A brief recap of my weekend:

~ Tristan woke me up at 4:45am Saturday to catch our train.

~ Tristan woke me again at 4:50am.

~ And at 4:55am.

~ 5am. 5:05am. 

~ I got up at 5:15am.

~ We took a cab to our hotel.

~ We checked in and I discovered my cell phone had fallen out of my pocket in the cab that had taken us to our hotel.

~ I used Tristan’s phone to call my phone and the cab driver answered and actually returned the fucking thing.

~ I got Skottie Young to sign my WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ graphic novel adaptation.

~ We went to the Harry Potter Exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry.

~ The train ride home had me having to endure this directly across from me on the train ride home:

~ …while the guy in front of him laying on his back, hacking up his lungs and NOT COVERING HIS FUCKING MOUTH…

~ …which led to me putting my hooded jacket on backwards and looking like this on the way home:

~ Later, after waking up from my “thank God it’s over nap” I had a sore throat and felt like shit, as did Tristan who was pissy and bratty and said he had no interest in watching the adorable Neil Patrick Harris host the Emmys and stomped off to bed so I watched and commented along with Debs over at Her Rabid Glow.

And what did you do this weekend?

Previously on Too Disgusting to Contemplate, too Compelling to Ignore: Dirk and The Fella’s fuckery has an audience and later as every orifice in his body clenches up in anticipation of his beloved Debbie Gibson taking the stage, tragedy strikes as a scheduling change leads to a faded disco star taking the pop princess’s slot…

As Thelma Who-ston began warbling, I immediately dug out my Pride Program to do the math and figure out when Debbie would be performing. If a pop princess leaves the station at 2:30 at the speed of awesomeness and a faded disco queen whose hit(s) I couldn’t recall if my Little Mermaid collection depended on it leaves another station at 4:30 at the speed of WTF, when can a nancy boy see the celebrity of his choice on the North Stage? Plus 2…carry the 4…divide by the square root of why-does-this-always-happen-to-me…

Goddammit.

It would be 4:30 before Debbie would be rockin’. How could I possibly ask my fella to wait another 2 hours to see someone he was only there to see because I was nuts about her? 

Thankfully I have the bestest boyfriend in the known universe because before I could even begin whining and cajoling and promising to take his nearly 8 inches down my throat once we got back to the hotel, he said something so super-wonderful that it brings tears to my eyes once again as I recount it for y’all:

“Why don’t we go get something to drink, cool off, and then come back so you can see Debs?”

Ohmigod.

Handsome, hairy, AND he totally got the depth of my love for the Debster.

I know, right?

So it was off to The Cellblock for a couple of cold ones and then back to the North Stage where this time a drag queen show was in progress. After what seemed like a bajillion years, the emcee once more took the stage and said the words I had dreamt of hearing ever since I was a *coughcough* sophomore in college: “Ladies and gentlemen — Deborah Gibson!” (Well actually I had dreamt of hearing Debbie Gibson, but dreams — like people — have to be a wee bit flexible, I guess.)

And then as the opening strains of “Shake Your Love” — my all time favorite DG hit it should be noted — filled my dainty shell-like ears she took the stage, a marabou trimmed black top and white mini shorts clad dynamo.

I inhaled deeply, turned my face to the heavens and muttered a “thank you, Jesus” before returning my focus to the stage.

And the hits kept coming: Out of the Blue…Lost in Your Eyes…Foolish Beat…

and of course Electric Youth. (Mad props to back-up dancers Justin and Eddie!)

It was pure Debbie magic.

The time flew by and as the final note of her grand finale  – Only In My Dreams — faded into the air, I let go a sigh of great contentment. I had seen Debbie Gibson. In person. Could it get any better than this?

In a word — yes. Because as we stood there rooted in place filing our Debbie memories away for all time, the emcee once again took the stage and uttered words that sent shivers down my spine:

“After a brief break to freshen up, Debbie will be signing autographs and posing for pictures…”

Oh.

My.

God.

And as the unthinkable settled in, so did another thought: Tristan had already indulged me so much how could I even ask him to spend another hour or two waiting to meet the greatest thing since the mesh half shirt?

Remember that part earlier where I said Tristan was the bestest boyfriend in the known universe? Scratch that. He’s the bestest boyfriend in the known galaxy, because before I could even open my big gay yap with myriad promises of finally doing that one little thing I’m not so crazy about and he is, he took my hand and said, “C’mon — you better get in line before there’s a thousand people ahead of you.”

I swear to God I hit the big gay jackpot with this one, folks.

And so we took our place in what appeared to be the Million Man ’Mo March to meet and greet Ms. Gibson.

I’m not gonna lie, folks — it was grueling: it was sweltering, my sunscreen was failing me something fierce, more than one person’s deodorant was flagging, and we were in front of two women who had just returned from The New Kids On The Block Carnival Cruise and were totally regaling the crowd with tales of that epic sea journey to the delight of the gentlemen in front of us and behind them. Frankly, it was the Bataan Death March of autograph lines. But I endured. And I texted The Pirate like mad as we inched ever closer to the musical angel from Brooklyn, New York.

