H E A V Y H E A V Y

C O P Y W R O N G

2009-11-11T01:20:00.000-05:00

Obelix's kinda built like a prickhouse. Y/N

L E T ' S H A N G A T W R O N G B A R M O A R

2009-11-11T00:39:00.000-05:00

A friend called him "like puking in your mouth and swallowing." But when you taste like Shuttershades looks, dudes aim to gargle in it. (Photo via thecobrasnake)

H E L L O N U R S E / N O . 4

2009-07-02T20:08:00.000-04:00

We interrupt my bullshit FOR A LATE BREAKING BONER

Chef Matty Matheson of Parkdale's Oddfellows restaurant is like infinite fuel for my fat fire.

A choice quote from BlogTO's You Are What You Eat feature:

Q. If I were a food, I would be a _____ because _____
A. If I was a food I would be a drunk suckling pig just chillin' out getting roasted and hanging with some bros!

#HOLYFFFFFFF. Dude outdid ME.

O K I S U C K

2009-05-25T19:32:00.000-04:00

SRRY I was too busy barrel-rolling out of dudes to update this.

BUT after a ridiculous sabbatical I feel stoked enough to recount more of my wacky fag adventures.

B U K K A K E B U K K A K E

2009-03-17T13:49:00.000-04:00

Ever cum so hard you swear you moshed japan? Yeap.

( D ) A N D Y

2009-02-20T23:55:00.000-05:00

peace out

G R E A T S E X P E C T A -- O H F U C K T H I S

2009-01-09T21:45:00.000-05:00

Stephen (impossibly gorgeous) Fry.

I want him to read me Dickensian tales of misspent youth while I ride his face to kingdom cum. Sure it'd sound like "Amf mfale omf mfoo mffities" but I'd still have Oscar Wilde tonguing my ass.

X X X M A S S S

2008-12-26T22:09:00.000-05:00

I hate Christmas as much as I haaate phonesex. I won't justify that any further than saying:

NO this has nothing to do with me being a filthy job-stealing immigrant.

YES this has everything to do with me ending a four-year relationship with a person so gay like a choirboy for yuletide cheer she'd gleefully gobble jolly ol' St. Nick's jolly ol' gunt.

Ex-Mas 2008 was remarkable in how I acted in sharp, shocking, contrast to the ironic IKEA doormat I became under the Love Of My Life(tm).

This is crucial. I've long since moved on (I think). Key to this moving on is the creation of brand new traditions. 2008 was thick with the new -- no decorations, no Grinch special, no bullshit trips somewhere up the cat's ass to visit extended family. Nope. Fired. From life.

Instead, I stuck my dick in a lot of places.

D & C are a gay, gay, gay, married couple living in Toronto's crusty squat, Kensington Market. I toss-in those extra 'gay's because they're anything but; one's a strapping hippy-as-fuck bear, a Mid-Western ex-surfer, chef, and software analyst; the other, his chaser husband, travel agent, and fencing enthusiast. Pictures are hung by their outward appearance.

The three of us ran in similar circles, which--a billion bowls later--led to a speedy, drug-laced friendship.

The Suspiciously Ungay Duo (holla Sweaterjeans) are pretty rad, no doubt, but our hang-outs were filtered through a curious aspect of their married hivemind: They wanted to fuck me stupid. HOMOSAYWAAAAAT.

Yeap, this complicated our hangs. Hoisting all the Rock Band 2, drugs, killer food, drugs, beer, drugs, wine, drugs, and conversation, was an impenetrable superstructure of innuendo. At our haziest moments, they never failed to drop how "totally cool" they were with sex, how shit was gravy if I wanted to "wind down" and "take a few things off."

Usually that kinda shit would raise more red flags than China. But D & C are charming weirdos, the kind of rare gonzo that only exists in longstanding fag marriages.

And on Christmas Day they invited me for supper.

Now, neither of them were the kind of dudes I'd punch my load through. But I've learned that briefly changing shit up imparts a richer grasp over my crippling fatty addiction. Besides, this was friendship-building.

For months they've wanted to smoke my brown cock. For months I've walked up to their porch, wondering if tonight was Go Time. The suspense wasn't from disinterest, or me playing overly coy (niggas gotta eat). Rather, it came from a silent understanding that though a make-out party would be crucial, actually getting our balls rolling would require help.

Over our fourth bottle of red wine and fuck knows how many sketchy grams later, we were wasted & ready. The room hummed with venous blood.

