Holiday Flurry

February 25, 2015

From late fall till the end of last year, I needed to rest my fingers from so much typing…seeing as I suffer from a mild case of repetitive stress injury. But the stories piled up, so now we must backtrack a bit. Other ‘belated” tales still await my posting. This is a flurry of ten postcards I sent to Larkin during the holiday season. (Some are “homemade,” that is: I took four “Step Into Hyper-Reality” adverts for the latest Spiderman film, and converted them into postcards. Didn’t occur to me till weeks later, that maybe Larkin likes Spiderman almost as much as he does Scooby-Doo…and that is why I intuitively chose it.) All self-explanatory:


Postcard sent November 25th:


Postcard sent November 29th:


Postcard sent December 3rd:


Postcard sent December 6th:


Postcard sent December 9th:


Postcard sent December 12th:


Postcard sent December 15th:


Postcard sent December 18th:


Postcard sent December 21st:


Postcard sent December 24th:


Even More Gay Zombie Jesus

February 17, 2015

As if my previous Gay Zombie Jesus posts weren’t deleriously psycho enough, I give you “Even More Gay Zombie Jesus.” This piece is a sequel to my post “Gay Zombie Jesus Returns.” Notice that in most cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 57 incredibly perverted Twitter pranks in all. Maybe you should get stoned on some righteous ganja, first!

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, most tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Sorry for the inconvenience…but I think I’m so witty it’s worth the hassle. Besides, you need to slow down and relax. Dr. Zeke’s orders.

[ Or you can simply click here to view them all at once without the hassle! ]




















































































































This Extraordinary Claim

February 13, 2015

13 February

Most Beloved Larkin,

I will soon save many souls, and bring great deliverance first to sexual minorities across the globe, then to everyone else. This extraordinary claim comes not from delusion, but from a profound miracle of which (for whatever reason that I really cannot grasp) I am the centerpiece. A destiny which has stirred in my heart since the day I was born, that has often made me question my sanity.

Tears of jubilation by every single human on this planet shall be my cup that runneth over for all eternity. And I owe it entirely to you.

For you, My Amazing Dragon, have never flinched in delivering harsh lessons to This Beleaguered Fukup whenever you so deemed necessary. Which purpose accelerated the growth of my spirit into mature realization of my unique place in the universe. I’m sure it broke your heart many times over in doing so…but at the same time I’m also sure that great joy overrode any sorrow you felt, knowing of course the benevolent outcome.

For when so permitted by Universal Mind, you showered me with love, friendship and loyalty. Which gave me strength and inspiration to strive forward. Among your many kind words and gestures, your confession last year some time in May, was the greatest of them all:

“Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend!”

You are My Guardian Dragon who has been with me since I was conceived in the womb. And who summoned me to the Hole in the Wall Saloon back in 2006, that we finally meet in the flesh. Of course it took me years to acknowledge such an amazing kismet, resulting in the publication of “Free Me From This Bond.” Now moving on to Book 4, beyond the trilogy that I thought would complete our tale.

Besides the painful challenges you’ve tossed in my path, you’ve created most of the adventures I write about since we met. And for which reason I give you most of the credit: for you are the true author of these chapters, and I am but the recording secretary.

No one is so beautiful in my eye, than Your Sweet Self. In fact, no one else comes even close. The handsome, kind men I have been meeting lately (and who’ve blessed me with great affection and super-hot sex), I conclude are your scouts whom you’ve sent to give me succor as a reward for my trials you’ve put me through. Perhaps they are escorts you’ve paid well to show me a nice time. Be that as it may:

I still prefer your company over These Glorious Stallions…even if just chatting over a cup of coffee for 20 minutes or so, now and then.

So when my fame rises, I really don’t want to bask alone in the glory. I prefer that you stand by my side through it all, that I may constantly reflect back to you, so the world may know who really is the true hero. Together, we shall forge a new nation, one that is primarily dedicated to the liberation of sexual minorities, and which shall be named “Athenia.”

