No – not the rash and fever caused by the infectious streptococci bacterium but the warm fuzzies you might get when you’ve got a case of the lust for the rust. Yes, I’m talking about red heads, copper tops, gingers.

There’s something that makes me go goo-goo for all that pasty white skin spotted with tons of freckles and a shock of bristling copper hair, cut short so it resembles the ends of electrical conduit, sparkling in the sun’s damaging rays. Gibbering doesn’t even begin to describe the state I work myself into when I glimpse a ruby red beauty. Obsessed, yes, much like a cryptozoologist who finally sees a Sasquatch with his own two eyes and if said rust-bucket has big feet… well, nevermind.

What I don’t understand is the UK disdain campaign to pick on the ginger-haired. These people, especially the men in my case, should be revered and not treated with cruelty. To catch a glimpse of one of these men is something to be savored, like that last bit of dark chocolate sucked from your thumb and index finger or that last glob of filling on your plate of home-made blueberry pie.

I suppose burning bush isn’t for everyone. This is fine because I’m greedy like that. Just on my way home this week, I saw this filthy, city worker in nothing but an orange safety vest and incredibly stained blue jeans and work boots picking up orange cones. When the wind would catch the vest and fling it open, I’d catch a full on view of his red goodie trail and pelt of chest hair! The crossing traffic was dense and I caught another one – this one in a beat up old blue truck – his head shorn, goldfish tattoos on his upper arm and a weeks worth of facial hair that had me daydreaming about him tickling my taint. I’d never been more happy to be at a stop light. Besides, I’d hate to wreck my car because I was visually overwhelmed.

Maybe it’s the rarity of these milky white masturbatory fantasies or maybe because I have an eye for things that stand out or aren’t typically seen as classically beautiful. I don’t know the ‘why’ so much as I’m just glad they are and they make spring all that much better.

It was Edgar A. Poe’s anniversary of his death and instead of absinthe and bemoaning life’s fragile state, some friends and I gathered to watch ‘The Black Cat’ and eat snacks, followed by a night out at the goth club. I go every now and then to these event nights as the music doesn’t suck and it brings the freaks out.

It’s always fun to watch the sexually ambiguous dance about, losing themselves in whatever beat they are attempting to capture. It’s a dress up kind of deal, where normal people get charged more money for admission. It’s a good mix of ropey-haired, latex wearing girls that look like evil dolls, punks, nerdy types with a dark side and a penchant for trenchcoats, older “lifer” goths, a tranny or two, and a smattering of military boys out on leave in dark clothing.

Smiths, Siouxie Sioux, and Thrill Kill Kult sends the masses into a taffy-pulling vortex in the smoke machines and strobe lights. Sweat pours down, glistening in bursts of light, collecting in cleavage and collarbones alike. Beautiful arms, tattooed, clad in black bondage gear thrust high above the heads of the crowd as a navy boy stomps about giving curious glances at other boys. People throw shapes, the music pulses on into the night, and I can practically smell how youthful everyone is.

For a moment, it carries me too, I feel like I’m feasting on their youth and I feel young again. It’s moments like these that make you wish you could freeze time, capture it, like an insect in amber. To be a vampire at that moment in time, strong-arming the pychobilly boy up against the wall where the strobe doesn’t quite go, sinking my teeth into his perfect brown neck – I would have sold my soul for it.

This is what you came here for? This dance to celebrate death. Not Edgar Allan Poe’s but your very own. The fantasy lingers only so long until I see where the sweat collects in his dark grey military fatigues and then I just wish I was his underwear.

And there’s that realization that time moves on, moves forward and doesn’t wait for me. My mouth is dry. I’m 36.

I go home for a cup of green tea and bed. It will be raining heavily this next week and it will be spent in doors, writing terrible verse to a buck-tooth girl in Luxembourg or piecing together pieces of art for very patient men.

Jocks and watersports and punks – OH MY! Another piece for another client in Seattle. I present, “Pit Stop”.