With the first season of Deadwood playing in the background, I found myself nuzzling into D's wide frame as C splayed across both of our laps. Conversation fell to a murmur. Idly watching C unfold his partner's buttonfly, I thought, "...dude's head sure is moving up and down a lot..."

Then everything went naked.

We became a reverse Oreo daisy-chain of suckling fucks. A tightly-focused laser beam of fag lust, spilling all over ourselves. My face melted as not one but two pairs of lips played my dick like dueling harmonicas. D had a fucking Coke can in his pants. I must've spent 20 minutes scrambling up the cliff face of his angry erection. Swollen, reddened, palm-stenciled cheeks were left gaping wide.

Through the cloud of sweaty pleasure I loosely parsed together bullet-point understanding:

Never.
Fucked.
A.
Married.
Couple.
Before.
...
..
.
F.
u.
c.
k.

(On the streetcar back home, The Muslim's "Nightlife" in my ears, I decided that Ex-Mas 2008, y'know... Shit wasn't too shabby)

M O U T H P I E C E

2008-12-17T23:44:00.000-05:00

Phonesex is gay. An infinite enabler for impossibly-distanced couples waiting on their balls to drop. This is FACT. Irrefutable.

But the Teddybear called, steamrolling a tubby, turgid, dick through the earpiece and over my ill-informed opinions. I hadn't heard from the kid in months, save for the occasional text: "U need a fatty on ur cock."

Context is crucial. Dude called two, perhaps three hours after my brother/squatter had finally moved out. I was wasted on power; reinstated freedom; beer. In short, I was immaculately manicured for the unstoppable ear-reaming of his voice describing my leathery tongue dragging sticky contrails down his marbled milkdrop thighs. Gulp.

No, no, no--Pudgy's diction wasn't Phillip Roth. I filled the blanks his blunt words left and I, as an ex-print journalist, was in my faggy element.

He was naked and rolling around his couch, moaning softly into my cell. Suddenly, I was legs up on the couch beating off to the ebb and flow of his responses. My hand spasming more than a Tokyo earthquake meter.

Fine. I appreciate how phonesex let's you multitask your shit. I told him just how wide I'd spread his fist-clenching ass as I folded laundry; he cooed on about his thirsts as I did the dishes; re-organized my vinyl; changed a few lightbulbs.

I could file my taxes and still be crucial with this creamy poptart cumming on the other line. My brain was blown.

A bummer phonesex = gay.

D E A R R E A D E R S

2008-12-14T23:37:00.000-05:00

Anal is too clinical.

Barebacking, too 80's health crisis.

Pegging always sounded VERBOTEN.

So is there a sexy term for anal?

The "making love" of repeatedly intruding spent, dripping, holes?

1 2 0 D A Y S O F S O D A L L

2008-12-13T12:36:00.000-05:00

I went from zero to impossibly trashed in the space of one evening. This was how I celebrated the squatter’s departure.

(Continuity. My older, shittier, brother crashed in my bachelor apartment for months. Shit did not go off)

Picture a hobo squatting in your bedroom. Then picture that greasy fuck snoring in your bedroom/using all your ketchup. He was a 747 raping a lion, every night for two months. There were moments where I, much like Poe's unnamed narrator, stood over his air mattress and contemplated stepping on that fuck’s neck.

This was a serious drag on my nut-gargling ways. I could feel my cock atrophy per second. My home field advantage was gone. Meanwhile, a billion limp wrists were Slip 'N Sliding into a billion asses, right outside my window. Living in the gay-tto during all of this, knowing that hundreds of dudes were taking fitty dicks like a peacock's feathers, WHILE I COULDN'T, blew.

But he’s gone. And I’ve spent the last 24 hours wasted & naked & wasted. My dick and brain joined hands like Israel and Palestine, high-fiving each other at the infinite sketch I could now return to.

I can bring dudes back to my cave.

HOLY SHIT I CAN FUCK AGAIN.

H U S K Y D U

2008-12-08T23:55:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday a friend and I killed the night wandering Toronto's armpit (Yonge St. holla) to blow some measure of our paychecks not as wasted sketches but fine, upstanding, capitalists.

Neither of us knew what we wanted; he had a Christmas list to whittle down and I was mildly baked. Apple Store it was.

The Eaton Centre branch of Nerd Starbucks is best described as a circle-jerk of coiffed hipster/yupster/blipsters. I’m not complaining about this.

