August 16, 2014, 2:50 am
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours

I have pretty much always accepted homosexuality.  Mainly because I really don’t have a problem with it.  Except for one thing: it has always pissed me off that the homosexual community seems to be totally okay with bi’s. I mean, come on people! In 99 percent of the cases, Jax has your back! I am willing to bet that I am at least 67.3 percent (I’m into percentages) freakier than you–and if some straight people bothered to consider things like: “Hey! Why do we hate gays? Because they like to scissor…give rim jobs…have anal sex? WHAT IS IT WE HATE? Their better sense of fashion and color coordination?  The fact that some of the lesbians can kick our asses?  A verse in Leviticus? The gay man’s propensity for incredible abs and an awesome, square jaw, with just the right…ahm…anyway, why do we hate them? WE are freakier!” Well, I am. I let my freak flag fly all the time.  When I’m sleeping it’s flying high!

But bi’s: get off your maybe-sore, maybe-not asses and pick a damn side you greedy bastards! Here is my theory: if you are gay, great! Welcome to Team Homo. If you are not, it’s Team Hetero for you. Bi’s are either unable to pick a side to play on, or greedy.  Or they just don’t want to admit to gay acquaintances that they’ve been faking being “kinda gay” to get free fashion advice and cool friends.

I love my gay peoples. I love my str8’s. I love my freaks. But leave some sex for the guy on the corner who talks to an invisible dog he calls Bodean and smells like old cheese. Nuts need to get a nut too.


Abracafreakindabra by khemistry
August 24, 2013, 11:55 pm
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours

Ok Khem here. Greggie is taking care of his diabetes the old fashioned way: morphine. Not really he has bad bad neuropathy so I’m sick of having ta defend him from drug nazis. You’ll be the first one screaming when you get into an accident or have a chronic pain problem like he does.

But he would kill me (and will) when he reads I have said this as he doesn’t like folks knowing.
So far its been hard to get help.

But what I WANTED to discuss is how different drugs affect sex.
Does anyone know of some? I’d like to make a list before talking too much about it.
I took Dr. Morrison’s (Daytona State College when I lived up there) Human Sexuality classes and he sez there a chemical you can inject into the base of the penis for a night of REAL fun. Like superboner. Imagine this mixed with a shot of Jagermeister a line of coke and some molly. Okay have I just invented a heart attack chemical or the most pleasurable substance on earth? Or both?

19 Condoms and Counting by khemistry

Sometimes, as a writer, even an opinionated asshole writer, you have to practice a certain amount of self-censorship. Take this post, for example. Its original name was “19 Abortions and Counting”…but that was, admittedly, a little harsh. So I practiced some sensible self-censorship and changed the title. Mainly because the TV reality show I’m referring to (“19 Kids and Counting”) deals with the cutesy-pie named Dugger family, who apparently refuses to stop breeding. But it’s not really the Lil’ Dugglings that are at fault. So I thought equating the name of the show with abortion might not be in the best taste. Equating them with a 20-pack of Trojans seemed much more…well…tasteful.

The thing that really jerks my johnson about this show is that its very existence seems to say, “Hey, folks! Having 19 kids is not only socially responsible, but it’s kinda cute, too!” These people have been turned into celebutantes [my word for the modern American aristocracy of celebrity wherein you can become celebrated and famous (or infamous) simply by becoming well-known, regardless of the innate “right” or “wrong” nature of the reason(s) for becoming well-known] simply because they have decided to routinely squirt Dugglings out into the world.
From one perspective, it seems a little scary. Without much effort, I could write a screenplay for a horror movie with this same basic plot. By replacing cute little Mormonesque kids who all have names that begin with the letter “J” (my favorite Duggling name is Jedidiah) with midget werewolves, I might just have the next summer blockbuster.
From another perspective, the Dugglings are JUST DARLING. The people that share this particular outlook are just as horrifying to me as the thought of a family of cannibals raising a pack of midget werewolves. I’m just really honestly confused at how having 19 kids is heroic or admirable…or even INTERESTING.
You wanna do something heroic? Send Mr. Dugger a box of condoms.
Damn, man! Stay away from your poor wife for awhile!
Masturbate. Take up macrame. Play a fucking video game. Take a cold shower. SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Just don’t make it 20. Please.

