**REGISTER TO VOTE ONLINE!** **SIGN DARFUR ACTION PETITION HERE!!**

---

So Daniel wrote that last entry. And now he knows my password and can fuck up my diary anytime he wants. Yeah I could change the password, but Ive had the same one for years now and I like it. I'm so hackable. Anyway his middle-aged woman found his blog about her and flipped out on him. This led him to ask what I write about him in my diary, and being the attention whore that he is I had to give him the URL, and eventually the password seeing he couldnt navigate dland without it. Daniel thinks he's hot shit but really he just wants a hug. His middle-aged jello-boobed dry-sore stole all his clothes. If he emailed me what he wrote about her in his blog I'll post it here, it's way better than what I said about Matt (youknowthethingyouwalkallover).

It was in a beautiful mansion-like space, with several rooms, many of which I didn't see. As I was beginning to get my groove on, some jockster types ala A Night at the Roxburry dance-boxed me out of my space shaking his ass on my dick and moving me out of my way. Then turned around and pushed me to the floor while his friends laughed at me. I got up, looked at them stupidly, shrugged my shoulders and went to the opposite part of the dance floor. I then realized that my night was blown and that I wouldn't recover from this humiliating experience, so I gave myself a more thorough tour of the venue. Finally I decided to get a drink, while a cute woman turned to look at me and say "You're a pretty boy aren't you? Too bad I like girls or I'd be all over you." I smiled at her, twisted lime in Corona, and whispered to her "You just made my summer," and then began dancing in the punker room. Not more than five minutes of dancing occurred when a young girl frustrated with her limited space pushed me hard into another girl. That girl grimaced at me violently and I ignored her sheepishly. The girl who pushed me finally tapped me on the shoulder and apologized, but I said nothing: apology not accepted. I was amazed at how many homosexual men and homophobic men were at the same venue. Vish, Lauren's new colleague at UCLA said that someone had thrown ice at him. An hour later the same happened to me. I wondered if the men making out on the dance floor were subject to the same harassment. One notable guy I referred to as "skinny Bob's Big Boy." He was a tall prissy boy with plastic black hair, porcelain face with glitter, short sleeved plaid shirt, and tight fitting jeans. Sometimes he danced with one man or two men simultaneously.
I got bored and went pee. Afterwards, a black man squirted soap in my hands and handed me a towel. It's amazing how these poor men are given such jobs: bathroom servants of dance patrons. On the way out of the hall which lead from the bathroom back out to the large 80s room, the lesbian caught eye of me in the long wait for the ladies room. She said "It's the pretty boy again" and smiled. She warmed me up again, and I responded "You're a sweetheart," and made my way back to the maze of dance rooms. I seem to have the best luck at the punker room, and by this time it had metamorphosed to an electroclash room. Hand-To-Phone (by Adult) played and I was back in business now that much of the floor had cleared, for it was getting later in the evening. Lauren, Vish, and I were now all in the electro room, and Lauren had finished her video recording for the night. We danced one and a half songs, and left.

I had left my phone in Vish's car along with my wallet and keys in order to streamline my body in tight pants. Upon return to the car, I had a message by the girl who had been talking to me. I listened to it eagerly, and what I heard was the voice of a drunk middle-aged woman attempting "spontaneity" by asking what I was doing at 12:20 in the evening. I received the message just before 1 AM, and called her back. Within minutes we scheduled a meeting twenty minutes from that time with mandatory six pack of bad MGD. I complied. Lauren equipped me with fresh black shirt and I wiped my body of sweat with the white shirt from Singapore which I had been wearing. I get in my car, and follow directions in cellular telephonic style.

I arrive at her place near The Prince bar, and there are gangsta types in her driveway mad-dogging me. They peacefully clear so that I may drive through and park. I get out of my car and grab the pack of MGD while middle-aged woman greets with me a smile in cute pseudo-geisha nightwear. We examine each other subtlely as she leads me upstairs to her apartment. She is tall and slender, like said. Her body is like Lil Nu's with an extra inch or two in height.
Despite the bad neighborhood vibe, her apartment was beautiful and well kept, with nice hardwood floors, metal fixtures in the large kitchen, comfortable couch, and an embarrassingly small count of books, including David Copperfield, and Arthur Miller's The Crucible. We go back to her large room with MGD. Nice bed and matching furniture, with candelabras on all sides. We go out for her to smoke, and us to drink and talk.

