Scott Adler's Diary: The Edge of Reason

Weight lost since Paris: 4 lbs.; cohibas smoked: 2; boys flirted with online: 8; boys shagged: 0; perfect boys met that are dating material that live on wrong coast: 1; family hospitalized: 0; dollars spent in retail therapy: $936.15; best-friends diagnosed HIV+: 1

My morning began like many of those working off jetlag in NYC, a trip for bagels. Walking down the block to H&H I saw a homeless man on the sidewalk with a particularly simple sign:

“Homeless and REALLY REALLY hungry.” In the corner of the sign there was another message, “Stop the war.”

Feeling particularly compassionate for that hour of the morning without coffee and not having any change on me, I decided to up my order of four bagels to six and got an extra coffee. On my way out I offered him the bagels and coffee and looked at me like I was psychotic and told me to, “get the fucking Jew pastries out of [his] face.” I told him his sign was false advertising, threw out the second coffee and went home to enjoy my bagels.

I have known homeless people to reject food because all they want is money for drugs and booze but honestly, if you’re going to make a sign that says REALLY REALLY hungry then don’t be surprised (and rude) when somebody tried to feed you.

My morning continued as I slowly woke up and ate the pastries which curled my hair and lengthened my nose. Around noon I met some friends near Columbus Circle for coffee at Dean and Deluca. Before going to the gym in the dungeon of the building, I decided to make a quick stop at Daffy’s. Daffy’s is like my favorite place on earth. It’s like another Filene’s basement but with different lines and more men’s shoes. Half an hour there, ten of which was spent looking for the companion shoe to a perfect set of loafers and I was ready for the gym.

I had a really good workout despite the stares from random gay men because the only gym shirt that I had that was clean was the “Catcher” shirt from the Ajaxx line. Combine wearing that and doing squats and I was a target for a few admirers.

I went to do hip abductors (the two weighted thigh-master machines – one squeezing in and the other pushing out) when I realized the woman using the complementary machine to my own (squeezing in) was none other than cutie texan Renee Zellweger, the inspiration for this entry’s style comes from the acclaimed movie series Bridget Jones’ Diary. I was doing my sets and she was kinda just going and going so I eventually stopped and she looked at me and then with a perfect Texan drawl,

“Thank god, I thought I was gonna have thighs the size of horses if I kept that up much longer.”

We chatted about the irony of her waiting for me while I waited for her. Eventually she ended up working out near me again and feeling bold I ran to the Personal Trainers office and grabbed paper and pen. I jokingly said that since she appeared to be following me I could assure her I wasn’t a stalker and that my best friend who is her biggest fan would die if she got an autograph,

“For A -- , Missed ya doin our crunches!! Where’re ye? Sendin’ Warmest! Renee”

So fantastic. Well after a day of legs I could walk so I thought a little more retail therapy would ease the pain. My favorite store in Columbus Circle didn’t disappoint me and I got a few cute new things that I felt were very me and some shoes that were on sale for their very last day … I hate when the summer sales end. Another reason I was happy to be home – I got to take advantage of them while they lasted.

As I was checking out the gorgeous guy next to me was paying as well and I spotted his California Driver’s License … I used that to strike up a conversation and made sure to give him my number before I left. He went out the side of the mall and I walked toward the subway when he yelled my way and asked if I had time for coffee. Oh, too perfect. He was really sweet, had just spent six months on a cruise ship as a singer on a World Cruise from Hamburg to Barcelona or some similar itinerary. We cliqued really well but he had some stuff to do so we parted and made plans to see each other before I left.

I was walking on clouds … well … rather walking underneath the ground sweating and praying for the next train ASAP. I got home, unwound and felt like Hoku’s Perfect Day song was playing in the background. I had received word within hours of landing yesterday my family member was going to make a speedy full recovery, I got some great retail therapy in, the weather in New York was verging on tolerable and nearly perfect, met a perfect boy, and literally could just lay back and relax.

