Busted. Sort of.

My Gay Men's Science Fiction book club is meeting this Sunday to discuss Flora Segunda, a book I hadn't even started until last night. Omigosh, it's just like being back in college, except I'm bald, paunchy, and not loaded. But aside from that, the unprepared for my assigned reading part I still have down pat. So I took today off from work, planning on staying at home, eating cookies and reading like a fiend. Which I did for a while, Flora Segunda turns out to be most charming, but then I got distracted. Darn porn.

Let me just say this about Brad Patton's enormous man meat: merciful heavens. Once I got past all that, I turned to catching up with my little blog friends. How I miss you all ever since my agency installed their evil web filter that won't let me peruse your chatter. I really do work, you know. I crank out press releases on subjects so arcane I have no idea what I'm talking about and I do it with panache. I administer a training program of more than 400 classes a year with an audience of around 10,000 businesses who think I am a god. I refrain from slapping anyone, ANYONE, professionally. And I did it all while keeping up with the bloglandia. But no more. Rats.

Speaking of my job, it and the interwebs collided last week when I was contacted on my mrpenee email by two people asking me to be their friend on Facebook, two people I only know through work and whom I do not relish knowing that my handle is "mrpeenee." As soon as I finished screaming like a little girl, I rushed over to the Facebook/Myspace/Nolife page and deactivated my account. Thombeau and Donna Lethal and who knows who else are very active there, but they have more grooviness in their fingernail clippings than I do in my entire being, so trying to keep up with them is pointless.

Knowing how the internet works, I'm sure it's too late. I don't even know if I had a link from Myspace to this blog, but if these queens could hunt me down, I shudder to think what else they can find.

When I was a regular habitue of the local sex clubs I was always a little concerned that I would run into someone I knew from my work. Naturally, I did a couple of times, and we would just both pretend to ignore the hard-ons hanging out of our pants, but still and all, a teensy awkward. We also used to see our mailman at Blow Buddies ALL THE TIME. He had those major pencil eraser nipples and would suck anything that was big, no matter what form of nastiness it was attached to.

Anyway.

I know, I know, "don't put up anything you don't want your mother or your boss to read" but what funs is that? The enchiladas I had for lunch and the local weather already comprise a big chunk of what I write about. If I cut out everything else, who'd want to read this? I certainly wouldn't.

As a mark of my defiance, here’s a houseboy