Hot 4 Teacher: The Delicious Debra LaFave by khemistry
January 29, 2011, 12:51 pm
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours, SEX, Uncategorized

What better way to welcome myself back to XSEX than a hate-and-lust filled rant starring everyone’s favorite middle school teacher, Debra LaFave?

Like most red-blooded American males, I followed the original story of Debra LeFave with a certain amount of fascination. And lust. Act self-righteous and indignant all you want. At least I’m honest. According to the media, many people apparently didn’t see her actions as criminal in the slightest. We’re talking about a 23-year old English teacher  at a Florida Middle School who was arrested for having sex (oral and missionary) with a 14-year old male student. But because LaFave was–to be ubercrass–a redd hott high-slung yung thang, and her ‘victim’ was a male…well, you get the idea, here. There was a lot of high five-ing in a lot of locker rooms.

And as you may have guessed from my referring to the kid as a ‘victim’ (as opposed to a [72-point Bold font]  V  I  C  T  I  M !  [insert sobbing here]), I find it a little hard to see a kid who is bragging to his friends about banging the hot young teacher as a victim. So is there some sort of double standard? As much as it pains me to admit it, I guess in some ways a double standard does and will continue to exist. A teacher (male or female) that spends a lot of time building up a young person’s trust, only to seduce them with wine and Tylenol PM…that’s a little different. Isn’t it?

Even so, as I listen to Debra LaFave’s interview on Dateline on ID (Investigative Discovery), I can’t help but think about how incredibly hot she is. She’s not a goddess. Thee’s nothing unearthly or supernatural about her beauty. But she IS a sultry sex kitten just begging for some after school attention from my throbbing…errr…uhm…sorry.

My point is: come on! I don’t know what YOU were like when YOU were 14. But I would have gladly fucked a particularly sultry-looking watermelon. LaFave would be a fantasy come-to-life. Her sticky red lips and beautiful blue eyes are making me itchy. I can only imagine what they would have done to my 14-year old self.  But what is really getting me even more than wondering if she’s wearing panties is how she’s telling the Dateline interviewer about how her father didn’t give her enough attention as a child. Sniff. I’m about to start crying. Or masturbating. Or both.

Just shut up and suck.

ARE TATTOOS SEXY? by khemistry

The short answer: YES. The long answer is a sad story involving check-out line literature, Wal-Mart bathroom masturbation, Right Said Fred (“I’m too sexy for my [insert item]”), Kat Von D, wikipedia, Vicodin and lots of shame. Buckets of shame, in fact. If you don’t have a lot of time, but you need a little more than a three-letter affirmative, I’ve provided a brief medium that may help get you by this question of universe-defining importance: Tattoos are sexy on some people, in some situations. Like a maggot-riddled three-day dead skunk laying on the otherwise perfectly naked and nubile body of Jennifer Love-Hewitt, there are situations that make sexy sick. To most people. Yes, I’m aware that there’s probably a whole “community” of freaks out there who find worm-infested road kill the perfect aphrodisiac for a night of passion with name-your-obsession. But speaking just for myself, there are some people who can get away with the shittiest-looking tramp stamp and others who would look much better with a whole other BODY tattooed over their original equipment. 

A sad but unfortunately true story: Hating Wal-Mart as I do, I live in a small town where the necessities of modern living require the occassional stop for supplies. I figured if we went at 1 AM the place would be mostly empty. Bad assumption on my part. Every meth-addled freak in the county apparently decided to stock up on drain cleaner, frozen pizzas, tampons, and dandruff shampoo. And since everyone (myself included) also needs cigarettes–and Wal-Mart helpfully provides only one possible line for making tobacco-related purchases–we’re all in the SAME FUCKING LINE. This line also happens to be a “20 Items Or Less Please” line. But this apparently doesn’t apply to the bitch in front of me–or the jackass in front of her–since both of them have carts piled high with D-cell batteries (for vibrators), AA-cell batteries (for remote controls), the frozen pizzas, tampons and other things mentioned above, plus every other item people can’t do without at 1 in the morning in north Alabama. To make matters worse, the two 20-item rule ignoring assholes are actually talking (conspiring, really) about how one of the half-dozen or so DVD’s from Wal-Mart’s $5 cheap movie bin is really a $20 new release with a $5 label applied fraudulently. Of course, I hate Wal-Mart, so even though I hate these two criminal masterminds too, I’m not gonna spoil their sins.