My phone rang and butterflies got me hoping it was the boy but it was my best friend at home, not a bad consolation though. We chatted a bit and he thanked me for my post card and we made small talk. He expected a voice mail and I had to explain about the family emergency. Reminded him I’d rather be bitter toward family and that Europe will always be there than be mad at myself for not getting to say goodbye to family AGAIN. He agreed and then tried to sound serious:

Him Me

“Uh, when you get home we need to have a talk.”
“Uh Oh, what’s wrong?”
“Well nothing really, just me being motherly – kinda bad news.”
“What did I do?”
“For a change nothing ::nervous chuckle::”
“Then what. Something going on about me behind my back I should know about?”
“Nah, nothings wrong with you … nothing deathly important or anything.”
“Just tell me!”
“Well, um. I just found out that … well … um …I’m positive.”

For the first time in my life, I had nothing to say. He’s been my rock for years (damnit I’m already crying again) and just the thought of him not being there sent shock waves through my body and to the pit of my stomach.

For the next hour and a half he told me everything, how he found out, why he found out, what doctors he was seeing, the prognosis they gave, the whole nine yards. The whole time he kept trying to crack jokes and make the whole situation funny. How had he accepted it so fast? He made me look like a mere courtesan in the Royal Court of Drama and he was calm cool and collected while I wanted to scream out promises of vengeance on the evil that did this to him.

Then he reminded me, it was something he did to himself. And it just came as a wake up call to me and in reference to everyone having sex. The only safe sex is abstinence. There is no other way of saying it. There is no sure fire way of knowing. I love him deeply and know that he will get the best care there is for him. He has people, myself among them, that will be there no matter what. It’s hard to comprehend, to imagine. But it’s now slowly becoming a fact of my generation, we think we’re invincible but we’re not.

The cute boy from shopping today called me in the hour after while I was processing. I know he was a complete stranger technically but we had cliqued so well. It felt good to just sit and talk. He walked me the thirteen blocks home from the coffee place we met at and here I am, alone in bed. No matter how much I wanted him tonight there was no way I was going to be able to do anything with this looming over my head. My head wasn't in the right place, nothing was. I was at the edge of reason and somebody was nudging me over the side.

Actually happy to be going home … a lesson in Cognitive Dissonance

I hope everyone has studied up on Cognitive Dissonance before they read this post. If not just follow the link to a brief overview of the concept. If you’d rather GUESS what it is just by reading this then it should be pretty obvious.

I was excited to go on the cruise but wow there are so many reasons right now that I’m happy I’m not let me tell you…

I’m by no means ageist. I can have fun talking to whomever about whatever no matter what they look like or how old they are, people at the HooVille meetings can attest to that. It’s not to say that anyone there is particularly old or possess any negative attributes, I’m just saying that they can vouch for me that I’m a conversational chameleon and can pretty much hold my own and blend into any conversation I want/need to.

This ships capacity is about 325 passengers plus crew. Apparently with all the rooms sold out, there were still only a little over 200 passengers set to sail because of the ABUNDANCE of single occupancy. Through my traumatic experience the cruise coordinator and I became excellent friends and we chatted about little details. There were a couple meetings where we got to know each other and then where I tried to lessen the blow for my client/friend and have him not be charged the full amount despite the last minute cancellation. By the time I was through flirting and finessing this PEACH of a person refunded my entire ticket and only charged my friend as if he were traveling alone and the single supplement.

The funny thing was that despite the low attendance I was excited when I heard the only other 21 year old on board was an Australian dancer on vacation. 21. Australian. Dancer. Could he BE anymore my type? LOL. Apparently the next youngest on the ship was 28. Next came a group of about 70 early to mid thirties. The rest were forty and above. Again, I have no problems hanging out and enjoying myself with older people, but I think the cruise would have gotten a little boring having nobody else at my place in life. These thoughts were confirmed when I realized that the 21 year old on vacation already had friends on board, the other dancers and some crew. Essentially I’d end up being his spare wheel on every outing if even that. Not going on this cruise was sounding better and better.

