Jimmy the Porno King Vs. The Hooker with a Heart of Gold

Jimmy the Porno King Vs. The Hooker with a Heart of Gold

In the strictest sense, I am not dating the Hooker with a Heart of Gold. Dating consists of getting to know someone in several parallel ways simultaneously, perhaps in the bedroom, in the kitchen and in the study. Figure out how a person fucks, how a person cooks and what or if a person reads and you can fairly well determine your base level of compatibility. If you are cooking Rock Shrimp with a light white wine sauce over a warm spinach and feta cheese salad, and he is cooking something that comes in box labeled at least, in part, ‘ A - Roni’ then you are probably not entirely compatible. If you are reading a non-fiction book about General Relativity Theory and how it relates to the quantum world, he should not be reading Maxim; better that he didn’t read at all.

The Hooker with a Heart of Gold (HHG) and I initially met two months ago over the Internet. The gay Internet is like a gay bar without all the cumbersome dialogue involving things like whether one smokes or not and first names. When I first met HHG, we decided our relationship was best explored through naked fun and not much else. The problem arose directly after our first encounter; it was clear only minutes after the smoke cleared that we had set some kind of record, won some kind of award, been nominated for something. High fives were exchanged (straight guys – do not attempt this in a similarly victorious situation; your female counterpart will hardly appreciate it) and then names and phone numbers. We decided that our naked fun status had been elevated and we would no longer be able to compete in the Olympics due to our professional standing. Needless to say, we have been getting together regularly to practice.

We played out several scenarios involving dim lighting, mood music and a massage table which I will be more than willing to gloss over. Being supportive of your ‘Mo friend is one thing; picturing him in a compromising position is quite another.

And this is where the trouble started; but before I take you over the edge, let me give you some description of the HHG so you can keep it in your mind.

HHG stands 6 feet tall and weighs in somewhere around 180. He is between 35-40. He is Cuban or something similar. I know it sounds like I am describing a liquor store robbery suspect, but from here on out I have more information. If we were dating I would inquire further; as we are not, I am content to guestimate. He is a personal trainer. This is to say his body should be used to advertise all sorts of home gym equipment. On more than one occasion, I have had to pinch myself to make sure I hadn’t imagined his physique. Dark hair, darker eyes, you get the picture.

The trouble is, he tried to date me. Imagine. My booty call trying to date me. He started inviting me to MOVIES, and out for drinks IN PUBLIC. He HELD MY HAND and asked me to SPEND THE NIGHT ON SEVERAL OCCASSIONS. Obviously, this threw me for a considerable loop. Under different circumstances I wouldn’t have thought twice about dating HHG, but when first names and ages come after giving up your amateur status in the bedroom, one must think about ‘How Far This Thing Should Be Taken’

How Far This Thing Should Be Taken

I am willing to go out on movie dates and ask all the questions about family life and favorite color, but I expect a modicum of reciprocity. On several occasions I have called HHG and left a message that was not returned for 3 days or more. In a Bedroom-only relationship, this is not a problem. On or about the third day I decide ‘we are just fooling around and no more should be thought about it. But then HHG will call to ask me HOW MY DAY WAS, and invite me over for A GLASS OF WINE. Neither of those phrases contain the verb ‘disrobe’ and therefore are inadmissible in a Bedroom-only relationship. And so just when I think I can ask a little bit more of HHG, he decides to be unavailable for days at a time. I would dismiss the whole thing were it not for the awards we are currently up for in the bedroom. Once you finish a project, it is only ethical to market it all the way through red carpet season.

You must be wondering through all this, “Jimmy, we understand your plight, but why do you call him The Hooker with a Heart of Gold? Surely he’s not a hooker, I mean, not a real one!’ The answer to your question is, unfortunately, I’M PRETTY SURE HE’S NOT. He is after all a personal trainer with a ridiculous body, a massage table in his house, a private gym and sketchy scheduling. Anyone who has seen the back pages of a gay publication knows that dozens of ‘Massage Therapists’ are really just fancy titles for Working Boys. But here I am, two months into a strange non-relationship with HHG. If we ever decide to have some real conversation, maybe I’ll ask. Then again, maybe not. I suppose if HHG really is a hooker, I should be flattered; he hasn’t asked me to pay for it once.

Jimmy

The Long Beach Pride

“Good morning, Gay Days Hollywood.”

This is how I have to answer the phone at my current job working as the assistant to an overworked, overwhelmed first-time event producer. The event is not worth going into, but suffice to say it is pretty gay. As part of my work schedule, I was forced to go the Gay and Lesbian Gay Pride Festival in Long Beach this weekend to work a booth and promote our event. If you have never been to Long Beach Gay Pride, count yourself lucky. I learned several valuable lessons and several lessons that, while I can’t find an application for them yet, surely will come in handy one day.