Your Friend Who Loves You So Dearly,

Zeke

P.S.: I finally realize that your calling me “your stalker” is but a code term for “your boyfriend.” Thank you so much for your incredible forbearance. That I may fulfill a destiny which harbors only the greatest happiness for all sentient beings on this wobbly little orb called earth.


Ray Revisited

February 8, 2015

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the image above, to read my spicy tale.


Standing My Ground

February 6, 2015

31 January

It is evening. A brave chill in the air and the moon is almost full, with a drizzly halo of blue-white mist edged in bronze. So radiant! I cross Market, then 17th, and peer into the plate glass of Twin Peaks Tavern, to behold:

LARKIN!

He’s seated at the deep end of the bar, the hardest spot for me to behold from the 17th-Street side of the tavern, the doorway (even when open), or for that matter: the huge pentaptych of picture windows facing Castro Street (as the sun reflects strongly on that side, from around 3 PM until just before sunset, this time of year). But there is one other spot that, were he seated there, I’d never espy his sweet presence whether day or night. And that’s the mini-mezzanine.

Fortunately (for me), Apollo’s Chariot had already descended below earth’s horizon, and I can easily recognize My Beloved Basilisk through the Castro Street side of Twin Peaks.

[ What I am about to impart to you, Crafty Reader, is another silly little clash between Larkin and yours truly. Nonetheless, this particular encounter was such a tremendous blessing to my world…and which you can already surmise by the high level of inspiration reflected in the entire composition of This True Tale, right from the start.

Blessed be The Pro-Gay Saints Of This World, both atheist and god-fearing! ]

So I stand outside by the bus stop, positioning myself in such a manner as to be potentially visible to Larkin, should he raise his scruffy head in my direction. Which has me leaning against a lamppost, for the most part. He may or may not have seen me, for he does indeed turn his face in my line of sight, twice…but for such a brief moment each time, I can’t be sure. Yet my confidence in his powerful telepathy assures me that, yes, of course he’s aware of my proximity, even if he never glances at his Objet D’amour.

After standing my vigil for almost ten minutes, Larkin finally steps out for a smoke. He leans against the south-facing buttress of Jane Warner Plaza, placing us approx’ly 20 feet apart. After gazing upon This Beauty for a half-minute (while he puffs on a cigarette like it’s the last one on the planet), I suddenly realize that he’s providing me with the opportunity to toss him the badinage that has been haunting my brain for almost two weeks. So I flick my Fortuna onto the curb and walk up to him:

“Are you still telling people I’m your stalker?”

Larkin turns to me, speaking not a word. He scowls and spits on the asphalt three feet before This Trembling Sacrificial Goat. And I reply (totally unphased, I should note):

“I take that as a yes!”

He takes another puff on his Camel 99 before turning his back to me.

“That’s okay, Larkin,” I assure with a kind smile. “Doesn’t bother me at all.”

With that, he starts to zigzag his way across Castro Street. But not without first retorting:

“I don’t have to tell them, they already know!” he hollers like a biblical patriarch.

I parry: “That’s because they’re pea-brained, gossiping alcoholics who believe everything you say! They’re stupid and gullible, with fat wallets! You have them brainwashed!”

Which is quite true: Larkin is tremendously handsome, charismatic, and uber-talented. Every bit as seductive as the sirens were to Ulysses and his men.

[ Thus please realize, Corrugated Reader, that Larkin can have anyone wrapped about his little finger in less than five minutes! So what I’m up against is A Mischievous Archangel Of Zeus who is always dealt Jokers, Aces, Kings and Queens while I (his main charge) am dealt nothing but low cards. No way can I beat him at His Own Game, unless he intentionally designs it so. (And he freqently changes the rules, usually right after I get a lucky roll of the dice.) But what I find so magnificent about This Irish Warrior, is he wants me to fight back no matter what…like Miguel de Cervantes’ antihero slashing a rusty sword in the air. (Please note that the phallic symbolism of a rusty sword does not go unnoticed by this queer renegade!) ]

Mr. Silly Sauropod is, by now, standing on Castro Street’s sidewalk directly opposite me, with traffic flowing between. As he walks down Castro to 18th Street, he regularly glances in my direction while puffing on a ciggie. And I mirror his moves, such that we remain perfectly parallel to each other. Yet, at precisely halfway down the block, he pauses behind a parked Camero, staring at me from across the traffic lane.