He comes over in plaster caked jeans, those big brown steel toe boots, and that thin t-shirt that clings to his torso like a second skin. There’s a V-shaped sweat stain down the front of the grey t-shirt, and two on the pits that run down his sides. The name of the business has rubbed off so all you can really see is the word “Interiors”. I met him through my website. Sometimes having dirty art out there has it’s fringe benefits.

“Sorry I’m so sweaty, but I know you like that, ” he says with that shit-eating grin.

I just push the side of my mouth out with my tongue, half smile and grunt. He walks past me, down the hall and into my bedroom. I shut the door behind us kicking off my Kansas City Wizards shorts watching him kick off those big boots revealing those wide meaty socked feet and I go stiff. He sees what I’m looking at as he pulls off his dusty jeans and grabs the tops of his tube socks and pulls them  tight up to his knees showing me the dirty, sweaty wide bottoms. Again that toothy grin. I grab his foot in my hands and push it to my face.

“Yeeeah!” He cheers me on, “Day 4 of wear. I guess I don’t have to ask you what you think.” He swats at my dick with his meaty paw and I flinch.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

He’s a good foot taller than me and probably works out just a little too much for my liking. He’s big. His feet are big. His dick is big. His mouth is big. He’s a scruffy, unshaven, sweaty, with this long bit of chin scruff. He tugs on his dick as he watches me lick and suck the sweat out of his socked toes and then grabs for the lube and lubes up his cock and starts plunging a finger up his ass.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted it bad, huh?”

“Can you tell?” Grinning at me with his legs in the air and 3 fingers now jammed up his crack. “You’re mohawk looks hot dude.”

If I had a quarter for every time I heard that I’d be rolling in it. I grab a condom and slide it on and slather my length with lube. With his 3 fingers in there I push inside of him with both of us hammering away at his hole. He lets out this sound, which is kind of like a donkey but with his furrowed brow and chin fuzz, it makes him look like a goat with a monkey’s face.

“Slut.” I say flatly and I pound away, pulling my face out from his feet cupped in my face.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say forcefully. “You know you are. You love cock up your ass. You told me yourself. You crave dick. My dick!”

“Yeah?” he probingly asks again, hoping for more of my dirty talk.

“Fag. Faggot. Sissy. Pussy. Cunt.” I spell each one out for him and punctuate it with a hard thrust of my shaft.

“More. More!” He begs me and then he does this weird thing. He reaches behind me with his long monkey arms and pushes two really greasy fingers up my butt. I give him a smirk and bite my lip. He wiggles his eyebrows at me and I start laughing.

“Dirty. Fuckin’. Pig. Fuckin’. Nasty. Sweaty. Stinking. PIG. Rotten. Little. Fuckhole. Sicko. Pervert.”

“YES!” He throws his bald head back on the bed. “Yes! Yes! More! Look!” He shows me his big veiny uncut dick slapping it against his stomach leaving little strings of pre-cum. He lubes up some more and then this time reaches from  between my legs this time and pushes 3 fingers in me.

“You little fucker!” I jackhammer his ass and he throws his head back again lets out this long howling grunt.

“Takes one to know one. I could probably put my big thick hand in you, you whore!”

“Keep that up and I’ll rip my cock out and replace it with my forearm!”

“No way,” he squealed.

I pulled out and his pucker drooled lube and winked. I grabbed his calf and in one swift movement, flipped him over onto all fours.

“Stay.”

I grabbed my gloves and popped the lid to a brand new can of Crisco, scooping out a nice big ball of it to push inside this fuckers greedy little hole and then coated my hand and forearm. He looked back at me and said ‘shit’ under his breath. His hole opened up so easy for that semi-soft ball of lard so I gave him another. The bastard is going to eat my arm.

Two fingers, three and then four went in so easy. I pumped my gooey fingers in and out of him and stealthily popped the thumb into my palm and began to fuck him on it. He kept rocking back on my hand getting used to it, or so I thought, and the whole hand goes in!

“Oh my god! How many fingers??”

“Um… all of them?”

“All? Like what?”

“My hand is up your ass, dude!”