Better sketches (from defunct blogs) have spun sexy anecdotes on how Mac users & cocksmokers weren’t mutually exclusive, better sketches have even bent over UofT TA's in line to have Pitchfork nerds pillowtalk their Hype Machine sticker’d Macbooks back to life. These entries resonated with my prostate back when I was a cock-starved fuck NOT living in Toronto.

YEEAP, I took a night where I was wound-up and itching to blow bucks deluxe to visit a bustling market of unsuspecting horn-rimmed, child predator glasses-wearing nerds. Pay attention (this is crucial): nerds are often tubby. Sssh.

I zeroed into a dude in the time it took you to read this sentence.

An Apple Store Genius was helping out two women, clearly oblivious to the fact they were served by the sexiest chunk of milkfat I had set my pervy crosshairs on in years.

Vacuum-sealed in a hair-thin Genius tee, this stocky dude (on my faggy scale of 1 to fist he was up there), this plump white punx lad -- with his scene-issue black frames and a sicker than AIDS half-sleeve running down battleship-anchoring chains for arms –- left me cerebral ballzy. I couldn’t think straight. How could I? Blood jumped ship for my dick. Clear thinking was gutted, a dollar store compass f(l)ailing wildly in the space between my face/his sac and that dubble bubble was Magnetic North.

He was typical. Typical Apple material. Typical hipster trash (imagining his angry thighs attempt to occupy the skinny limits of his denim is going to make for crucial spank bank materal, 'natch). Typical Caucasian fatty I’d gulp down like a distended Ethopian to a Ho-Ho's wrapper.

But I could only admire this mouthwatering chunk from afar. He was skank-high in customers and I was head-deep in phallic speakers. My friend apologized for taking so long. "No worries, dude," I said, "... you just take aaaall the time you need. Really research that shit, na'aw mean?" I stalked around the store using grade school-honed skills to eye Husky Du no matter where I stood. First by the iPhones, then around the Mac Minis, then the Portable Audio Accessory Wall.

His portly chest mocked the threadcount of Apple's uniform; his ass was an impossible dude shelf, the kind latino shorties from Mississauga repped; his double-chin cradled a hopelessly plush face begging to be submerged cheek first.

Eventually, we had to jet. I couldn’t rely on those two skanks to give me a window, a second to work my charm on him, and it occurred to me that if I hung around the store any longer things would look kinda creepy.

I posted a Missed Connection. Yeah, yeah, yeah, a desperate sketch’s last hope to play in that butterball like Scrooge McDuck in his moneybin. But in my history of desperate sketch, I was going for sorta broke. Remember, nothing about dude suggested he was "totally" down with polishing blog dick. Not even 50% down.

Four days later I got a response.

HOMOSAYWHA—No, no, there’s no swell cum-streaked, ass-splayed, crotchpad-bruised ending here. In a single sentence he simply thanked me for the compliment. No polite preamble. No mention of my offer for a drink/coffee/pussy attempt at interest. Kid was straighter than a shitty edge tat. Or taken. (I'll say straight)

Cripes.

9's are never gay. Shit's a rule more ingrained than f=Ma.

Stubbornly, part of me thought I could jailbreak his cock. Considering the dry spell I've had for a while, I was kinda due. No that doesn't make sense, but, shut up. Recieving his terse (though slightly gracious--dude didn't have to reply) email at work, I was left dejected for all of 45 seconds.

Then I went for one muscular pint. Work got better after.

G E N D E R T H E O R Y

2008-12-08T00:27:00.000-05:00

Or what Craigslist taught me.

w4m

~*OMG Divorced BBW 4 mature handsome Prince Charming possible LTR must love idea of stepchildrenLOL!*~

m4m

HUMAN URINAL LOOKING TO DRINK PISS. CANT HOST.

R E A R W I N D O W

2008-12-02T01:21:00.000-05:00

REMEMBER Gun Club's proto-psychobilly death rattle, Sex Beat?

I think of this jam the second the above, fur-trimmed mountain of burly doom logs onto MSN. Another tight bro from way back when, he's a gifted animator with a penchant for elaborate leather thongs and one of the nicest kids I've ever needed to rim the unholy fuck out of. LOOK at that ass. Fuck rusty trombones. I'd explore his crack so hard my tongue would be Lewis AND Clark.

