The day the earth wouldn't stay still.

Guys, this day is total madness.

I wake up after a fitful sleep to check my email and discover that the VH1 show I shot a segment for has been pushed back to August! AUGUST!! That’s practically fall—who’s going to care about celebrity beach bodies then?! What if they don’t end up using me at all???!! And my main-gay contact there is no longer going to be working on the show, so there goes my in to future opportunities as a talking head.
Ugh, I’m never going to become famous ever. I guess I’m going to have to work on becoming a basketball wife.

After getting ready, I head downstairs to the living room to tend to my houseguests. You see, I’ve been hosting the Jewboo’s two cats since Monday, and it’s turned my whole world topsy-turvy.
Although I had a cat for a few years, two have two large rambunctious, heavily shedding animals running amok is not something the blacktress is used to. And to have them for a week and make sure I don’t accidentally traumatize them is just too much.
Their names are Squee and Prembley (yes, Squee and Prembley), and Squee is totally energetic and spastic, and quickly acclimated himself to his new environment, and wanted to explore beyond the confines of the living room where I had them quarantined. Prembley, on the other hand, is rather…um…big boned and super lazy, and loves to fit his large self into tiny spaces. When I enter in the mornings and after work, Squee instantly pads towards me, waiting to be petted, while Prembley looks at me from behind the bookshelf with eyes that say, “You’ll never be my real mommy.”
I’ve been keeping them in the rather spacious living room, to both avoid the spread of cat hair everywhere, and to keep them from getting too overwhelmed and getting caught in madness…and also because I’m scared they may be carrying bedbugs.

Ah, yes…bedbugs.

This is why I’m holding the beasts.

You see, the Jewboo has bedbugs. His roommate found them last week. Ever since, he’s been in a pit of despair. I’d go into detail, but why don’t you watch this funny video of the two of them being sad and ranting about it on their stoop on their latest episode of “Cookies and Bookies,” their video podcast in which they review cookies and give betting advice?

Cookies and Bookies #7 from Wrestling Team on Vimeo.

(note the reference to the "girlfriend"--that's me! Yeah, I buy him cookies. You know, the key to a man's heart is through his stomach. I figure the best way to buy an unemployed Jewish man's love is through kosher treats).

I love how he’s looking such a hot mess in this video, hair all askew, bespectacled and washed out. That’s my guy!!

Of course, I’m not missing the hour-long trek to Greenpoint, but I also don’t want him shuttling these critters to my house, starting their own Harlem Renaissance in my crib! I also need to stop treating his cats as though they are actual houseguests, rearranging my schedule so that they’re pleased.
I also need to stop calling them “sir” and talking to them for extended periods of time. It’s getting creepy.
This morning, when I went to change the water bowl, not only did Squee race out the door, but even the normally comatose Prembley darted out, and I simply could not spend my morning trying to wrangle them back into the living room and making sure they were secure. I just had to make sure the living room door stayed open, so they could get to their food and their little box, and go about my day.

Who knows what I’ll come home to. The night before, Squee had managed to get out of the living room, but because it’s a sliding door, he couldn’t get back in, so lord knows how he spent his day. All I know is, he wandered in reeking of booze and shame....and refused to look me in the eye.


So, while I sit here at work, slightly worried that the cats are spreading bedbugs all around at best, and at worst, stuck in a crawlspace, I just saw that my friend’s bf has the following gchat status message: RIP RUE.

Instantly, I know this can only mean one thing…..BLANCHE DEVEREAUX HAS PASSED ON!!!!!!!
NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

THIS DAY IS UTTER DARKNESS!!!

WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?????

Only B-White is left standing. I don’t know if I can handle this.
Blanche was the original cougar, y’all. She was a cougar before there was a word for it! She was a cougar back when it was just creepy.


Look at her--she's probably thinking about who she just slept with--or planning who to sleep with next!! She taught us that geriatric sexuality was okay.
OH GOD, the aforementioned BF just informed me that Gary Coleman died!!
This is what happens when I’m in the Vermont woods and dating a man who doesn’t recognize the lyrics to Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable” (you know, when he’s asking directions, and I sing “to the left, to the left”—I’m cut off from civilization.
How could I have missed this?!

What other bombs are going to drop on me today? I thought bad things come in threes. Wouldn't Gary Coleman make 4? But, I guess that already happened and I'm just behind. This day's bound to turn around, right?

One ticket to the shit show/Be Careful Who You Cougar

I make all this fuss about needing followers and then take 5 days to put up a new post. I have begged you to come to me, then shirked my duties. I am behaving like a typical heterosexual male, and for that I apologize.

Basically, I've been coming home late and slightly stressed, and haven't really had anything blog worthy--or so I thought.

The first random surprise was last Sunday, when I received the following textual eruption:

[blacktress!] how r u?i nicked your no from jason,hope u don't mind,if u do dont worry, just don't txt back.howz life?what u been up2?sos bout other wk,i was a mess.simon

What the hell?! I was so confused reading this; it took me about 10 minutes to decipher the abbreviations before I could even assess who was sending it. I mean, I don't know any 12-year-old girls who like to abbreviate and have Lisa Frank posters on their walls--who could this be? Once I cracked the DaVinci Code that was the text itself, I still had no idea which Simon would be calling me and apologizing. I know one Simon here in Oz, but he's a random gay man I met at a bar who pulled out his iPhone and facebook-friended me on the spot. I haven't seen him since that fateful night, so I'm sure there was nothing "the other week" he had to apologize for.