Then after what seemed like an eternity (but was in all actuality only about 37 minutes), I found myself three fans away from greatness. Two fans. One.

And then it was my turn for an audience with The Debinator.

Those 55.3 seconds was everything I had dreamt of and more. (Okay, that’s a lie because in my dreams we totally brush each other’s hair, talk about cute boys, and diss Tiffany but there were other people waiting…)

And because I’m a giver, not only did I snag an autograph for myself but I got one for The Pirate, too!  Of course they were both on Panera Bread receipts because I did not $15 for an official 8×10 but whatevs. (When I texted her with the news afterwards, she responded “I JUST SHAT MYSELF.” Now that is someone who gets the Debbie Gibson experience.)

With the thrill of a lifetime behind me, I quickly sent the photo to everyone in my directory that I knew would be totally jealous and wish they could’ve traded places with me as well as a few who could care less.

Debbie Gibson and Dirk Mancuso. Further proof that dreams do come true.
___________

And now for all the super Debbie fans like me, I give you the trailer to a little film I recently ordered from Amazon…

After the housekeeping witnessed fuck session (followed by a trip to The Disney Store and dinner at Bennigan’s), The Fella and I settled in early for the evening so as to get a good night’s sleep for the awe and wonder of (no longer) teen pop star Debbie Gibson the next day.

All night long I tossed and turned, like a child waiting for Santa. As The Fella gently snored, I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until we could get our big gay on and hit Halsted Street.

I was in the shower at 7 am sharp, dressed by 7:20, and shaking Tristan awake at 7:21. He stared at me through one half open eye.

“You do realize she doesn’t perform until 2:30, right?” he asked between yawns.

“Yes, but Tristaaaaaaaaaan,” I explained ever so slowly since he was obviously still in the throes of slumber and not thinking clealry, “it’s Debbie Gibson.  There will crowds, possibly even traffic jams. Debbie.”

He sighed and padded off to the shower.

One quick train ride later — unlike a certain other ‘mo, The Fella is a master of the mass transit system — we found ourselves in Boystown, epicenter of Pride 2009. As if the gaily (hee hee) colored banners and balloons festooned Halsted Street weren’t enough to assure us that we were nearing our date with Deb-stiny, the banners confirmed it:

I could barely contain myself. Debbie Gibson! (Forget that Deborah shit — she’s always gonna be Debbie to me.)

Since the songstress extraordinaire wasn’t due to perform until 2:30, we took advantage of the 3 hour wait time (I was NOT going to risk missing the genius behind ELECTRIC YOUTH!) and strolled about the street festival, taking in the sights. There were skewered lamb kabobs laying in the 90+ degree heat, a gay cheerleading squad, one of the pushiest HRC reps that I’ve ever seen (when I am looking for my boyfriend in a teeming throng of hot, sweaty gay mens, do NOT ask me if I need his permission to make a donation to a worthwhile cause, m’kay?), and a veritable shitload of saucy window displays celebrating our shared ‘mo-ness.

Seriously, who doesn’t love a genital-free three-way?

But even as The Fella and I meandered about enjoying the chance to just be us, in the back of my mind was one persistent thought: Debbie Gibson….Debbie Gibson…Debbie Gibson.

And as befitting any venue sporting Grade A talent such as my beloved Ms. Gibson, no expenses were spared.

Classy, right? (For the record, though, I must admit that the sights outside…

…were much better than those inside.)

After a quick lunch at a quaint little place I once dined at when I dated a certain older gentleman, it was off to the North Stage where I forced a path to the front of the stage and endured an hour of female drag queens (kings?).

By 2:20, there was a crowd of literally hundreds of tens, all salivating to shake their love with the pop princess of the 80’s.

I turned to The Fella. “Are you goose-bumping? ‘Cause I am SO goose-bumping,” I squealed, balled up fists making small circles in the air on either side of my jowls.

A moment later, the final drag king exited the stage and the emcee came out. I was thisclose to pissing myself in 90 degree plus weather and then standing there in my own filth. Debbie Gibson was about to perform!

But instead of introducing the greatest singer to ever write, produce, and record an album in her parents’ garage, he began announcing a change in the line-up. What? Huh? First syllable, sounds like…

It seemed that Thelma Houston had a family emergency, necessitating her needing to leave earlier than expected and ever the consummate professional, Debbie had agreed to switch slots with her and would instead be performing at 4:30.

Fuck.

Me.

Hard.

I felt as though I had been kicked in the ‘nads.

And as Thelma Who-ston — a.k.a. Big Bird — took the stage, I felt my Debbie Gibson dream slipping away…

TO BE CONCLUDED

Since neither of us had ever attended a Pride event (but mostly because my beloved Debbie Gibson was performing), The Fella and I decided it was high time we joined our fellow faggots in a celebration of all things super-gay. So he made the arrangements and it was off to the big gay city for a weekend of frilly fun and frou-frou frolicking.