So my friend and I, bored, start thinking up ridiculous sexual-themed dares we know neither one of us are going to do. I tell him I’ll give him $20 if he gets up on the counter, drops his shorts, and whips up a batch. The two criminal masterminds overhear us. They are horrified that one of us might publicly masturbate in the 20-or-fewer line at Wal-Mart. The woman tells my friend he’s a “evil monster.” This makes me laugh for a second, but my friend is overcome by righteous indignation. I’m the evil monster, but you two are talking about ways to screw this fine commercial establishment out of a copy of Avatar?

“You’ve got WAY more than 20 items, lady!” some guy grumbles behind me, and that settles things.

So our dares continue: wrap a $20 around my dick and reach into my pants to pay the cashier; refill one of the bottles of Gatorade we’ve been swilling in the line with pee; ask the cashier to demonstrate a “Dirty Sanchez” (we can’t remember if this is the real name, or if it even IS real, or even WHAT it is, and the cashier looks about 75). My friend suggests we could pretend to make out, which is followed by a minute of uncomfortable silence followed by another minute of snickering, then five minutes during which both of us call each other a “gaywad”. This caused him to erupt into even more maniacal laughter, since he is in fact gay. Neither of us knew what a “wad” represented in this particular cut-down.

Maybe two people have checked out. There are 15 people or so still in front of us, and at least ten people behind us, having variations of the “conversation” my friend and I are having, or plotting to steal things.

Then I get dared to go to the Wal-Mart restroom (directly across from the tobacco aisle, in case any of us addicts need to run shoot up after making our purchases; FYI: the Wal-Mart bathrooms also feature convenient baby diaper changing stations) and jack off, writing “Wal Mart Blows!” in my own spunk on the mirror. I consider this.

“Wal-Mart doesn’t sell porn,” I reason. “I can’t make a dry-run. Dude, I’m not 15 anymore. I need some kind of inspiration.”

My friend waves his hand across the row of check-out literature. To many people in our society, these magazines really ARE about the closest thing to literature that exists in their own personal universe. Yeah, I’m being a bit of a classist snob here. Which is kind of funny if you consider that the reason I’m perusing this reading material is to find some suitable photos to masturbate to in a public restroom. Okay, that’s not too funny now that I think about it. But we’re talking about shit like People, US, National Enquirer, Cosmopolitan, etc. The best choice is, of course, Cosmo, but that thing is like 500 pages and I don’t think I can get it unnoticed into the bathroom. Perhaps I can thin it down some by removing all the scratch-n-sniff perfume ads…maybe tear out all of those “surveys” (like “Is your Mister Right Right For You?”, “Is Romance A Part of Your Relationship?” and “10 Steps to put the ‘SEXY’ back into your Love Life”). No. That will draw unwanted attention, what with all the ripping and tearing and suchnot. I pick up a copy of  a “summer swimsuit edition” of something. Maybe it’s People. Ahhh. Celebrities in bikinis…

Lady GaGa? Lady Gag. Britney Spears–apparently recovering from her recent bout with insanity–basks in the bronzing rays of some Mediterranean beach where guys with Uzi’s shoot you if you’re not wearing a speedo. She looks pissed. Page after page of starlet and celebutantes. One-pieces, two-pieces, bikinis, sarongs, speedos, strap-on’s (okay not really), etc. etc. Maybe I’ll just tear this one out and…OMG! Is that…Kat von D?? The tattoo lady from TLC’s “reality” hit? 

Normally, I think a tattoo or three on a woman is a good thing. Just the right amount of spice to set off the cinnamon-n-sugar or whatever girls are supposed to be made of. But Kat’s pale skin is covered in these things. They make her look even paler. And don’t get me wrong: I like me a nice goth girl, especially on full moons.  In fact, I once described my ideal girl as “beautiful but frail; wan and slightly sickly, perhaps suffering from consumption and addicted to laudanum, living in a drafty cold-water flat in Dickensian London…someone Edgar A. Poe would write poems about”. Sad-to-say, I wasn’t joking. So it wasn’t the paleness of Kat’s flesh that turned me off. I think it was all those damn tattoos. Oh, and the fact that she’s SUCH a bitch. Yeah, that definately played a part.

Wal-Mart’s bathroom was safe from my ribald jackery.

