Posts Tagged ‘the gays’

Backyard Boogie

Tuesday, April 7th, 2009

 

For anyone unfamiliar with my living situation, my landlady is a transsexual, nudist lesbian. That pretty much brings you up to speed. 

 

Casa Bangs is not your usual apartment. My landlady/landman lives in her apartment downstairs with her extremely good looking latino adonis gay friend (who I’m just waiting for the opportunity to turn straight) and approximately 20-30 illegal immigrants.* She roams around naked, probably 80% of the time, is a circus performer and plays music at ridiculously loud volumes at very inappropriate times. 

 

And this is what I call home. 

 

Recently, my landlady/landman installed a hot tub in the back yard. But this is not some budget jacuzzi. It’s a huge affair that can fit at least a dozen of her refugees in there. It has cool lighting and a sound system linked up to it. It was just installed in January, so obviously, hasn’t been used as of yet. 

 

On the weekend, I was awoken in the middle of the night by the members of the YMCA downstairs testing out the hot tub sound system. So loud, it woke me in one of those comedic-sit-bolt-upright type of ways. I went to the window and looked outside. The hot tub was lit up, house music pumping at deafening decibels…and no one was in it. Not a soul in sight. I rubbed my eyes and realised that there had been a new edition to our ever-changing backyard. 

 

A bar has been installed. 

 

There are bar stools and everything. Who the hell is drinking there? I don’t get it. It was 2.30am, hot tub light flashing, music blaring, empty bar stools. I feel like I’m living at Hugh Heffner’s house. I was hoping my landlady/landman would roam into the picture naked just to make everything make sense. 

 

When the hot tub was installed, she gave me an open invitation to use it, on the condition that I’ll be naked. 

 

So, be prepared for many stories this summer of hot tub action involving me, my transsexual, nudist, lesbian landlady and about 20 refugees. It’s gonna be a rager. 

 

 * I have no actual proof that these people are illegal immigrants,  but there is an inordinate amount of people coming and going there on any given day, none of whom speak English very well and once, immigration came a-knocking – just saying. 

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Career Day

Monday, March 16th, 2009

 

Regular readers here will know that I live in a rather colourful area of Toronto, one that I like to call ‘Transvestite Prostitute Central.’  I am now used to the high volume of street walkers that grace my street with their thigh high boots, fishnet tights and five o’clock shadows. 

 

During the winter months, they disappear. Rightfully so, because those temperatures will make their balls literally freeze right off (which, I would have thought is what a lot of them wanted, but hey). But, this past weekend, as I made my way home from movie night at my friend’s house, I saw Tina Turner and Jennifer Aniston (I name them based on their wig selection), trying to turn a trade on the corners. More power to them. The weather took a slightly nicer turn over the weekend, so I can’t blame them for getting back in the saddle (ugh, bad choice of words) when they get a chance. 

 

But all this got me to thinking: during the uber cold winter months, what are they doing? House calls? Massage parlours? Drag acts? Phone sex? Enquiring minds want to know. Some of these ladies are a little worse for wear. All right, all of them are, so they can’t keep this $20 hand job business up forever. I decided to compile a list of things they can do to better occupy their time (I plan to present these to them in Oprah-esque fashion at some point in the coming months): 

 

Work at Starbucks

Seriously, when I went in there Sunday morning to treat myself to a bacon breakfast sandwich, the guy who served me seemed to be the happiest person alive. And he works at Starbucks. He was so happy, he made me seriously question my own life choices. Now, if I were a transvestite prostitute looking to get out of the game, shouting ‘Grande Mild’ all day might just be the way forward. At some point I will go back to that Starbucks and ask that guy if he was so happy because he loves his job, or if he had, in fact, been hitting the pipe moments earlier. 

 

Working in a beauty shop

The ‘ladies’ on my street clearly like to (try) to make themselves pretty (unsuccessfully). Doing mani/pedis and waxing eyebrows on other people, may just help them get a better grasp on the look they are trying to achieve. 

 

Mach 3 demonstration person

Again, on account of the amount of 5 o’clock shadows I see, demonstrating how to use a powerful man’s razor might underline the importance of shaving your face when trying to look like a woman. 

 

Become a ‘Real World’ cast member

Right now, they have a post-op transsexual on there. If they threw a transvestite prostitute in the mix, it would clearly be more exciting. 

