Monday, August 13, 2007

Moons Over My Hammy

Lately we’ve been having all sorts of controversy around here regarding anonymous gay sex on the beach and in the beach restrooms. It’s been all over the papers and the news is eating it up. Gay people are ass fucking all over the beach. We’re all gonna die. You can’t even walk without stepping on two men getting’ it on in the sand. Then they were going to install some sort of really expensive, really elaborate bathroom that was supposed to discourage people having anonymous sex in it because after a certain period of time the door flies open exposing you mid-stroke so everyone else in the bathroom can be treated to a peepshow.

This is clearly the most ridiculous invention ever. Obviously the inventor did not take explosive diarrhea into consideration because thoughts of naked men, fresh off the beach got him all hot and bothered. I mean, a lot of the time taking a poo takes longer than having sex, so I suspect that most often those doors that were supposed to fly open would reveal more mortified people reading the newspaper than they would two nekkid men locked in a coital embrace.

At first I thought there was nothing wrong with trying to make people get a damn room already. After an unfortunate incident which involved my barely teenaged sister tweezing wooden chaise lounge splinters out of my ass, and several hours with a q-tip removing sand from places I didn’t even know I had, I am officially 100% Anti-Sex on the Beach. I can’t even drink the cocktail anymore without a shudder, remembering how I screamed as she pulled out shards of pressure treated wood from my tender bottom. So naturally I was for any measure trying to stop other people from suffering as I had. As a public service announcement, I implore you to please lay a beach towel on the uncushioned wooden chaise lounges of the Shimmering Seahorse By the Sea Resort and Timeshare Community before you engage in your moment of unbridled passion.

I thought, people should not be using our beaches like a rent by the hour flophouse. Think of the poor sea turtles. No wonder nesting is down this year. Those poor loggerheads don’t want their hatchlings to see that.

But then the mayor went and ruined everything. He said all sorts of terrible and incredibly stupid and not even remotely witty things about gay people. I have no idea what this man was thinking, but perhaps, like the inventor of the public sex discouraging toilets, the mayor’s mind was clouded by latently arousing thoughts of oiled muscles and leopard Speedos and he got all defensive and paranoid and lost his mind and said ridiculous things. Who knows? Obviously this man has no future career in politics beyond being mayor because all politicians know that the main purpose of being in politics to begin with is just so you can shamelessly ass kiss and pander to people you are secretly thinking about how much you can’t stand as you smile and shake their hands. God, I should be in politics. I have several years experience in kissing the asses of people I wished dead. Perhaps the mayor could hire me as his advisor so I could prevent him from making any more mistakes.

Well, after the mayor went running his mouth about gay people like that I decided that as much as I hate having sex on the beach, that I should support gay mens’ right to screw wherever the hell they want as long as it makes the mayor mad, and also because the gay men on the beach provided me with excellent entertainment as they continually attempted to proposition my clueless father night after night. In spite of what the reporters say, all this rampant butt love isn’t happening all over every single beach in town. There is one beach designated for this activity and it is down the street from my parents’ house.

Let me explain how I know all of this.

Last year before Cousin moved away I used to hang out on the second floor terrace of my cousin’s building, The Portofino Sunshine Terrace, which used to be a motel and was built back in the 60s. It looked a little like Melrose Place if Melrose Place had been decorated by an old lady whose favorite color was royal blue and who thought it was ok to plant plastic flowers in dirt. Cousin and I used to sit on the royal blue bistro set on the second floor terrace with Sophia the coffee shop waitress and Big Gay Ted, who named himself that after realizing his uncanny likeness to Big Gay Al from South Park. Cousin, Sophia, Big Gay Ted and I spent hours up there drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes (not me) and talking about all the things our parents did to us as children that screwed us up for life. We had such a good time that none of us even minded the hundreds of bites we would get from the mosquitoes infesting the neglected, algae-slimed, former hot tub.

One night, Big Gay Ted jumped up and left suddenly, appearing to be in quite a hurry.

“Where are you going Big Gay Ted?” we all asked.

“To get a blowjob. I’ll be right back.” He replied as nonchalantly as if he was telling us that he was going to the bodega to get another pack of Virginia Slims.

“No, I have a whole bag of blowpops inside!” Cousin said.

“Not blow POP, blow JOB!”

It was kind of awkward for a second and then Big Gay Ted explained the whole secret of the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach. He made it sound like a buffet. You could just show up and take your pick of whomever you wished and then you could choose from a long menu of possible sex acts. It was fast, easy and most of the time it was free. Some of the guys tried to charge, but that would usually cause a fight to ensue. Someone would end up getting beat up and whoever won would take all the money of whoever lost. Occasionally, there’d be some teenage runaway, crack head types who’d try to rob you when they were done doing whatever you wanted them to do, so it was best to go to the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach without a wallet.

“Where is this beach?” I inquired.

Big Gay Ted told us where it was and oh my God, that was the beach by my parents’ house where I was not eaten by sharks. By day the beach was innocent and idyllic – the setting for small weddings and whatever the Indian people were going to do with their marigold leis. By night the beach became seedy and sordid. The beach was living a secret double life.

