Here's a link to one of those multi-linked articles, where at one point they show a video of Zac Efron talking about how often he masturbates...with James Franco. Pure clickbait, but it's fun...and it's Friday.
Zac Efron is simply better at everything than the rest of us. Not only can he masturbate 17 times a day, he tells James Franco that he can do it without using his hands and offers an impromptu demo.
You can read the rest here, where there's a video. It's actually an interesting link because it also mentions Mike Nichols and there's a great Shirley MacClaine clip as well.
Alec Baldwin On Grindr
It looks as if Alec Baldwin is making some kind of statement with his new web series, Alec Baldwin's Love Ride, about gays in a general sense. I think everyone knows what happened with his gay-hate rants that may or many not have been misinterpreted. I'm not getting into that now because I actually don't think Baldwin is a homophobic man, nor does he dislike gays. I think he's got a really bad (vicious) temper and doesn't know how to control it.
I don't support what Baldwin said. But it bothers me that Baldwin paid so heavily for his statements and since that happened others have gotten off with a pat on the wrist. James Franco gets away with passive aggressive homophobia all the time and they can't get enough of him. Nick Jonas gay baits and even gay men who don't have the slightest clue about cultural appropriation stick up for him. Maybe this is my conspiracy paranoia working overtime, but it just doesn't seem fair that there always seems to be two sets of standards.
Recently, everyone's dream guy, Don Lemon, over at CNN made a few ridiculous statements with regard to rape culture and so far no one's gone after him the way they went after Baldwin. And frankly, I think what Lemon said about women was far worse than what Baldwin said about gays during Baldwin's out of control rant. Lemon was not ranting or out of control. He was sitting quietly in a TV studio and he wasn't even slightly upset. If you do a search for Don Lemon and rape comments you won't come up with much from the lgbt media.
In any event, Baldwin gets into gay love/hook ups in this article.
They cover the differences between Grindr, where the couple met, and Scruff. As Alec puts it, “Scruff is where you send pictures form the waist up, and Grindr from the waist down.” How little he knows…
He concludes that the couple is “awesome” as he is fed questions from his lesbian friend off camera. He even offers up her uterus at the end of the ride. How generous!
This is one of those times I'm personally at odds with many in the gay community, especially gay media. As an openly gay man I find it somewhat disingenuous that this publication wrote this piece with this tone, and that most have yet to go after Don Lemon for what he said about rape...to a woman who was allegedly raped by Bill Cosby. But Lemon and Baldwin apologized, but only Lemon was given the free pass. There's something wrong with that on a much deeper level.
You can read the rest here. What they basically do is remind you of Baldwin's past offenses in a way that comes off looking shabby and tired instead of clever and relevant.
Free Gay Excerpt: Four Feet Under With My Buddies
When this story was released I had about a hundred things going on and I never really had a chance to promote it very well. I know that it appears to be only about a foot fetish, but it does actually go much deeper and I wanted to give a sample to show that. There's a story here, too.
Here's the amazon link, and it can be found in most places where e-books are sold. Please also keep in mind that this is a raw version before edits because it's more compatible with google blogger than PDF.
The day we buried old Clyde it rained. A slow, steady drizzle began at noon and lasted for the next thirteen hours. And the only thing I could think about was I hadn’t gotten laid in months.
I stood outside beside my mom, dad, younger brother, and housekeeper, Mattie Johnson. We all wore black and held miss-matched umbrellas with frayed edges. The only one who actually cried was my younger brother.
And that’s because we were burying his pet rat and we couldn’t have cared less. He’d insisted we all congregate in the back yard in a show of mutual respect and we all decided to support him. He’s only ten; he made up a shoe box to resemble a miniature casket, with brown paint and tiny little cabinet handles he’d pilfered from my dad’s tool shed. He even read a short eulogy he’d written on the back of a school essay in blue crayon and expected each one of us to say a few words about Clyde when he was finished.
When I glanced at the expression on Mattie Johnson’s face as she gazed down into a dark hole that looked about four feet deep, I smiled. Her eyebrows were quirked, her lips pinched, as she searched for the right words to describe the pet rat that had always made her either jump or scream.
Mattie Johnson cleared her throat and rolled her eyes. She took a deep breath and said, “Ah well, rest in peace old Clyde.” Then she shot me a serious, urgent glance, letting me know she was finished and it was my turn.
I reached for my brother’s shoulder and said, “He was a great little guy. We’ll all miss him. He was one of a kind, buddy.” Then I flung my father a look to let him know it was his turn.
My father cleared his throat and glanced down at the shoe box in the hole. He seemed to be at a loss for words until my brother’s little head went up with an unyielding glance that even tugged at my heart. That’s when my father softened and said, “Max is right. He was a great little guy and we’re all going to miss him, kiddo. He was one of a kind.”
I rolled my eyes at my father for mimicking me, and he shrugged. He could have come up with something original.
Then my mother talked about the time “good old Clyde” escaped from his cage and we couldn’t find him for three ways. Mom laughed and smiled; she held my younger brother’s other shoulder and sent him reassuring glances as she spoke. She rambled with a sing-song tone, and for a minute I worried she might break into a chorus of The Sound of Music and expect us all to yodel.