 

Become a TTC worker

According to the stats, Toronto’s transit employees get attacked pretty regularly (most of the time they probably deserved it, because being a complete asshole is a job requirement). If they had transvestite prostitutes running shit, attacks would go down. Why? Because no one argues with someone wearing eye shadow, blush and a beard. That’s why. It’s all just too intriguing to get angry about.

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Strokers

Tuesday, October 28th, 2008


I have been the subject of some inappropriate hair touching recently.

 

I have waist length, dark brown hair, never been dyed, in pretty good condition (if I do say so myself). I don’t know what it is, but when people see my long hair, they seem to have an overwhelming urge to touch it. Completely uninvited. I suppose it’s somewhat like pregnant bellies. People just can’t keep their hands off them.

 

My area leader (who is gay) popped into my work place the other day and as we were chatting about business, he was running his fingers through my hair. All a bit odd. I kind of give gay men a pass – it’s like I’m their Barbie, I know that the stroking of my hair will not lead to the stroking of anything else. Nonetheless, as my manager, hair stroking is probably not the best thing to do during a business meeting.

 

Since I rocked the Bangs and a Bun all summer (wearing your hair down in hot temperatures, when you have this much of it, is not an option – you’ll suffocate yourself) a lot of people haven’t seen me with my locks loose and flowing. I’ve met a few people recently who’ll say ‘I love your hair! It’s so nice!’ and then I see their hand coming out of left field and making a bee-line for my head to touch it. I politely duck out of the way. People also love to say ‘It’s so long!’ Thanks for pointing that out. I spend 25 minutes straightening this bitch every morning – trust me, I know how long it is.

 

When I lived in Japan, my hair was the topic of much conversation. I was out one night with a few of my students, when the subject matter, once again, turned to my mane. One girl kept talking about how soft my hair looks and was complaining about how coarse hers is. What’s my secret, she wanted to know?

 

‘Almond oil,’ I say. ‘I put almond hair in my hair once a week and leave it in overnight. Makes it soft and shiny.’

‘You put what in it?’ She asked.

‘Almond oil,’ I said again.

Blank looks all around.

‘Almond oil. You know, almond oil. Like, the oil from…almonds,’ surprisingly, this explanation didn’t clear it up for them. I asked one of the other girls, whose English was a little better, how to say ‘almond oil’ in Japanese.

 

‘Ahh. Almondu Oilru,’ she said. It sounded pretty much no different to the way I said it originally, but as soon as I busted out this new pronunciation, about six of the Japanese girls I was with all said ‘Ahhhhhhh!!’ and nodded in unison.

 

When everything died down, one of the girls approached me shyly. ‘Can I touch your hair?’ She asked. You have to understand Japanese culture to know how much of a big deal that was for her to ask and how embarrassed she would have been had I said no. ‘Sure!’ I said. She gently grabbed a bunch of my hair and stroked it. ‘So soft!’ She exclaimed. She then insisted that I touch hers. By comparison, it was not as pleasant an experience for me. ‘You should really get some almondu oilru,’ I said.

 

So, if you see me with my hair down and you feel the urge to stroke it, let me clear the mystery up for you beforehand – yes, it’s soft, yes, it’s shiny, yes, it’s long. Your fingers don’t need to become entwined in it to confirm those facts. Unless you’re my mum, my man or my hairdresser, kindly keep your mitts off my mane.

 

*And yes, that is me in the picture. I believe that’s what you call ‘Tyra Mail’, bitches. Check out more of Knolig Works (photographer) stuff here

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Posted in fashion | 10 Comments »

Man Down

Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008


Last weekend I reluctantly went on a ‘date’. I didn’t really consider it a date, as such. My friend is dating this dude and her dude told his friend about me and said friend wanted to meet me. Following? Good.

 

My friend called me around 6pm, telling me she hadn’t heard from her fella all day. Great sign. She called again around 7.30 saying he’d text her and would be picking us up at 9pm from her house. So, I mustered up my pretty, threw on a nice outfit and made my way to her house for 9 o’clock. Our dates didn’t show up till 9.30.

 

SSSTTTT-RIKE ONE

 

I cannot abide lateness. I don’t care what your excuse is. And when my friend has been making a big deal about how you want to meet me, surely there is no excuse. I was ready to blow off dinner, go pick up a slice and take my ass home.

 

We all get in a cab to go to a restaurant. On the way, the fellas admit that they’ve already eaten.

 

SSSTTTT-RIKE TWO

 

What the hell is this?! Seriously, how do you invite someone out to dinner, arrive late and then break the news that you already chowed down at home? My stomach was eating itself for God’s sake!