Now one of the weirdest things I’ve discovered about The Fella and I as a couple is that whenever we stay in a hotel, we get horny. Exceptionally horny. The kind of horny where the second we get to our room we fuck for an hour until we collapse in a hot sweaty heap followed by a foray to the nearest restaurant to appease our ravenous appetites before we go back to the hotel and fuck some more.

The only problem was that when we went into this particular room, I thought the ten ton door had slammed shut on its own.

It hadn’t.

No, our door was equipped with one of those big brass security guard things and when we entered, the arm somehow flipped open and prevented the door from closing.

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be such a big deal.

But again, we were big with the horny and before you could say blow-job, our clothes were hanging off the lamp shade and we were going at it pretty fast and furious, each of us unable to get enough of the other. I can’t be sure how much time had passed or how many of the various sexual positions we’d sampled when it happened.

There we were, Tristan flat on his back and me ridin’ cowboy on his seven and half inches when housekeeping passed by, and seeing the door ajar, opened it to see what — if anything — was amiss.

“Fuck!” The Fella hissed.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I replied, eyes closed and not missing a beat.

“Dirk.” His voice took on a more insistent air, his finger jabbing my chest.

I opened my eyes and turned to follow his wide eyed gaze to the member of housekeeping frozen in place at the foot of the bed. Suffice it to say, I think that poor woman is probably still traumatized (not to mention snow-blind) from the sight of my fish belly white backside grinding away on my uber hawt boyfriend’s member. I paused for a moment, not sure if I should or even could pull off The Fella’s turgid pole.

“Oh…oh…sorry…,” the woman mumbled, supressing a smile as she lowered her eyes and quickly spun on her heel and fled. Seconds later, we heard the click of the door shutting behind her.

Alone once more, we both finished — the interruption seemed only to increase our horniness, a troubling development to be delved into another time —  amidst a gale of laughter. And while the orgasm was definitely amongst our most memorable, the remainder of the day was tainted by a the fear that management would ask us to leave the second they saw us passing the front desk.

But that was all forgotten after the earth shattering events of the following day…

TO BE CONTINUED

8 o’clock on a Saturday night and the age old question: what’s a gurl to wear?

Whilst Dr. Sparky immediately threw together an ensemble (and pressed it!) in a matter of minutes, I was torn. Jeans, black tee, and ebony Sketchers aside, there were bigger questions: collar or no collar? Cuffs or no cuffs? These are important fashion matters at IML, people — what you wear says a lot and may determine whether or not you wake up the next morning chained to a radiator with jumper cables attached to your nipples. Eventually I decided to go sans leather and we were off to meet the third member of our party.

Upon arriving, the first stop of the evening was the event sponsored by The Pup Zone. For those of youwho have not heard of this phenomenon, “puppies” are adults who get some sort of sexual satisfaction from taking on the role of a dog. They wear collars and led around on leashes by their owners. The advanced “pups” don leather mitts which effectively turn their hands into paws and rubber or leather dog hoods which make them resemble their canine counterparts. To complete their transformation, many insert a butt plug with a dog tail to wag.

The “event” is really nothing more than a room full of Masters and their pups putting on a show for onlookers. They bark, they yip, they sit up and beg, they roll over and let you scratch their tummies, they play with dog toys. And yes, they sniff your crotch. It’s really one of those things where once you’ve seen about 5 minutes of it, you seen about all there is to see. I am a firm believer in the whole “whatever trips your trigger as long as it is between two consenting adults, it’s legal, and no one gets hurt” thing, but I have to say that the whole puppy trip has an undercurrent of creepiness that leaves me feeling a little dirty. I can’t really say why (maybe because I am reminded of the freaky guy in the dog mask in THE SHINING — the book, not the Stanley Kubrick travesty), but for my money the whole thing has a very limited appeal.

Please note that the following photos are very dark because the lights were low in the room for some reason. The first shot is of the puppies playing in the center of the room. The second is of a pup wearing a “BOOT SLUT” tee on his back waiting for me to scratch his tummy. For all I know he is still waiting.

In my attempts to get a better photo of the festivities for my faithful readers, I slowly began making my way counterclockwise around the room. As I reached the midway point, I found myself beside a large pillar with a fellow slightly taller than me blocking my view. Undaunted, I stepped around the pole and found myself standing behind Michael.

Give me a fucking break!

Seriously, in a city the size of Chicago, at a venue with literally thousands of people in attendance, what were the odds I would find myself within spitting distance of my ex? (In all honesty, I have to admit, I’d had a feeling I’d run into him at some point during the weekend, but I thought maybe that was just extreme paranoia.)