But when I got home I turned on the radio and looked up Kat von D on wikipedia. About the time I got to the details of her estrangement and subsequent divorce from a fellow tattooist, Right Said Fred came on, polluting the airwaves, my RV and my personal headspace with their smash hit “I’m Too Sexy”. Any follow-up masturbatory plans were dashed on the altar of 1990’s English gay anthems. Now, I like a good English gay anthem as well as the next straight guy, but Right Said Fred–like the aforementioned maggot-infested skunk–is like unto a bad tattoo.

I looked up Jennifer Love-Hewitt, pleasured myself with her wikipedia entry, and went to bed.


(NOTE: A couple people have asked me to reprint this from my personal blog www.evilrobots.wordpress.com so here goes this sordid tale)

My neighbors are bitching about why hubbie can’t seem to keep his eyes or his hands off that slut at work. 

You see, I have Neighbors from Hell. I probably wouldn’t be AWARE of that if it were not for the fact that I live in a historical building.

And before I go one sad step forward: yes. I realize that I could move. But I happen to LIKE where I live.  The building, in beautiful downtown Fort Payne, Alabama, where I currently live, is a former hosiery mill. That’s a slightly fancier way of saying they used to make socks.

In the ‘Boom Days’ (in our case, the final couple decades of the 19th century), a chunky bunch of New England carpetbagger’s, fat as ticks with plenty of rupees and a nice post-war economy in which to spend them, came looking for a likely place to set up shop. DeKalb County, Alabama (in the extreme northeast corner of the state), seemed like a pretty good place, apparently. One of a couple possible sites, the town of Fort Payne had been around (more or less) for most of the century. The Fort causing all the Pain (as it were) was infamous for being a starting-point for the Trail of Tears, where Native Americans were kindly relocated to make room for See Rock City signs (and the white folks who were following this command to its conclusion).

About an hour from Chattanooga and two hours from the smoldering ruins of the not-so-freshly burned and violated corpse of Atlanta, Fort Payne (who wasn’t smoldering or violated) seemed a likely place to start a new business venture. Or to TAKE OVER THE WORLD, bwah-ha-ha. 

Anyway, long story short, the textile industry (which helped revitalize a war-crippled South) prospered here for a long while. During this period, the W.B. Davis Hosiery Mill was constructed in the middle of Fort Payne, near the railroad tracks that would carry hosiery products to sockless feet everywhere.

The building has always fascinated me, and when I returned to Fort Payne in 2006 to take a no-doubt enviable position as a staff writer at the Fort Payne Times-Journal, well…let’s just say that luck was with me in locating a place to park my underroos, if not in finding a decent employer.

I was overjoyed to learn that a local real estate investor had acquired the building and (after some amount of fixer-upper labor was judiciously applied) loft apartments were being rented to folks just like me.

And then I discovered an Achilles Heel in the property’s value: as a historical building, only so much fixer-upper labor would be tolerated. After all, we can’t just allow fixer-upper’s to come in and fix “er’s” up, willy-nilly!

So the walls are a little…thin. As in paper.

Now let me say this: I love my apartment, even if I am currently having trouble proving this, financially.

I just don’t love my neighbors.

But the Devil does. Oh yes.

So I’ve discovered in the past year. Apparently, Ole Scratch has loved the past three sets of neighbors just as much. Which makes me believe that the apartment may somehow itself be evil. But then again, I am somewhat loony, so you should possibly disregard that opinion (the evilness, not me being loony). Particularly if you are my landlord or legal representatives of the aforementioned real estate investor.

In fact, from this point onward I shall blame everything on my neighbors. It seems somehow safer that way.

The neighbors have a small child. Since I am a kind man, I shall refer to her as ‘the Demon-Spawned One’.

That fact, you must take my word for. But it’s a FAR kinder term than her parents normally employ, let me assure you.

At first, I actually felt sorry for the parents. The Demon-Spawned One was not like other four-year old kids. She listened to horribly happy tra-la-la-like kiddie music…yes, horrible and unrefutable proof of her unholy birth, I know. So you think that sounds pretty normal, huh? Well, before you think me too old-manishly unkind, know this: there is such a thing as TOO HAPPY. And, when such too happy songs are played at an ear-piercing volume, over and over, endlessly, from midnight to six or seven in the morning…well, I believe ANY MAN may be forgiven for a few uncharitable thoughts after WEEKS of this.