 

We got to the restaurant, where just me and my friend ordered food. The evening itself was not unpleasant. I wasn’t attracted to my guy, but his conversation was nice enough. What was uncomfortable however, was the fact that my friend is dating a man who clearly bats for the other team and I can’t believe she hasn’t realised it. The more he drank, the gayer he got. It was kind of mindblowing. He’s also 18 years older than her, so it’s like she’s dating her gay daddy. Very strange.

 

We finish eating and the bill comes. I throw in $20 or $30 and my guy doesn’t even flinch.

 

SSSTTTT-RIKE THREE

 

OK, I’m always going to pay for myself on a first date, regardless, but if you requested to meet me and invited me out for dinner, it’s only good manners that you pay. Or at least play the game of telling me to put my money away and let me insist. But no, nothing. Even my friend’s gay daddy was dropping heavy hints, saying ‘there’s way too much there,’ when my guy was counting the money. And he said ‘no, it’s fine.’ I venture to say that it isn’t fine at all, my friend. It’s very far from ‘fine.’ I appreciate a gentleman. I appreciate chivalry and good manners. If you can’t afford to cough up $20 for your date’s meal, you should stay your ass at home.

 

We lived in the same part of town so we shared a cab. It was on this journey that I discovered that the guy is about to turn 41 years old.

 

SSSTTTT-RIKE FOUR

 

OK, I don’t even know if you can get four strikes, but this guy is getting ‘em. I had been told by my friend that he was in his 30s. Early to mid thirties, I can handle, but 41? I don’t need to be anyone’s mid-life crisis, thank you. I’m not anti-age gap, but I think 13 years is a little much for me.

 

And there you have it. My waste of a saturday night. Moral of the story? Don’t let your friends set you up.

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Posted in relationships | 7 Comments »

So Long Summer. It's Been Good.

Monday, September 1st, 2008


Labor Day, I decided to take a nice, peaceful, relaxing bike ride along the lakeshore to soak up the last bit of summer. Unfortunately, approximately three quarters of the population of Toronto had the same idea.

 

It was utter madness down there. There were kids and bikes and strollers and rollerblades everywhere. Battle of the wheels. And you damn sure know I wasn’t gonna lose. Forget having a bell on my bike. I’m thinking of adding an air horn. If I told these motherbitches to get out of my way once, I told them a thousand times.

 

Amid this clusterfuck of Labor Day insanity, I made a couple of observations:

 

Men in rollerblades


Clearly, some fellas didn’t get this memo yet, so I’ll spell it out loud and clear: rollerblading for men is about the gayest thing you can do. I lost count of the number of shirtless, sweat drenched, iPod headphoned, cargo short wearing rollerbladers I saw. If studies were done on this, I think they would show that men who rollerblade are one Cher record and a couple of drinks away from anal penetration. And why are they always speed skating? Because they’re in a hurry to get home and watch that Margaret Cho DVD? Yeah, I thought so.

 

Chest hair


Listen, I know it’s all part of being a man. A few tufts of hair sprouting from the chest plate is passable, but if your chest looks like a shag pile carpet from the ’70s threw up on you, you need to put that shit away. Who told you it was OK for you to take your shirt off in a public setting? If we women have to wax our bikini regions, you can get rid of that unsightly mess. I’m going to start carrying wax strips with me and if I see a guy with a chest rug, I will hold him down and forcibly remove it. And no, I’m not joking.

 

I hate anyone not on a bike


Motorists, pedestrians, babies in strollers; I can’t stand any of them. Cars want to kill me, pedestrians are determined to get in my way and babies, well I guess we just have to blame the parents. But even more than babies in strollers, I hate four year olds in strollers, with their feet scraping along the ground and that smug look on their face. Get those lazy bastards up and make them walk! What the hell is wrong with you? Those are the kids who will still be living at home at 25, with no job prospects, smoking weed and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. And don’t even get me started on when they get that motorized scooter in their late thirties.

 

Despite all the obstacles, human and otherwise, I went for the longest bike ride of my life. I just kept pedaling. Through the heat and the steady transformation of my hair from flat ironed loveliness, to the Irish girl afro, I just kept pedaling. Through the screaming kids and rows of hotdog stands, I just kept pedaling. Past the guy with the body of an adonis who was jumping rope and dripping sweat, I stopped pedaling and damn near hit a tree, but that’s not the point. I wanted to take in every last bit of this summer, because it has been a great one. I pedaled so much, I think I ended up in upstate New York.

