I'm the brand-new leased car he can barely afford the payments on. I give him an increased sense of self-worth for exactly three weeks.
How do you know these things? I thought that middle-aged WeHo gay men were invisible!
I am the Black or Asian boyfriend.
I'm the closet full of A&F tee shirts and lowrise jeans!
I am the thin layer of oil that glistens on a freshly botoxed forehead.
I'm the quiet desperation, lurking in the corner of the usually empty living room.
I am the letter from the WeHo Town Council giving you 90 days to move to Silverlake.
I'm the refrigerator empty except for a bottle of wine, a loaf of artisan bread and expensive cheese.
I am the delusion that he look younger than his age thereby causing him to dress and act foolish as he prowls the local bars and clubs fooling no one but himself.
I'm the parking space in the condo's underground garage, which barely fits a Vespa, much less the owner's 2011 Nissan Altima. The "driveway" to the street is about the width of an office desk.
I'm the decor in the condo, which has all the personality and individuality of a Mitchell + Gold showroom.
I'm the Keurig machine on the counter, obsessed about and bragged about for weeks when no one else had one, now never touched anymore.
I can't decide if I want to be the empty promise that I'll move away next year or the white leather couch that has been finally paid off after 6 years of payments.
I'm the concealer and waterproof Lancome in the powder room.
I'm your nervous mother, visiting from Iowa for the weekend, wondering when you'll find a nice girlfriend and move home.
I'm the online personal that says HIV negative. Ignore the HIV meds in the bathroom.
I'm the new iPhone 5, yet another temporary substitute for sex.
R16, you forgot to sign your post "eldergay racist."
"People learned to avoid blacks."
I'm the oversized triple-matted, framed portrait of Bette Davis as Margo Channing, hanging above the mantle. I was passed down to my previous owner's younger lover, who will pass it down to his younger lover.
We still have several parts left to cast:
Who wants to be the cattiness? The bitterness? The gossip?
I'm the 2 bedroom condo, waiting at The Biltmore, in Palm Springs, for the day when my ego can't take WeHo anymore, and I retreat there to enjoy my last years, dining at El Mirasol, on Friday nights, Wangs, on Saturday nights, and ending up drunk , and alone, at the drag show at Toucans.
I'm the collection of AussieBum and Rufskin bikini-style swimsuits that are all just a wee touch too small.
I'm the enormous collection of +$100 cotton t-shirts with attention-getting things printed on them, carefully stacked in the walk-in closet. I will be carefully pondered and looked through and selected from before going out on Friday night; but no matter which item in me is ultimately chosen, no one else will either notice nor care.
I'm the smelly leather flip-flops my owner refuses to give up, despite the pleas from his boyfriend.
I'm the generic modern artwork, purchased from a catalogue, that has no meaning behind it and will never challenge anyone. Visitors will look at me and think, "Well that's pretty"
I'm the eldergay who has lived there since the 80s & is paying just over $700 a month for a 2 bedroom apt off Harper.
I'm the ever-enlarging collection of baseball caps, bike messenger caps, straw porkpies, and flat Irish caps, forever rotated among so as to disguise a bald spot.
It's amusing to me to see all these truly ageist comments on here from twentysomethings that actually are one step away from living in a cardboard box under the nearest freeway overpass. Truly. Right now, you have your youth and your beautiful face and your gym-bod that you spend every waking hour working on. You have your totally flakey and superficial group of like-minded and totally vacuous "friends" that you see only at the bars, the gym, or the "bathouse" where you go to get off anonymously because you are not "functional" enough to have a true relationship with another man. Oh and then there are your "internet friends" who are just as self-absorbed and awesomely USELESS TO SOCIETY that you are. You're so strapped for money every month that you can't afford a car and take the bus everywhere or depend on "friends" to drive you everywhere. Hey it's part of friendship right to be a taxi driver for YOU? Sorry, wouldn't trade places with any of you VACUOUS HOTTIES for any amount of money.
I am the anal warts, scheduled to be burned off as soon as my owner gets rejected by his next sex partner (the only one so far this year).
(R23) ENVIOUS MUCH?
I'm the telephone pole up r30's ass.
I'm the Taschen Big Penis coffee table book that was browsed once with mounting (sic) disappointment due to the absence of uncut cock, and now molders under a sidetable above a cultural credentials-establishing volume on Frank Lloyd Wright.
R30, instead of the bitter rant, you should have just started a new thread entitled, "Let's be the life of a twenty-something Weho gay man."
I'm R30's meds. I haven't been touched in months.