“How do you know who to approach?” Sophia asked.

“Code words.” Big Gay Ted continued, “You can either ask someone for the time or you ask to borrow a dollar.”

And suddenly it all made sense.

We thought my dad was starting to lose it. Every night he had been taking the dogs on long walks up and down the beach. It was his new fitness routine because he figured walking in sand burned more calories. He also said it helped him relax out there under the stars, listening to the surf, but he was shocked at how many people were also walking on the beach at eleven ‘o’ clock at night.

“I didn’t think I’d see anyone out there! He exclaimed. “But I must have seen fifty other people. Mostly men. Hmm. Yeah. Actually it was all men.”

He chalked this up to the fact that women liked to exercise on machines indoors rather than in the rugged outdoors like manly men.

“I saw one guy out there in leather pants. Can you imagine that? In this heat, he’s out there walking on the beach in leather pants. He’s tough. He’s sweating out the weight. You know, that’s a good idea. I’m going to wear my leather pants next time I walk the dogs.”

So the next night my dad wore his leather pants to walk his Miniature Pinscher and Yorkshire Terrier on the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach that he thought was the Manly Man Late Night Work Out Beach.

“I love this place!! People are so friendly here. You wouldn’t believe how many people talk to me over there!” he said, stuck in his sweat-drenched leather pants.

I guess at this point I need to digress and also explain why my dad had a pair of leather pants so readily available because you just wouldn’t expect that most Dads would have leather pants. I have a cool Dad. He wears ironic tee shirts and sneakers that look like bowling shoes. He dresses like a 20 year old hipster from Brooklyn most of the time, and I’m quite proud of the fact that my Dad doesn’t pull his elastic pants up to his nipples and tuck in a Hawaiian print golf shirt. But periodically my mother, who has very different taste, decides to impose her taste upon him.

One day back in 2000 my mother experienced an unfortunate psychotic break and decided to buy every member of our family a pair of leather pants. Being that she loves me the most, I got two pairs. One pair was black leather and the other was purple suede. My dad got a black pair. And now, finally, he found a use for them as beachfront exercise gear. He said they were working wonders. He had already sweated away five pounds and received several compliments.

My dad really looked forward to walking the dogs in his leather pants. He had made several new friends. Sometimes huge, burly men would walk along with him and give him weight training advice.

“I just don’t understand why everyone keeps asking me what time it is.” He said. “I never used to wear my watch before but now I’ll have to remember it. About ten or eleven guys came up to me and wanted to know the time. I thought maybe something was going on at a certain time that they all had to be at. One of the guys even had a watch on already. It was the strangest thing.”

So my Dad started wearing a watch with his leather pants while walking the dogs at the beach at eleven ‘o’ clock at night just so he could be the good friendly citizen. Whenever random strangers also wearing leather, repressed Baptists or Catholic priests came up to him wanting to know the time he could cheerfully glance at this watch and tell them.

“Honey, do you have any ones in your purse.” He asked my mom.

“What the hell do you want ones for? Are you going to strip club or something?”

“No, last night a couple people asked me if they could borrow a dollar and I didn’t have any cash on me. I want to be prepared in case somebody asks me tonight.”

“Why would someone ask you tonight?”

“I have no idea. But this isn’t the first time it’s happened.”

“Why would someone need a dollar on the beach late at night?”

“I told you, I have no idea. Maybe for the bus.”

“The bus doesn’t run that late. No one needs a dollar on the beach at night. I’m not giving you my ones.”

Then my Dad asked me for some ones and I gave him a few. He was very happy. The next day he got a stack from the bank so he could now be ready whenever approached. He could tell everyone the correct time and hand out dollars to complete strangers.

When I finally broke the bad news – that all these men did not want to be my dad’s exercise buddies – he was crestfallen. He had enjoyed the companionship. He felt cheap and used. Then I explained to him that lots of men found him attractive and he felt a little bit better about things. At least they thought he was hot.

But still I was troubled about the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach, and since this was before the mayor forgot he was a politician, I still thought having sex with strangers on the beach could not lead to good things. It made me very sad that Big Gay Ted would engage in such activity.

You see, I have two main problems with Anonymous Gay Sex On The Beach and neither of them have anything to do with homosexuality. I already told you that I hate having sex on the beach. My other problem is with the anonymity. It’s just very sad to have sex with people you do not nor ever intend to know. It’s also dangerous because you can get attacked or get diseases. At the very least you will feel sad and empty and dirty. To me these things are common sense. The more I thought about it the sadder I got.

So when the mayor first said he wanted to abolish the practice of strangers doin’ it on our beaches, I thought it sounded like a good plan, but it turned out the mayor and I had different ideas about the how and why this should be done. I imagined myself running all over the beach encouraging couples to go get a cup of coffee first, to take it a little slower, to make small talk, find out where they went to seminary, or what their dad did for a living. You know, pretty much have a date first, even if it’s only one. Then GO HOME to have sex or go get a room in one of the plethora of fleabag motels we have around here.

