Bitchy hotness

Why are hot guys bitchy?

That's the woeful cry I heard today from amongst my disappointed singleton friends. I would have thought the answer so painfully obvious that it doesn't have to spelt out.

But it seems that it beggars a more detailed explanation. Average joes who attempt that level of wicked snarkiness would find themselves run over by a steamroller - possibly savagely excoriated by his unapologetic fellow homos - but hot guys usually manage to get away with vicious verbal assasination. You see, increasing levels of hotness negates the passing cattiness.


Do I look like I could give a fuck?
So the hotter you are, the bitchier you can be.

Unfortunately in the shallow superficial gay world, that adage carries true :) Let's face it, genetically gifted guys get away with the occasional unpolitically correct slander ( possibly tearing some inferior creature's reputation to insignificant pieces ) because we're far too enamoured with their looks to care. Usually we're far too engrossed with the hunk's pouty lips - if we even get that far above his muscled neck - to notice the monstrously nasty venom dripping from his potty mouth. By the time we realize there's a suspicious fork in his devil's tongue, usually the unfortunate victim's already slain by his malicious bite.

They don't even have to resort to physical - and far more primitive - methods like the bitchslap to prove their point.

Of course this rule doesn't extend to cover all cuties. There are always sweet, loveable boys out there who wouldn't utter an acerbic word of disparagement but these genial gems are getting thin on the ground. Most of them I've already tied up in my dungeon for personal use.

Leaving us with the malevolent cads who prove the rule.

Fortunately nature provides an antidote. So if fate places me within close range, fast-acting poison could be inadvertently slipped into his drink - or jabbed into his gym-tight ass. So cute boys, watch your lip. Whether you're naughty or nice, Saint Wicked will be watching.

Hitched

It drizzled earlier this morning but thankfully stopped after lunch. Guess our offerings and prayers at the nearby temples worked wonders. Otherwise I'd probably turn into the male version of Bridezilla, whatever that may be. Groomzilla?

Possibly. Isn't it weird that I could be thinking of such trivial matters at such an important day? Hell, I'd been so busy fighting over the cream-coloured napkins and the calla lilies in the table settings to think about what's going to happen. Even at the last moment this morning I'd agonized over whether the gilt-edged wedding cards would be able to match the table settings, whether the guests all in soft pastels would fade out amongst the garden background making the pictures look wishy-washy. Guess it's easier to worry over whether my hyperactive nephew Raoul would fidget in his teensy gray suit ( rather adorable actually ) rather than think about what the future might bring.

Certainly easier on my blood pressure.

Zinedine did say I was insanely specific about my preferences.

A crazy perfectionist wanting everything to go smoothly despite the fact that no one would really care all that much if I actually fell flat on my face. After all I'd poured enough champagne down the guests' throats to make sure they remained happy and sloshed throughout the entire evening. By now a few would probably have started singing along to the dignified string quartet.

Though not to Ave Maria. By God, I specifically never wanted to hear that particular weepy song again. I'd probably break another ceramic vase if they started playing it. I mean what's with registering for gifts when everyone buys a vase or a kitchen appliance?


Wonder if the flowers look alright!
I hear the quartet start playing the wedding march and I stand. There's this moment of trepidation when I wondered blithely whether I'd be meeting Lou Ferrigno as the Hulk at the altar instead of my groom.

And then I wake up.

It's a freaking dream. Guess I shouldn't have spent the day trolling the malls looking for baby clothes - and I just couldn't keep my eyes off this amazingly adorable gray suit for a smart toddler. Just perfect for an early morning service at church.

Or maybe I had one too many frilly cupcakes.

Or I attended one too many weddings this weekend.

The new Lorenzo Mercanti

This isn't Paul.

Well not since I came across my new locker with the surprising name of Lorenzo Mercanti. And fell blissfully in love. Like the entertainer formerly known as Prince ( and now some oblique pansexual symbol ), I've whimsically decided to adopt a new name - and Lorenzo it shall be.

Googled the name ( doesn't everyone do the same? ) and sadly found nada! Was hoping Lorenzo would be a gorgeous Italian God with a fabulous apartment in Florence full of Bruno Magli leather boots, we'd start a torrid correspondence online and he'd end up falling madly in love with me.


Sweet Lorenzo...
Chances are he's a happily married octogenarian with grandchildren on his knee.

God only knows who the original bearer of the name is but I figure he can bear to share especially since he left some dark blue scrubs ( used? splattered with bodily fluids? ) behind. And after all, Paul is such a boring outdated name, dontcha think? So terribly biblical. Well, you have to agree Saul was way more happening before with all the violent heroics but ever since the lightning struck, he seems to have turned all saintly after.