For all of you unemployed or under-employed and struggling young hotties in WeHo:
1-800-548-6047 Food Bank
Regional Homeless Shelter
340 N. Madison Ave.
(R35) I would have but there was nothing to write about that subject. Totally. Sorry. It would have been fun.
[r37, how did you imbed a clickable Skype number into the body of your post?]
I'm the empty chair at the AA clubhouse on Garner waiting for you to come plop your dysfunctional, codependent, AIDS riddled ass in.
This thread seems to have unleashed a monster. The young weho thread is 30+ post full from the same poster.
I started this thread and I'm 46 myself (and also live in a gay ghetto). Chill the fuck out, r30, and get a sense of humor about yourself.
I'm the never-unpacked and nearly-forgotten box of old CDs in the storage space.
Inside me are Stacey Q's "Better Than Heaven," Josie Cotton's "Convertible Music," Donald Fagen's "The Nightfly," and, much to the owner's shame, Manhattan Transfer's "The Offbeat of Avenues."
[quote] Chill the fuck out, [R30], and get a sense of humor about yourself.
Not a hope there I'm afraid. R30 is too busy trying to squeeze her gut into a muscle shirt.
I'm the 8x10 glossy headshot stuck to the bottom of a cardboard box in a dark corner of the hall closet. Unlike Dorian Grey, the visage in the picture is happy, young, and beautiful.
Funny thread, but really it's going to happen to all of you queens. 30 is exactly right. I think the 20 year old (non stop texting even when they are in a conversation at dinner) gays are in big trouble. So many of you are useless to society and just want to gossip, hang out the abbey, do meth and backstab your friends. Good luck with that. Oh and you'll be here faster then you think!!!!
R47, I would guess most of us on this thread are thirty-forty somethings poking fun at ourselves.
Oh boo hoo hoo! They're making fun of me! Boo hoo hoo! How dare they--I'm rich!
I'm Godfrey the purebred, ankle-biting rescue pet with a spastic colon. I walk in right turns!
My special diet costs the same as your house payment and I still fish cat turds out of the litter box!
I watch you and your tricks when you fuck. You've dropped guys I don't like in the past. You'll drop guys I don't like again in the future.
I eat the ice cubes from your scotch when you pass out.
I am the money that gives an elder-gay a sense of relevance as his ever fading looks and increasingly bitter personality repel the younger-gays he so desperately seeks approval/attention from.
I'm the iPhone charger. During your next fabulous cocktail party, I'm the most requested item because all your guests have been on Grindr looking for better people while drinking your booze.
I'm hidden in a dresser drawer. Those whores don't deserve me.
I'm the pair of high heels from a dragtastic Halloween a few years back. I tend to make my appearance during the Victoria Fashion Show party you host so all your guests can "walk the runway" in me.
I am the life of the party until the fat, drunk guy sprains his ankle in me.
I'm the velvet rage, responsible for so many of these problems! I was planted in Iowa and have blossomed here in WeHo.
I'm a Felice Picano novel bought out of guilt and obligation (and because it was 60% off) at the closing of A Different Light in 2009. I have never been opened.
I'm the 62 year old queen, sitting in my apt., on Larrabie,my,chihuahua Poncho,in my lap,
watching the Oscars, alone , tearing up as Barbra sings "They Way We Were", and still wondering why Marky, my 25 year old Asian boyfriend, left 10 years ago, after we got in a fight over him taking the keys, and crashing the Camry,
while driving home from The Spike, drunk. Where did the time go? And where is Marky ?
I'm r47's $246K a year. I still can't make up for his desperation as he inevitably zeroes on 50.
I'm the antidepressants to help cope with the fast fading dreams of becoming a "star".
" am the money that gives an elder-gay a sense of relevance as his ever fading looks and increasingly bitter personality repel the younger-gays he so desperately seeks approval/attention from."
Oh sweety bless.
Do you actually think I need attention or approval from 20 year olds ? Bless. No I can get all the attention I need from buying a photographic book of good looking guys I can shut when I am bored. If I am rich enough I can buy an hour or two with one of them fuck them senseless and pay them - to leave. Either way I pay they can close their mouths when otherwise not occupied and they can go.
Now,....which one of you white folks is gonna tell me what a WeHo is?
Damn the webmaster is a dumb fuck. Who the hell shuts down a gay gossip board during the oscars? What a fucking retard.
We are the following 16x20 framed photographs:
Bruce Weber's "Copacabana Rio di Janiero"
Mapplethorpe's "Ken Moody and Robert Sherman"
Herb Ritts' "Fred With Tires"