’As I threw her to the ground her buxom bounced with delight, so I gently nudged her face with my foot, leaving her gasp for more…’ Opening line of my new romance novel. The one which I am writing to tie over the folk who want to read more aboot… Schex. Shee shuu. Ahem. Whatever it is that you may call it. Something which is distinctly lacking from the blogaruu. Details, at least. Innuendos might be bouncing off the walls. But details have been stripped bare. Stark. Naked. Teasing. All talk. Little action. (Is this some sort of an innuendo by my sub-brain?! Perhaps. If so… Horrendous! Moving on!) Perhaps it is an Irish thing. Perhaps it was initially so not to look like an ape. Perhaps it was realising your parents, grandparents, younger cousins and all other folk would start to read about your adventures. Perhaps it was out of pure and utter respect for the other parties involved. Ahum. Perhaps all of the above! Perhaps. Who knows. Well. I do. But moving on.
Actually. Staying put. Perhaps I should’ve included more in the book. Perhaps there should’ve been less. Perhaps one did not think that others wanted to read aboot that. Perhaps sex does sell. Perhaps we wait and see what book two holds. Duu. Although perhaps I should set up an alternative blogaruu that tells purely of adventures in that world. Perhaps. Especially as L-Hey seems to be the most sexed up place which has ever existed. Possessing the libido of an 18 year old dude mixed with a 30 year old lady. If it were an animal, its name would be Roger. Highly revved-up engine. Not only that but perhaps all of this is then in turn coupled with the perhaps that you have an odd sense… Ever read the book Blink? When you just know something straight away but you’re not sure how. But you know. You? No? Yes? Kind of the same. Let’s just call it… The Sexth Sense!?!
Yes? You? Know?
You know when you meet someone. You know when somebody likes you. And you know when some person wants to engage in a bit of dancing. Everyone knows this buzz. Well. Some wait for weeks and months only to find out that they don’t actually know after all. While others do know this buzz. And a few others know this buzz almost instantly. Blink. Wham. Bang. Yes. That person wants to hook up. Not saying right now. But I am saying that the glint just came out. Shone. Sparkled. Growled. And I would bet my house on it that I am right. Don’t believe me. Right so. Here I go (Well… Wait. Is she hot… ? Yes. Wuu) Alright so. Nowhere I go… Rar diddy rar… See. Told you so! Not sure how. Just a sense some may have. Let’s just call it… The Sexth Sense.
If you know. You know. And if you don’t. You’re probably screaming ‘That **** *** ****** ****** arrogant ape dope!!!’ at your screen. Never said I have it. And not saying it in an arrogant way. Seeing as in L.A it could be anyone at all who may trigger this sense. Some are good (Wuu!). Others are dodge (Run!). More often than not… Dodge. A. Duu. See. Unfortunately gender or age doesn’t dishearten some folk. Seriously (Remember Orgie Joe?! Jaymes with a Jay from the gym?! Hippie Lady and her leprechaun fetish?! Cat Woman and her European-style-party-which-turned-out-to-be-a-gay-orgy-except-she-was-the-only-girl-and-I-was-the-special-guest?! Remember any of them?!). So as I was saying… Anyone at all could throw you the glint. Trigger the sexth sense. Anyone. Or. Everyone. All depends really… On who’s having the orgy!!! Oh Jesus.
Blame The Bladder
Don’t cheapen this sense either. Please. Not saying it’s something that means you want it. Or need. Just that you know when the other person does. Not like a super-human sense. Not like it will warn you not to walk into a public bathroom. As something bizarre and sex related was going on in the bathroom. If only it was. Did. Had done. That time I went to buy some chicken in Pavillions down the road. First needing to go to the bathroom. Small bladder and all. Large consumptions of water and all. Making me spend far too much time in bathrooms. Well. That and my mirror gazing. Hours on end. Just looking in the mirror. And crying at what I see. I joke. Gaze off. Jesus, I need to shut up. Shining some mighty light on myself with this blogaruu! Vain. Arrogant. And. An ape. Shine on!