And, yes. I tried (nicely) to solve the problem. I won’t bore you with the details. But know this fact: never, in the WEEKS that added up to this horrid tale’s genesis, did this child ever seem to tire of the SELFSAME horrible song. NEVER did she ask for “Dora the Explorah” or “The Greatest Hits of Hannah Montana” or even a no-doubt equally horrid (after endless repetition, at least) bout of Alvin and the Chipmunks, just to break up the monotony! No! Always, ALWAYS this one, insane tra-la-la happy fun record, endlessly repeated, every night, loud enough so by the second or third night I was mindlessly singing along, crying and laughing by turns, with the horrible echoes rattling around in the confines of this cold stone pit of hell. Or was that just my poor aching skull?

When the devil child was not blathering along with whatever wicked force was recorded for her, she was SCREAMING at her mother, requesting the most vile things, like Cheerio’s or a fruit roll-up, or help going to the bathroom, or….well, that’s when I began to suspect that–like the Transformers–there might be more than meet’s the eye at work here.

And I discovered, upstairs in my loft, where I don’t spend much time, that I could plainly hear this child’s parents, even LOUDER than that horrid sing-a-long record, and at night and day just as well…as they were arguing, fighting, and YELLING…at each other…and at Devil Childe.(tm)

A child who, I was to discover, was sometimes in need of a good yelling at. Maybe. But was NEVER in need of  the constant verbal assault I began to take note of.

And let me assure you: I was not flitting about my apartment with microphones and stethoscopes, intent on creepy eavesdropping, or pulling private family moments from the apartment next door to blog about. No way! These outbursts could be clearly heard, each and every night of the week, usually beginning about midnight and often lasting until two or three in the A.M. or longer.

On weekends, the mother was often drunk, and soon enough, it became apparent that I was living next to some seriously disturbed people.

And was this really a normal, run-of-the-mill family argument? Am I stretching the truth, embellishing bits and pieces for the “nosy neighbor” in us all? NO! I don’t have to.

These fights were better than any Jerry Springer episode. Better than the most wicked guests from Jenny Jones or Ricki Lake or Dr. Phil or Montelevision…and more VILE than any “normal” human you might have seen in Wal-Mart, climbing over each other, clawing and snarling and cursing for some Roll Back Special…GIVE US THAT SALE ITEM…my preccciioouuussss.

[Cue 70’s porno-funk soundtrack.]

One evening I begin to hear a loud, porno-montage of moans and groans and freaky-deaky-ness that soon had me considering selling tickets. Until this point, none of the things I’d heard were of an…uhm…adult nature.

Now THIS was something new…

Until this point, the loudness was mostly confined to husband and wife fighting about bills; husband denying looking at co-workers’ breasts; wife tearfully (and drunkenly) discussing the particulars of a divorce settlement with ex-husband after (apparently) seeing ex-husband and new wife somewhere in public (usually Wal-Mart); wife tearfully (and drunkenly) yelling at husband for not remembering Mother’s Day; (both) parents yelling at child for spilling bath water/ketchup/some vile product called “Juicy-Juice”; child singing mindlessly; child yelling back at parents, and playing a horror-show of uber-happy kiddietainment at high volumes, at all hours of the night.

But, NOW, we have wife, loudly getting her FREAK-ON with….oh no! With…well, NOT with husband! No. With…another LADY. [Re-cue 70’s funk-splosion. Add “wah-wah” to end.]

The fighting seemed to…lighten up.  But then it was back: with accusations (ocasionally drunken; always loud) of marital infidelity (duh!), more co-worker breast-staring incidents, and plenty of added-in “Shut-UP, BLAIR!!” [apparently name of child] from BOTH parents. This would be followed by child screeching at excessive volume, more yelling, ad naseum, etc. etc. et-FREAKING-cetera.

And you’ll have to pardon me for being so crass. No, I just don’t care, anymore.

So what did I do? Well, I didn’t sell tickets, as the Ladies-only Porn-A-Rama was (sadly) never repeated. And, to be honest, that incident really only disgusted me further, but that had nothing to do with the sex of the cheating spouse’s partner.  By that time it was just one more loud interruption to my life.

So what did I DO about it?! Well, quite a lot. No…nothing at first, then various things, none of which worked much. Until I took matters more firmly in-hand.

I found the best advice was: embarrass them. That proved somewhat harder to do than it might seem. But it WAS the most enjoyable. It made me feel as if I was actually scoring some points for the aggrieved neighbors of the world.

Since it is possible for me to hear my neighbors, it is also possible for them to hear ME.