Early in the morning on Saturday when I received the phone calls about the issue, I knew that there was a chance that there could have been stabilization and certainty that I wouldn’t miss my family passing. Thus, the entire day I was on pins and needles unsure of whether or not the cruise was actually happening. Either way, my client and friend was ready to stand by my decision.

I would frequently check in with the cruise director as the “refund issue” was pending until nearly before I left and last minute return travel arrangements had to be made as well. Luckily my guy only buys full fare tickets that can be changed to whatever so that was the least stress … getting the flights was the only problem we anticipated.

When chatting with the travel guy I asked questions like, “Why the Radisson?” There were so many other things more suitable hotels for a bunch of high maintenance fags that was far closer to the main town (and the Spartacus Approved destinations). Apparently they had used Le Meridien and Negresco regularly.

Unfortunately, the Negresco was only cute in the public rooms and out front, inside the rooms were classic euro-trash chic. Apparently Le Meridien had asked the cruise director the day before guests began to arrive, “This is a family hotel, we do hope you can … tone it down.” After that they never booked there again but it got me wondering, what did they expect? Orgies on the pool deck, ritual virgin sacrifices, perhaps a preach and convert session complete with toasters?

My questions were answered on the elevator en route to cocktails on the terrace last night. A couple got on a cramped elevator, obviously straight English speaking family present as well. A couple of the boys obviously on the ship got on a little tipsy and because of being cramped, the shorter of the two was nose to chest with his companion. At this point, he felt the need to announce, “God your right nipple smells really good right now.” Yep, I’ll be missing out on the epitome of culture this trip.

Getting to the cocktail party made me feel like I was at Mickey’s “Cocktails with the Stars.” A bunch of guys huddled around each other pointing and whispering about everyone else looking for the freshest eye candy to walk up. I felt like I was a piece of meat walking into a nest of hungry hyenas – I could only imagine what being stranded on a ship with nobody to hang out with/talk to the whole time except for them would have been like. Sure I could have done my own thing and seen the ports on my own, but when I do a cruise, I like to meet people and form lasting friendships yadda yadda sappy sweet crap. The pre-cruise cocktail party gave me yet another reason I didn’t want to be on this ship. The amount and possibility of undesirables was totally eminent. Beside, I’m sure I’ll at least get to see pictures from the trip one way or another. On the up side, I did get to wear my new LV speedos tanning on Saturday. The goal was to get as brown as the suit and I came pretty damned close. They were hot … not the pair I wanted but a great bathing suit none-the-less.

As cocktails wound down and I met up with my friend for our last dinner together in France. I discovered that smoking suppresses an appetite and getting addicted to Cohiba Mini-Cigars is NOT a good thing when you’ve bought a few packs duty free for a trip and can’t legally take them home to America. Everybody wish me luck in customs.

As a side note while waiting for my car to pick me up at JFK I wanted to smoke one of said Cohibas. Since they took my lighter before I got on the plane I had to find someone with a light. I went to the smoking group behind me, yellow Cohiba pack in hand, and asked for a light. The customs official lit my cigarette and I froze, of all the people. Thank god he didn't look at the box.

Regardless of everything … I had an amazing trip. A week in Paris and a weekend in Nice is NOTHING to sneeze at. We were planning on cutting the trip short from Venice ANYWAY because of the weather being god awful hot and the canals stinking. Every guide book in the world says the worst time to visit our ports is between July and August, hence why the homos are able to Charter and entire ship during that time – they can’t fill a straight cruise with people. Now I get to spend two full weeks in my favorite city in the world … what could be better?

An update: My family is due to make a full recovery. Now I have other bad news to deal with, blog forthcoming tomorrow most likely. Writing has become an amazing outlet. Streams of consciousness turning into flowing thoughts are honestly much better therapy than a doctor at $150/hr. Seeing my words helps me deal with them and dealing with them helps me understand my feelings.