B O N U S T R I V I A / /

FACT: In spite of my rampant sketchbaggery, I'm still sort of, er, virginal in one slightly crucial way. I've never met a guy I'd gladly take my medicine for.

YES. I've jumped enough dildos/plugs/dick-like objects with names like King Dong, Bear Arthur and Root Vegetable to be part of the club, but I've never trusted anyone enough to pike the fuck out of my whiny hipster-runoff ass. Dude's among the rare few, were he kicking around the 647, who'd have carte blanche to punch my V-Card From Here to Infirmary.

*Yeeeaap. I've got nothing.

L I K E W H O A

2008-12-01T15:11:00.000-05:00

Friday, us media jerks decided to get post-work wasted at Smokeless Joe's. A few hours later, I was there, at the speed of too much beer. My dick decided to fuck shit up by setting its sights on a co-worker's friend, a plump barrel of white suckling pork, luridly downing gulps of Sir Perry.

My eyes traced the path the cider took down his throat; my cum's future flightplan mapped across what I imagined his leathery tongue would feel like. And according to my liver failiure dude was totally into me. Kids, bullets were officially in the chamber. But my brain, no lie, was kinda fucked on those Belgian stouts. He was talking me up about Call of Duty and Dogme 95. My thoughts went collegiate.

Q: WHAT IS SITTING NEXT TO ME?
A: IS IT A(N)...

A. Artfaggy slab of porterhouse who knew his Almodovar from his Herzog?
B. Well-spoken gamer nerd who won't part his cheeks for Miyamoto's skinny cock OR think a bowling shirt with Venom blowing a dragon or some +12 gay fantasy/tribal bullshit is fashion?
C. A geeky cherub-faced saddle begging to be rode off to bed?
D. All of the above.
E. None of the above.
F. FUCK YOU FAG AND HIT ON HIM ALREADY. NAMEDROP MEGAMAN OR SOME SHIT.

Then came the back-and-forth txts to my co-worker (the surly/rad Lesbian Muslim) about dude:

ME HOOOLYSHIT UR FRIEND IS DICMAGNET
LM sorry duadee isa traght
LM dude is
LM traght
ME WAT
LM straight

M I S S I O N A B O R T

With perfect comic timing a nearby sketch lost all bodily function and wiped out, accidently spilling her drink on my lap. Cold, humbling realization soaked into the crotch of my Cheap Mondays.

Honeymoon's over negro -- You're good, just not that good.

A T T H E L A U N D R Y R O O M

2008-11-28T01:17:00.001-05:00

The best part of being hit on by prehistoric gays is remembering that reassuring sweatervest of emotion you felt when a grandparent stopped by with candy behind every ear and a lap-fuelled yarn about parachuting into Italy back in '44.

Now I'm 500% sure dude downstairs was a dayglo rodeo clown during Pride '08 (and not G.I. Joe) but -- PFFT, details.

C O M E D Y O F E R R O R S

2008-11-27T00:09:00.000-05:00

I’ve been meaning to broach the subject of The Comedian for a while, but I’ve been too busy doing cool shit to get my faggy American Apparel briefs in a knot. Or maybe, like the good little Oreo that I am, I’ve been deploying passive-aggressive yupster tricks to sail past that dude like Super Mario World.

Ok. I’m trying to get so high I pass the fuck out and sleep off a very upset stomach. I’m kinda salty, kinda baked, very tired and flipping right out without any context.

B A C K S H I T U P

During my first tenuous months in Toronto I had a brief fling with a squat, creamery butterball we’ll dub The Comedian. I say brief because we only hung, on and off, for a few months. And fling because sheeeet.

As with most relationships, things were gravy at first. Dude was all over my coloured nutsack and I was the same for his porcelain ass. The attraction was palpable.

But I was wrapped up in the Afghani/Hindenberg clusterfuck of My Ex; the move to a new city; the hunt for a job. I wasn’t about to let shit get beyond the “gobble cock and tonguing ass” phase as I was, in pussy-speak, “emotionally crippled,” “unavailable,” and "a greedy cunt.” But I told him this well before said gobbling and tonguing became our shared punctuation. He wanted more, but respected the bob and axis of my dick: Greased Lightning was pointing in every which way except monogamy.

Predictably things went to shit.

The Comedian pulled a sick Dr. Jeykll/Mr. Hyde that would've garnered my respect if it wasn't aimed at me. The butterball would disappear for weeks. Eventually his dick remembed mine and he would restart conversation, make new plans and subsequently pull his stick out mid-flirt. Can't say I was too stoked about being stood up to infinity.

