Last weekend I found myself in an unusual situation. I was without boyfriend, friends, or cable. It was just me, Pumillo, and a whole lot of raspberry vodka with an assortment of mixers. Before I list the seven different techniques I discovered to eat pussy; let me backtrack a couple days and fill you in on my series of unfortunate events.
Tuesday started like any other hump day; woke up to a nice blow job (just a dream), had a huge stack of pancakes oozing with blueberry syrup (still dreaming, can’t have carbs) and answered a phone call from the boyfriends wannabe fag-hag extraordinaire sister (crap just woke up). Now I love my little man, and by virtue of that love I feel a need to love (read: tolerate) his family, you married guys know what I’m talking about, but damn don’t they make that impossible. Anyway, the Barbie reject calls in a panty twisted tizzy demanding that he road trip with her to their, get this, “sisters boyfriends uncles sister-in-law’s funeral”……. Now far be it from me to deny someone their bereavement comforts, but damnit I just bought blue raspberry lube, and the dearly departed is a non blood relative thrice removed. Surely there has to be a don’t give a fuck opt out clause somewhere. Nope, no K Fed quality luck here.
Anticipating my upcoming weekend alone time I decided to call a few friends to see if they couldn’t inject a little revelry in to my upcoming doldrums. Silly me forgot they all had a douche bag convention to attend and were indisposed. My former gal pal Amy however had just enough time before skipping town with the love of her life to throw Pumillo on my porch. The wench could have at lease stopped the car long enough to let the little shit licker out rather then throwing him at my balls like a furry abomination from the mind of Tolkien. I should probably now mention that Pumillo is an ugly dog, scratch that Pumillo is a butt ugly, fat ass, prune of a dog; essentially one step above a fiber supplement.
So with an ugly fiber supplement in one hand and a bag of ice to my slightly swollen groin it was time to let my auspicious weekend begin. Mixing up a ginger vodka (it was 12:30 so shut up) I settled in to see what pay per view had to offer me. Static; you’ve got to be kidding me, the cable was out. That’s ok though, I’m an independent gay, all I had to do was call up the company and rectify the problem. After an hour on hold then fifteen minutes with a foreign national trying to convince me that sunspots were affecting my cable I decided that was enough space jam for me and maybe pay per view was just not in the cards for the weekend.
Seeing as the boyfriend does not look kindly on my going to the clubs without him I decided to make it a blockbuster night, maybe with some nice Indian takeout. Then it hit me, I’m an independent gay this weekend, fuck takeout; time to fire up the stove and make my own curried chicken. After a quick stop at Food Network’s website I was ready. List in hand I strode confidently in to our local grocer, only to be stopped short at the ethnic foods isle. What the fuck it’s all taco seasoning and soy sauce! Spotting a lad in uniform I zoom in.
“Excuse me, where’s the green curry paste?” I ask the annoyed teenager.
“What’s that?” My new friend asks.
“It’s green, usually in a little jar, makes Indian food.”
“I don’t think we have that.”
“Is there someone else I should ask?”
“Umm yea try customer service.”
Making my way from the perky bottomed boi back to the front of the store I waited in line to speak with a woman I can only describe as “brunhilda esque”.
“Do you sell green curry paste?” I ask again.
“Green, little bottle, Indian food.”
Ok I’m an independent gay now; I can handle this, what does curry taste like? Coconut and pepper, I can deal with that. Coconut milk and peppers in hand I head out of the store to Blockbuster. Long story short Blockbuster employees are idiots at the store by my house and it was not going to be a blockbuster night. That’s ok though I still had curried chicken to contend with.
Because I couldn’t find the paste I decided to wing the curry, a little salt, pepper, chopped up peppers and chicken in coconut milk. Ok so it won’t win any awards…and it wasn’t curry, but it tasted ok. I suppose it was the taste of independence. Needless to say independence had me in the bathroom for a while after its consumption. One self induced colon cleansing later I was crawling up the walls looking for something to do. Then it hit me, PORN! It’s the independent gay’s natural answer to boredom. Having exhausted my Kane O’Farrell collection it was time to turn to technology. That’s right boys; desperate times call for the internet.
Browsing my favorite “boyfriends gone, so it’s safe to not wear pants, amateur porn site”; I decided to play a little game I like to call the six degrees of porn. The rules are simple, there’s only one. Pick a clip and then watch a clip linked to that, and so on. Here’s the danger in six degrees of porn, you can get caught in a never ending chain of fetish clips or in my case lesbians eating pussy. It started out innocent enough, I was watching a nice bi guy (hung like a yeti) alternating between a chick and some gym bunny. Unfortunately for me the only linking video was a lesbian flick, and once you fall in to the black hole that is lesbian porn there’s no escape.
Here’s what I learned this weekend, and trust me it hit me like a Facts of Life marathon. Fuck independence. I need people, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. So what if I’m codependent? When did wanting to be around others become a bad thing? What do you bois think; is independence overrated?