Much easier to be called Lorenzo. Now a name like Lorenzo conjures up all sorts of exotic images of gondolas, masquerades and grand canals. You can fight a dashing duel over the fair name of Lorenzo Mercanti! Hell, you can sell delicious flagons of perfumes with that name!

Say hello to Lorenzo.

Bi Now Gay Later

Are you gay?

Or are you straight?

Or is there even such a thing?

For me, sexuality is a fluid thing. I don't think anyone's 100% heterosexual or 100% homosexual.

Rarely do you find such a thing. Like most folks on the Kinsey scale, I think we all veer from one end of the scale to the other depending on the situation - and of course, the person we're with. I'm hardly going to confine myself to being steadfastly homosexual forever. Why stick myself in that small-minded box?

Who knows, I could meet this wonderful person out there who's a combination of every personality trait I admire and love - have just the right connection and chemistry - and BANG. Just like that, we're in love. The big L like the one every schmaltzy poet and artist has been trying to convey since men started walking upright and doodling on cave walls. I'm hardly going to dump that person just because she possesses the wrong genitals, am I? Would be rather silly and thoughtless of me to throw a gem away just because it doesn't match the stringent criteria I have locked in my head! I'm pretty smart. If that unlikelihood ever happens, I'm sure ( human anatomy studies aside ) I'll figure my way around a hoo hoo one day.

I might need a manual though. With crudely drawn stick figures possibly.

Though at the moment I think I'll stick to the dicks. Let's face it, boys are easier to love.

Women. Well, women are a tad more complicated.


Pondering?
So imagine Tan's confusion when he surfaces from a traumatic amnesia and finds himself falling for a winsome girl ( who ostensibly ran him down ) named Oom. Simple enough premise for Me... Myself, one that's been replayed a thousand times onscreen and yet there's a tragic twist to this timeworn tale. Tan has a secret - in his checkered past, he was actually a showstopper drag queen with a married man on the side. Jaunty Jared - that man with the vaguely schizophrenic taste in movies veering from screamin nightmarish horror to weepy sentmental tales - has been recommending this movie forever and it's only today that I took the time to finish it.

Who could blame Oom for falling for Tan - even after discovering his sordid beginnings? Played by Ananda Everingham, not only does the stubbled thai god look supremely hot in jeans, he also looks pretty good in a smile and a teensy bowl to cover up the goods. Have I mentioned that the man's a delicious domestic god on the side as well! Small wonder Oom's all distraught at losing him.

Hell, I'm thinking of running down handsome guys in dark alleys and dragging them home as well ( the modern version of clubbing them and dragging them by the hair back to the cave ). Fortunately Tan has a ponytail just perfect for the job.

Hungry Woks

You're dead hungry. You're in a new area relatively unknown. There are two friendly local girls in front of ya, one fat girl and one thin girl.

So who do ya ask for recommendations on places to eat?

I know it's supremely biased but hell, I'd head for the fat girl ( let's not be overly PC over here ). I'm hardly gonna ask the Twiggy-thin model-esque gal who looks like she sticks a finger down her throat after a meal of two wafer-thin crackers a day. Sure she might know where the nearest fad diet pill store is ( or perhaps the location of the low-fat, low-cholesterol, low-taste eatery ) but I doubt she'll know where to go to satisfy my carb cravings!

Surely with that gaunt, concave abdomen, the words donuts and cream cheese would be anathema to her.


Oh God. I haven't had this in years. She's not looking. I bet I can steal a bite!
So why do culinary shows persist in hiring shockingly anorexic hosts? Boggles my mind seriously! Why would you want to follow the culinary advice of someone who probably thinks two stingy breadsticks is a bingeing feast. Sure I know everyone wants to gaze at something pretty onscreen but big doesn't necessarily mean un-photogenic. Just look at Nikki Blonsky. Now that's a healthy gal I'd stalk unapologetically when she heads for lunch.

Or look at the delectable Nigella Lawson. Now that's one curvy domestic goddess you just know has the occasional private orgasm over sinful chocolate. I'd turn straight for her ( though I wouldn't know what to do with her hoo-hoos and ta-tas )!

And I'll have to assume that she doesn't automatically head for that organic deli. I mean sure we should all partake of healthy organic fruits and vegetables ( doesn't the medical journal insist on that promotion? ). After all since we were kids, we always known boring broccoli's good for us. But hell, could it possibly taste as sinfully delicious as a fried chicken drumstick literally dripping with transfats and cholesterol? Or steaming roti prata oozing with oils and ghee?

You just know I've been watching too much Asian Food Channel.