Faced with the choice between getting you guys more pics or bolting like a little bitch, I said “screw the readers” and dashed out of the room like the sissy boy I am. As chance would have it, my friends had already had their fill of the show as well and so it was onto other things. They went down the hall to the Onyx Dance while I went downstairs to the main ballroom to mix and mingle and drink.

A few beers later, I was sufficiently over my near run-in with Michael and began wandering about. I witnessed some hot men making out on the stairs, a trailer trash sub and his dominatrix wife putting on a flogging display for a crowd of onlookers, and 2 really cute guys dressed like BMX bikers with their hands down each others’ pants. And then there was the guy running around in a diaper all night. (Again, no complaints about the pic — the lights were down low to help facilitate hook-ups I think. Men like me need all the fucking help we can get.)

Deciding that the ex had probably moved on, I made my way back to the Dance to see how things were going. Let me state for the record that I do not dance. I am the whitest white boy in the history of ever and I possess nary a move. Unable to spot the rest of my party, I wandered down the hall to the bathroom. Upon exiting, I passed by the pup room and stepped back in to see how the show would end (the presentation was over at midnight).

While I was watching the final minutes of pomp and pageantry that would not be leaving the AKC without sleep, I heard a baritone “hello.”

Turning, I saw a distinguished gentleman in his mid 40s beside me dressed as some sort of commandant (I’m guessing German or British).

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

Oy. What’s a sexy man like you doing uttering corny shit like that?

He introduced himself as David and asked if I had ever engaged in puppy play (no), if I had any interest (no, again), and if I knew anything about the pup movement (no, and don’t really care to.) David explained that it was one of the fastest growing aspects of the leather community and that it had really exploded in the last couple of years. Fascinating.

With things beginning to wrap up, I think David made what might constitute a “move.”

“Buy you a beer?” he asked.

Never one to turn down a free beer, I said sure.

“First, you’ll need to eat a treat from my hand,” he replied, taking a graham cracker Scooby Doo brand “Scooby Snack” from a bowl on the table behind us.

I looked at him.

“Kneel, boy,” he said, holding the treat in his black leather gloved hand.

Short on pride and long on thirst, I knelt and accepted the stale treat.

“Good boy!” David smiled. It really was a shame he was such a freak, because the man was conjuring up some serious comparisons to Ben Stein and that had me hard. (What?!?!?! I’m not ashamed to say I’ve always secretly thought he was hot — I imagine a salt and pepper furred chest and the heart of a wild man beats beneath that 3-piece suit of his. And that voice! Yummy.)

True to his word, he bought me a beer. Well, 3 beers to be exact. Or I think it was 3 — I sort of lost track after a while. And after he went out for a smoke, I lost track of him, too. And so I wandered amidst the hairy harnessed hunks until 2-ish and then we caught a cab back back to the apartment.

3 hours later I was heading for the train station.

It seemed like a pretty decent weekend until I arrived home and found the body.

To Be Concluded…

***WARNING: Today’s post may not be work appropriate!***

One of the highlights of IML is the sea of kinky consumerism on display at the infamous Leather market. For the minimal fee of $3 (which goes to support the Leather Archives — I have no idea so don’t ask), one has the luxury of wandering through three floors of vendors offering a variety of items you’ll likely never see at your neighborhood Target. After paying our moneys and being outfitted with jazzy wristbands to gain entrance, we were off to shop.

As we entered the gallery of vendors, we were met with the sight of an upright cage and a sub/puppy crate. The latter was occupied by an adorable fellow who seemed pretty darn happy to be there. Which was good, since his head was locked in a collar built into the door. (By the way, this little play thing will only set you back a mere $645.)

From there, there we toured a sideroom where you could not only get your head shaved, but also purchase gas masks, stocks, padded spanking benches, monkey rockers, and portable slings. For the record, I tried out a couple of the latter and found them to be quite comfortable — I can definitely see the appeal more and more each time.

Making our way through the crowd, we were greeted with a bevy of sights: videos of men being fisted; penis shaped candles; a wide selection of blindfolds, gags, hoods, and various other restraints. There were cd’s of synthesized soundtracks to score your next bondage/fist fucking/role-play session; porn stars signing pics and posing with fans (?!?!?); massage demonstrations. “Boy Butter” was there with both their fantastic original product as well as the awesome new “You Won’t Believe It’s Not Boy Butter.” Free samples? Yes, please.

One of the more intriguing booths featured a middle aged woman extolling the virtues of electro play. Armed with her violet wand and various attachments, she made a compelling argument for putting a little spark into your love life. The best part is for only $625.99 the deluxe violet wand kit can be yours.

She also turned on the hard sell for a set of brass wheel attachments. “Gentlemen, imagine having this running up and down the underside of your erect cock — pure heaven. And the rounded nubs make it perfect for navigating the uneven terrain of your balls and along the anus,” she explained, holding the small tool between her thumb and index finger and running it over each potential buyer’s forearm. “Ladies, imagine this travelling up and down your engorged clit. I assure you you will be writhing in pleasure in no time.” As I looked over at the middle aged 40 miles of bad road in her platform heels, fishnet pantyhose, and baby doll dress beside me drolling over the sales pitch, I sort of lost interest and wandered on.