Anyways, back to the bathroom. Bursting. Scuttling around the aisles. Need. The. Bathroom!!! Security guard points me to my destination. And ill-fated destiny. Down the corridor. Door at the end. Just about to push the door open and enter when something stopped me. A sense? The sexth sense? Stopping me? Saying hang on, something’s up?! Nay. Door was pull. Not push. Tut. (Oh Jesus). Pull I did. And in I went. Thankfully not one of those ridiculous public bathrooms that they sometimes have here. The ones which are really just a one person bathroom but with an added urinal on the wall. So some dude could be sitting on the toilet and leave the door open. Being kind to the next guy. As he can then use the urinal. While dude number one is sitting on the toilet. Not living up to his name…
Close Your Eyes And Just Think Of The Chicken...
Normal bathroom. Two urinals. One cubicle. Normal public bathroom. Both urinals taped off. Police cordoned-style. The berries. Rush to the cubicle. Some Mexican guy is coming out. Early 20’s. Give him a How’s-it-going-why-am-I-giving-you-a-how’s-it-going-no-in-the-bathroom nod as he walks out and I go to walk in. Stop. Some old dude. Some old small dude?! Also coming out of the funking same cubicle. Zipping up. Belting up. Pants down. Pulled back up?! Sweet holy Jesus. What is going on?! I just wanted to buy a chicken. Not walk in on this. Whatever this might be. Shouldn’t have nodded at that dude. Mexican dude scuttles off. Old dude hobbles off. My sexth sense to warn me not to enter the bathroom in the first place… Must’ve been turned off. (As I said. It is not a superhuman sense that warns like a Spiderman or Lassie sense! Only comes on when you get the glint. From a Mexican dude. Or an old dude. Dodge. As. Funk!) On the upside of this innocent little trip to go buy some chicken at the local respectable supermarket… The chicken was unreal. In the supermarket’s defence it is right in the middle of Boys Town? Maybe? Tut. All aboot the up? Chicken on!
Not Fully Gay. Just Full Of Gay Men...
Once again… Rambles have stepped in and kicked on! Not sure where I’m going. So I shall plough on. Perhaps another innocent story in the same vein that I have meant to blog before but forgot to because of my Twitter issues… At the moment I have two gyms. Usual gym. Gay gym. And also my buddy Chowder’s gym in his building. Signed me up while the gay gym was getting renovated. Happy days. Two free gyms. Go on the gym! Anyways. Chowder’s gym. Almost like a personal gym. No-one ever really there. Good. Also. Tad boring. Not as eventful. Or so I thought…
Few weeks back I’m leaving Chowder’s gym. 24 hour access. I think this was about half 11 at night. Walking from the gym to the Chariot. Parked in the visitor’s car park. Get to the Chariot. Notice a quite hot girl walking alongside. As I jump in, she asks if I could drop her to the exit gate (far side of the underground car-park). No worries. Chowder lives in a classy building. My Serial Killer sense has not been triggered. Hop in. Gets in. Small talk. Hup diddy ho. How’s it going. You’re going across the street to the bar in the Sunset Marquis? Sounds fun. What are you up to… Working? At this hour? Oh. Right. What is it that you do… And this is where the sense kicked in… Personal stylist. Personal stylist?!
Personal... Sure You Are.
(Not sure if I mentioned my theory on personal stylists. So many personal stylists in L.A. Bizarre amount. Good looking girls who seem to have wads of cash. All stylists. Not too many actually that stylish. Just dressed up. If that makes sense. Made me dubious that they actually were stylists. Made me think something else. Found out one day that one was actually something else. Giving me a new formula, which is not applicable to all, obviously, but perhaps a large chunk: UCLA is to stri… as personal stylist is to whu… Just a theory. Just my theory. Hopefully one which will not get me lynched. Ploughing on!)
So. That theory was in my head as it was. This good looking well dressed yet not stylish girl who I have met in a car park and agreed to drop to the other side of the car park is in my car and telling me she is working. And then tells me she is a personal stylist… !!!?!!! And then the glint jumps out… The Sexth Sense says… Oh Jesus. Get her out! Not a fan of potential whu… Particularly as Chowder lives on a street where his neighbour is Lindsay Lohan. So paparazzi are constantly parked up outside her building. As they are complete chumps and pap smears. And just sit around all day outside her building. Pap smears outside on the street. “Personal stylist” in my car. Oh dear Jesus. Brain starts to run away. Running as fast and as dumb as it can. What happens if they snap a few photos. Didn’t something like that happen to Hugh Grant?! Am I actually comparing myself to Hugh Grant?! Am I brain?!! Am I?!!!