“Oh sweet!! I’ve never gotten this much at once!”

I laugh knowing he’s probably taken some big things up there. So I let the pig bounce around on my hand and wrist, watching him gleefully take it and he sweetly reaches back and greases up my dick looking at my face as I watch him pig out on my arm.

“What?” I ask him.

“What time is it?” he asks me.

“Almost 7. Why?”

“Shit. Pull out. Shit. SHIT! SHIT!”

I do and ask him what’s wrong. He avoids the question and asks me to get him a towel, he has to shower. So he does, gets dressed and as I walk him to the door I ask if he’s ok. I clean up a little and put my shorts back on.

“Yeah. Yeah,” He assures me and then kisses me hard on the mouth with tongue, “I’m late is all. I have to go home, it’s me and my wife’s 6th anniversary.”

I stand there watching him from the door with my mouth wide open, getting into his big white truck, waving and smiling and then drives away.

You little fucker. I hope you read this.

“What are you doing?” I’m texted.

“Nothing,” I text back, “Why?”

“I got a new ski mask. heh.” 

I couldn’t hear him in text but that rolling, evil laugh I read between the lines was there. It’s one of those laughs that never really makes it out of the mouth, but emits directly from the throat, vibrating through the adam’s apple.

The phone rings.

“Leave your screen on your window loose. Put on a jockstrap and that hole better be clean as a whistle. Leave on your socks cuz it’s cold out. Lay out your poppers, toys and lube. Face down. One hour.”

Off to the shower, my thick dildo, my Elbow Grease Hot, and my poppers. This is my cleansing routine and the way I get in the mood for our little meetings. We met over good beer and bad music in the jukebox, that was until I put about $5 in to make Cher stop singing. Rancid, The Specials, Elastica, and even some Ramones. “J.” works for UPS, bald, furry in lots of places, and has a good 3 inches on me in height and in length. We proceeded to get drunk with a game we started playing revealing one of our kinks followed by big gulps of suds, trying to top the other with how bent we could get.

Piss. Big dildos. Feet. Jocks. Fists. Choking. Ski masks. And on and on.

“Rape?”

“Rape? How?”

I grinned, “Rough, believable, held down, hurt, hands around the throat, resulting in crying.”

“You crying or me crying?” There was that laugh.

“Depends on who’s getting fucked.”

After my clean out, greasing and hole stretch in the shower, on went my jock and tube socks. Cap off the Elbow Grease, lay out the poppers and assorted ass toys and then the window. Once it’s open from the inside, the screen can be easily removed from it’s hook latches – if I get almost all of them. The rest can be done by J.

Time check. One hour, eight minutes. Under the covers to “sleep” and to wait. Ten minutes. Fifteen. And nearly twenty. Heavy breathing and some clambering. I sneak a peek. He can’t see in the dark yet, but I can. His outline from the light across the yard makes an ominous halo – dark hoodie, jeans, and a red and black ski mask. My cock strains in my jock. I know the drill.

The unmistakable unbuckling of a belt buckle and he kicks off his sneakers, unzips taking his thick dick in his hand to grease it. Slowly the comforter and the sheet is pulled down. He hums and grunts as he shucks his jeans. The bed moves as he uses his knees to walk up the mattress to straddle my thighs. I can feel the heat from his crotch tantalizingly close to my hole.

Then J does something that puts my heart in my throat – I feel a cold blade of a knife between my shoulder blades.

He growls, “Make one sound. One stupid move. I’ll kill you.”

I’m really scared this time. What a sick fuck! I hate knives. I’m paralyzed with fear and on the verge of freaking out. My prelubed hole clenches shut and the cold from the open window doesn’t help. I shudder beneath him.

“What are you doing!?”

“Shuddup, ya filthy fuckin’ whore.”

He grabs my mohawk, lifting my head and places the blade under my chin with the flat side against my throat with the sharp edge up. I’ve lost my hard on and I start to sob. I think I’m going to puke. He removes the blade from my neck and with a handful of my hair, forces my face in the pillow hard.

