Who am I?

The most frustrating thing about keeping this blog anonymous is that when something happens to me - something so awesome that I want to shout it to the world - I can't say it here because it will reveal enough details about me that if a reader really cared to find out who I was, they could. So, I self-edit to ensure I remain anonymous.

That said, this Saturday, my rugby team won a game. A big game. A huge game. A holy-shit-we-never-thought-we'd-go-this-far game. A game that went back and forth the entire time, filled with nail-biting intensity and vicious hits.  A game that yours truly played all 80 minutes of and kicked ass the entire time.  But if I say who it was against, or why it was such a big deal, or even what the score was, then it becomes obvious what school I go to and what team I play for.  And as the only member of that team who openly likes cock, it identifies who I am way too easily.  Therefore, dear reader, you'll have to take my word for it that it was unbelievably, earth shatteringly awesome and that you should be duly impressed, even as I provide no evidence for why that is so.

Last night, after the game, we hit the pub where we had victory drinks and wings.  They don't card us there and they give us free pitchers of good beer because we bring in a couple hundred bucks worth of business and we're polite and don't break the furniture.  I headed home afterward, passed out in bed for a while, got up, and decided to go out partying for Halloween weekend.

I needed a costume, and I didn't have anything, so I called up my professor, and asked him if I could borrow some scrubs and a lab coat from the lab. He said sure on two conditions: 1) I return them later in good shape, and 2) I don't tell anyone.

Properly attired, I went to the frat quad, where I went to one of the frats that is partially owned by the rugby team (to make life easier for the team, there is no one frat which the team associates with. Instead, we have most of our players split up across several frats.  Two frats now have ruggers as presidents, and three others have them on their executive boards).  There, I was peer pressured into having a double shot of tequila. Followed by two more. Followed by one more shot.

Then, I and seven other ruggers crammed into a little compact car and drove over to the rugby house (which, the tenants of that house like to remind everyone, it is not the rugby house, it is merely a house rented by members of the rugby team, two of whom happen to be the president and vice president of the rugby club).  There, I played some pong, drank some beers, hit on girls, got rejected, and returned to the frat quad.  I returned to the frat quad mildly drunk, found it heavily occupied by security, and made out with a lesbian friend who's costume was a "straight girl." I also saw three girls dressed as, I shit you not, a slutty nurse, a slutty maid, and a slutty slut.  Seriously. A slutty slut.

I went home, fell asleep, awoke Sunday afternoon and went to campus.  I watched the Patriots-Steelers game with three of my rugby friends, all of whom were Patriot fans. I gleefully rubbed it in their faces as the Steelers beat the unbelieving shit out of the Patriots. Tom Brady can suck my dick. I then returned my scrubs, neatly folded, to the lab and worked on my application for a $50, 000 scholarship that's due Tuesday.  My professor and I went over the draft for his recommendation later. I suggested adding "He is also devilishly handsome and exceptionally witty." He replaced that with "He is also an exceptional Elvish Thief in D&D, I hear tell." We compromised on "He is the most qualified applicant I know of for this scholarship and I could not recommend him more highly."

With that, I have an ultrasound in the morning to deal with the hydrocele in my left testicle, so I am off to bed. Goodnight.

Return to Babylon

My ears are ringing. There are black X's on my hands. And I'm tired as fuck.

You see, yesterday, my friend Karla told me she wanted to go to Babylon tonight.  Specifically, she wanted to go with a boy she's just starting to date, but she didn't want to go alone, so she invited me and three others to tag along.

This time, I didn't get ridiculously drunk beforehand, and despite the loud music, had a good time.  Karla introduced me to a gay friend of hers at the club, and we danced a little together.  Later on, a cute boy caught my eye across the room.  He looked gay, alone, and slightly bored.  And a little bit later, it seemed like he was looking at me.  So, I did the standard eye flirting approach. You look at the person you're interested in until your eyes meet, look briefly away, and then look again and hold the look.  It ensures that neither is looking by accident and that both parties are interested.  I don't know how widespread it is, but I've always assumed that everyone uses this basic system.

I eye-flirted at him, he seemed to eye flirt back at me. Good stuff.  I had to work my way through the crowd to approach him, but I eventually, I did.  I tapped on the shoulder, smiled, nodded, asked if he was here with anyone.  He said he was.  And that's when I noticed the girl in front of him.  She was too short for me to have seen her across the room, but at that moment it became fairly obvious that she was his girlfriend.

Straight guys shouldn't be allowed to look that gay. It fucks up my gaydar.

After that little incident, I returned to my friends, and spent the night dancing. After it was over, we went to our famous favorite little diner and who should I run into but my two roommates, eating there with a couple of friends at three in the morning.  Some good food and some innapropriate jokes later, we called it a night and headed back to our respective homes.

Fuck You, Ralphie.

That was an overreaction. It's an overreaction now. It was an overreaction when I texted it to him Sunday morning shortly after midnight. And I knew that. Still, I sent it to him because I was pissed. And because he deserved it.

A few weeks back, Ralphie let me know that he would be back in town for his school's fall break and his birthday weekend. And that he really, really wanted my cock.  I was thoroughly excited by this news.

Between school work, rugby, and apathy, I've basically stopped chasing after sex recently, so I was looking forward to getting it on.

We talked briefly Friday night as he was driving home and he told me he would come over Saturday night. Definitely. Probably. Kinda, sorta, maybe... depends on his parents, yadda yadda yadda. He'd let me know.

Saturday night rolls around.  I had spent the day playing rugby, followed by a nice hot shower and a nice long nap.  I knew he was having dinner with his family around 6ish, so around 8:30, I fired off a text asking how dinner went.  No reply.

A half hour later, my roommates asked me if I wanted to go out partying with them. I sent Ralphie another text, asking point blank if he was going to come over.  Still nothing.

