i have to travel to San Francisco on business. will it turn me "gay"? - bad news in the bay area
Ian: "Turn" BNITBA? No. Your gayness, like George Bailey's riches, was there all along. Lemme be your Clarence Oddbody. Except at the end of the movie, instead of singing carols and pouring cash into a basket, your friends and neighbors are all be-spangled and fabulous and they're piling dildos and anal beads on your table. And it's not Bedford Falls, it's the Castro. And instead of old-timey cotton underclothes, I'm wearing nothing but a Tom of Finland mustache and a steel cock ring. With spikes on it that are miniature penises. And I got on a studded collar. And the studs on my collar are chrome nads.
You're as queer as they come, fella. You're like if Charles Nelson Reilly crapped out the screenplay for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert while spanking it to a slide show of James Franco beefcake and karaokeing "It's Rainin' Men." With a piping hot baguette up your ass. And a clown smile of smegma crust around your mouth.
Now - I should pause myself here to note that you did not identify yourself by gender in your query. It is technically feasible that you could be a chick.
Not a chance. It is dudes alone that exhibit this depth of dumbassery. There's not a woman in the world - and I don't care how fucking Bible-beaten she is - that would be ignorant enough or genitally panicked enough to ask such a slack-jawed question. It is dudes alone who can braid together horny and fucktard in quite this way.
If the shelves of your mind weren't so well-stocked with numbnuts horse shit, you'd have been happily stabbing the brown star years ago, my good man. If your soul was not so freighted with the crushing weight of your stuporfuckedness, you'd have been harvesting ass-blossoms like a champ. As it stands, however, you are totally in the thrall of your stupidicism, and have therefore denied yourself the ferret-smelling pleasures of sexual congress with other fellas.
Because you can't spell "fellatio" with a "fella". Am I right? Ladies?
I myself am unswayed by the coarse-haired haunches and briny pit-smells of dudes. Not my thing. You know something else? You know how much time I spend asking if I might wind up queer? None. At all. Ever.
I also don't pass notes to the dude in the next stall at the airport bathroom.
Nor do I trawl for com-manionship at truck stops.
Or hang out at the Manhole.
I don't agonize. If I was gay, I'd be out there fucking dudes. As God intended. I wouldn't be questioning. I wouldn't be fretting. I'd be in a hairy bear daisy chain of reach-arounds with a fucking greased-up legion of Ron Swanson look-alikes and then I'd write the steamiest Swanson gangbang on a picnic table fan fiction you ever read.
You know what you might wanna try? Join the priesthood. Then you can pray while you're pounding man-ass and swatting it with a crucifix.
Or run for congress. Then you can vote down marriage equality then get arrested later that week soliciting a handy from an undercover cop.
Look, junior - there is more fucking honor in whipping it out at Ryan Gosling movies and declaring "his soulful eyes and brooding good looks increase the blood flow to my tallywacker and I don't care who knows it." The assembled crowd will erupt in galvanizing applause as your Dockers pool around your ankles. And then you can gaping-mouth kiss your bearded boyfriend and the confetti cannons will go off and we'll all swap high fives. Except you. Because your dick's in your hand again, since Gosling's in the rain and his shirt's sticking to his lean frame.
But as things stand, you are a cancerous wad of self-loathing and doubt, friend. And if you think that string of girlfriends that never quiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite seem to last is fooled by the glassy-eyed and robotic missionary humps you begrudgingly throw their way, think again. If you think your buddies at the gym believe that you need a five-hour steam to "nurse that rotator cuff" as you're tenting your towel and making thirsty face at the dew drops running down every man-back in there, you think again, pal. And if you feel like maybe the wives and kids are not wondering what in shit you're doing on the pier EVERY time the sailors head down the gangway on shore leave, you think again, bub. I mean, look at yourself, pacing back and forth like you're window shopping.
Smuggle bones, buddy. I grant you the permission you lack the stones to grant yourself. Go. Abuse the chocolate starfish. Explore the puckered mine shaft. Toggle the meat switch, pal. Operate the joystick with your mouth. Bury the bratwurst. Garnish your ass plate with a flesh pickle. Park the muscle car in the hairy garage. Wrestle the bald weasel into submission. Go spelunking in the bearded cave. I could go on. But hopefully, you get the idea.