Dr. Sparky found a lovely rubber woman’s foot, the exact use for which escapes me.

We also saw a wide variety of dildos and butt plugs, many of which make an elephant squeal. Among the more disturbing ones were the Ream and Scream Anatomically Correct Horse Cock and the Yam. The latter’s name made me think of Old Boy. Not a good selling point for anyone who’s seen his unit.

The magazine BOUND AND GAGGED had a booth, adjacent to which was an inflatable bondage bed with built-in restraints. As I was testing their strength, a camouflage clad man approached.

“Lay down and we’ll see how well those hold…”

“Okay,” I kidded, “just let me tell my friends I’m going to be a while.”

“We better not,” he replied, his good eye trained on me, the lazy one looking across the room, “I’d have to figure out what to do with you once I had you like that and I might get thrown out of here.”

Dr. Sparky later wondered just exactly what one could do that would actually get himself thrown out of that venue. It was a good question.

Moving onward, we saw a St. Andrew’s cross and witnessed a public flogging. Hawt. The gentleman being flogged quickly went into the zone as the suede straps began turning his back red and another fellow stepped up to work his nipples. (For you squeamish types, I’ve been flogged and it’s really not painful — it’s more like a very intense work-out or massage. I was very relaxed afterward and had nary a welt or bruise a half hour later.)

Before leaving, we took a chance to spin the Interactive Male wheel of fortune. Dr. Sparky won 2 free music downloads and I won a disco sperm cum towel (“Stayin’ Alive” — get it?). I also picked up a variety of freebies such as condoms, stickers, lube — even “A Man’s Guide to Safer Leather Sex” brochure! Let it be known here and now that Dirk Mancuso loves him some free shit.

We also lucked out securing some handy wallet sized Hankie Code cards — very helpful when getting dressed for a night at the Leather Ball! (And for the record, ix-nay on the ed-ray and ark-day ed-ray ankies-hay) as well as brochures on the “right way” to eat ass (whatever, ugh).

Our shopping complete, we took the el back to the apartment to gear up for the evening ahead.
_________

Tomorrow: the epic conclusion…Puppies! Dancing! A Commandant! …And Michael.

Last Thursday began as every trip to Chicago begins: with Dirk Mancuso waiting until the last possible fucking moment to pack a bag and run out the door, just barely arriving at the train station to make the train.

Of course, once I got there, the train was late. So I waited.

And waited.

Waited 41 minutes to be exact. And finally, at long last, my train arrived.

Once I was on board, I found myself amidst a sea of men in white. (I don’t want to hear shit about the following pic being blurry, either, seeing as how I risked life and limb to Secret Squirrel it with men in white in front of me, behind me, and to my right. I could have died in the line of investigative blogging, people.)

Eventually I took a seat next to a very sweet but incredibly chatty older lady en route to the airport to attend her grand daughter’s christening in Miami, thus insuring I would get no reading done on the trip. With our train further delayed due to a freighter having right of way, we arrived at the station nearly an hour late.

Imagine my joy at emerging from the sea of parolees in one piece and seeing Dr. Sparky waiting patiently.

After stopping by his place to drop off my things, we took the el downtown. First stop: the Michigan Avenue Disney Store, or mecca as I like to call it. Imagine this gay boy’s delight to walk in the front door and discover an entire line of Little Mermaid merchandise (the new “Ariel and Her Sisters” line). It was just too good to be true.

As always, I made my preliminary reconnaissance of the sales floor, taking in each item, careful not to grab everything on the first go around. Then I made my second lap, slowly accumulating all the things I could not live without: Ariel and her sisters PVC figure set, $4.99 Pirates of the Caribbean clearance tee, Little Mermaid pull-back car, and the piece de resistance — an Ariel soap dish. Stylized in its design, exquisite in the execution, it was the finishing touch for any gay man’s underwater themed bathroom.

I snatched it up without hesitation.

$100 later, we were on our way to Borders. After purchasing my copy of “The Women Who Raised Me,” we made a quick pitstop at the men’s room. And may I just say “ugh.” Observe:

Mother of God, people — ever heard of grout and tile cleaner? All I could imagine was some of that gunk crawling up my shorts and settling on the end of my dick like that symbiote ooze in Spiderman 3.

From there it was up to the third floor where we took our seats in the back row. Already there was a palpable air of indifference excitement something as we waited for the actress-cum-author to arrive. Finally, a Borders employee emerged and announced the arrival of the gorgeous Ms. Victoria Rowell. The room burst into applause.