Coming back to America set me up for a lot of important things like being with my family, my friends on my birthday, and being an ear for my best friend who received news that shattered his world. I'm definitely happier to be home.

And not to dignify trash with a response but it’s sad to see that even someone as vile as Chgo has so little a soul or decency to show compassion to another human being in need. Even people calling me the worst of the worst names on Escort Speak in the past wrotes notes of condolence. He truly is sick and pathetic and I truly hope that he somehow finds the peace he needs shirtless on a ship where nobody would dare bother him.

“It really frosts my cookies…”

“Went into the woods, had a good time, bonded together…(more quote below)…It really frosts my cookies that we have come so far and now we have to stop.”
~Shelly Long, Troop Beverly Hills

For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, I’m stripping you of your gay card. Another highlight of the movie is Shelley Morrison of Will and Grace playing, what else but an upscale maid named … you ready? … Rosa. I will italicize any references to it in this post so people who HAVEN’T seen it (again, your gay card suspension is already in process) can understand these vague and seemingly irrelevant metaphors.

But I digress. I have traveled very far into the forest on this jamboree… not just mileage. My travel companion would be in nicest terms, “difficult,” and this cruise was definitely the light at the finish line and the prize of being this year’s poster troop. Unfortunately there is no log to cross this ravine and no finish line to carry Velda across. Velda is hurt and in New York and no matter how much I’m going to dislike her for putting me through this, she is still a Wilderness girl. Alright, I’m done with this metaphor. OK, one more metaphor….

“Crock of SHIT …. DAMNIT … DAMNIT DAMNIT DAMNIT …. Just ONCE I want to GO the DIStance!”

Anyway, a close family of mine had a heart attack Friday night. I was out and about in Nice and when I returned home at 3 AM Nice time I had messages on my Hotel phone and 3 missed calls from various American numbers on my international cell phone. My family knew that usin that phone was under only the direst of emergencies.

Last time there was a heart attack in my family I delayed my flight until I heard that my grandfather was stable. My parents lied and while I was gone he died. I never got to say goodbye. They learned their lesson that I would hate them more for lying to me and not telling me the truth about family health than if they ruined my vacation by calling me home. Nice, the Amalfi coast and Italy would all be there next summer – no sense in crying over not getting on a ship and having cocktails.

It is truly a wonderful cruise but it’s nothing extraordinary that I haven’t been available to me in the past.

There will be a GREAT deal of cognitive dissonance in future posts on this topic. Cognitive Psychology was one of the few psychology core-courses I aced so I appear to be an expert at it.

A nice first day in Nice

By the time this gets posted I’ll have landed in New York most likely, although I am typing it on the plane. I found out Saturday morning after an extremely hot night at the clubs in Nice. It was fucking amazing.

We arrived in Nice to the shock of a lifetime. The Radisson SAS, though convenient to the airport, was convenient to nothing else. It was literally one of the furthest “luxury” hotels from the downtown district that was possible. It was a nice hotel, modernly redone and quaint (small) but charming (homey) yet the service was leisurely (slow). Thus, after spending a week at the George V in Paris, it was certainly a wake up call that our accommodations on the ship would only go down hill.

What was also particularly disturbing about this hotel were the taxis it employed. The first took us to “Safari,” a restaurant in the flower market Cores de Sulaya at the far end of downtown during rush hour. This cost 14 €. The drive BACK from this place after walking in the general direction of the hotel in a non rush hour period (that took half as long) cost 18 €. Finally, my trip to downtown in the early evening to start my “outing” in Nice from the hotel to the exact same drop off point cost 24 €. For future reference, in Nice always demand to see the meter or negotiate the price in advance, apparently they have little taxes for everything from “left turns” to “zone changes” to even “per bag” the car (not the driver) has to transport. Needless to say I planned on walking back despite being told earlier that evening by “fellow” future cruisers that it took them a half hour each way at a leisurely pace.