I look back at those orange-flame eyes etched in dark night, and raise my shoulders as if to declare:

“What else can I do?” For he is truly loved by this vagabond queer soul!

He retaliates by flicking the smoldering filter over the car, and onto the asphalt…more than 30 feet off from its intended mark: me! I take that as a gesture of profound humility, respect, honor…and hilarity. You are so fukkin cute, Larkin! His glorious mane of auburn hair (with specks of silver scattered about, these days) bobs over the yellow Camero while I stand across the street, shoulders in shrug, as he propels a hostile cigarette butt in my remote direction then quickly turns about to enter 440 Castro.

“How long is he gonna hole up in there?” I question. “Do they have a pool table, ’cause that would make a big difference.”

Still, he left his jacket on the end stool at Twin Peaks, in which case I’m sure I can intercept him by Castro & Market as he crosses back, without my having to wait o’erlong. So I hang out on Castro Street, meandering up and down the lengthy sidewalk while keeping a peeled eye on 440. Twice I march down the opposite side to glimpse into His Accommodating Escape Hatch, but it’s too crowded for me (and rather dark) to spot the little stinker.

Then it occurs to me he could’ve slipped out and dashed in the other direction (towards 18th Street), then turn left up Hartford, then left again up 17th, where he could reenter Twin Peaks without my notice. I am on the 440 side of Castro at the moment, so stride back north to Market, cross, and–sure enough–there’s Larkin escorting a gaggle of young ladies through the swinging portal!

I quickly approach him where the momentary jam of bodies keeps him stuck just outside the doorway. He is peering in, his boisterous voice of good cheer addressing the ladies as they look about for seats. This is my moment. So I holler close to his right ear:

“When you’ve finally played out your silly game I’ll still be here for you!”

“Go away!” he growls, waving a dismissive hand at yours truly. “Get the fuk outta here!”

I step back barely a foot, then stand my ground: “No. This is public space and no one pushes me around!”

Larkin then glowers, his face now your classic beet-red. “I asked you to leave!”

“No you did not,” I rejoin. “In fact you’re being quite rude to me.”

“Then I’m telling you to leave!”

“Public space, I’m staying put.” I cross my arms in defiance while gazing up at those fiery, wyvern pupils.

He clenches his jaw in fake anger, nods his head and blurts: “Fine!”

As Larkin turns to step inside, I call: “Happy hustling! Go get ‘em tiger!”

“Screw you, Zeke!” he hollers back as he strides deeper into the tavern.

“God bless you, Larkin!” I parley.

He turns back and steps to the door once more, to extend a middle finger in my face.

“Fuk you!” he thunders.

“Then fuk you too, Larkin!” I say without anger, but fondly. For I know his game, that he is not the least bit upset with me. It’s an act that serves a dual purpose:

(1) To stir up controversy about us, that customers may grow intrigued enough to actually purchase my book…or at least read it for free online, and hopefully spread the word to others. And

(2) that I may grow in spirit by playing the game back with integrity and compassion, rather than allowing anger to rule my roost. And why is this important (you may ask)? That I finally become fully healed from the residual PTSD I’ve carried with me for many years.

And it’s working!

So I linger several more minutes outside Twin Peaks, admiring through the plate windows (as he collects empty glasses and mingles with smiling patrons): what a gorgeous angel he truly is. Then march on hovel, completely satisfied with how I handled his latest challenge. In short:

I feel aglow with Larkin’s mischievous benevolence. All next day I walk on a cumulous cloud.


New Year’s Letter

December 29, 2014

29 December 2014

My Beloved Larkin,

May this letter find you well as we enter The New Year. I want to emphasize here that your declaration, “Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend!” means so much to me, my gratitude is beyond measure. No gift, no other expression of compassion, no kind deed (of even the greatest magnitude) can top those awesome words…except perhaps laying down one’s life.