Clad in a tailored white pantsuit and straw chapeau, she first read an excerpt from her book, then segued into a Q & A session with an audience which seemed less interested in her work with foster care then the prospect of Druscilla returning from her recent cliff diving adventure and stirring the shit with Phyllis again. (Also ignored were her 8 years as Dr. Amanda Bentley on DIAGNOSIS MURDER – go figure.) It was a small but enthusiastic crowd — a certain DAYS OF OUR LIVES obsessed blogger reading ROLLING STONES 500 GREATEST RECORDS OF ALL TIME (and keeping track of how many he owned – 23 for the record) aside.

Some of the questions touched on the various aspects of Victoria Rowell: “First of all, I wore this hat today as a tribute to Drucilla — is there any chance you’ll return? My other question is my mother passed two months ago in March of 2007 and we have subsequently taken on a foster child. What should she call me?” (“Anything is possible” and “Allow her to decide what she wants to call you”.)

Other questions weren’t really questions at all, but heartfelt thanks for her 13 years as one of the most beloved characters in Y&R history: “I have watched Y&R for years and I remember when you first came on. You had such amazing chemistry with Kris and I loved your fights with Phyllis and the story with Devon. When you went off that cliff, I cried.” (“You and a lot of other men in this room,” Victoria replied in her soft, silky voice.)

Other questions, attempted to ferret out backstage gossip: “I loved the scenes between Drucilla and Phyllis. Why did the show stop writing those? Did you ever ask for more scenes with Michelle Stafford?” (Cue, a sly grin and Rowell letting “slip” a mention of possible backstage drama as well as mention of the new book she’s working on — “Confessions of a Daytime Diva” — which was met with excited murmuring and a burst of appreciative applause.)

And then there was the final question of the evening. The one went like this: “Let me begin by saying that you are the only woman my wife would allow me to have an affair with…”

*** record scratch ***

Huh? WTF?

Dr. Sparky hung his head in shame, flushed with embarrassment for the man. “Who says that?” he winced.

Apparently professionals in 3 piece suits.

Ms. Rowell awkwardly laughed it off, asking where his wife was. A beautiful woman in a tailored suit raised her hand, laughing.

Allow me to amend my earlier response as to who says such a thing — professionals in 3-piece suits whose wife and daughter are seated across the aisle.

Awkward Factor on the Dirk Mancuso Scale: 7.5, leaning heavily towards an 8.

With the last question asked, the book signing commenced. Ms. Rowell personalized each book and graciously posed for photos with her adoring fans — some of whom wore hats as a sign of Drucilla solidarity, while others seemed a little too Kathy Bates for my tastes.

Many received compliments for their names. “Destiny LaFate? That’s so beautiful. Susan? Gorgeous name. Augustine? Absolutely fabulous.” Finally, it was my turn. Stepping forward, I wondered would she pronounce my name the epitome of all things masculine? Would she rave about its exquisite simplicity? Would she declare it the perfect moniker for a brutish male like myself?

Not so much.

As I handed her my book — and let me state for the record if you think she is beautiful on television, you should see her in person — she took one look at me and said, “Dirk?…Well, thanks for coming, Dirk.”

My heart leapt. Drucilla Winters said my name! If I wasn’t a fan for life before, it was cemented now.

With the flourish of the pen, Ms. Rowell personalized my book, then stood and flashed a million dollar smile as we posed for a photo. (“Could the two of you lean back and wave your arms like you’re falling off that cliff in Genoa City while I stand on this desk and snap the pic?” Dr. Sparky asked. Victoria just looked at him with dinner plate eyes and shook her head no.) Hell, I even managed to produce one of the very rare Dirk Mancuso smiles just being in her presence.

And with that, it was over. I collected my book and camera and we were on our way, Dr. Sparky doing a mean Victoria Rowell impression all the way home.
__________

Tomorrow: A trip to the leather market! (Did I mention there’ll be photos?)

NANCY BOY AND THE TRAIN-CAR OF CONVICTS

“Train’s full up. No need to shop for two unoccupied seats together. There’s an open seat here.”

That was the voice of the middle aged male train conductor pointing to an empty seat next to a man in white.

“Dude, do you have a cell phone I could use?”

That was the voice of the parolee I was forced to sit next to on the train ride to Chicago.

“No, I don’t.”

That was me, lying through my almost pearly white teeth.

“Rae, it is 32 degrees in Chicago. 32 degrees is right at freezing.”

and

“Rae, Chicago is the 3rd largest city in the United States. Los Angeles is number two and New York is number one.”

and

“Interesting fact, however: Chicago has the third largest population but the greatest number of cabs per capita.”

That was the voice of the crazy-ass Grandpa giving his pre-teen granddaughter –and everyone within a stone’s throw — a running commentary about the Windy City.

“Attention Amtrak passengers: just a reminder that this train is a NON-smoking train. Any passengers caught smoking, will be getting off at the next stop where they will be delivered into the loving arms of the authorities and charged with a criminal violation. Thank you for riding Amtrak.”

That was the voice of the very irritated lady train conductor who was in the mood for no shit from the some three dozen parolees on the train.

RING! RING RING!