I racked my brain for nearly an hour before I realized that Simon was the 20 year old I accidentally cougared it up with!!! OH EM GEE!!!

What was he doing texting me? Not only had it been over a month since our one and only interaction, but neither of us had a particularly good time. Besides, what's with the abbreviations?! I know he's young, but has he really not mastered T-9 prediction?

Once I realized who it was, I laughed wholeheartedly, and texted back, saying it was okay to say hi. After all, I don't dislike him as a person, and was very interested to see how this was going to play out. I mean, what excuse can you possibly have for falling off for a month? And why would you want to get in touch with me again after I scurried out of your home, getting a ride from your flatmate?

Unfortunately, writing back has led to a ridiculous series of texts that amount to nothing. I really don't like the concept of text message conversations, and it really gets my billy goat when people text back and forth. If you're interested in seeing me again, make it happen. Pick up the phone and ask me out for a malt at the soda shoppe like it's 1956 (only without the pesky racial segregation). Come to my home, state your intentions, and let's share a drink with two straws.

Do not text me all week asking we "what r u up2?" and "howz your wkend?" I don't really want to give you a play-by-play, cause we're not mates. Besides, what are you getting at? He clearly wants to see me again, but lacks the testicles to ask me. This doesn't really bother me because I'm still in mourning over my redhaired loss and so uninterested in getting embroiled in drama/getting my feelings hurt that even a silly 20 year old offers no hope for fun.

*****Note: it has taken me 2 days to write this post. In the interim, I went to The Colombian, a gay bar on Oxford Street, where I was told I was gorgeous 50 times, and "oh my god, when you smile you look like Whitney Houston!"
For serious. Luckily, he amended it with, "pre-crack Whitney, late-80s, 'I wanna dance with somebody,' so it was okay.
Anyway, the 20-year-old showed up at the bar. I will go on*******************

So, he rocks up with two of his English friends after a day of drinking at an outdoor music festival. I have no ill will towards him, so we do the hug and fake cheek-kiss and I meet his mates. He's clearly so wasted and I wonder how wasted I must have been the first time we hooked up. Other than a winning smile, he is a hot mess of a man-boy in every sense of the word. He says to me, "long time no see, stranger!" and then scolds me for not responding to his asenine texts. I explain my stance on textual eruptions, and he proceeds to ask me the same questions over and over: "When are you going home? What are you going to do when you get there? Are you going to miss Sydney?"

My friend arrives, and the club is so loud I'm able to stand 10 centimeters from him and explain to her exactly who he is without him paying attention. Her response:
"Um, he's gay."
I KNOW!!!!
"And he's clearly on a pill of some sort."
I KNOW!!!
Dude, The Colombian is like a Studio 54 wannabe 25 years too late. People are taking E like it's pez, and then getting overly touchy in a way that makes me fear for my womb. I mean, we arrived at 6pm and it was already full on--who starts using a hallucinogen before it's even dark outside?

My gal pal and I left, and I waved goodbye to the crew. We get about 3 blocks up the street when a flash of bright pink appears in my path. Simon has run after us!
"Wheerrrrreeee aaaaarrreee youoooooouuuuu going?" he asks, all strung out.
"Um, we're heading to another place, but we'll be back." I think it's okay to lie to people I don't really like when they are intoxicated, because they won't remember.

Content with this response, he leaves us alone. My friend looks at me.
"Total shit show," she says.
I KNOW!!!

The Accidental Cougar

Friday night I hung out with friends of the Swede, and had a gay ol' time!
Seriously, it was so gay.

We started our drinking in Surry Hills, a fabulous gayborhood that I've yet to truly discover. I was excited when the Swede's friends asked me to hang out earlier that week, as it not only gave me plans but proved that our short-lived liaison wasn't all for naught. Now (f)unemployed and 75% mobile, I am allowing myself to have fun--you know, dance like no one is watching and all that shit. The Swede's friends (now mine, yay!) are a hetero couple in their mid-30s who pretty much only roll with gays. Seeing as I'm suffering a gay shortage, I am glad to find this hidden world of fabulosity. I'd had two glasses of rose before I left the house, then had three jack and cokes at their friends' house before heading to the bar. We went to a place called the Clock Hotel, and that's where I first noticed that you cannot tell gay and straight men apart in this town. All the dudes are pretty and coiffed and buff and tan, so how can one really tell?

After one drink there, we went to The Colombian, a gay club where I instantly felt at home. This could be because a few gay men were staring at me, and one approached and asked, "Are you famous?"

"Why, yes, I am a blacktress," I said sincerely.
He nodded, then ran back to whisper to his friends.

Phase One of "Operation: Make Everyone Think I'm a Big Deal in America" is complete.