But I have already shown you by brave actions, that I am indeed willing and happy to surrender my existence if that’s what it takes to give you ultimate fulfillment. But such a tragic outcome is not in the cards, so let’s not go there. Suffice it for me to say:

What a terribly sweet man you are, Larkin Kelsey, for speaking those awesome words, regardless of the many times you’ve thrust a sword into this bleating heart (both before, and since, then)!

It brings me great joy to shower you with gifts, regardless if you do not thank me for them, or even acknowledge my offerings. For how can any of my thoughtful gifts come close to your noble confession? I am humbled and honored…and love you that much more, as a result. But I must admit:

You have a strange way of showing me your love, and which causes me incredible anxiety, grief and confusion. Yet that awesome declaration (as quoted in the first paragraph) is indeed an anchor for my soul that craves so much to be Your Sterling Companion. You are a Most Unique Fellow, as well as Divinely Beautiful to these tearful eyes! (But let me assure you: my tears are those of joy…mostly.)

It is my hope that my volley of silly postcards has brought tons of smiles to your glorious mug, as well as the occasional pang of the heart. As I’m sure you realize, the concept of sending you postcards was born of Zachary’s claim that you rarely even open my letters, let alone read them…but toss them into the garbage, or lay them down in a pile. So I have him to thank for that (ironically). For in sending you postcards, you are more likely to read the contents.

I often fantasize the day you finally phone me, or send me your first letter or card. I’m therefore sure you can imagine the torment I go through, each and every day as I anticipate such a kind return for my patience and devotion. Yet the answering machine and my mailbox remain vacant of your sweet spirit, despite the many years we have been in this prolonged and embattled association.

Wish I were a fly on the wall, to see the expression on your face as you unwrap my most recent gift. Especially my latest prize to you, for Christmas 2014…and which I heartfully presented you on December 23rd at Twin Peaks Tavern. The lovely silver tie with purple stripes, bound about that Scooby-Doo box (which originally contained 500 Scooby-Doo stickers, but which I replaced with a Scooby-Doo beanie doll dressed up as The Nutcracker).

And the other contents dropped into that blue gift-bag I purchased at Walgreens: a music CD of Irish-Celtic songs, the Yuletide dream catcher, and my “Little Match Boy” tale I composed just for you. Though my angels tell me the day will come soon, that I may view–like a DVD recording, though not really–all those moments I have been denied witness, once these trials you’ve put me through have ceased, and we are finally brought together in each other’s arms.

After some days’ hindsight, I now realize you summoned me (telepathically) to Twin Peaks, that I may present you with my latest gift in lieu of my apprehension that you wouldn’t accept. Just as you summoned me in March 2012 to Moby Dick, that I discover you now hang out in The Castro…and likewise called me to The Cafe in February 2014, as a test of our psychic link. Here’s how it went down:

Two days before I handed you my Christmas package, I attempted to gift you with it while you were seated at Twin Peaks Tavern. You saw me through the plate glass, but did not acknowledge…I guess because your housemate Zachary was there (and it was very crowded), thus accepting my gift at that moment would cause some difficulty as a result. So I did not linger more than a half minute before proceeding back hovel. “Never mind,” I thought, “I’ll try again another day when, hopefully, he sits alone.”

Three confrontations occurred between us before I could bless you with my gift…and for which reason I concluded that you most likely would turn me down. You scowled each time you saw me walking towards you, which of course broke my heart, but which also caused me to affirm my love, regardless. For I refuse to be duped by your rejections, especially since you confessed to me back in May, that “our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend.” Yet had that most kind admission never occurred, I’d still remain forthright in continuing to reach out to you! Thus the 23rd arrived, and I wrestled with my demons:

“Surely he won’t accept my gift at this point,” I mused with much angst, “But so what? After all, it’s only a material gesture, which I can mail to him post-Christmas, when my next Social Security automatic deposit arrives, January 3rd.”