That was the sound of my cell phone roughly thirty minutes after I told the tattooed ex-con with the nicotine twitches beside me I was not in possession of a cell phone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

NANCY BOY AND THE TELEVISION THAT COULDN’T FLY

I was just rounding the corner on my way back from the Jewel when I heard him.

“Don’t do it!” The very skinny white man’s voice was shrill as he stood on the sidewalk looking up at a second floor apartment window.

“Do what?” asked the beautiful cocoa skinned woman looking out the window in question and balancing a 27 inch television on the ledge.

“C’mon, baby, I’m asking nice — don’t drop my tv! Please!!” The man was dancing from foot to foot like a child begging for a toy at the local Wal-mart.

“Fuck you, you cheatin’ little bitch.”

CRASH!!

That was the sound of the television meeting the ice covered pavement.

And ever the intrepid boi blogger, I whipped out my camera phone to capture the carnage for you good people.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

NANCY BOY AND THE REALLY OLD CONDOMS

After attending Friday night’s performance of CAGED DAMES (loved the changes David, and BC — you need to take the Sheila Mercury show on the road!), I went out for drinks with Aaron. I was a little out of it (bleeding in the brain will do that, you know), and even though I thought I lost my earmuffs and gloves several times over in a 30 second span of time, Aaron was a perfect gentleman and pretended not to notice. He also acted as though it was perfectly normal to go full tilt Terry Schiavo after 3 Miller Lites. When he dropped me off, all my paraphernalia — and by paraphernalia I mean my Listerine strips, my Zicam, my lip balm, and ball point pen — fell out of my pocket and onto the street. I remember releasing a volley of curse words as I picked them up, all the while leaving his car door open and mumbling. I can’t be certain, but I’m sure there was an audible sigh of relief when I finally babbled some totally incoherent farewell. (On second thought, blow to the head or not, I’m pretty fucking stupid like that so maybe he thought nothing of it…)

I was halfway to Sissy’s when my cell rang.

“Dirk, baby, how long you gonna be before you get back here?”

“Um…why?”

Sissy collapsed into the giggles of ecstasy. “Nigel’s here, gurl, and we want to get freaky…”

“Say no more,” I slurred. “I’ll go grab a few beers and see what’s shaking at the bars.”

Now, I really wanted to go to the North End because they were having a spelling bee (don’t ask me) but it was packed and I hate crowds so I went to another bar instead. I had a few beers, met a man who actually wanted to talk about things other than the portable sling and collection of hoods back at his place — hi, Scott! — and had a few more beers. 4 more I think. Which officially meets my alcohol limit for the year, as it turns out.

Now as is my way — even though I am knee deep into the Celebration of Celibacy — I always partake of the condoms in the fishbowls offered outside of the men’s room.

Even in my dain-bramaged/inebriated state, I noticed there was something amiss about the handful of condoms I helped myself to. Something that didn’t seem quite right. Had the blow to the head actually sent me to the way back machine? I stared at them for a moment, then pocketed them. The next morning — or rather later that morning — I took another look. No, I hadn’t imagined it.

Oh, well…it’s not like I was going to use them anyway. (But if I change my mind, the promotional cardboard wrapper may be old, but the latex shields inside them are good until June of 2009.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

NANCY BOY AND THE REALLY SAD TRIP HOME

The two teens were seated behind me on the train home. As we waited to depart, they verbally sparred. The taller of the two resembled a young Chris Farley and had the same loud, over dramatic gestures. The other was more reserved, with a biting sense of humor. “Chris” lamented how badly his interview had gone and how he was just a fat guy who would be going back to his home town because he wasn’t good enough. His friend told him he thought he’d done a great job and to quite stressing.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better because I’m fat,” replied Chris.

As the train began backing out of the station, Chris’s cell phone rang. He spoke softly for a few minutes, then hung up.

“I’M GOING TO LOS ANGELES! I’M GONNA BE AN ACTOR! YES!!!!!”

The whole car laughed.

Acting school. I had assumed it was a college interview. I’m so unimaginative that way.

Once the excitment wore off and reality hit, Chris as he realized he would need $1600 just to go to the actor’s summer camp.

“Dude, we’ll figure it out. We’ve got until May,” his friend offered. “This is gonna happen!”

“I can’t believe this,” Chris said. “The lady said I have natural talent and she wants to work with me in the actor’s camp this summer to make me great when I audition for the school in the fall.” He took a beat. “YES!!! Even if I don’t go, at least now I know I am good enough! I am so pumped! I’m gonna call T and tell her to pass the word around.”

As Chris dialed T and began regaling her with his great news, his friend’s cell phone rang. As Chris got louder and louder, his friend began saying less and less.

“Dude, was that the lady?” Chris asked, after dispatching T to chain dial their friends.

“Yeah. She said I have some natural instinct, but she doesn’t think I’m good enough to go to LA. She said she doesn’t want me to go and mess up when I get there.”

Chris got really quiet.

