It’s preposterous how they were never able to see us. They first see our effeminate nature: not proper for man.  Then, our bogus identity: neither man, nor woman.  And when lucky, some will merrily behold the darken layers of our negative conditionings – plus, any other aspects of such natural lottery to which we call existence. Truth is, there’s only so much you can share during low tea at your friend’s baby shower – yet, for a gay guy like me, anything illustrious that should come out of my mind is to be shattered under the common knowledge that fully fledged faggots aim only to grasp at flowers, preferably assorted in arrangements. »

Last week, alongside other bloggers, I joined Stuart Vevers (Loewe’s creative director) and PR crew extraordinaire to take part in a roundtable at the 2nd floor of the company’s Gran Via store. Together, we were to celebrate the excellence and skill of the in-house artisans as portrayed by Stuart Vevers in the “Masters of Leather” book. Predictably, I was late on arrival. Upstairs, a tall man with strawberry-blond hair was already answering the many questions of my internet peers, and under dimmed lights and bowl shaped crystal chandeliers everyone seemed to have a lot to question. I, for one, felt more entertained by the PR girl’s red lipstick and Stuart Vevers’ heartbreakingly refined bone structure – thus allowing myself to contemplate such small lusts while the Vogue correspondent asked all the questions. »

I was on my best philosophical behavior, sitting bored and polite at the university library, and sneakily posing with a mountain of random books that I do not intend to read, when I suddenly got an urge for sex. »

Last night I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t know what was keeping me from doing so. It couldn’t be for those infamous procrastinating work-ethics that got me delayed one semester (no, there’s definitely nothing there to worry about), neither could it be for that gym membership monthly charge, still going through waste due to my pending relationship with reality (and yes, I refuse to run next to people who are better built than me). Besides, having burnt bridges with everyone in town is not sufficient predicament to loose sleep. No sir. »

Time was never our allied, regardless: not a year goes by without a celebration. Everything takes time, and time takes upon everything. Time’s absolute teleology comprises all: those who were born to blossom, will also bloom to perish. »

Standing still at an intersection, I could only sense the traffic rush blocking my blood flow. The greater was the movement outside, the deeper felt the stillness of heart. »

I wish I had spent the afternoon lying in a golden chamber fashioned like a late-roman empire  intrigue, where Mademoiselle Charlotte Casiraghi’s pouting presence, meets me sipping tea with Diane Kruger-turned-fag-hag-of-the-jour at Chanel’s Paris-Byzance Métiers d’Art defilé. But no. »

Every time we kissed I heard a choir in the back on my head, and instead of Halleluiah, they sung There’s got to be more to life. I felt like the damned bastard of highly fantasized demands, slow kissing to the melody of unattained completeness. It must be weird that the thought holding my body close to yours was neither passion nor belonging: instead, I felt for the way your grandmother framed old prints of Pathé Camera ads on your XIX century downtown bedroom. Truth is: if some of us love boys, others grow founder of ideas. »

They say you die and go to heaven. If the latter is true, I really wish God would grant me a bail and let me stay put in my Chanel black and white silk coffin for eternity. The thing is I’m not a Heaven’s person. It’s tacky. Often people envision such place as conflict free, anger-managed, white-trash condo with built in facilities completed with squirrels, possibly Madre Teresa, and all things catholic gathered around a somewhat large green village whose mayor is none other than an improved version of deceased Steve Jobs. Free Ipads to all. I puke. »

You thought being gay meant a full body wax and annoying accessorizing and I guessed being straight was that recurrent gag reflex men usually get after I walk in. Luckily both myths were shattered by our idiosyncratic personalities that fate brought together in university seminars. It was the birth of Bonnie and Clyde. Britney and Playback. Capitalism and Slavery. The kind of mix that glues stupidity and football fans together apparently for the sake of escapism. They said we were birds of a feather that flocked together… – so tell me: why did you have to go and fluff my feathers?