As the short day diminished into night, I grew feisty:

“Wait a minute, why should I be such a coward? It’s Tuesday, the night he plays pool at The Cafe. I’ll just bring the gift there and attempt to hand it over. If he humiliates me and drives me away, I’ll just shrug my shoulders, tell him I love him anyway, and be gone!”

With that determination in mind, I marched with the blue gift-bag, across Market and up the street…then climbed the stairs to The Cafe. But the place was empty. So I sighed and ambled back down, hoping to find you seated in Twin Peaks Tavern.

Sure enough, there you were, camped on the corner stool of the bar’s short edge. chatting it up with an elderly buffoon on the lengthy side, with a vacant chair between you two. A space perfectly situated for me to drop my present, spout a few kind words and run off. But would you rebuff me with cruel retort, or accept my gift in friendly grace? I did not care at this moment, for opportunity struck, and I was not about to be a spineless turd. In face of the challenge that the last time I entered Twin Peaks to wish you a lovely evening, you turned to me and said: “Don’t ever come in here again.”

With that, I entered the tavern, dropped my gift onto the empty stool, and declared to you, My Guardian Dragon:

“Merry Christmas and God bless you!” Then pointed to the bag: “It contains a very nice Scooby-Doo gift.”

I quickly departed in order to deflect your possible rejection, and show respect for your wish to be left alone, no matter the reason. For the last thing I desired, was that you shove the Christmas present back into my hands. But to my surprise you offered no opposition. As I departed Twin Peaks and looked back at the window where you sat, I saw you reach an extended arm towards me, with an outstretched hand like a claw.

I beamed with joy and threw you an ecstatic guffaw before turning my face away and returning to my humble SRO. One thing I love so much about you, Larkin, in spite of your frequent hostility towards me, is this:

You have never turned down any gift I bring to you. In fact, you’ve accepted every single one with incredible grace. This latest being no exception, though I was cursed with doubts that arose from recent conflict. But only today have I come to realize that the argument I had with myself (whether or not to present my gift to you face-to-face) was really a telepathic communique between you and yours truly, where you assured:

“It’s okay, Zeke. I’d be delighted to receive your gift tonight. And I have set up a pleasant scenario where you can come in and bless me with your lovely present, without any harassment whatsoever.”

Sure enough, Zachary wasn’t there. Nor was the tavern crowded at all. An empty chair awaited my gift, and no one else was present to obstruct my desire to wish you a beautiful holiday season. The path was clear, as if The Angels Themselves had paved the way.

And I’m sure they did.


So this is what I taped to the back of the envelope:


Asexual

December 22, 2014

21 December 2014

My Dearest Friend, I’m under the impression that you are basically asexual. Some people are born that way (just like “gay,” “hetero,” “bisexual,” and so forth). But I also know you are a very affectionate man. I want to reassure you at this point, that I have nothing but great love for you, and always will, even if sex never enters the picture. The fantasies I have about you never include the explicitly erotic…but do involve dreams about sleeping with you with our clothes on, plenty of hugs, and a really amazing friendship. In spite of the occasional steamy fantasy I’ve composed about us, in My Larkin Tales. “Titillate your readers and they shall come back for more,” is a great way to become a best-selling author. I also do it to make you laugh.

I can imagine how very difficult it is, to be asexual (while incredibly good looking) and seek someone to love who will not refrain from groping you in all sorts of horny maneuvers, no matter your wishes otherwise. Most likely this is a terribly lonely existence, but which I guarantee need not be the case between ourselves. I have also considered that you might have sex with very hot guys (as you are so handsome yourself), but that you nonetheless have great love for me, though not in a sexual way. That is perfectly okay by me. I have also considered that you might have a sexual attraction towards me, in which case I still think it’s best to forego conjugal thrills until we are both sure our friendship is so well established and solid, that the sexual dimension will never destroy our trust, love and fidelity we have for each other.

