None of that was out of the ordinary for a weekend out. But, after all, it’s the possibility of a surprise twist that keeps people going out at night at all.
May 6, 2011
Editor’s Note: Say hello to the Sexosopher, our new dating/sex columnist. Here’s his intro: The writer is on the brink of graduation from FoBo’s premier university. Having spent too much of the last four years studying the dismal histories and mechanisms of the world required for a BA, so he has decided to spend sometime reflecting on the more tangible and less disputable fundamentals of existence: sex. He believes that his frequent and diverse of application of these fundamentals will lead to blog posts that will, “definitely either elicit [the] reader’s interest, or make them exceptionally uncomfortable… Hopefully both.”
Like most Thursday nights-out with my heterosexual group of friends, this one was much the same. The evening started with some extensive pre-gaming followed by an overstuffed cab ride to the District’s nether regions. After falling out of the cab into a cloud of cigarette smoke, we worked our way upstairs. I’d found myself compelled to gratuitously gyrate with my cock-starved female companions to pulsating bass and seizure-inducing lights. (I blame this embarrassing, yet reoccurring situation, on the mixture of alcohol and pheromone drenched bodies that find themselves in my life on these evenings). The women that grabbed straight men violently ground their asses into their crotches, and my few friends with any sense of civilization were standing around the bar trying to grab the bartenders attention, hoping that more booze could make all of it acceptable. I howerver, was consumed by a feeling of Rome (circa 470AD): unconcerned, lusty and ignorant.
December 9, 2010
The weekend before Thanksgiving, I decided I needed a break. It’s that time of the year, when obligations to family, friends, work, and school drive everyone to drink just a little more than they usually do. Since I started dating the boy next door (literally) a couple months ago, I’ve only been in and out on FoBoBlo– well, mostly out, as in, not present. But I digress.
August 5, 2010
I recently had an interesting discussion with a new friend during which we psychoanalyzed that most annoying of creatures, the DC gay. It was so interesting, in fact, that I’ve decided to explain both sides of the argument here. Naturally, we’ll start with mine.
July 22, 2010
So you’re sitting on a train, reading the collected plays of Wilde you just picked up at the library. You happen to glance up from your book as the doors open to admit new passengers, one of whom immediately catches your eye. The muscular blond with glasses happens to look in your direction, and you swear you detect a glimmer of a smile. Your pulse quickens. He chooses a seat facing you and pulls out a book from his backpack. It’s Vonnegut. He looks back up at you and smiles, this time obviously. You cream your pants.
This torrid tale of transport temptation may or may not have actually happened to me. Okay, maybe not the last part, because that would be embarrassing and, as Monica Lewinsky knows, skeet can be difficult to remove from clothing. But I digress. The above vignette describes an all-too-familiar scene in the Demolition Man culture of modern urban society. Keep reading....