The only one who didn’t smile this time was Mattie Johnson. And that’s because she’s the one who found Clyde the last time he’d been lost. He’d somehow found his way to her bedroom off the kitchen and into her underwear drawer. When she opened the drawer to get dressed the next morning and reached inside to pull out her granny panties, she saw Clyde looking up at her with his beady red eyes. She screamed with such might we all came running down to see what had happened. By the time we got there, Mattie Johnson was out cold across the pink and white chenille bedspread and Clyde was still in the underwear drawer rummaging through her panties.
After the funeral service, we all went back to the house for a small reception my younger brother had planned out in advance. In Clyde’s honor, there were celery stalks, carrot sticks, lettuce leaves, and some kind of grainy thing no one touched. For the first time since I’d been granted a license to drive I was thrilled about getting another speeding ticket. We had to go to court that afternoon and we only had about an hour to spare at the funereal reception after Clyde’s services.
At this point, I should probably explain the reason we were going to traffic court is because my mom has been studying to be a lawyer for a long time. I would have paid the ticket and been done with it. I still had a few points to spare before my license was revoked. I would just drive more cautiously. But mom was in her last year of law school and eager to pass the state bar and get started. She was a little too eager, if you ask me. When she heard me explain the reason I got the speeding ticket…because the wind was blowing and a huge branch from a weeping willow tree was blocking the speed limit sign…she insisted I plead innocent to the ticket and fight it in court. At first, I was against this. I actually begged her to let me plead guilty even though it was true about the branch covering the speed limit sign. It really wasn’t my fault this time. Ever since the last speeding ticket I’d been driving like a ninety year old. But my mom insisted she’d represent me and that I had nothing to worry about.
Three hours later, I slumped through the front door of our home with my head down and my hands in my pockets. My mom followed, with her lips pressed together and her gaze fixed on the back of my head. Mattie Johnson was in the kitchen getting dinner ready; the pots and pans were clamoring in all directions. My dad and brother were on the living room sofa watching TV. When dad looked up and saw us walk inside, he smiled and asked, “How did it go?”
My mom shrugged and set her purse on the chair next to the hall closet. “Not quite like we thought it would, dear.”
I turned and sent her a sharp stare. Then I turned the same glance on my dad and said, “You won’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. The judge was almost ready to dismiss the entire case, with the stipulation that I attend a few hours of driving school. They weren’t even going to give me points against my license. I was home free.”
My dad stood up and smiled. “That’s great, son. Sounds like your mom did a great job.”
“I’m not finished,” I said, with a deadpan tone. I glanced back and my mom and rolled my eyes. “When I jumped up to thank the judge, mom turned around and told him it wasn’t acceptable. She pointed at the judge and insisted the speed limit sign was being obstructed by the willow tree branch, and then went into an hour long dissertation. She mentioned other cases like this; she gave examples from books. I’m not joking either. By the time she was finished, the judge was hanging over the bench ready to beg for mercy.”
Mom put her hands on her hips. “I was right. And that judge knew it.”
Dad frowned and asked, “What happened after that?” I could see he wasn’t portending good news by the way he rubbed his jaw.
I looked up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t pretty. I won’t go into all the details. I lost my license for three months, I get three more points, and I still have to go to driving school.”
“I’m going to appeal this,” Mom said. “I’m not going to stop until I win.”
I turned and headed toward the stairs so I could wash up for dinner. On my way, I said, “Please don’t do me any more favors, mom. I’ll wind up without a license for the next decade.”
The thought of being without a driver’s license for three months was more than I could handle. I sat at the dinner table that night pushing my food all over the plate and didn’t say a word. I was going to a local community college and it was bad enough I was still living at home with my mom and dad and not in a dorm. It was even worse that I still jacked to gay porn in the bedroom where I grew up. My long term goal was to attend a four year university in the fall. I’d been accepted; I knew I would have plenty of freedom then. But the thought of being without a license while still living at home and commuting to college turned my stomach to the point where I couldn’t even look at food. Everyone tried to cheer me up. Mattie Johnson even offered to make me an ice cream sundae with wet nuts. But I just sat there sulking, staring down at my plate. I wanted my license. And the only wet nuts I wanted that night were between some guy’s hairy legs.
After dinner, I had to ask my mom for a ride. My dad was going out to play poker and Mattie Johnson didn’t drive at night anymore. I was still mad at mom for what happened in court. But I didn’t have much of a choice. I always worked out at the school gym about four or five nights a week. It’s quieter and there aren’t many people around at that hour: there wouldn’t be other guys stripping and changing in front of me. Jock straps and athletic cups make my knees weak. I felt comfortable in the locker room on the off hours and I didn’t have to worry about getting turned on. I was usually the only one there and I always wondered who locked the doors at night. Although I’m not the best athlete and not the biggest guy around, at five feet seven inches tall and one hundred and fifty pounds, I always did my best. I have great pecs that really pop when I’m pumped, if I do say so. And I know I’ve turned a few heads when I take my shirt off and people see my abs. I always figured the more I work out the bigger and better I’ll get. Besides, when you’re gay, still living at home in the small town where you grew up, and going to community college, there’s not much else to do on a Friday night.