“Dude, that sucks because you are so much better than me,” Chris said softly.

About 20 minutes into the trip, Chris spoke again. “You know, there’s no way I can go this summer, dude. $1600 is a lot of money and I can’t ask my folks. I’ll get another job and we can audition again next summer. Take a year off and save up, you know?”

“No, you need to do this, man. This could be your big break.”

“I just really wish you had made it instead of me. You’re just so much better and you want it more…”

Again, silence.

Just before my stop, I heard Chris tell his friend, “You know, I been thinking and every big star gets rejected their first time out, dude. Then they worked harder and got rich. That’s gonna be you…”

As I got off the train, I took a last look back at the teens. I could see Chris’s sadness for his friend and his friend’s disappointment. Even though I didn’t know either of them, my heart hurt for both of them.

I know how it feels to realize the thing you want more than anything isn’t going to happen. I know how it feels to realize that the first few threads of an important friendship are dissolving as life takes you in different directions. And I know how it feels to say and do what you need to make that break easier for the other person.

I wish both those guys a ton of luck. Life’s hard enough without a good friend by your side.

Fresh from the train, ‘mo exits the train station and flags a cab.

“XXXX West Blah Blah.” Since Thad’s fella has a full New Year’s weekend planned, ‘mo will be staying with his friend, Sissy.

As the cabbie peels out, ‘mo hears the click of the door locks. He looks down and much to his horror realizes that there isn’t a visible knob with which to unlock the door. He cannot believe he was this stupid — he ALWAYS checks this before he gets in a cab.

Panic surges deep within him as he recalls that this is exactly how the killer captured his victims in THE BONE COLLECTOR.

Within seconds, his mind is awash in a multitude of scenarios in which he is driven to an unspecified location and tortured for hours before his nude, lifeless fish belly white corpse is dumped in an abandoned lot or dumpster. He hopes the press will be kind and not refer to him as “the aging, out of shape faggot.”

As the cab continues to zoom through traffic, ‘mo does the only thing he can think of: he takes photos of his cab number and sends them to his friend back home with a text message:

IF I AM DEAD WHEN YOU GET THIS, HERE WOULD BE A GOOD PLACE TO START INVESTIGATING.

“This is the address, no? Sir?”

‘mo suddenly realizes the driver is speaking to him and looks up.

Huh. What do you know? ‘mo is sitting in front of Sissy’s condominium.

* * * * *

‘mo is just waking up from his nap on the sofa when Sissy comes home from work.

“Hey, ‘mo. I’ll be out in a few. I’ve got something I want to show you, gurl.”

‘mo is flipping through the latest issue of Soap Opera Digest when Sissy sashays into the living room buck naked per usual. ‘mo pays no attention since Sissy is a practicing nudist and he has seen that impressive ebony junk a zillion times before.

“Ahem.”

‘mo looks up from his magazine and finds himself face to face with Sissy’s chocolate colored cock. Only there is something different about it this time. It’s…shiny. And hard. But not in the “I sure am glad to see you” way.

No, today Sissy’s cock is…imprisoned in a clear plastic vented tube.

“Is that what I think it is?” asks ‘mo.

“Yep,” replies Sissy, hands on hips, crotch jutted out into ‘mo’s face. “The Curve. $168 dollars of plastic chastity. Nigel gave it to me.” Nigel is Sissy’s adorable OB/GYN boyfriend who recently became elgible for membership in AARP.

‘mo reaches out gingerly, then pulls his hand back. He looks up, eyebrows raised. “May I?”

“Please do.”

‘mo leans in close, peering at the plastic prison surrounding his pal’s pee-pee and studies The Curve’s unique design. Cautiously, he pokes it with his index finger.

“This is very nice, Sissy,” he says in awe of his friend’s new acquistion. “Much nicer than the stainless steel cock sock Thad and I saw at IML…”

“And much more comfortable, I’d wager,” Sissy giggles. “Oh, sorry about all the baby oil — it keeps me from chafing.”

‘mo is undeterred by the greasiness — he is too busy marvelling at the design and apparent comfort of the apparatus. While he is already knee deep in a celebration of celibacy, this is certainly an interesting accoutrement to insure one does not fall off the wagon.

“I think we need to take you shopping,” Sissy says. “Little Dirk would love it!”

“Alas, I shall be attending the thea-tuh this evening,” sighs ‘mo. “Perhaps another time.”

“No worries, gurl. You go and have you some fun! But don’t stay out too late — Thad says you’re having brunch with his friend Darrin tomorrow…”

____________

Tomorrow: The last blind date. EVER.

So we’re in a cab going home from Club Lucky (great food!) and the driver is cracking us up with a running commentary the whole way back to my buddy Tad’s apartment. At one point we cross Paulina and the driver asks “Can you boys name 4 streets that rhyme with Paulina?”

Tad and I looked at each other and shrugged.

And the driver says, “Medinah. Malvina. North Carolina. …and Lunt.”