I couldn't fault him. I was a bit of a douche in all of this, yes. And he did help me purchase/move/'test' my sick futon when all I had to my name was an empty apartment and stolen bandwidth (PS holla at ya Belkgin54g). He took me on dates to Jays games where we sat so close we could give the shortstop a shocker.

I was getting the milk and railing, uh, the, er, farmer. Or something. But while I maintained a modicum of transperancy all I recieved in return were runarounds and lies. I mean, cripes kids, what is this? First year? Second year? The Dance Cave?

But what srsly negs my vibes in this penile post-mortem, what elevates The Comedian from Ghost of Fuckers Past to blog-worthy, was the sex. We fucked in the White Hot Room. Shit was routinely incandescent.

I've firmly held that bear culture, while pretty key overall, shoots itself in the face since 99.999999% of its scene dresses like post-apocalyptic S&M rape machines. If aspects of Tom of Finland (two refs in as many days, yikes) metastized like Tetsuo's left arm, svelte mustaches would explode into shitty Finger Eleven chinbeards; shitty Finger Eleven chinbeards would turn into grizzled lumberjack beehives. Suddenly, the mean age of a promising fatty would ollie from early 20s to lonely-gay-senior-with-a-10-fannypack-gunt. Pass. Pass. Pass.

But the leather, o-rings and cock cages, the bear accessories were another matter entirely. Fuck Prime Directives, black presidents and 53 hours of free AOL --this was the future.

The Comedian was a latex/neoprene scuba dom. Clad in nothing but vinyl opera gloves, dude would truss my sketchy ass in the disciplined rigidity of a posture collar, an insert-noun-here-gag. Hearing him whisper filthy nothings into my ear as he raped various holes made my quivering nuts believe (briefly) in this Coked-Out Future Planet of the Bears.

////

Months later I ran into dude at Urban Outfitters. I erred on the side of 21st Century Pussy and chose not to call him out on his smokescreen bullshit, instead exchanging numb pleasantries, trite platitudes. We moved on.

I'll keep running into him (his close friends live in my building). And, of course, tolerating the gaybourhood prescribes a certain inescapable forcefield of ex-fuckery. GAAAAAY.

But on the upside? Im really, really baked now.

H O L Y S H I T

2008-11-26T02:03:00.000-05:00

F U C K M E F U C K M E F

U C K M E F U C K M E F U

C K M E F U C K M E

When life gives you the Village People, you remake Tom of Finland by way of early '90s skatepunx.

I'm totally feeling how effortlessly Wade pulls off the same burly leather schtick those cunts TurboNegro crib but always end up looking like smelly Nordic sailors/wizards named "Ute" or "Cunt."

SRSLY Wade, bro, sit down for another interview. Let's make it a Hello Nurse redux -- we'll listen to The Germs and do wasted push-ups.

(Boner alert courtesy of Chubarama)

P E R V S M A S H

2008-11-25T23:02:00.000-05:00

I've known this particular slab of pork for years. He's a nerdy Texan redhead with a girthy weapons-grade dick that leaves me drooling faster than the words fried in butter. He's also a filthy tease who hustles my crippling redhead addiction with pictures of his beefy, cum-strung dick and portly shelf gut.

Last time he sent me something I woke up to a trail of destruction that ended with a cryptic message spelled in burnt craters/used condoms: RAPE. STAT.

Fuck.
That kind of power is measured in degrees of SICK.

H E L L O N U R S E / N O . 3

2008-11-25T21:52:00.000-05:00

A H E M / /
YES KIDS, THIS IS MARRIAGE MATERIAL. AND NO, HE ISN'T IN TORONTO. OR GAY. OR EVEN BI. HE'S FROM THE 'BURG I LEFT.

T H U S / /
:(

4 0 0 B L O W ( J O B ) S

2008-11-09T12:40:00.000-05:00

I keep falling in love.

This is my problem–I let boner-tripping fatties pull my cock around like the veiny handle of a shiny, throbbing, pre-dripping wagon.

Hours ago, it was a hipster bear working the door for the Matt & Kim show at Whippersnapper (in a stretched-paper-thin black hoodie that traced every fleshy, soft curve of his Pabst-charged belly). He asked me if the evening started to cool down but all I heard was “Let me make-out with your asshole.”

Took a few seconds to find my ID.