Having said this, let me move on to another issue, which is your most difficult behavior (especially since you shoved me in January 2013) and which, of course, brings me much grief: While you have done many acts of kindness during our escapades at The Hole in the Wall Saloon, and then again since around 2010 and beyond…you have also vilified me, humiliated me, and in numerous other ways insulted me and broke my trust.

Yet now and then, you have performed gestures of compassion that give me good reason to hang in there. In spite of all this, I declare: It is me who has constantly reached out to you and expressed my affections since we both were driven out of the Hole…far more times than you have returned the compassion. Yet (I must admit) those occasional moments you have expressed fondness back, were extraordinary on such a divine level, that I cannot measure our mutual endearment as anything other than equal. Now what I am about to embellish upon is neither a guilt-trip nor a threat. However:

No way am I capable of continuing to extend my kind regards for you, should you not begin to make things up to me in a big way, by Christmas (or by Randolph’s birthday Dec. 30th, or New Year’s Day at the very latest). For I cannot conceive of having the strength to forge ahead without your love requited in full. To paraphrase Randolph Taylor:

“You are my last hurrah!”

There will be no one after you, that I shall yearn to love, and go through all the tests that life demands as a result. And for this reason, I don’t see how the remainder of my life will be more than a living death…and will not result in putting an end to my misery in short shrift. After Randolph, after many others I have loved but who have turned on me (or been disappeared by Fate’s Hand), there is really nothing more I care to do, that would give me hope or inspiration to live on. Not that I wouldn’t continue expressing my love to you whenever our paths cross…nor would I not do my very best to thrive without your friendship.

But how long have I already been the very best friend I know how to be, for your sake…yet how often have you caused me needless grief and betrayal? I certainly don’t see how I could deal with this much longer, without perishing from exhaustion and a broken heart.

More than eight years have I loved you like a darling brother, yet with what outcome?

But I also cannot conceive that you, yourself, have not suffered incredible grief and long-suffering to get to where you are, now. It just wouldn’t make sense to be any other way, if God matched us for each other. Which I’m sure He has, else you wouldn’t have so graciously (and enthusiastically) declared to me one day in 2014 May:

“Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend!”

I really don’t mean to frame this appeal in an “either/or” mandate: “either you love me unconditionally or else.” Yet this is what it comes down to. So if you value me as a best friend, and do not desire to see me suffer as I’ve been doing for way too many years (most of my life in fact):

It is time for you to drop your animosity (feigned or otherwise) and get this show on the road.

I realize the possibility of you being a detective, and for which professional reason you cannot admit. And that having a friendship with you out in the open may pose a threat to myself, and to your mission. If this be the case–and our association must continue to appear as a hateful one for my own protection–of course I’ll do my best to play the game as I’ve done for years. But I am telling you:

I’ve reached the end of my rope: if this ridiculous drama plays itself out for too many months into The New Year, I will most likely collapse into oblivion. Thus our enemies will win.

I also realize that this “detective” routine may be nothing more than a ruse: a fantasy played out by you and others in some sort of secret society that actually has my best interests at heart. Which is: to make me The Ultimate Hero in Some Amazing Gay Scenario of which I have barely glimpsed. But regardless of the actual cause of my dilemma, I tell you this:

I am pretty much spent out. But perhaps this is how it’s supposed to go down before you extend a hand in friendship and pull me up, and into your darling arms.

I am alone in this world, Larkin, through no fault of my own. Do you realize how painful it is for me to see you have so much fun and camaraderie, while I remain looking in from the outside, like The Little Match Boy? How sad for me to know that you now just live a block away from me, yet I am never invited over? That you refuse to even give me your phone number? And that most of the time when our paths cross and I greet you with great admiration, you walk by like I don’t even exist? That I put together another Christmas gift for you (Scooby-Doo included), not knowing whether or not you’ll accept the offering in person?

What kind of man are you to be so wicked as to tell everyone that I’m psychopathic, and your stalker? I may soon die without having any answer. My heart is badly broken.

Yet I still wish for you, and with great sincerity: a beautiful life filled with joy, friendship and prosperity.

Truly yours w/o expecting any kindness in return,

Zeke


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