I started by going to the trendy bar next to Safari that was hopping when we were there for a late lunch. Not sure of the spelling but I believe it was Cores de Coisseurs. That could be completely off but I know it was right next to Safari in the flower market. The scene was amazing but it was killing me that like most of Europe, playing European or Gay is a VERY difficult game. Between the outfits these boys wear and the kissing cheeks upon meeting I can’t even start to differentiate so I began to give up and just assume everyone was “sexual,” hated categories, and hoped anyone I asked would be up for grabs.

A little eye flirting explained this was not the case. Occasionally I would assume and they would put an arm around a girl near by or nibble an earlobe. Eh, better than getting the crap beaten out of me which would probably be the likely result in America. A quick coffee led me to meet Mattieu the waiter … gorgeous in a cute young boy sort of way who was apparently 18. He had a very tight toned body with bulges in the right places, tan alabaster skin and dirty blonde hair with the cutest smile. Most importantly, very very gay with a mastery of English.

He was getting off work at eleven and suggested we go to Le Klub. Le Klub is Nice’s hot spot but apparently is at it’s gayest on Friday nights. We went there and it was quite the experience. Loud circuit music, hot half naked bodies, and a lot of sweat. I like to think of myself at Ling from Ally McBeal. Unfortunately I sweat a lot when I’m hot. One would think after 40 years in the desert the Jews would have built up a tolerance to all forms of heat and thus wouldn’t sweat as much as other cultures. A sort of natural selection adaptation as you will. Not the case. But as a Ling incarnation I have to say that,

“Richard, you know how I don’t like sweat ever? How it bugs me? Well there’s one time when it doesn’t. When I have sex I love sweat, when I have sex … I drip. Can you handle that.”

So I figured if there was going to be all this sweating there needed to be sex as well. He informed me that around the corner was Le Block. It was after midnight by this point and they were having their weekly event that night. I believe the event was called “Naked Party.” Now apparently after chatting with Matieu about Le Block, it’s always a naked party so perhaps Friday is just their busy night so they raise the price from 8 to 10 € and get away with it because it’s a “special event.” Wow culture shock.

Walked in and was handed a Velcro bracelet with a pouch filled with condoms and a number on it and a sac. The numbers on the bracelet and sac corresponded. Matieu immediately stripped naked … dear lord I was in heaven … and put all his clothing in the bag and stood there naked as the day he was born with the exception of the Velcro wrist strap. I looked around and there were no towels in site … just naked people with bracelets or “anklets” for those who were creative. When in Rome … er Nice. I stripped and gave the doorman my bag and we were off.

Next thing I knew Matieu was leading me all over the place up and down stairs to a very humid (and chocolate smelling) upstairs and then to the middle level through their labyrinth with naked men jerking their dicks and staring people up and down at every turn. He considered this the tour and then took me to the dungeon and we stood in a very short line. This puzzled me. For what could I have possibly needed to stand in line for at a bathhouse sex/club. We entered a small room and I saw it. St. Andrews Cross. Oh my. Matieu looked at me and pointed to the cuffs …. You have GOT to be kidding me. He wasn’t. We walked in and he locked the door behind us as there were about 20 men that (so as not to insult or alienate let’s say “weren’t our type”) were following us around as soon as e walked in and tried to follow us into the room to watch.

I got strapped into this wooden contraption with only the trust that this kid was normal and not going to screw me (a mistake of trust I had made in Dublin) hoping that I was about to have the time of my life. At first he started lightly stroking my body while I convulsed because I am so damned ticklish. I think he was enjoying that but when I put my serious stop face on he knew it wasn’t something I enjoyed. Before I realized what was happening he was on his knees (on a vinyl pad we used one of their many sanitary wipes on) sucking my cock for all he was worth. In my mind I was thinking, “Is his name Mattieu or Vaccuum?” They sound relatively similar ;)

Then I was blown away because he stood up and before I could realize what was happening, I was upside-down with his big, thick, soft, smooth uncut dick at eye level and we was sucking me off. He learned quickly that this angle was perfect to shove his cock in and out of my throat. Very nice. Wow. I think he was used to this and realized the blood was starting to rush to my head and turned me back over, reached into his bracelet and slipped a rubber on me, squirted some lube off the wall dispenser and backed up on it. I think I was just in so much a state of shock being completely used by this boy that I had one of the most amazing orgasms ever, definitely an experience for life.