But then the mayor got on my nerves and offended tons of people so now I propose that the gay men do whatever the hell they want wherever the hell they want, but first I’d like them to go to Denny’s and share a nice, late night Moons Over My Hammy first. It would make me feel a little better about things.


Mim said...

OMG that was hysterical! I love clueless dads. It's just so cute that he wanted to be a nice stranger and tell people the time or give them a dollar. It's just so genuinely cute it made me smile :)

jeff said...

Sounds a bit like "Queen's Beach" at the Diamond Head end of Waikiki... officially it's Queen Liliuokalani Beach but with a name like that you know who gravitated to the place...

Fianna said...

You are an amazing story teller!! This was hilarious.

Henny Penny said...

Funny stuff. I sent the link to this post to several people.

Subservient No More said...

Thank you Henny Penny! I hope they like it too.

Eric said...

I have to agree with all above. Great Story especially abou your dad's innocence.

Pumpkin said...

Lmao...k, I admit it, I'm addicted!
You NEED to put these down in book form hun, I swear to god all my relatives in Scotland would get a copy for birthdays, christmases, Easters...
A Damn fine way to end my Monday evening I think!

Green said...

Here in SF we have those pay toilets. Tourists and homeless people use them mostly. What I find funny about them is that one is located directly across the street from the Ferry Building, a place that has many bathrooms, all of them free.

Your dad is the bomb. I can't decide if it's for the way he dresses or because he'd give a dollar to a stranger. I can barely give a dollar to a friend without making them sign a promissory note, complete with a notary and two witnesses.

Anonymous said...

One of the things I like most about you is your love of humanity. You have a positive influence on everyone you touch, I'm sure.

LaLa said...

This was a marvelous story. I'm curious about two things: 1) I wonder what word on the beach says about that cool gent in the leather pants who'll give you a dollar for the asking and 2) Does Denny's really sell something called Moons over My Hammy????!

bssc23public said...

My friend grew up in Miami and now I understand, from your tales, why she is the way she is.

It is good to know that the mighty government is more interested in stamping out Gay Sex than say feeding the hungry. Or maybe the Mayor is closeted and jealous. Or he owns some fleabag motels.

Connie in SC said...

That was so funny!!! I laughed out loud at the thought of your pops with the dogs and the leather pants. Isn't it fun when our parents are still innocent too!!! Hope all is well with your family.

Subservient No More said...

Yes there really is a dish on Denny's menu called that.

Here's the link:

Scroll down to breakfast favorites.

MP said...

I want the when mom met dad story!! Your dad cracks me up.

I can see it now: You can have a tent set up on the beach each night w/ flowers they can buy as an ice breaker..proceeds to buy condoms. Shuttles to Denny's for first date... You could make a million..wouldn't that in a sense make you a madam?? or a pimp??
I'm just sayin'

Elizabeth said...

Publish it, chica! There must be some place dying for this kind of piece... and I want to see those leather pants appearing in a workshop near me this year :)

Anonymous said...

That was wonderful! One of your best stories ever, and I've been reading since last October.
I was laughing out loud at my desk. I agree, you should publish it.
I love your clueless Dad.
J. from the Midwest.

Metro said...

I'm gonna haveta label you NSFW. My boss asked me why I was cracking up just now.

I read those cyber-toilets apparently cost $250,000 apiece or something. And I'll bet a quarter million dollars that BoingBoing will publish a hack within nine days that will keep the doors closed as long as you like.

If there's any justice in the world, your mayor is taking his family vacationing on Fire Island.

Leonesse said...

I want to be adopted, still!

And are they serious about spending THAT much money on toilets? And would they spend that much money if it was hetero sex? I think not.

Oh, and I love BoingBoing!

Anonymous said...

that was brilliant on so many levels. Ty for sharing.

booda baby said...

Lots of ha's! Clueless dads are so sweet!

Heather said...

of course! gay sex must be stamped out. it causes world hunger, terrorism, and donald trump's hair.

SavvySunshine said...

What are the gays saying? Flush Naugel?

I go to the gay gym in WIlton Manors. They're all in an uproar.


(OK, enough random commenting attempting to prove that I really am a local and not trying to stalk you. Your shit is really funny. You'd fit in with me and my hommies. No one takes themselves too seriously. Found you from Violent Acres.)

SavvySunshine said...

PS, don't read the blog. It sucks and I haven't written in a while. Just in case you thought of it. You could peep the myspace page though.


Anonymous said...

Honey, either you need more fiber in your diet to help with those bowel movements or I am deeply sorry about your experiences with the time it takes your sex partners to finish...

miss souris said...

Here it is, just scroll down:

And I loved the "places I didn't enven know I had" ;)

Rich said...

I am reading through your archives.
You write wonderfully. Some of your stories had me busting a gut. (The Italian Wedding Soup)

I am a gay man who loves "Moons Over My Hammy" when I do go to dennys.

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