 

For most, Labor day symbolizes the end of summer, but you know what it means to me? Time to start shopping for my fall wardrobe. Happy days!

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And it just gets better

Tuesday, June 10th, 2008


On friday night, after my shiteous week, I decided it was high time I went out and shivered me timbers (that’s ‘danced’, for those of you that don’t know). I called up my main gay and we put a plan together for a stonkin’ good time.

 

The heat wave hit on friday and the humidity was pretty much unbearable. I was getting ready, but it was too hot to sit around in my glad rags. So I had my hair and make up done and my heels on, but I just lay naked, spreadeagled on my bed to try and stay cool. What? Oh, don’t act like you don’t wander round your house naked in heels.

 

At midnight, I threw my dress on and was out the door. My outfit was a big hit with the tranny prostitutes on my street. I told them all they looked sexy too, which I’ll just classify as a white lie, for now.

 

We went to a few bars, boogied down, scoped out hot boys and by the end of the night, I had picked up a gaggle of gays.

 

We decided to round the night off with a coffee. As we were walking down the street, we saw a woman in a rather extravagant outfit. She was dressed like she was on her way to the carnival in Rio; big feather head dress, sequined one piece with a thong. When she turned around, I realised it was my landlady. And about two seconds after that, I realised that my landlady is actually a ‘landman’.

 

She was so excited to see me. I found it difficult to stay focused on the conversation without glancing down at her crotch region, where there is much more going on than there is on your average woman. There had been some tucking, but not enough. The game was up. But she’s damn good! I’ve had many conversations with this woman and not once did I ever realise she’s actually a pre-op transexual. She’s had a boob job, collagen lip injections and a very impressive booty. If you see her in regular clothes, you’d never know. But a sequined one piece is unforgiving on even the most womanly of women.

 

She was out there doing magic tricks involving a condom, which I won’t go into, but they were truly very impressive.

 

And there you have it. Yep – just another day in the neighbourhood.

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Just Another Day in the Neighbourhood

Monday, June 9th, 2008


Firstly, apologies for my shiteous blog schedule of late. Last week I had some pretty serious crap happen. I’m not gonna go into it, suffice to say, it was dramatic on a Jerry Springer outrageous kind of level and if I were to tell you about it, you’d think I was making it up. I’m OK, in fact, I’m great, all things considered and I’m looking forward to reaching the point where last week’s chapter of my life is a distant memory that I’ll be able to look back and maybe even laugh about at some point.

 

Breathe. Shake it out.

 

Let’s move on.

 

I live in the gay village. The upside of this is there’s a nine out of ten chance that I’ll be called ‘fabulous’ at least once a day. Those are some good odds. The downside is that after 10pm, my street becomes Transvestite Prostitute Central. I’m not judging anyone for their life choices. I’m just saying, it’s a little embarrassing when you invite people over and they’re offered a $20 blow job on their way.

 

Some of these transvestites are good, some not so good. I mean, if you’re gonna go through the trouble of donning fishnets and a wig, at least get rid of the five o’clock shadow. There’s a few I’d like to give a make over, because I find their interpretation of womanhood quite disturbing. But I don’t think that episode of ‘What Not to Wear’ would make it to air.

 

Living in Transvestite Prostitute Central makes for some interesting moments. Take last sunday morning for example. I woke up bright and early and drew back my curtains to see a large, muscular black man, wearing a bra and cut off jeans. He’d (heretofore referred to as ‘she’ because girlfriend was really trying) thrown her heels to one side. I smiled in recognition, thinking ‘we’ve all been there honey.’ She had a mirror in one hand, a comb in the other and was brushing out her weave like her life depended on it.

 

Ordinarily, my street gets all red light between the hours of 10pm and say, 5.30am. Before and after those hours, the hood looks somewhat normal. But this was 8am. Business is well and truly over. And it looked like it had been a long, hard night for this diva. I wanted to go downstairs, give her a cup of tea, ask her to put a shirt on and let her know that no amount of brushing would change the fact that the weave was a hot mess.

 

For a good half hour, she stumbled around outside my house, barefoot, throwing her head around, brushing from every conceivable angle. And then, some dude came out of nowhere, struck a deal with her and they went down an alley. Maybe the blow jobs go down in price after hours?

 

Either way, I doubt I would wake up like that in any other part of town.

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