Thursday, February 16, 2006


Tomorrow after I teach my last class of the week, I'm hopping on a train to Liverpool. I've got a conference all weekend and then must train-it back to London immediately to work the BAFTAs on Sunday night. Then I must teach again on Monday morning, most likely with a wicked hangover since I know I won't be able to avoid going to the drunken BAFTA after-parties. Jake Gyllenhaal, Heath Ledger, Ralph Fiennes, Charlize Theron, Renee Zellweger, George Clooney, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and the rest of the attendees better be ready for me. When I'm a busy boy with a nonstop schedule, I am in no mood to fuck around. Work hard, play hard, baby.

So. Who lives in LA? Well, besides you, of course, my little bicoastal transplant media mogul. (Oh. Excuse me. I'm all about cheesy nicknames this month.) I ask about LA 'cuz I'm about to click the Send button to RSVP via email for another conference in SoCal at which I've agreed to present in April. I've still got lots of Los Angelean TV "coworkers" at whom I often scream while shooting on location in London, or freak-out with via telephone while climbing the satellite bays in the London studio. My legally insane roommate from college just moved to LA, too, and is apparently Tyra Banks' assistant. Anyway, Awesome is going to meet me down in LA in early April, where we where galavant all over the bars on Sunset Blvd. and in West Hollywood, my old stomping grounds from back when I was a full-time bicoastal TV prodigy. Then I'll go back to San Fran with Awesome for a couple of weeks during my spring break.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Last November when I went to Liverpool for a conference, I met a heterosekshul Irish guy, presumably about my age, to whom I confessed my automatic undying love. After I told him about Awesome and he told me about his girlfriend, he confessed his automatic undying love for me, as well. Since this event, I've received sporadic emails with excerpts including, Well, I really shouldn't be in Liverpool this weekend. But since you're there, I really must stay in town. How could I not? I'll go anywhere you are. What other conferences are you presenting at this term? It'd be worth going just to see you.

How do I respond to this? See, I know the bastard is performing this empty flirting on purpose because he enjoys it. And I plan to give it right back because, well - he's straight! The fact that he is absolutely gorgeous has little to do with my attraction to him. I mean gorgeous in the royal, blue-blood looking sense. The guy looks like a prince. All the other males in his family are barristers. His storybook name is posh enough to make the Queen cum simply upon hearing the syllables that comprise his identity. I wish I could write his full name here (just to prove it) but alas, I will not give the wonderfully egocentric prick another reason to Google his own name.

Rather, it's the unabashed cockiness - not even cockiness, really, but pure, unquestioned confidence and self-assuredness - that makes the insides of my thighs throb when I sit across from him. When someone is confident and confrontational enough to fight with yours truly about anything (and this rarely happens), I must do everything in my power to not climb across the table and straddle his lap. That evil, snarky but sexy smile of his makes me melt into a puddle of drool within seconds. Last November, I could feel everyone else in the conference rooms staring at us, probably wondering if the two of us were going to explode.

The fact that this homosekshul vs. heterosekshul empty flirting will never reach climax brings a sort of tantric quality to every conversation and competitive across-the-room gaze that we give each other. When two people go at it for hours without climax - be it physical, verbal or emotional - all you do is yearn for more. And more. And more and more and more and more and more and more and...oh. Phew. I need a shot of vodka.

The fact that Irish is equally passionate about all of my life's loves make things even worse, of course. For example, I cannot talk to Awesome about any of my PhD research or conferences or teaching pedagogy or media activity or my professional life in general because he does not understand. That's normal. It's fine. When Awesome talks to me about his nursing life and throws all these medical abbreviations and acronyms in my ears, I have no idea what the fuck he's talking about. He speaks passionately and obsessively and he really cares about these things - and I listen thoroughly, but these technical terms and procedures are meaningless to me, other than the fact that they mean something to my partner. Which is okay, I think - who the hell would romantically want to be with someone who shares every aspect of your life, especially your professional world? Who wants to bring the office into bed or to a romantic dinner? Sexual attraction is so much hotter when it's with someone completely unexpected and dissimilar, and that's what Awesome and I've got.

So why am I shaking right now? Uh, perhaps it's because Irish can read my mind like a psychic and says what I'm already thinking before I say it. (And this has never happened - ain't nobody think like I do.) Perhaps it's because whenever Irish speaks to me I feel like he's reaching down my throat and deep into my chest, stroking all of my internal organs, and also perhaps it's because I know I do the same to him. Perhaps it's because this empty excitement is empty pleasure which will inevitably result in empty but responsible non-satisfaction. Oh my, that doesn't even make sense - I can't even fucking think clearly.

I already told Awesome that this weekend I'll be texting him every five minutes.

I am meeting Irish at his flat tomorrow night immediately upon my arrival to Liverpool. The mofo better not do one of those performances when he answers the door in a towel because he accidentally "just got out of the shower." I might die right then and there, right on his doorstep. Especially since I'm not the cheating type. Wait - he's straight. Oh, who am I kidding? Why am I worrying? This is a game, after all, and I do not lose games - I'll make this Irishman fall apart by Sunday morning. At least he'll take my mind off of my conference presentation, as I am the first speaker on Saturday morning. I'm not gonna sleep tonight.

Sex is God's joke on human beings. - Bette Davis