!!! 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 salty tale.
[ Fugacious Reader: took me a while to blog-post my Valentine’s Day gift to Larkin, but here it is now: ]
Above is the package ensemble, which I planned to present to Larkin in person, at Twin Peaks Tavern. Enclosed in the box is a pair of Valentine’s Day boxer shorts to which I taped individually wrapped caramel candies: 6 on the front and 5 on the back. The box itself was purchased at a USPS depot, intended as a DVD mailer. So he’s gonna think one or two DVDs are enclosed, until he opens it. Also stashed with the shorts were two legal size envelopes, each containing a printout of my two most recent tales: “Standing My Ground” and “Ray Revisited.”
In one of the envelopes (I forget which), I included 12 different Valentine themed Scooby-Doo images. Though I printed out all images on one sheet of paper, I cut out each pic, like individual sticky notes, and stuffed them all into a folded letter before sealing the envelope. So that (I hope), they’d spill out onto his lap.
Now, this pic below shows the other side of the gift bag, and the front of the DVD box which I wrapped in three layers of blue tissue paper, then bound in a pink shoelace. You can see Scooby-Doo clenching a Valentine card between his teeth, with caption above that declares: “Be mine.” Partially covered by the bow, are these words that I printed out and Scotch-taped onto the front:
“I wouldn’t know what heaven is like, if we didn’t meet.”
The ladybug 3-D sticker was an impulse purchase that I glued to the gift bag at the last moment.
And here’s the back of the box, showing another Scooby-Doo Valentine image, and a tiny box of candy in the shape of a heart. I chose the dragon motif, of course, since the dragon is a major theme of my “Larkin Tales.”
As it turned out, I decided to snail-mail him this latest gift…but the box of candy did not fit very well in the 10-1/2 by 13 inch bubble envelope. So I ate the contents myself: the three Russel Stover treats were quite tasty! In addition, I inserted the bag and box seperately, that the bag may lie flat within the shared mailer. There was also a Valentine’s Day card plunked into this bag, in which I wrote:
“I’m nuts about you, Larkin! Please stop being a prick.”
I’m sure that Larkin–upon extracting these three items–reconstituted my original plan to contain the box and card within this bag, that he may enjoy my intended presentation.
I stepped into CVS Pharmacy on the other side of Noe Street, to purchase one item: a can of Rosarita’s Vegetarian Refried Beans. Which I enjoy as an ungarnished dollop alongside my plate of fried brown rice and sauteed, diced veggies (one large onion and two medium size bell peppers–one green, another orange, red or yellow).
While there, I decided to mosey about the aisles and look for something else I might find desirable. Whether food, candy, dry-good or whatever; I had no idea. So I arrived beside the dairy section, just to my left: a rise of shelves entitled “As Seen On TV!”. Sure enough, one particular item stood out that would really be a boon for the microwave.
“Wow! I’d love to have that, it would make preparing one of my favorite dishes a snap!”
Best of all, it was only $3.99!
So I plucked it off the ledge to eye it more closely, and read just how it works. It was the only one of its kind left, so I guess I got lucky. Nonetheless, I sighed and placed it back in its nook…for it was month’s end when I’m down to counting every penny until March’s automatic deposit kicks in.
No sooner did I turn about and march with my lone can of smashed pintos to the automated checkout, than a little birdie chirped in my ear:
“Hey! Get it Zeke! It’s the perfect St. Patrick’s Day gift for Larkin! You can’t not buy it!”
I immediately laughed with gusto, as I realized then, that it is the perfect gift for someone who is Irish in both strands of his DNA.
Yes, no way could I ever leave CVS without claiming the last of a species for my own, to do with as I please! So I snatched the product from its perch and bought it without regard for my own financial sparsity.
So eager was I to share it with you, my e-friends, I rushed hovel and snapped a pic of it, then composed this letter. Rather than bide my time till I post a blog about it a day or two from now.
The photo is revealed in the link below, so as to prevent you from viewing it before you finish reading this email. But once you do, you will appreciate how quintessentially Irish is this gift, as well as hilarious.
I plan to gift wrap it, then seal it in a large envelope along with a St. Patrick’s Day card, and perhaps a new story. Then either present it to Larkin at Twin Peaks Tavern, or snail-mail it several days before March 17th.
No doubt Larkin will get quite a kick out of it too, and actually use it with relish (pun intended).
March 7 – ADDENDUM
I bought you this microwave potato baker as a joke. I have since read customer reviews on this product, and it does not work very well. So read the instructions very carefully, if you really want to use it. It does not do a very good job of baking potatoes in just four minutes. But if you want to try it out, I suggest cutting each potato in four parts first. My hunch is this will do a proper job of it, versus cooking 1-4 whole spuds.
By the way, I stumbled upon this image of a new Hollywood actor who’s the spitting image of my “crazy” friend Darrin: his latest movie is “Cut Bank,” though he’s already famous for his role in “The Hunger Games” and “Empire State.”
PS: Two days ago I saw you pretending to give a BJ to your roommate Zachary. Probably because you saw me approach 17th & Market, and it seems to be your mission to press my buttons. I don’t really care who you hug or have close relations with. Doesn’t bother me in the least. I only regret not being sharp enough to holler through the doorway: “Get a room, you two!”
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:
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! ]
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:
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 frequently 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.