I even met them one night, in the midst of a storm, when the power in the building went out. The hallways have emergency lighting kindly provided, so most of us wound up in the hall, getting to know each other. And, soon enough, gossipping about the loudmouths. I found my neighbor’s OTHER neighbors were the most sympathetic. After all, they were getting the same treatment. It turned out that, since their bedroom did not share a common wall with the Devil Childe(tm), they did not have the same enlightened view of the child’s life. They were not, therefore, too impressed with my calling the creature a “Demon-spawn”, especially since the wife was expecting her own (no-doubt Demon-spawned) child soon.

But they DID have a lot to say about the parents. And, I must admit, it was through their opinions that I begin to take a greater notice of the child as a potential victim instead of just (one of my many) “aggravants”.

Yes, I know. I’m a horrid person.

Anyway, during this hallway tete-a-tete, the neighbors-in-question came home. I was absolutely amazed that they treated their child as if she were the smartest, most artistically-gifted, and most-well-mannered child in all of creation…while there were eyes on them, at least. Apparently they had not figured out that EARS can tell just as much truth.

I was also amazed to see that their child was just as annoying, in public, as she seemed to be in private. But I suppose that’s because she is a child in both public and private, and therefore hasn’t learned to conceal the evidence of demonic infestation when around others. I swear she winked at me, as her mother was pulling her towards the door. I made a note to call the local Catholic church to see if they had any of those ceremonial knives used in The Omen to rid the world of the devil’s get. Fortunately, I gave it some more thought, and figured (quite rightly, I think) that the local padre might not have seen The Omen

The problem is…my neighbors make too much noise to hear me when I started talking back to them, in an attempt to embarrass.

I tried sitting upstairs and talking to friends on the phone. They argued on, oblivious.

So I tried talking to myself. After all, I did not want to subject my friends to how sad my life had become.

So, I begin having long, fake conversations. With myself, in other words. When I started I would even find myself holding my (silent) cell phone while I did it. (Always the method actor). At first: nothing. No response. Of course! It was the same as if I’d been talking to REAL people! I had to get louder.

And my “conversations” got…well, stranger.

By the second or third try, I noticed their argument had come to a screeching halt. I began a “conversation” with a “friend” about what he should do now that his wife had caught him having an affair…with her sister.

I even wrote a script.

Before I could stop myself, I was embellishing my one-sided conversations, even putting in artistic flourishes such as pauses of the appropriate length to indicate my friend was giving serious thought to my “advice”.

There was nothing but silence from next-door.

You could have heard a pin drop…though in the distance I thought I heard that damn tra-la-la song starting up in the kid’s room.

Getting into the act, I begin giving my “friend” some admittedly questionable “advice”.

“So, when she caught ya with her sister…did she get mad?” I asked, pausing for my creepy “pal’s” non-existant but no-doubt gleeful admission.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I responded to the ersatz reply. “I guess you’ll just have to kill her, then.”

I heard a gasp–a precious, priceless GASP!–from next door…and then the sound of something knocked over.

“I’ve got an untraceable .38 you can use. Does your uncle still have pigs up at his farm..?” 

I don’t recall how I finished up the conversation, but what I do remember is this: I slept like a baby for the first time in weeks that night.

All I wanted was a decent night’s sleep.