We talk for hours about I'm not sure, androgyny, stupid music, and something boring. I tell her my weight in the bathroom is 119. I urge her to step on. She decides she doesn't want me to look, so she attempts to shield the scale with her body; but I see between her legs. It reads 140 pounds, which didn't phase me. I told her I saw the result, and she was embarrassed. She explained that she had a strange kidney disorder which caused her to retain enormous amounts of water, and that when she urinated, she could be out ten to fifteen pounds in a night. I didn't believe her but nodded my head, and insisted that I believed. I wasn't concerned with her body anyway. She had a 28 inch waist, which convinced me that at least her weight was no issue of mine. So we drink more MGD, and she tells me about how crazy she dances, and I make her prove it. She puts on Earth, Wind and Fire, which came as a surprise, but the real surprise came a few minutes later. She began to shake, not like a Polaroid picture, but like a violent blender. It was amazing. I danced with her, and she liked it. We finish a song or two, and her middle-age caught up, so we stop and drink.

About 3 AM, bored and horny, I kiss her. She kissed back and we rolled about her bed listening to Cocteau Twins, Sugar Hiccup, and the other songs. She finds me attractive, and I find myself indifferent to her appearance. That's not really true how I felt. I undress her to bra and panties, and she undresses me to man panties: an ugly pair of grey Hane's Classics. She finds them hideous, and I agree; but her suggestion that I wear boxers, or just "free-ball" seemed more unacceptable to me. We discuss sex in brief: to fuck, or not to fuck. We go to gay roommate�s room and rummage for condoms. I'm uncomfortable. She has me look in bedside drawer, where I find a baggy of LifeStyles and large Target brand lube. I take out one LifeStyles (my least favorite brand next to Trojan), and restore the baggy to its drawer. The moment we make it back to middle-aged woman's room, the tall gay roommate returns. Close call. So I lay in bed inert, weighing possibilities with desires, a sort of sexual algebra, and after a while she begins the kissing sequence again, which only confuses the math by introducing new variables. Turn off: she call me Baby. Turn on: she grab my swollen cock. Turn off, a slight crease from lip to nose, cat style. Turn on: I play with breasts. Turn off: breasts too large like big gelatinous useless blobs with a nipple sensitivity factor of 5% (at best). Turn on: she discover my nipples with sensitivity factor of 90%. And so on and so forth. She tells me that maybe we should wait to have sex, so that it will be better. I tell her that I'm indifferent, that one should have sex when ready and horny. I do no tell her that I'm horny, but not ready; but she doesn't ask either. Drunk and wide awake, she decides to not have sex, and I agree. She give me a sleeping pill so that I don't stay up. Within some five to ten minutes, I'm out, and she goes pee several times during the night.

I wake up next morning sleeping next to her. Both tired from staying up late drinking, and also from the vicious Los Angeles September heat. The windows are open, there is no air conditioning, and the fan does nothing. She ask me what I want to do for the day, and I tell her that I zonked good from last night. My mind is like jelly, and I can think of nothing, except for a slight urge to get back to my home, which is accompanied only by an even slighter urge to purge my dry spell. We do nothing, speak little, and I apologize for having nothing to say. We're hungry so we discuss food options. Dietwise, we seem incompatible, even though she eats meat. We take a long time making a decision, but finally one is made. We do nothing about it for several minutes, and then we make the effort to prepare to vacate the apartment.