1. Lesbians don’t own mirrors. If they did, they would never leave the house.

2. Kilts are not sexy on anyone, especially a 65 year old leather daddy with a paunch and stick legs.

3. If you are offended by the smell of burning pork, do not attend. I tried to escape it for hours before finally giving up. If I were Jewish, I would have had to write away to get my foreskin back. I’m not sure who you write to about that, but I’m sure once they got a whiff of my pork-smoked clothing, they would want me to give up my membership to the ‘chosen people.’

4. Drag is dead. Poor drag queen. Droop your head in shame. Your makeup is a mess and I have better cleavage.

5. There are only 3 attractive homos in Long Beach and I have already slept with all of them.

6. Fags and dykes are so desperate to find acceptance in this world that they will line up in a parking lot at 9AM on a Sunday to attend what is essentially an Orange County Fair minus the Christians. But never you fear; Gay and Lesbian Christian Alliance has a booth set up right next to the Dildos-R-Us tent. You can stick something up your butt and immediately be forgiven only five feet away.

7. Contrary to the ‘Queer Eye’ image of quick-witted fags in designer duds zinging each other playfully while casually jockeying for the down camera position, most fags are actually overweight, balding and slightly drunk, even at 11AM. By 4PM most fags take their shirts off whether you want them to or not. And believe me, you don’t want them to.

8. Los Angeles is the ‘Pretty People' capital of the world. Long Beach is the ‘Who Cares if I’m Pretty, I Have This Steak and Cheese Sandwich’ capital of the world.

9. For some reason, the Gay and Lesbian community is like a garbage disposal in your sink; people who have failed to find a sense of belonging in every other major oppressed group eventually find their way to a gay pride festival. Maybe they are excessively tan; maybe they never gave up Mohawks; maybe they are black on the outside and white at heart. Gay Pride is like the garbage disposal of fringe society; whatever you can stuff through the opening, we’ll take it.

The week before the festival, I did a favor for a friend of mine by doing an extras job for his independent film. My friend is a big ol’ Jew and I’m a big ol’ Mo. We like to tease each other by calling each other Kike or Fag. It’s fun. So when he wrote this small line about a gay guy in a ridiculously tight shirt, naturally, he thought of me. The scene was an office scene, in which I wear a skin tight lycra shirt. The joke in the short scene is that ‘skin tight lycra is not appropriate in the office, or anywhere.’ I didn’t have to say anything; I just had to react to being scolded for wearing what was essentially a Bike racing shirt to the office.

I tell you this to illustrate my final point. Upon arrival at the Gay Pride Festival on Saturday morning, my boss opened up a box of shirts and said, “we’re all going to wear these shirts that I had made up. Here, this is a small…put it on.” And of course, it was a skin tight Lycra Shirt with the words “Gay Days’ on it. Like that wasn’t obvious already.

Jimmy

The Bard and Porn

Happy Tuesday,

12:21pm - Our offices sit on the street level right on Santa Monica Blvd. Occasionally large trucks drive by. You know, the ones hauling huge loads of whatever. Lots of noise, pollution, etc. So Lesbian #1 in accounting sits right at the window that faces the street. Her phone on her desk is 12 feet from the pavement at any given moment. Occasionally truckers use something known as a CB radio. In our Internet times this may seem like an obsolete method of communication but, I assure you, it is not short in the entertainment department.

Lesbian #1's phone always picks up the short wave transmissions of truckers in the midst of conversation as they pass by. The intricate workings of the trucking industry are played through her speakerphone and bounce off our 5 foot vaulted ceilings for all to hear. Today's gems included:

"What the hell are you hauling? Come back." BEEP
"I'll bet you're hauling some good shit. Come back." BEEP
"What the fuck are you hauling faggot? Come back." BEEP
"I'll bet you're a nice faggot aren't you faggot. Come back." BEEP

Now I don't know about the rest of you, faggots and otherwise, but I don't know that I would necessarily respond to someone who repeatedly called me a faggot. Except for Karri of course. But what gets me is that even while harassing this other trucker, the trucker still uses the 'come back'. Doesn't that seem like stabbing someone and then handing them a towel for the blood?

Also, today, I was asked to model a few items for our website. Necklaces, tank tops, muscles shirts, etc. After I finished laughing, I stood up and said no. Then I laughed again. Then I went back to my desk and cried. Why is my job like a tragedy every day? Only Shakespeare had to ever deal with such tragedy.

A hole dug ever deeper than mine eyes
Have guessed to be the nether most descent
Into a silent spiral of despair
From which no boldened brigand might escape.
If ever ‘twixt my palms sat wisdom’s seat
I think it were a day I never joined
But played in merry fields made of dreams
Forgetful of the setting sun and moon.
The days of porn are ever drawn around
To tug and tear my poles into the ground.


Jimmy