem to cross their minds that I'm just as capable to discuss the latest sports scores as I was before I informed them that I like getting a dick in my ass (of course I didn't tell them in those words). They simply cannot conceive the idea that I can enjoy the same things that they do and that my life isn't like an episode of 'Will and Grace'.

I did however, manage to make one bisexual friend: Bradley.

Bradley and I have been friends for a while. We actually enjoy watching the Yanks game on television. We're like a version of the 'Odd Couple' (Oh! Stereotypical gay reference to a Broadway Show!). He can easily pass as a straight man with his slightly toned abs and natural hair color. I'm really no match with my skinny frame and bleached hair.

Anyways, Bradley was planning on going out of town on business for about two weeks to a seminar for his business and he wanted to leave a special gift for his boyfriend Chris while he was out of town. Apparently they had grown tired of the usual phone sex they had gone through the last couple of departures. Brad then hatched an idea to tape a video tape, a special sort of video tape for Chris. In layman's terms he wanted to jack off in front of my infamous camera.

I of course consented and agreed to be the cameraman (though lately I've been suffering from lack of getting my dick sucked and Brad isn't a bad looking fella so I wouldn't have minded...Though I'm sure Chris would have). So I settled for filming. Brad was comfortable with it because in the past the three of us had gotten together on numerous occasions for long nights in bed together forming an assembly line of pleasure giving and a chorus of 'Fuck Yeahs!'. What I wouldn't give to make Brad's eyes roll into the back of his skull, but as I stated, I settled.

Bradley had been to my house before on numerous occasions, so taking my precious camera from me with a seductive smile he dangled the machinery in front of me, and teasingly unzipped his pants with a wink. My dick throbbed and seemed to have a magnetic pull as I followed him.

Walking backwards in long strides he led me into the bathroom, turned the nob of the shower, and immediately began to remove his clothing...

Control Freaks

by Sean

Power is sexy.

I heard, and read that a hundred times, on the banners for the Gay Male S/M Activists block party, Folsom Street East. And it is sexy. I really like being in control, whether it's me tying my twink to the bed and running my nails down the front of him, or pushing him down on his knees up against the wall and face fucking him. It makes everything so much more intense.

And I've been a boy, too. Being tied up, being told what to do, you can reach levels of ecstasy that are unheard of by mortal men. That's why it's such a huge industry, and that's why so many people came...

That guy put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "My god, you're shaking. My god, you're hard." And I was both nervous and turned on. Nervous because there were so many tops there, and they'd all think I was a bottom, and turned on because there were so many people there who looked exactly like what I'm into.

The (young) guys there were really hot. Huge chest and back tattoos aplenty, wearing the least amount of leather (or latex) possible. Sure, there were more grey bears with super long nipples than young guys, but there WERE a good amount of super sexy guys who all looked like they would give me a great toss. I got asked how I dyed my hair a lot, and someone in leather actually stuttered the line, "Excuse me, did I talk to you on the Internet?" I was so happy to get hit on. I think I only got a few grumbly, Wanna suck this's. Which you'll get anywhere in New York.

There was an asshole pie eating contest!

The music? I can forgive a capella Cher if it's at a Pride event. But the event was so visceral that it needed a beat behind it. Techno would have been much more at home than Bryan Adams.

So the next time you read a story about guys who pee in expensive watches? Don't laugh. Power is sexy.

TrannySurprise.com: Crossdresser, Pre-Op or Post-Op?

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S/M Block Party and Cuckoo Club

by Sean

This Sunday, I'll be at The Gay Male S/M Activist’s 11th Annual Folsom Street East™ (West 28th Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues) from 2pm to 8pm. It's New York City's one and only S/M Leather Fetish block party. Boy would I like to live on that block.

The event is being held to raise money for lots of good causes! Like, last year they raised over $200,000 for he LGBT Community Center, the NYC Gay & Lesbian Anti-Violence Project, God’s Love We Deliver, & Rivington House. Just goes to show you that there's always a golden heart under all that leather.

Colton Ford, Jason Walker, Sylvia Tosun, Fredrick Ford, Trai La Trash, Brian Kent, The Imperial Court, John Murdock, Murdock's Twisted Balloon, aka. The Latex Pimp, Brian Barry & Paul Short are all going to be there. With beats provided by Quentin Harris, Rich King & Carlos Nascimento.

Then, I'm going to The Cuckoo Club at The Hiro Ballroom! I hear it's THE place to be on Sunday nights in the summer, because they've got a swanked out roof deck.

There's no cover for either of these events, but please, give some money at the Leather Fetish Block Party. It's for a good cause!

I hope to see you all there! You'll at least see all the pictures I take on Monday!

Sweaty Asses at Splash!

by Sean

I was out last Friday with a few friends who had just moved to NYC and wanted to get the basic lay of the land. As I was giving them the tour a really cute guy (what better way to welcome them to NYC?!) handed us all flyers from boiparty.com.

Upon arriving home I signed up for the website and received an email about an upcoming event that sounded exciting. It was to take place at Splash (50 W. 17th St. in Chelsea), a club I'd been meaning to check out for some time and I was eager to hear that it was a free event for college-aged kids. I, of course, called up my friends and we made plans to meet there next weekend. I even called ahead and told the manager that I was press and he said it was perfectly ok if I showed up and snapped some photos.

Hey Lady!? That's not allowed!!

It was stated the place had 4 levels. I was only able to make it to 2 (a dance floor and a chill down room) because I was having so much fun! The top floor is your traditional fog and lights dance hall with two big bars. Two go go dancers right out there on the dance floor where you can grab right onto 'em, and one on each bar. And like a cherry on top, there was an MTV dance party catwalk.

The bottom floor was more of a chill out room, with squeaky white pleather couches, and an all-black bar. The red lighting kind of reminded me of Army boots.

And, the shower was really hot. We didn't have a shower back home in our gay bar. It's on the bottom floor, and I guess the go go dancers go there to wash the filth of one hundred dollar bills off their sweaty asses. I only think this, because it looks like they're really washing, and they're all clean and oiled up when they get out.

Ooh, or maybe it's their first stop when coming to the club, after a hard day trying to become the next great Broadway star. I noticed a kind of slowness when they first started, letting the water run over their hair with their head down. You know, like you do every morning before you go to your straight job.

They start slow, and go over every inch. I'm getting hard just thinking about it.