Yesterday, it was a six-foot-something tubby fuck on the Yonge line. Passion Pit spun in my ears as he got on at Union Station. He was painfully average. This made him adorable – and irresistible; A 3XL Dickies jacket and a pair of bootcut jeans that never were; a short, sensible hair cut; a pair of reserved kicks. His thighs (fuck… those thighs) were sumptuous tree-trunks inflating his jeans to their last stitch. What struck my dick was how satisfying those thighs felt. They filled out his denim just so, suggesting all this tasty heft. It was the same silent promise a perfectly-poured Guinness makes – outlining a pint glass that hopelessly pretends to rein that potent fucker of a stout.

His thighs were thick pints of Guinness.

HIS THIGHS WERE THICK PINTS OF GUINNESS.

Dude looked like an 8 though he was a total 10. I wanted to drown him in my balls somewhere between Union & St. Andrew. Build a dickfort out of his ass and gleefully carpe the diem.

M U S T B U Y T E K K E N S I X

2008-11-09T00:48:00.000-05:00

SWEET FUCK NAMCO THIS SHIT WAS A LOCK ANYWAY.

(PS) Is it too much to hope his supermove involves suffocating/chokefucking the other guy's dick?

(PPS) Y'know... He's got a faint "Fred Perry skinhead goes Danish butter cookie" vibe.

S O R R Y S O R R Y

2008-10-28T20:09:00.000-04:00

...FOR the sporadic(k) updates. I was busy making a girl come this much:
PLOT. Twist. Your's sketchily is an equal-opportunity fatty fucker. Does this lessen my dick's conviction for obese piggy dudes with gaping, cum-starched assholes?

P L E A S E

FACT: I do enjoy plump, pretty, not-so-little things that aren't mit shlong. See, fucking a heaving, writhing, girl with pink lentil nipples and mighty sandbag tits used against Hurricane Katrina makes me appreciate the sweatier, masculine, sex that much more.

Now, occasionally, shit happens that requires further scrutiny. Last night. Female ejaculation, as far as I was concerned, was a white whale. Shit isn't remotely tangible; quantifiable; y'know, like male ejaculation. But when I get forcibly ejected by an angry fist of juices that soak my futon like hot water through a strainer? Goddamn, just goddamn.

A B O U T M S N

2008-10-13T01:44:00.000-04:00

Listening to slow burn gee-tars whisper on about sweet, sweet whiskey while I watch the Teddybear (Shit! Continuity!) perform a striptease turns me into King Shit of Fuck Mountain. If the King was Birthday Party-era Nick Cave, doing lines of fatty cum-dumpsters, covered in semi-automatic .50 cal bukkake spray.

The rascally bottom pig with the flushed cheeks, fuzzy moobs, impish eyes and that wanting, hungry pucker has a penchant for sending me "camz" of himself dancing seductively, nude at that, to Top 40 jamzz.

(I have a penchant for muting his shitty taste in tunes by playing Cow Punx over the bump n’grind of his IM-shorts; his pixellated ass quivering with each hi-hat, his short, squat, circumcised cock bobbing weightless circles to the “Politics of Starving”).

The Mata Hairy of my MSN harem, he's become the dick-hardening, ball-tightening shiver to my lethargic interest in downloaded porn these days (torrents, yawn). Shit was Videodrome-as-fuck.

In short, fatties like him have no business bringing it to the streets like he does. Doing it for me, naked, his plump, milky-white belly dragging downward against the rigid presswood of his bedroom doorjamb, dredged up Mongolian warlord-as-fuck urges to spread his ass apart like the cracked halves of reddened eggshells ready for rape, pillage and plunder.

He's cocky, mildly ditzy and once admitted to be "totally down" with giving all sorts of things "a total go".

Suddenly, Fuck Mountain's more like Fingerbang Shed; the clouds just parted and I realize how much I have left to fuck.

H E L L O N U R S E / N O . 2

2008-10-11T14:20:00.000-04:00

I've seen Fucked Up play a billion times (plus change) and lead singer Pink Eyes never fails me. I would've seen them open for Dillinger Four last Thursday, but I'm old and crotchety and having just seen Cadence Weapon kill Lee's Palace earlier, there was no way I'd handle all that blood trade my brain for my dick. Shit's like giving Dormammu the Infinity Gauntlet.

Instead, I smoked a bowl and lazily walked home, listening to "Kids Of The Black Hole" and thinking about sitting on his face. Gay, gay, gay.