After this encounter we went to the bar inside the sex club where they have coffee and water. I opted for water and we chatted a bit until Antoin walked in. A gorgeous Italian who I later found out owned a Spa in Rome. I’ve written enough pornography for this entry but can definitely say that anyone who complains about being trapped between France and Italy is probably in an I Love Lucy border situation because that night I was stuck dead center between the two countries and had the time of my life.

It was getting late and I knew that I didn’t want to sleep through my day in Nice so I got everyone’s contact info (particularly Antoin’s for the spa in Rome) and started the “walk” home. I had resigned myself to walking home because of the cost of that obscene cab ride and it was a delightful walk. Never before had I seen so many trannie street walkers. Let me clarify, so many of them in couture! These elaborate cocktail dresses sporting overpriced labels. I guess I’ll slide off my LV sandals before I cast stones. It is all the same afterall isn’t it Rico ;) But not quite. I tossed a few of them my coin change (€ coins are usually 1 or 2) since I didn’t want to bother with coins and I can appreciate a working gir….guy…er…whatever.

About half way to the hotel though the walk got boring and turned mostly to condos and hotels so I decided to find the closest cab and told them to turn the meter on. To my surprise the trip home was only 7 € … imagine that.

I got home to missed calls on my Euro Phone and the message light blinking in my hotel. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that my night was not ending soon and waking up to tan on the Cote d’Azur may not have been in my future. I sat down and braced myself for what I expected to be a very long night.

Trouble in the water ...

This blog might be over before it's even begun. I returned to my hotel after an amazing night of partying in Nice to find out there was an incident in my family back on the east coast. Depending on how the next 24 hours go I may or may not be going home.

Now I just need some sleep.

Mystery of the lack of french fatness...

I'm not saying all the French are skinny bitches (my mother's personal quote) but the bulk of them are a tad too waif'ish for all those croissant and pounds of butter they're packing away. They have the highest rate of butter consumption in the country and most of them have those waists. WTF?

So despite all the rich food and the lack of obvious gyms that don't double as Saunas all over Paris here's another top ten reasons why the French are so thin despite all odds:

10) Being overweight is so American
9) All that butter is ACTUAL butter and not the processed crap we have at home
8) A pastry at breakfast and then nothing else till a rich creamy dinner
7) That IS my appetizer right ... oh ... that's an entree?
6) Chain smoking party of deux ... that'll stop the cravings
5) "Everyone's stopped eating since zero became the new two and two the new four."
"I'm a six"
"Ah, the new fourteen."
~Nigel to Andrea on their first lunch date, Devil Wears Prada
4) They’re less mobile in traffic by scooter if they’re heavy
3) Running to dodge a cab or scooter coming right at you while crossing the street
2) Something about being drunk all day burns carbs faster

1) If you climbed this fucker once a week you are set for cardio for the month alone.

So yeah. I know I haven’t been posting but I figured it was best for me to (not to quote Sex and the City) “not just live a life to write about for other people but to actually LIVE my life for me.” Thus I’ve been taking notes of all the fun stuff so things will get posted by day, some two days at a time … some more. Maybe entire cities lumped together.

Regardless, tonight is my last night in Paris and I really am sad but don’t think I could have been more satisfied with the trip. I did Paris in a unique way that most Americans wouldn’t (and couldn’t) even DREAM of doing. I hop you guys enjoy the adventures to come J

15 Minutes...

...OK, not EVEN fifteen minutes in Paris and I already got snubbed by a stewardess of all people. I mean the woman is in her late 50s and flying across the Atlantic serving warm nuts … what the hell?