With J’s full weight on my head, his now knifeless hand reaches between my cheeks and pushes 2 fat fingers forcefully up my hole.

“Yeeeaaaah,”  he growls, yanking my head to one side, putting his full weight on my back and his cock nestled and slipping between my well greased cheeks, pressing his lips against my ear so I can feel his hot breath and that all too sexy ski mask. “You know why I’m here. I’m going to work you over good. I’m the guy on the news.”

I gulp down a mouthful of phlegm and whimper as the tip of his cock slides into me and he starts to laugh. I choke and beg for him to stop and he slides his hands around my neck.

“Dontchu fuckin’ scream!”

He pumps me full of his dick as my hole gives way and little pinpricks of light dance before my eyes. Just before I think I’m going to pass out J releases my throat and I collapse into my pillows listlessly. I hear him hit the poppers and he then sprays something into a cloth. Again, grabbing my mohawk he lifts my face from the pillow forcing a cloth into my mouth.

“Breathe deep, faggot.”

I do and my face goes warm and my ears seem to close yet pick up heightened bits of sound, including the rush of blood pumping through my body, which goes completely limp. My head spins almost to the edge of consciousness and it’s almost as if I step outside my body. J’s cock is now replaced by the rather big head of a rubber dong and pushed deep inside me, again and again.

I’m rolling. Whatever it is has made me rather receptive.

“Yer a rotten little cunt and you deserve this.”

Yeah. I do. I sure do. I’m not able to fight him off, even if I wanted to. Out comes the dildo and in goes his cock and I buck up to meet his balls. Deep, heavy thrusts give way to sloppy, constant fucking. My cock stiffens and is crushed against my belly and the mattress, relentlessly pounded by my intruder. My ears pop, my hole clamps down, and he unloads inside of me spent.

“Don’t,” he warns,”get up. Keep yer fuckin’ face down. Count to 50 once I pull out. You tell anyone about this and I’ll be back to make sure you don’t.”

I do as he says, mostly. I watch him get dressed, peering under my armpit. His furry belly and softening but plump dick. The sight makes me want to jerk off but I wait until he’s slipped out of the window and into the night to turn over, rip off my jock and pound out a hefty load all over my stomach.

10 minutes later, I get a text.

“You didn’t count to 50. I saw you cum. I’ll be back.”

I replace the window, crawl under the covers and drift off to sleep.

This time of year when it oscillates between warm and cool, the sightings of guys in tube socks and shorts here in Southern Cali goes through the roof.

I’m totally minding my business today at lunch, halfway between chewing and just taking time to relax and I nearly choke. It wasn’t any bonehead move I made, but the actions of others. I’m totally at the mercy of the stimuli around me. Not only do I spy one skater with knee high tubes but THREE! Good fuckin’ Christ! And their all hot, tattooed, baggy drawers, big sweaty sneakers and they were all scruffy as fuck… with skateboards! I was sitting directly in the sun filtering through the window on my dark jeans and if that wasn’t bad enough – I’m struck with this image causing me to pop major wood.

So all I could think about today was this image as I headed to Costco later today to pick up all the stuff I need by the metric ton. Milk, juice, allergy medicine, water, razor blades, hot, stocky, rockabilly stocker in shorts and tubesocks… No! No! No! No! No! Those legs. Those meaty fucking legs disappearing into sneakers, tightly wrapped in those socks to keep his calves warm! I white-knuckled the carriage handle wishing I was white-knucking something just as stiff, while he egged me on to sniff, suck, chew his size 8′s while I stuck my throbbing dick deep inside his puckered asshole, telling me how much he needed it…

And then I’m totally caught staring caught in mid-fantasy.

I felt my ears get red and bent down to pick up a palette of water bottles and put them in my carriage and I try to snatch one last peek and he catches me trying to sneak another glance.

Man, I’m such a perv but wouldn’t you keep looking too?

I’m packed and heading back to San D tonight with my suitcase well emptied out from all the cards I sold! It’s a cool, sunny morning here in San Francisco and I have to get moving to meet up with an old friend for lunch.