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Any words bound to express the human achievements due to a gifted working mind pose an irrelevant weight when it comes to trading it for beauty. Youth culture and Photoshop drama made it harder for the wise ones. When it comes to love, what bounces your scale? ACNE male models or Nobel Prize winners with patterned male baldness? Truth is, no one’s getting hard-on’s out of Nietzsche dead corpse. So if a genius mindset is barely enough to capture human attention, what’s really left for people who rely on a brain to succeed? Obviously: chirurgic enhancement.

Yesterday, I told a friend he should get a microdermabrasion. Today, I’m thinking I should get a brain refill after surrendering myself to a cruelty rehab program. Fact: he’s not an ACNE male model but I rather dinner with him than orgy with four of them. Nonetheless, I was ready to put my male straight friend on the extreme makeover HOMO edition.

Why? »

When a facebook post triggers a twilight of thoughts that a year in philosophy couldn’t, odds are something’s wrong. Or something’s quite right. Forget your ordinary photo upload entangled on shameless self promotion of every gaga infused euro-teen micro-pop-star that relies on social networking and a low-width brain connection to actually live; forget the parties’ coverage; forget Leigh Lezark updates that let you know she’s currently DJeing at Chanel Resort Party to actually pay for her supper. Forget how desperately you’ve been clicking for those news feed refresh hoping it ends up refreshing your boredom or for the likes who have it, your brain. Forget all that gifted crap: yesterday there was a quite low-profile Swedish hottie who turned up to Facebook to change my Status. He said: We avoid risks in life to make it safely to death. Two minutes after, I was a married bitch. (the latter being untrue)

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I really couldn’t care less if there’s a volcano erupting in new Mexico: as long as I can pity my own eruptions in a multibillion dollar concrete floor apartment sur le seine: I’m cool. So yes, I’m giving up those hopes of saving mankind from my doorstep, while trading it for a new obsessive plan to get me in the lead of United Nations by the end of this week. You see, for the sake of ambition I’ll turn down every Friday night plan until you all figure that so-called-party-monsters are buried with Akhenaton.

Meeting random people for the sake of being with random people?  No. I despise random and that is the main seasoning of Friday night scanks up and around town. Go ahead. Build your life around love: your other half; my fellow brothers; world united; love you for life; ladies night. It’s all so sweet it makes me sick. There: I’ve officially exterminated those resilient sweet sugary friendships that could only care for Friday night plans or mediocre marital summer vacations. It may have felt sugary once in a lifetime, but if sugar thrills, sugar kills. »

Little Red Ridding Hood was a tale meant to keep suburban wolves away from children. Ironically, now that you left childhood behind: this is precisely the tale you’ll need the most.

It’s Sunday morning and you have another boring date with university dullness. The gloomy cafeteria filled with bourgeois reminders: people wearing sneakers and colour pantone extraordinaire popped onto everyone’s cotton knitwear. While you enter that place a row of straight guys immediately burns you with an array of dumb expressions: yes, welcome the non-normative human male wearing a Balenciaga cocoon jacket, hence: unsettling the universal criteria of straight plane understanding into monkey riot. This was Monday morning. Imagine what happens by the end of the week when everyone is tired of social awareness and educated politeness.

Minding that, it should never come as a surprise if Little Red Ridding Hood escapes the school cafeteria to be on a date with the Big Bad Wolf. Tricky but true. »

If teachers always told us we should love thy neighbour: why do I feel like running a chainsaw thru all my fellow citizens?

I have a confession to make: although I’ve never killed anyone… there’s blood in my hands. Like a lot. I spend half my day contemplating with pleasure the hypothetic movement of a chainsaw or an axe cutting thru my peers flesh while I elegantly back off to avoid their blood spurt from staining my immaculate Jil Sander look. You probably think I’m sick. And I am. So move on.

