Dirty Pictures, Unrelated Words

That should really be the title of my blog, shouldn't it? Not that I think the pictures I post are "dirty" per se. Well, maybe the two pictures where one of the guys is pretending to be an auto mechanic, but even there, he looks remarkably clean for someone who's naked and has been under a car. I wouldn't want a naked man fixing my car, though I wouldn't be averse to removing the coveralls from a hot mechanic and taking him in the shower. The idea that sex is somehow unclean is something that I oppose on principle. On the other hand, I understand that part of what makes sex so much fun for so many people (including, sometimes, me) is its unseen, forbidden nature. Talking about sex is, on balance, a very good thing, but I also remember this guy I knew, seven or eight years ago, who invited me over to watch porn with him, on the pretense that we were only going to watch porn together. The moments when we were sitting on the bed together, fully clothed, just before I reached over and grabbed his crotch were almost as delicious as those moments when you're right on the verge of ejaculation. And all because it appeared to be unplanned, though we both surely knew what was coming.


I still don't much care for sex that's literally dirty. Sweaty is good, but only if we're sweaty because we've been going at it long and hard. I don't want to start out sweaty. I will start out sweaty if it's a particular interest of the other guy, but I'll insist that he start out clean. And I won't even start out sweaty very often: I tend to avoid guys who are into "man smells" or whatever the kids are calling it these days. The only man smell I like is the smell that a clean man leaves behind after spending the night in my bed. And I haven't experienced that in a while. I guess I'm so used to b&c's scent that I just don't notice it. Or maybe it's all the allergies.


Last week I was in a client meeting, and when we were wrapping up, one of the clients turned to me and began to speak to me in what I assume was Hebrew. She was wishing me (early) a good new year. Or at least I'm pretty sure that's what she was doing. I thanked her and let her know, politely, that it wasn't really my holiday. She was very surprised to find that I wasn't Jewish. This morning, I was riding the elevator up, and one of my co-workers asked me why I was coming to work on a Jewish holiday. And then the receptionist said that she'd assumed I wouldn't be in. I'm pretty used to this particular misunderstanding. Over the years, it's happened more when I've worked in firms where the senior partners are Jewish, but it's also true that the Jewish women at church all tell me that I sing like a cantor. Everyone always apologizes for assuming the wrong ethnicity for me, but I've never taken it as an insult. Sometimes, though, I wonder how it is that all my coworkers know that I'm circumcised.


I will be hanging out with the Republicans again on Friday (which, by the way, is not my sabbath). My stockbroker buddy was hosting a cocktail party for one of his old college friends and that friend's new boyfriend, but the friend and his boyfriend parted ways, so the friend canceled. Also, the stockbroker's new sofa hasn't arrived yet, so there will now be a dinner followed by a bowling party. B&c and I are showing up for the bowling party. There is, unsurprisingly, a much larger backstory and a great deal more intrigue involved in the whole affair, but you would find the details even more tedious than the tedious explanation I've just given you. Suffice to say that there has been a great deal of one upmanship that I am not a party to. I will merely bowl, and drink. But since the majority of the celebrants at the party are likely to be Republican, I have to come up with a way to apologize to them for the way that Nancy Pelosi hurt their feelings and ruined the economy. There's one thing that's always true with the Republicans: nothing is ever their fault.


Because most of the owners of my firm are Jewish, today and tomorrow are jeans days for those of us who are at the office. I, however, am not wearing jeans. I am wearing one of my nicest shirts, black slacks, and standard black accountant shoes. B&c will be dropping by this evening, and we'll be headed down to the Kennedy Center to see a production of La Traviata. I have seen La Traviata once before, and I was not particularly anxious to see it again, but this particular production stars Elizabeth Futral (who, apparently, is also not an observant Jew), so at least I can expect that it will be very well sung.


Next Tuesday, we will again be headed down to the Kennedy Center, this time to see a production of The Pearl Fishers. I've heard that it's a good production and, more importantly, that it comes in at under 2.5 hours, the way every sensible opera should. Nonetheless, I am a bit put out about having to see two operas in two weeks. This high concentration of opera is due to rescheduling, which, in turn, is due to b&c's frequent travel abroad. I really need to find him an opera queen to have an affair with. I'm not trained for endurance operagoing: it just doesn't take that much to throw me into a severe case of opera fatigue, and I know that there are still an Aida and a Carmen to go in this season. I worry about my ability to make it across the finish line with my sanity intact. Of course, some people would say that train has already left the station.


I once inadvertently annoyed Barney Frank. I was seeing, on a regular but very casual basis, this very hot Uruguayan guy who worked at the World Bank (or maybe at the IMF; who can remember?) and lived in a very highly appreciated condominium near Dupont Circle. We were out having a post-coital dinner at Dupont Italian Kitchen, and Barney Frank and his young man were sitting at the table behind ours, so that the Congressman and I were back to back. I was trying to fish something out of my pocket without breaking eye contact with the hot Uruguayan, and I accidentally grabbed Congressman Frank's jacket instead of my own. He pulled it away without saying anything, but he was almost certainly annoyed. That was six or seven years ago, but you know how that sort of incident can fester. It was probably bothering him yesterday when he couldn't convince those twelve Republicans to change their votes. I feel just awful about that. On the other hand, the Uruguayan turned out to be something of a dick, so if the ensuing market collapse halves the value of his condo, I'll have mixed feelings.


B&c and I will be attending the wedding of the daughter of some friends of his on Saturday. I have purchased a suit for the occasion, and last night I went to pick the suit up, only to find that the trouser legs had been hemmed to different lengths. How hard is it to make the legs of the pants the same length? I thought that perhaps I was imagining the difference, but another customer looked at me and said, "Those legs aren't the same," and when the tailor was summoned, she said, "That one's too short." She made the adjustment while I waited, and then I was on my way home, but I was so rattled by the whole thing that I forgot to stop by the supermarket and buy diet soda to bring to the office today. So now I'm sleepy, and I'm wishing that I'd called in Jewish.