Tonight is BIG. It’s the finale of Teen Wolf — or, as I like to call it, Stiles & His Hot Shirtless Teen Boy Harem as he waits for Shirtless Derek to Turn Him — as well as the second week of Dancing With The Stars — or, as I like to call it, Waiting for More Shirtless Derek Hough. Both shows exist mostly — let’s be frank (or Derek) — as excuses to ogle good looking, defined-pec-depilated, ephebic, wank-worthy hotties, and, too, exercises in waiting for people named “Derek” to come out.
All of which is fine and good and will keep me busy during prime time this evening – and reminds me I need to get back to the gym today after a week’s absence – I WAS SICK DAMMIT – and again makes me wonder if I ought to do a little more manscaping just in case – you know – anything – comes up. But I am definitely missing the proper tools. I need to get me this Norelco . . .
I’m not the only one who needs a Norelco. Last night I was feeling a bit melancholy (surprise) and for some reason I thought that would be a good time to watch Daniel Radcliffe in Kill Your Darlings, a film about Allen Ginsberg’s tragic, mostly-unrequited love for Lucien Carr – who Beat-lore tells us made something of a career out of inspiring unrequited – or, rarely-quited – lustings after him by men; like Jack Kerouac — no slouch himself at leading on and throwing an occasional fuck the way of a man who might be useful or amusing to him — and William Burroughs. I’ve seen Daniel Radcliffe naked. In person. Equus, on Broadway, during which the person with whom I saw it leaned over to me during the nude scene and said, “My dick is bigger than his. In case you were wondering.” Had I been a beat, I would, no doubt, have been a Carr and Kerouac luster. Always been a fool for men who built themselves up and fed their weak egos by fooling around with the affections of others. In any event, that’s another blog, and someone else can write it when I’m dead or stabbed to death and drowned by my latest version of Carr. Until then, where was I? Oh, right, Radcliffe doesn’t do much manscaping.
Unlike the Teen Wolf boys.
Speaking of COULD I BE ANY GAY-ER – did I mention that my friend, A, got me FLOOR SEATS for CHER on Friday, April 4 as a birthday gift? YES. I am going to see CHER! Be jealous.
And after ALL THAT – this (found on JOE. MY. GOD. [CLICK HERE]) about the back-pedaling of homophobes now that they seemed to have had some wins overseas, acting as if they regret the damage they’ve done. Idiots.
Once upon a time, I would have called them “dicks”- but thanks to Davey Wavey, my consciousness has been raised.
And, so, on to my day I must go . . . but here’s some morning pics to keep you going through the day and continue my endless objectification of Kerouac-ian types who would keep me around with dick-size alerts and rarely-quitings.