I spent most of the time behind the table at my booth so wonderfully and thoughtfully donated to artists like me, only taking a slow plod to head off to the port-o-potties to take the biggest leak in the universe. I’ve got some funny stories, met old college friends, new faces, and lots of thank you emails to write down and put out there.

Once again, I’m so glad to be in the esteemed category and company of such excellent artists and creative people who brought this all together. You guys are the best!!

Until I’m back in Sunny San D – I’m signing out to go for a walk and a bite to eat.

Now that the Tom of Finland Art Fair is over (check out Ad Schuring’s Blog about it), I’m focusing on this weekend’s festivities – The Folsom Street Fair.

Seems that the fundies have their undies in a bunch this year as the poster depicts Sisters of Perpetual Indulgance and Leatherfolk around a table, passing around sex toys instead of bread and wine. Concerned Women of America are seething and they are demanding that House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Governor Schwarzenegger and Senators Feinstein and Boxer to publicly condemn the ad (Tip of the Hat to Towleroad).

Is it me or is the fact that Michelangelo’s Last Supper (edit: duh! Leonardo’s – this is what happens when you fall asleep in art history!)was created by a man-lovin’ artist not ringing the big irony gong loud enough for them? Also, is it me or does the name Concerned Women of America make you think of a bunch of women sitting around clutching their pearls, lips pursed like cat’s asses in the hopes that they soon pass those kidney stones while staring in your window?

Come by booths V1060 and V1064, which are right next to each other on 11th St. between Harrison and Folsom and see the work of Sean Platter, Justin Hall, Steve MacIsaac and myself. We’ll have prints, cards and other stuff for purchase. Look for the big red and black Drub boot print on a banner!

I haven’t been dreaming much lately, so when I do, it’s kind of like a lead pipe over the head – you remember it later.

Thursday morning, I seemed to be on some sort of bowling league with some friends and we were losing horribly. The worse my teammates did, the better I bowled, simply by willing it to be. I remember drinking beer and having to use the restroom, so I excused myself.

The whole dream seemed like I was viewing it through a piece of scratched glass with dirt around the edges, creating this awesome textured effect. The colors seemed to be muted and earthy, giving me great comfort, and there were splashes of red on things of interest – like our bowling shirts.

Going into the bathroom, I noticed a very handsome, bald goateed janitor putting a mop and bucket into a side closet and giving me a raised eyebrow and smile. I thought nothing of it, peed at the urinal, and went to wash my hands. I glanced up into the mirror and noticed that the humpy janitor had removed his faded blue coveralls and stooped over the toilet in the darkened stall of one of the toilets in nothing but a pair of thick grey boot socks. His hole looked absolutely moist and it looked like he’d been fucked a lot. Not only was it glistening, but it was downright hairy. He looked over his shoulder at me and I could tell he was grinning even though his shoulder covered the view of his mouth.

The air felt electric and I remember hearing the dim fluorescent lights in the ceiling humming and popping and flickering. The view got really close to my eyes and they dilated and the camera view spun around to the back of my head to show the hair on my neck standing on end.

I dove into his ass face first, easily pushing my tongue up his pucker. He grunted and bucked on my face and asked me if I was going to fuck him. Without saying a word, I release my cock from my jeans and push against his hole easily gaining entry. I remember thinking to myself in the dream, “man… I love guy’s asses.”

Soon after this there was some sort of waking realization that I knew I was dreaming and that my dick was incredibly fat and wrapped in something. I continued to buck my hips as I slowly woke, finding I’d cleverly enveloped myself in a very pleasurable piece of my comforter and was leaking pre-cum all over the place.

I slammed my eyes shut, conjuring that janitor and his hot, sloppy ass. His sounds, his smell, the lighting. I choked one out letting fly 4 thick, fat, ropey strings of jizz – splat, splat, splat… splat on my chest and belly.

I want to wake up like that every morning, except with a sexy, bad-ass motherfucker wrapped around my johnson.

Catch this before it get’s yoinked off YouTube!