3Jane’s Guide to Guys by khemistry

3JANE’S GUIDE TO GUYS: Episode 1: Baby’s Daddy Likes to Play Rough

It is with some trepidation that I’ve agreed to write the Intro to 3Jane’s new XSEX column (cleverly entitled “3Jane’s Guide to Guys”). I say “trepidation” (instead of, say, “horror”) NOT because 3Jane isn’t clever, witty, and generally spot-on with her observations. I don’t always agree with her, and she pisses me off–a lot. And frequently, too.  But she’s a good friend. Actually, she’s one of my best friends (and probably the closest female friend I’ve ever had). Maybe that is because we’ve never complicated things by sleeping together. And we’ve never been intimate for two very specific reasons: 1. Despite the fact that I’ve tried, I know somewhere deep inside the blackness that passes for my soul that if we DID get it on, we’d probably fall apart as friends. We’re just too much alike. Both of us are dominant (sexually)–and you know that just NEVER works. But we also think alike. Which is, if you knew her, pretty amusing. The truth is, we’ve known each other since we were kids. We are both prone to adding witty reparte to otherwise serious posts by using parenthesis ( “(” and “)” ) to stand in for the statement: “I’m going to be a smart-ass now. Please be patient. We’ll be returning to our regularly-scheduled post in just a few moments.” We’re also both extremely prone to chosing the wrong significant other. But the REAL reason I’ve never gotten a piece of Jane is…2. She’s a confirmed rug-munching dyke. However, know this: even though I’m proud that Jane has committed to a regular column for XSEX…it won’t stop me from trying to turn her to the dark side. Having said that, I’m still filled with doubt that she can pull this column off. Why? See #2. above. You see, I’m not sold on the idea that a late-twentysomething Hott tm lesbo like Jane can be considered an expert on all things guy. After all, she’s never been closely exposed to ding-dongage. And as we all know, guys are pretty much 96.78% penis. However, I BELIEVE in Jane. Kinda. And she thinks that her “professional distance” from dick will somehow give her an edge. So I’m willing to say: Good Luck, Jane! Go with God, girl. Get some.  -GP

Thanks…I think. So here’s the deal: I probably should try to make my first foray into the world of guyness a serious examination of how I see the male of the species. But I’ve never really been that good at doing things that I “probably” should do, so I’m kicking that idea to the curb. Instead, my first post will be about my friend Shay’s freak of a baby’s daddy. He is, after all, a guy. In theory.

What I don’t understand, even after ten years out-of-the-closet as a (to borrow Greg’s term) “confirmed rug-munching dyke” (yeah, that’s so original), is how some homosexuals (in my experience, mostly guys) can’t seem to forgive themselves for their gayness. Of course, I live in Atlanta, which is a pretty cosmopolitan city. It is, as you may or not know, the capital of the New South. It’s also the home to the Dirty South–which I admit, I’m not quite sure what that even means. I will tell you a secret about Greg, though, since he called me a rug-munching dyke. (Please note that this will be the last time that phrase is used in this post). Greg lives in Alabama (which is pretty funny), but he was born in Hotlanta. He was born in East Point, to be exact. This is a really ghetto part of the city, and is known for producing some really talented hip-hop artists. Of course, when Greg was born, East Point was mostly a working-class white area. But he likes to tell people that he was born in the hood as he secretly believes this makes him seem gangsta. It doesn’t. It’s sad, white boy. Sad. Now don’t ever call me a rug-munching dyke again (okay, I lied), or i will tell everyone how you and your little brother used to dress up and act out the Rush song “By-Tor and the Snowdog” with a long choreographed “fight” using plastic swords and fake blood.

Anyway, my friend Shay used to date this he-man woman-beater type that liked to pretend he hated queers. So it was with a certain glee that I took the news he was asking her to use a strap-on on his poor, skinny little bum. Not only that, but he was prone to squeal (Deliverance-style I’m guessing) during the application of the ticklestick, moaning “Rip me open! Do it! Tear my ass!” and other such sweet-nothings. Greg was horrified. I was amused. You see, inside of every he-man redneck is a little ass-maggot who just wants to be punished. So why pretend?

I suppose there are different reasons for living your lie-of-choice. But I happen to know this cretin went happily through high school picking on kids that happened to be smaller than him or who made the mistake of trying to get good grades so they could secure themselves a scholarship and–thus–a ticket out of the backwoods hell-holes where they lived. Guys’s like baby’s daddy seem to be all-to0-common in this world, and that is just plain sad. When a kid is 14, he’s already half-drunk on all the clotted hormones, unsure of himself and his sexuality. It’s a normal part of growing up, and nobody in their right mind would want to do it over once they’ve slipped through the magical portal into adulthood and figured out a little better what their place is in the scheme of things. During this awkward stage, when your own body is betraying you and everything seems really surreal, do you really need the added pressure of some closeted homophobe telling everyone you are a faggot? So maybe I should have paid a little more attention in psychology, but it really makes me wonder what this is all about. Self loathing? I don’t know.

But I’m an evil bitch and I told Shay how to put this asshole in his place. Next time he wants to be anally violated, mix a couple drops of chili oil into the lube. While he’s screaming, straddle him and slap him to get his attention. I’m not advocating abuse, but you’ll need to slap him to get his attention away from Mount Vesuvi-ass. When you have it, look him right in the eyes and say: “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll castrate you with piano wire.” He won’t be hitting you again.

Ta-ta for now, sweets!   -3Jane.