I drive to the restaurant she chooses, but Labor Day 2004 kicks in, and it is closed. On the way there, we pass El Coyote: hang out of Tina and Sarah. I hate it there, but I suggest we go anyway, for I'm ravenous by then. She agrees. I get the Guacamole Dinner, with two tacos, rice and beans, and guacamole. She gets tamales. My tacos are greasy and drip orange pellets of bad digestion and potential diarrhea. She stupidly tries to eat tamales without opening them, and then realizes her mistake. I'm too zonked to laugh, poke fun, or berate her. I apologize for my poor zonky social skills. She tells me that she's comfortable in silence, and I tell her that I'm not terribly silent. It's 3 PMish when we exit El Coyote, and then we go back to her home. We are greeted by my first acquaintance with tall gay roommate, who arrives in style with new tall gay boyfriend. They leave at arrival. At middle-aged woman's suggestion, we watch Hedwig and makeout. I wonder if she notices that I pay more attention to Hedwig and Tommy. I ask her if she would fuck Hedwig. She says only as a man. I ask if she would fuck Marilyn Manson. She says he's too arrogant. Red light flashes. I'm still zonked, the movie ends, and we decide to get coffee.

We drive about looking for coffee for twenty minutes and settle on Starbuck's, which neither of us wanted. She gets grande Frap, and I get grande mocha. Her�s is too sweet, so I offer to exchange. She tries unsuccessfully to drink the mocha, so I drink both, for I need awareness back. Afterward we leave and go back to her place again, passing Sarah's place on Normandy and fifth. When we get back, the two gay lovers are cuddling on the sofa. After an hour, the zonk is cured. The zonk was really a combination of physical zonk, and sexual indifference. As the physical zonk was lifted, the sexual indifference remained. But I continue to kiss her and probe her. After a makeout session we discuss sex again. She decides that she doesn't want to have dirty sex, that she wants a shower first. I tell her that all sex is dirty. She doesn't see it that way. We decide to shower. She gets in and I get in with her, and we take a quick, slightly cool shower. I feel better, but not much better. I'm in dirty underwear and clothes. She gets on the scale again, and to my horrifying astonishment, she weighs 128 pounds. I could not believe she could lose 12 pounds in a night from urinating, which seemed physically impossible. It was uncanny! But I say nothing, for her body retains its slim appearance.

Clean at last, I get into my clothes, and she gives me a pair of flip-flops to wear. She decides on a local restaurant and we walk there. The neighborhood is bad, and my feet are uncomfortable in the thong between the toes from the flip-flops, but I endure. A few blocks and we meet a similar fate as before: restaurant closed. We walk back towards her place where there is lots of Korean food. She chooses B rated restaurant because we're hungry and it�s close. We order two plates of expensive food which we must cook ourselves. Thinly sliced beef and somewhat boneless beef ribs. The experience is embarrassing. We eat only half the food, which was so much in the first place, and leave with a whole meal of food left. The waitress had duped us into getting two dishes, when we explained we were only hungry for one. The food was good despite the terrible expense, and we left full. On the way home there were two creepy homeless persons, one who followed us halfway home. When we return, I brush my teeth for a third time. She asked me to stay a second night, and I say that I'm not ready to answer. My cellular phone had been ringing much, and continued to ring throughout the night, for by this time, I was afraid that my friends may have been worrying about me, but I would not make contact until much later in the night. The homosexual lovers were schlupping again on the couch, and we went to middle-aged woman's room for our privacy and theirs, but the room was still hot.