M I L E T H I G H C L U B

2008-10-08T00:32:00.000-04:00

Oh, BiggerCity. So full of facts. For one, I'm a sucker for cute, clean-cut chubs who work as flight attendants; those cheesy uniforms, and more importantly, all that paunch trussed up by said cheesy uniforms. Get the fuck out.

Consider then my weird luck when courtesy of BC I got to chat with not one, but two flight attendant chubs. No, get the fuck out.

Wait, scratch that. One's thick; handsome but sketchy. The other is more of a slightly out-of-shape -- some would argue "pudgy" -- guy. I wasn't quite sure why he joined the site as he clearly listed himself as a chub (more on how batshit BiggerCity can be in future posts). And dude admitted to being part of... uh... "Team Celine" (that alone is minus a billion points right there).

N E X T

But, hold a tic, why does the first flight-attendant (and actual chub) have my sketch alarms firing? After I casually messaged him , he fired back with standard e-courtesy: First the obvious "Hey, you're cute too," followed by a brief self-description "Hey, I'm a flight attendant," (interest Rising) only to suddenly derail, "Hey, I'm coming to TO next week. Would love to meet you in my hotel."

WHOARGHKDJAKSJDAKS.

Am I justified here? Isn't there something slightly sketchy about a flight-attendant swooping in and inviting me to a slightly dressed-up fuckfest? Should I stop bitching and just bend him over and repeatedly drill his tight ass? (Shields on, 'natch).

There's nothing wrong with the hook-up in theory. But seeing as his first contact with me was essentially: "Come hither and fuck me raw," part of me feels mildly suspicious. Or crazy hard. It's late and my dick is far too confused right now.

Of course, fucking a 25 y/o, spiky-haired, Moose Mason-type flight attendant is pretty high on the Heavy Heavy (NASDAQ index: HEVY) list of Things To Do Twice. The scenario alone is the icing on this fatty cake. But I'm confused as fuck. Do condoms come in body-sizes? Should I stop questioning this and declare his puckered ass the sovereign property of my cock?

H E L L O N U R S E / N O . 1

2008-10-06T22:47:00.000-04:00

The fact I interviewed him years before (just a phoner, bummer) wasn't enough.
The fact I got a chance to hang with him backstage didn't cinch things either.
The fact I ran into him at Urban Outfitter's YEARS LATER while he fretted over Fred Perry button-downs? DING DING DING DING.

My dick is this close to punching through my laptop and smearing itself all over those 3.2 megapixel lips. And those fat cheeks (oh those fat cheeks). I'm making fucking Tex Avery wolf noises.

M I S S I O N A B O R T

2008-10-06T21:10:00.000-04:00

My brother is crashing here, in my tiny bachelor's apartment, for a few days while he looks for a place of his own.

FACT: It wasn't my idea.

Space, as always, is an issue. When a sly 25 y/o bottom slut (aka the Teddybear) calls to tell me how he wants to polish parts of me with his piggy tongue, the issue becomes fucking dire.

If that Teddybear shows up on my couch, shit will definitely be a lock.

P O S T N U I T B L A N C H E

2008-10-06T21:03:00.001-04:00

My first Nuit Blanche, one of many Torontonian firsts this year, was pretty memorable. Watching City Hall’s drab curtains of glass and cement pulse to a mash-up of EQs, Space Invaders and Pong was the highlight of my Nuit. I stumbled back to my Japanese Love Motel in the hours between 2 and 4am where coming off a six hour high to navigate the hordes that were just beginning their trip was a feat of endurance, a triumph of the ill.

Of course, there were other sights that caught my sketchy, satyr-with-his-dick-set-to-ON ways.

Smooth preppy chubs nuzzling into their Gap scarves. Stocky bears with closely cropped beards and pug noses. Fat thighs straining in skinny jeans stretched to their seams. It was hard not to stare, harder still not to grind them in a bowl and smoke ‘em. Seriously, there was one geeky hipster fatty with his ostentatious pair of oversized, horn-rimmed frames, a slight tuft of golden-red hair straying the edges of his American Apparel 2XL V-neck and a cherub face I'd gladly sit on.

Le fuck.

I N T R O D U C T I O N S

2008-10-04T01:03:00.000-04:00

I'm newly-single in Toronto. And I can't stop thinking about hot fat dudes.

Might as well blog all this sketch.