I then started dancing with a petite, sassy gay, and we're having fun. After a few minutes, he starts rubbing me up and down, and, you know, I'm still not put off yet, cause he doesn't want to buy what I'm selling. Then, after a few more minutes, he's sticking his tongue down my throat.
WTF, mates?!
If a gay club isn't a safe space for a blacktress, what is?

Turns out, this gay club is actually mixed, and many straight guys pounce on the hags whose defenses are weakened. In fact, many of the guys use their gay friends as an in. When they first started talking to me, I had dreams of becoming a Diana Ross-like figure, but then I realized they were acting on behalf of their mate, who wanted to take a dip in the Chocolate River.

Anyway, we were rolling about 8 deep, and I'd met a few of the people in the group on New Year's Eve, post-ambulance/pre-Swedish-coitus. One such character was Simon, a smiley British lad who just sort of wandered around and came in and out of the group all night. About 6 wines later, Meg informs me that Simon thinks I'm gorgeous.
"But I thought he was gay?" I ask, totally confused.

Maybe it was the 7 drinks, but for some reason, I thought I'd hook up with Simon. Clearly, flattery will get you everywhere with me-- especially if you're too shy to tell me. I LOVE AN AWKWARD.

However, I do NOT love erectile dysfunction.

We went back to his place and started making out, and it was just as awkward as I'd envisioned. Simon's English accent just lent a sense of "Notting Hill" to the whole thing, and I got way too giggly for a woman of my age. We start to....physically express our emotions....and Simon is as limp as a wet sock! Luckily, my lack of interest in him made this okay for me--but he was quite stressed out.

"Ugh, this always happens," he said as he struggled to not fail at sex.
"It's all right," I said.
He then went on and on about how a guy is expected to perform, and how he wants to but just can't. I tried to calm his fears, and just held him as he recounted various sexual experiences that went awry.

Things I Learned That Night:
Never ask a man if he's a homosexual while he is inside of you.

Yup, I did it. He didn't let the question phase him, saying, "No, no, I've thought about that and that's not it. It's just, you know, hard sometimes."

Or soft, as the case may be. (oooh, call the burn unit, cause that one was fierce!)

I asked him how old he was, trying to piece together a history.
"I'm 20," he said.

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

I was in bed with a 20 year old. I am an accidental cougar. He didn't look very young, and besides, we had been out with 30-somethings--how did his underaged behind slip through the cracks?

This is what happens when you live in a country where the drinking age is 18. You could very well end up in bed with someone who didn't even grow up on 90210 version 1.

I forgot what happened after that--I think my body blacked out to spare myself the trauma.

I woke up the next morning to him trying to wake me up for more--you've got to admire his pluck. I realized I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
I was, like Danny Glover, too old for this shit.
I quickly got up to get some water, and saw his roommate downstairs. She was a nice gal, and we'd chatted a lot the night before. She was heading to a friend's place in Glebe, and asked if I wanted a ride.

It was 10:30. My breath reeked of penis and red wine (yeah, I said it.) and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

I ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, and gave Simon a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name.

Let's just quit while we're ahead, I thought.

Now, a few days later, I don't feel so terrible, though I am a bit disappointed in myself. I am really trying not to do things just for the sake of doing them--and that includes sleeping with underaged randoms who may or may not be homosexual. I should be writing, hiking through the Blue Mountains, or having love affairs with dynamic artists who know how babies are made, you know?

Ah well. This is, like, the foot injury, a minor setback.
From now on, I'm checking ID.

Go Shawty, It WAS Your Birthday....

So, the beginning of my 25th year has been interesting. An attempt to celebrate with dancing, drinking, and merriment was a total bust, as the bars were lame, there were too many popped collars, and the DJs refused to play Rihanna. Sunday, the actual day of my birth, was nice, as I was roused from sleep with many text messages sending good tidings, and an offer for lunch. Seeing as it was damn near dinner time when I woke up, I thought it behoovy of me to get out and enjoy the day.

It ended up being a hodge-podge, with a one-on-one lunch with a friend, then a semi-date with a dude I met at 2am the night before in a kebab shop, then a stop at a house party thrown by my drunken underage British coworkers. When I came home and checked my email, my inbox was bombarded with news of facebook wall posts and e-cards, which made me happy. I keep thinking America has forgotten all about me, but thanks to the interweb, I'm still alive and kicking. The e-cards also help me keep in touch with my roots. For instance:


From the Elite Gay Visionary, of course.



This one was actually sent to me by more than one person. I love that Pearl Harbor Day is still present in people's minds. In a way, it makes sense: considering some of my shenanigans in life, it's quite fitting that I was born on the anniversary of a day that will live in infamy!



I guess 25 does mean I'm getting up in years, and I certainly do know how to ensnare a man (for a night, anyway). I hear 25 is the age where your ass starts to spread--how will that effect my cougar wiles?


I'm currently nursing a cold, trying my darndest to stop it from turning into strep throat or a sinus infection--lord knows what this "traveler's insurance" of mine actually covers. Back at the bar tomorrow night to enable addictions and attempt to decipher accents and crazy drink orders. You know, like a SNAKEBITE: half beer, half cider, topped with grenadine.

Gag me.