The Cocteau Twins begin again, and so does the makeout session. She slowly removes Lauren's black shirt from my slender body, and I remove her ugly yellow Levi's shirt. She removes her jean miniskirt and I remove my brown pants. More kissing, which I'm bored of [and so must my readers be], and then finally bra and panties come off. The consumation of our time together grows nearer. She looks at me like a soccer-mom without child, and I look at her with indifference, cloaked with interest by my intense stare of beaming green. I ask if she's ready for this, if she's sure; the same I had done the following night, when I told her that she could stop at any point (and I wasn't lying, because I did stop). She asked me if she could trust me. I said "You decide. I can't make that decision for you." I prepare the stolen condom from gay roommate, and look at her as I put it on. I ask one last time if she was ready. I hold her with one hand, and slowly directed my latex-shielded cock towards her middle-aged sore. I penetrated with little effort, and slid all the way in. Her legs propped up on my shoulders, and I pushed deeply while I kissed her. I was thinking of Hedwig at this moment, when she says Tommy Gnosis: "Do it anyway you like. Just kiss me while you do it." It seemed the least I could do. After a concise exploration of this position, we changed to female superior position, at her recommendation. The flux occurred without my penis leaving her sore. She rocked me backwards so that she was on top now, and my head dangling off the bed. She began gyrating back and forth with a circular rocking motion, much like an oil derrick. We look at each other, and I made subtle noises which seemed mandatory. She tried to keep pace as much as her middle-aged body would permit, but each of about three attempts at sustaining this action ended with her out of breath. I pretended to be stimulated, but I was not. At her request, she decided that I should take control from behind. This seemed satisfactory to me. She assumed the bitch, and I assumed the dog, and mounted her from behind. Her version of the bitch seemed awkward to me. It was like she was in a position to do pushups on her knees. From behind was a large nickle-sized mole, which I found somewhat offensive, but forgave her for it in my mind, and again, I entered the sore. From this angle I realized that her body was even more thin than last ex-girlfriend's body. I began pumping slowly and indifferently, and I began to feel that perhaps she was indifferent also (but this assumption proved to be false). She made very little noises as I took little jabs. I knew that too much too fast too hard would be unsatisfactory for both of us, so I took to slow exploration to see if I could find a spot to stimulate. I probably only searched for a few minutes before I was frustrated. So I began the too much too fast too hard technique. The problem was that I didn't have the sexual passion to really make this work. My ennui was greater than my libido. I did the best I could do, which I was embarrassed about. The harder I jammed, the more whimpering sounds she made. It made me feel that either she was a difficult woman to climax, or that she had had so many sexual partners at least twice my weight with double the meat and muscle capable of plunging her into ecstasy. With this new factor in mind, I realized that I could only consummate my end. Another factor arose, her sore was dried up, and if there was any lubricant on the cheap LifeStyles, then it was all used up as well. I had not brought the Target brand lube which the gay roommate used as ass-goo, and I was in no mood to stop and spit on my prick. Her sore gripped me tightly and it was beginning to hurt a little. So I did the best my body and mental state would allow for, and after some ten minutes it was over. I thanked her with a kiss, and removed my plastic sheath.

There were several moments since the first I met her when I wanted nothing more than to pull a Vincent Gallo and hop away like the Brown Bunny. But it was too late for that already. I lay next to her with post-come oozing on my thigh. She asks again if I'll stay the night again; and I tell her that I had not made my decision. I really needed to go home, where I can be productive and academic, and wear clean underwear, and perhaps never see her again. She didn't understand and became frustrated with me. I told her that I never wake up at 7 AM, which was when she had to get ready for work. This was unacceptable to her, so I felt jailed in by the fuck-warden. I was tired and felt gross, and so I some how managed to half-fall asleep, and so did she.

After calls from almost every friend in my cellular phone, I answered the one by Aram at 12:20 AM. I just wanted to let him know that I was fine, so that no one worried about me. Aram's concern was generous and appropriate, but the only offenses committed were some bad decisions. I hang up and try some sleep, when I'm awoken by an abomination. Seeping through the thin walls, I could wear the sound of two adequately strong six footers homofuck each other. Complete with slapping ass sounds and awful moans of homo-erotic pleasure. I hate homosex the way I hate cheese. I don't like it because it tastes bad. Part of me wanted to smile and congratulate, but the awful taste of cheese and sonic homofuck and schlupping, for me, is beyond repelling. I grimaced and grit my teeth. After some ten minutes I heard a door open, and the running water through the pipes, the sound of afterfuck cleansing. I slept.

Woke up early the next morning next to the same middle-aged woman. I had served my sentence, so far. While she prepared for work, I lay zonked again on the bed, but not like the previous morning, for this time there was no drink to recover from, only sex and shame. I heard noises again from the adjacent room, and again, the smell of homofuck synaesthesized through the walls in sonic form, accompanied by sound itself. This time words were said. It was louder and more hideous. "Fuck me, fuck me harder" could be explicitly discerned. I literally used the pillow as ear lids to abate the awful sound as best as possible. After what must have been a long-winded struggle, I heard the apex of homofuck voices reach their logical conclusion. After the sounds of afterfuck cleansing, I get up out of bed mildly traumatized, put my clothes on, and announce my departure. Middle-aged woman walks me to my car, smiles, and kisses me good bye. I drive away, tired, ashamed, and anxious to be single again.

Always remember to quit while you're ahead.

last :: next