Please Don't Hugh Grant Me!
If you’re wondering how big this car park was for all this to happen, good wondering. I was actually wondering myself at this moment. Wondering why the automatic gate hadn’t opened to let me out. Just sitting in the car in front of the closed gate. Reason was, I had not driven up close enough to the gate to trigger the sensors. Mighty work. Figured this. While my sexth sense and dumb brain were running off with each other. While a personal stylist who was working at almost midnight was sitting next to me. Obviously. Cut her glint down. Actually, this is as far as I could bring you! Gates opened. Her door opened. Giddy up out. So I scuttle off. Sexth sense screaming. Head down. Hood up. Just in case any of the pap smears were reading my mind and knew what might or might not have been going on and tried to Hugh Grant me. I wonder if that’s what’s actually happened to him?! Thankfully. I think. I got away with it. Touch wood. Thank the sexth sense.
Ramble With A Reason
That was nice and incoherent. So far all of the above is what happens when I have stories that build up and are ruined by Tweeting them at the time. Little sense made then. Probably even far less now. One final one while I’m at it. An example of when one should cop on if the sexth sense doesn’t go off. Currently in San Fran. Met up with a buddy from Ireland on Friday night. Bar hopping. Floor dancing. Good hoot of a night. Until… Walk out of the final bar after last call. What to do. Buddy gets chatting to a girl outside. Invites him to a party. Calls me over… Party? Where? Berkeley. Girls takes over… Greatest party ever in a sorority/fraternity with millions of people and gallons of drink and dancing all night if you like. Come on! Let’s go! Fair enough… Party on!
Wait A Minute...
Hop in a cab. Drive on. Small talk. Banter with the cab man. Buddy being Mr Nice Guy with the girl. Deeply interested in what she was studying. Deeply interested. After a night on the booze. Sure. Anyways, as we started driving over a big old bridge, something triggered. This bridge is long. Cab is about $35 so far. This bridge goes on and on. We have to come back too. Double the amount. Something else also clicked. Zero sexth sense going on in this cab. Not for me. No interest in the girl. See photo above. But there was zero going on between my buddy and the girl either. Her chat had died down. Vague answers getting even vaguer. No longer all enthusiastic towards my buddy either. Which made something click… Slowly but surely… Quick look at the cab fare… Oh Jesus. I see what’s going on… There is no party! Told my buddy. Guarantee you there’s actually no party. She just wants a lift home. Look at the fare. Buddy wouldn’t believe me. No way! Nice girl! Wouldn’t do it. Don’t be harsh on her… Sure. Tut.
Tried to get the cab man to pull in. Leave me out. I know what’s going on. There is no party. Buddy says no. He’ll pay for the entire cab if there’s no party. She’s not lying. She starts to cry. Can’t believe this. Even more annoying. Fake crocodile tears running down her face. See that the cab man is now laughing. Why are you laughing cab man… He knew all along. Girls pretends to be even more upset. Get to Berkeley. Here’s the address. Buddy still on her side. Get to the destination. That’s odd. Looks quiet. Looks dead. Buddy gets out. Go check out the party, buddy! Call me if it’s good. I’ll be in this cab.. Two minutes later, buddy returns. No party. Never was one. All lies. And she had no interest. Ha. Some ape. Some apes!
Well Worth One Quarter Of The Money!
In fairness, well played by her. Chunkiest cab ride I have ever seen. My friend insisted on paying. Business expense. Ha. Still. Chumped big time! Cab man laughing at us all the way home! At least he was laughing. Chumped! Pointless story… True. However, all the way back my buddy’s reasoning for it all being worth it is that it would make a great story for me to write about. Couldn’t buy that kind of story! He claimed. Ah, it is funny enough! He claimed. Priceless. He claimed. Ehh. Not too sure. Hopefully he shall read this. Just so he now realises… Bob Hope this story was worth that amount of money!
Apologies for such rambling gibber. I think that is my back-log of stories is out of me. Please God. All of the above truly is hanging on by the thinest thread. Time to cut this loose. As I must get back to my romance novel. Rambles off. Ahem on!
One last song for such a long one…
Dead Hearts (LightsoverLA Remix) – Stars