We landed after a delightful flight on AirFrance … I wanted Virgin but was actually pleasantly surprised with the reclining soft leather seats and overall experience. So as we landed at Charles De Gaulle, or as I’m now calling it “A Long Haul,” and were waiting for the ok to open the plane door when said flight attendant approached me staring at my shirt muttering “Ce qui est.”

Anyone from America would have known who makes the shirt right away but I figured, eh, it’s ok and explained, “Abercrombie and Fitch.” A nearby flight attendant of the homosexual persuasion translated “Abercrombie” with the appropriate syllable accents and she “got it.”

“Oh, so sorry. You know, here in France all we do is Chanel and Dior so it is of course my loss,” with a sly grin.

BITCH

The door began to open and I started walking toward her to get off the plane, LV carry-on in tow.

“Do you know Vuitton?” I replied as I approached her.

She repeated my apparently not French enough pronunciation as I rolled my carry-on OVER her Chanel pump.

“OH. VUITTON!” she half screamed wincing in a more convincing articulation of the word. She smiled back at me. Apparently I earned her respect.

Unfortunately leaving at 6 PM from JFK puts you in Paris at 7:15 am which is around midnight back home. So I should be STARTING my day here but unfortunately I’m sure that by the time I get checked into the hotel and post this I’ll be ready to pass out. I refuse to lose a day here but I have no doubt in my mind the beds at the George V will be impossible to get out of once I’m in one.

Reflections on NYC and STL to come. Have the Queens in Queens gotten their power back?

And so another blog begins...

... but a touch of ADD leads me to believe that like most of my projects, this may fizzle out so I do hope people enjoy it while it lasts. Over the years (it surprises me that it’s been years, oy) I've been asked to start a blog of sorts. Here are some of the top ten possible reasons I expect this has occurred:

10) People are incredibly bored and just need something more lightweight than a magazine.
9) There are people masochistic enough to hear me rant and rave on topics that are nearest and dearest to our hearts
8) There are those sadistic enough that wish for me to comment on anything and everything in order find more material for their own fiction.
7) My prose gives people a sense of security unattainable by other sources of internet journalism
6) I’m a bitch and some people like my blunt take on life as we know it
5) Five is a pretty number and I’m running out of bullshit David Letterman Style reasons
FOR) I can laugh at myself for not using grammar check before I make posts about mattress sales
3) As a hobby hoe I take a unique perspective on this industry and in a lot of cases can provide an unbiased opinion on highly debated topic … never said that I did but it’s possible
2) There aren’t enough blogs, message boards, or outlets to theory on the intricate and VERY complicated industry of male escorting on the net right now …

And the NUMBER one reason why I believe I’ve been asked to start a blog ...

1) GRATUITOUS NUDITY!

Well unfortunately kids I don’t foresee gratuitous nudity in the future of this blog but given my travel itinerary over the next month there is a strong possibility there will be scantily clad photos in several delightful settings in Europe.

So to begin … we will address the issue of Admiral’s Clubs at the LAX terminal. Why open at 5:15 am? Why not 5 AM? Is it just more amusing to them to see people gathering outside? Hell … why not keep it open 24 hours. How hard can it be to keep a supply of stale coffee and muffins packed with preservatives available?

Regardless, a car picked me up at home at 4:35 am, an ungodly hour that I haven’t seen since my days working at Starbucks when I had to be at work at that time, and placed me in the predicament of waiting outside the doors of this delightful little lounge. Like a Mervyn’s commercial gone horribly wrong, potential patrons hovered outside the automatic doors chanting “open, open, open” under their breath almost willing the doors to part.

And then (but only after a cute attendant dragged an apparently heavy plant to the front) the doors opened and we were saved. Saved by wretchedly thin coffee and sticky muffins. First St. Louis, then the WORLD! Is it Paris yet?