I’m An Achievement Slut

Mollena Williams falls victim to my starfuckery.

I’m a normal heterosexual guy in a lot of ways. I like boobs and asses, and legs. I’m a sucker for a pretty face, pretty eyes and a nice smile.  I’m also a bit of a star fucker, but I don’t care fuck all about money or status. I’m a star fucker, but only because I’m attracted to whatever talent made said star a star in the first place.

I’ve discovered that I’m an achievement slut.

Are you a woman with a Masters or a PhD in a subject I’m interested in? Tell me about that. Are you a writer? Have you written something that I’ve read or want to read? That’s hot. Are you a performer? Have you spent hours, days, weeks, months or years of your life honing a skill like singing, acting or playing music? Are you an artist? Can you create something beautiful that did not exist before? Have your muscles developed in unique ways due to dance, yoga or sports?  

Are you an activist?  Have you fought for your rights or the rights of others? Have you fought against injustice? Do you know firsthand the benefits of helping other people?

Have you raised children? Have you nursed ailing parents or friends? Have you survived an ordeal that might have broken someone else?

If you answered yes to any of the previous questions, please read on:

Do others consider you or do you consider yourself overweight or underweight? Are  you too tall or too short to be a runway model? If so, you may be my type.

Do you buck the system? Are you more comfortable in jeans and boots than a dress? Cause that’s hot. Are you just as comfortable in a dress as you are in jeans and boots, cause that’s even hotter. Do you ever wear ridiculous costumes? Do you make them yourself? Have you ever shaved your head bald? Are you comfortable leaving the house without make-up?  How about without shaving your legs or under your arms?

Have you accomplished all this awesomeness in spite of, or because of, being born with a birth affect, using crutches or a wheelchair for mobility, being visually or hearing impaired, or being part of any other marginalized group? 

If so, then congratulations.  Not only do I respect your gangsta’, but I probably think you’re hella sexy and doubt I’m the only one who feels that way. 

2011: The Year of the Hater

It seems like my haters are coming out of the woodwork lately. But here’s the funny thing: they’re not coming out of the woodwork to hate on me. They’re coming to wish me a happy birthday, ask about attending parties that I’m hosting and even to give me free t-shirts. I’m discovering that maybe I don’t have as many haters as I thought. I just hate a lot of people. So I guess that makes the biggest hater of all… me.

We have seen the haters and they are… us.

I’m not naïve. There’s a reason why many of the people I was formerly at odds with are going out of their way to be nice to me lately. My profile has risen in the past year (mostly due to my work with SEX+STL) and they want to be part of my life again. That doesn’t even bother me. It’s this revisionist history of acting like it’s all good between us when it isn’t. I would respect them more if they acknowledged the issues between us and tried to move beyond them, rather than pretend they didn’t exist. Why act like the elephant in the room isn’t an elephant in the room?

2011 has taught me how to deal with difficult people without sacrificing my dignity or decorum. I’ve learned that the best way to handle a hater is to be honest, direct and consistent; to know my facts and stick to them and to refrain from name-calling, editorializing and exaggerations. I wish my haters all the best, I honestly do and I give them credit when credit is due. Just because I don’t like someone doesn’t mean they’re always wrong. Even a busted clock is right twice a day.

I’ve also learned that, while I have my haters, a lot more people love me and even more respect me. And while it’s natural for the squeaky wheel to get the grease, I invest entirely too much time and energy on the small percentage of people that I’m at odds with. Like Kat Williams says, if you have 700 lovers, you’re bound to have 70 haters. That’s just your tithe.

So I have declared 2011, “The Year of the Hater.” And guess what, haters? Your 365 days of fame are almost up. May you and I find better things to do with our time in 2012.

“I’m so gifted at finding what I don’t like the most. So I think it’s time for us to have a toast.”

Big ups to all my haters!

Here’s a toast to all the men who’ve raped women I care about, those who will never see the outside of a prison wall (Hi Brandon!) and those still walking around free (you know who you are). May you learn the error of your ways and begin the long road to recovery in 2012. And mad respect to all the women who have survived your abuse and kept on moving.

Here’s a toast to the unfaithful wives in ostensively monogamous marriages who seek to use me to cheat on their husbands, and then kick dirt on my name when I don’t take the bait. May you and your husbands find good counseling or at least good lawyers in the new year.

Here’s a toast to those who question my integrity and have very little of their own. May you realize that you’re bringing a knife to a gunfight.

And finally, a toast to all those who talk shit about me behind my back. You really should Google me. Not only am I the easiest man to find in St. Louis, but I’m also my mother and my father’s son. I will run all up in your spot if I have to.

I’ve given my haters a lot of shit today. Seems like the least I can do is play them a song… 

Conversations with Rexy: I Want To Peel Your Skin Off

My friend Rexy is so funny, I had to give her a blog category of her own. She has graduated from "Shit Women Say To Me."

The following conversation took place in bed:

Rexy: I want to take a box-cutter, peel your skin off and take it home with me.

Me: Um... why?

Rexy: Because I love the way your skin feels.

Me: Wow, most girls would have just said, "I love the way your skin feels." But you led with the whole "box-cutter thing," because you're unique.

Twelve hours later, via text message:

Me: Have you seen the movie May? It made me think of you. I think you'll love it. We have to watch this movie together!

Rexy: Never seen it. What's it about?

Me: It's about a mentally disturbed woman whose best friend is a doll. It's the creepiest God-damned shit I've ever seen.

Rexy:  I think I may be insulted now.

Me: Just trust me.

Rexy: Just watched the trailer for May. Two things: I'm bringing a scalpel when we watch it and you'd better bring a good explanination and/or bribe.

Shit Women Say To Me: Glad You Can Read My Subtext

Her: What's this "you're smarter than I expected," "I like you more than I expected" stuff? Makes me wonder what exactly you were expecting! 

Me: I thought you were dumb and that I'd hate you.

Her: I appreciate your honesty. Speaking of dumb, can I peruse your book collection so that I can rectify my situation? 

Me: Sure. If by "peruse" you mean "suck" and by "book collection" you mean "cock."

Her: I'm glad you can read my subtext.