Well: I’m sick of people. I hate people. I find most of them either: impolite, stupid, dumb, gross, poor, ugly, or just painfully uninteresting. It’s not like I am afraid of living alone: its more like I’m afraid of having a person who looks like a female version of Osama bin Laden sitting next to me. Why am I sharing the world with people that have oily skin 24/7 and accessorise their hair with pony pigtails?  Next time you ask me if this seat is taken I’ll politely grab a knife out of my Hermés tote while answering: YES BITCH! This seat is taken: My HATE is sitting there.

I’ve had it! I’m calling Barbra Streisand to sing this life long grief towards a society that inbreeds ugly people with dumb people in an everlasting effort to create a world of dirty little midgets who duplicate themselves when they hit the age thirty.  I’m done doing polite. You’re greasy, you have facial hair where you shouldn’t and when we walk your talk is suicide. Bottom line: you should get a vasectomy by law enforcement. »

Don’t call my name, Alejandro.

We’ve all been there.  Whenever love is unavailable fuckbuddies will be there to make sure affection is. Welcome: It’s Friday night at his house, in his bed, and all you wanted for tonight was good old jungle fever. No talk. No drama. Just sex. You’re taking a drag at your cigarette while contemplating the blank wall of a relatively unknown bachelors pad. Feels empty, but we guess empty felt good enough until you hear him calling you babe.

(A black hole drowns your imagination into disbelief. Oh no, he just didn’t.) »

Late night and there’s another blind date drama knocking on my cell phone. The plot is simple: boy meets boy through some creepy date website and after a brief encounter the relationship evolves into an immense halo of expectation. If cell phone and text messages fuelled it, second date: blew it. Panorama: apocalypse!

Now, let’s not panic and start by asking why did so profound and promising encounter of twin souls ended up on Sunday night fiasco. Apparently, and although there was this immense love and esteem towards the whole personality of the boy in question: personality ended up not being enough. Something lacked. And no, the other guy was not handicapped: all of his members where in place and his presentation felt everything but shameful – that being, a boy like that should have been up to the expectations; or at least up to grownup expectations. I mean: wouldn’t you be grateful if you could spend the rest of your life – or realistically, the next 3 months – in the company of someone that actually understands your speech (?) and doesn’t require you to spell every random notion into letters?  Isn’t it enough sharing an exceptional deal of understanding in order commit?  What else is your mind/body/or soul demanding from your blind-date-subject? Where should we draw the line of demanding?

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What’s new about the hysteric girl rolling her body in the church floor while mimicking to her latest single? Nothing. It’s probably a new face and certainly her clothes have been updated. Still, it’s that same archetype woman, or gay man, that needs to have a Madonna moment crying out loud how bad she’s possessed by a male. Histrionic females (I’m including myself in the lead) are doomed. Doomed to be rejected precisely by the man they wanted to be loved by. We’ve came to accept this as a dominant and unsolvable criteria of the universe. No matter whom that guy might be: if you’re madly possessed, he will madly ditch you. Accept it. Take a pill; and have yourself a Florence/Madonna moment in front of your bathroom mirror, at least, twice a day. The psychology that feeds this process is simple: feeling the latent and eminent rejection that the male object is covering, a histrionic woman, will take it as a challenge and determines unconsciously to commit her whole self into buying those extra 60% of male love lacking from the relationship since the very beginning.  Seems wicked? No. It’s just girlish. Girls will only desire what they feel it’s unavailable; and when it comes to men, the less available they are, the more obsessed they’ll be. Think shoes. Have you ever come across to a shoe fight at a Zara store? No. But you’ve certainly seen females being backstabbed over some vintage Chanel flats lost in the flea market racket of some Pakistani guy. Yes. They might cost the same, and probably both will make an impact (at least male wise concerned impact): but truth is, women will love the very object that says: unavailable, crime scene, or war zone.  It’s the curse of beauty: to forever miss what you couldn’t have, and easily dismiss what you already have. End.