Around 9:40, he sent me a text saying he had just gotten out of dinner, but wasn't sure what was happening for the rest of the evening.  I replied saying alright, and asking him to let me know when he would be free.

Two hours later, I still hadn't heard from. I had spent all of Saturday evening waiting for him, and he hadn't even deigned to give a straight up yes or no.  I called once or twice, nothing.

I texted him again, a simple "?"

He replied "I'm watching a spooky movie now. I'm going to fall asleep probably. It's not *that* scary."

"So you're not coming over?"

Nothing.

I wait. I call him. Nothing.

I text him again "Either text back or answer your phone"

"No not tonight"

"When were you planning on telling me this?"

Nothing. I wait 20 minutes, silently stewing.  He knew I had been waiting all night. I had told him.  He must have known for most of the night he wasn't coming over. He never bothered to tell me. Not until I prompted him over and over again and after I had already wasted the entire evening waiting for him did he let me know he wasn't showing up.  Was it carelessness? Just an indifference on his part towards me? Or was he being malicious?

The more reasonable part of me wanted to point out he had spent all evening with his parents, it was silly to think that he might free enough to reply, let alone to hang out. I should have just gone out partying.

I ignored that inner thought and though I knew it was a bad idea, I started typing on my phone:

"Fuck you. If you didn't want to come over, the least you could have done is told me.  That would have taken less effort than ignoring me.  Instead, you spent the past two weeks telling me, in detail, how much you wanted my cock this weekend, and led me to believe you wanted to come over.  At no point until 20 minutes ago did you tell me you weren't going to come over.  I spent this whole Saturday evening waiting for word of your imminent arrival. I called you, I texted you, and you gave me just enough meager replies to keep me waiting.  Why the hell did you do that?"

After that, I facebook messaged a friend, explaining to her that I was pissed and inviting her to go get drunk with me and shout at ducks or something.  She declined, but did offer me some comfort.

I jacked off, spilling the load I had planned on spilling on Ralphie on my chest, and then climbed into bed.


The next morning, I awoke to a text from him, explaining that he was with his parents all evening and he wasn't going to rudely interrupt them just to talk with me.  I apologised, asked if he was free to talk.

We did.  He's coming over tonight, Monday night, at 9 pm. Or so he says. If he doesn't... fuck. I'm dropping him.

But the thing that irritated me the most was that this actually hurt.  I've broken one of my cardinal rules. I've become emotionally involved with a fuck buddy. An adorably cute, sarcastic, sardonic, all around enjoyable fuck buddy, but still. I don't do drama. Or, I didn't. And now, apparently I do.

The Pilgrimage

It's 3:30 in the morning on Sunday.

I smell like coffee grounds and desperately want sleep.  Let me explain:

I play rugby.  I'm not that good, but my team is.  We've had an amazing season and now we're in the playoffs.  Saturday was supposed to be the semi-finals, and Friday night we had a team meeting to plan strategy.

At the meeting, our captain explained that there would be no game tomorrow.  The other team had forfeited. "What huge, gaping vaginas!" "pussies!"  and other such slurs were shouted.  But, Saturday we were going to have practice during our usual game time and then that night have a mixer with a sorority. The theme was Dirty Disney characters.


Friday evening,  I grabbed some dinner at a local coffee shop with my two bisexual female friends.  We had a fun time, they gave me costume suggestions and how to pick up girls suggestions.  After arriving home, my roommates and I went to our favorite late night diner.  At the diner, somehow, we came to the decision to go to a strip club after the party Saturday night.

So, Saturday, I go dressed as Prince Eric to the party.

Exactly like this. But with clothes.

I spent the evening drinking, awkwardly hitting on girls, and after giving up on that, my roommates picked me up and we drove out to this strip club in the middle of nowhere. Seriously nowhere. Cornfields everywhere around us.

I spent nearly $80 on strippers, especially this one kinky girl who had an intriguing set of tattoos and pierced nipples.  Kinda hot actually.

There was this one kid in the strip club, he couldn't have been more than 16, wearing wife beater.  Smug little asshole. I wanted to take him outside and beat the shit out of him. Didn't have a reason to, just wanted to.  Hell, I wouldn't have minded raping him; just anger fucking the little prick.

He ended up leaving while I was in the back room with a naked stripper on my lap, so the point ended up being moot.

The other patrons were surprisingly stereotypical: a man in a suit who looked like he must have hated his career and his life, an old dude with stache who could easily have been the grandfather of all the strippers there, and just your average collection of podunk yokels.

There were only four strippers:  Peaches, Ginger, Jasmine, and Holy-God-She's-Ugly.  Ginger was the kinky one, Jasmine the rather hot one, Peaches the hilarious fat one, and Holy-God-She's-Ugly was the unsuccessful one.  Ginger was the one who I got the lap dance from, but Holy-God-She's-Ugly had a weird resemblance to Nate. I sent him a text as she danced, asking if he had a sister or female cousin who stripped.

After the strip club, we drove back to our favorite diner, got some waffles and coffee beans.  Sniffed the beans to get rid of the scent of cheap strippers.  We reeked of it.  I ground up my set of beans, poured some on my shirt just to rid myself of the stench.

Our waiter, a good friend of ours who actually lives up the street from us, pointed out that if I spilled water on my shirt it would be stained.  I told him I planned on burning the shirt. He's an awesome guy, this jolly 6'7 gay guy who always jokes with us.  Cool fellow.

After that, came home, about to crash in bed now.

Ralphie's coming to visit in a week. We're not dating, but I look forward to fucking him again.

I chatted with him online a couple nights ago, he watched me shower through skype, mentioned that rugby has been good to me, my muscles are better defined these days. I've got a new workout plan I'm going to embark on soon. We'll see how that goes.