Some of you sons a bitches don't think I have a heart, or have said "I don't like your sad post on Facebook or your blog. Be happy."
Go fuck yourself.
Now that we've cleared that up, let me tell you something. I feel a bit broken lately.
Things are going well, money in the bank, I'm looking great, about to ride my motorcycle for the first time this year, etc. Things are looking up. But you know what, I'm conflicted. I'm missing somebody I can't have. It's the fire in my heart that I can't extinguish. The fire extinguisher is right there. But I can't break the glass. Falling in love sucks. If I could write a song, I would. Instead I write this blog with hopes that someone might see it and see something besides a pretty face. Is that weird or just hopelessly romantic?
Part of me has tried to move on, and the other part has said "Dann, you still love somebody else." You can't cheat on yourself. I'd love for it to be as easy for me as it was for him. I didn't think he had it in him. I was foolish enough to think he was in love with me, and like he said "I'll love you forever." When I say things I mean them. I said it back. Some mens words are golden. Others are worthless. Ironically, everyone thought I would have been the heartbreaker. Instead mine was shattered like my fucking leg.
I've only been in love once.
Once in 31 years.
Pathetic or real?
I say real. I've never felt such a fucking amazing feeling in my life. A feeling like I finally belonged to somebody. Somebody who unconditionally loved me even at my worst. I've had my worst moments with Ben. He had his with me. At the end of the day, I still loved the bastard, and forgave him. Forgiveness is a drug more powerful than heroin. You do it once, and you'll do it again and again. You add love to forgiveness and your heart fucks you. It fucks you so fucking hard that you'll never sober up from the drug that got you hooked. I didn't.
Maybe that's why I've had 50 first dates (so to speak) but never a second one. Never. I picked the poor bastards apart to the color of their shirt. They never had a chance. Why? Because they aren't him. Getting over someone is fucking hard. Fucking terrible. Fucking awful. Dealing with a broken heart is worse. I can't express in words the pure outright terror and helplessness I feel when I still dream about him. Weekly. The worst part is, you can't control your dreams. You're stuck. Stuck in some fucking purgatory until your mind and body decides to shut it off. Sometimes I wake up crying. 4 am or later. What do I naturally do? Look for him. Subconsciously for several moments until I gather myself, I'm looking for someone that's not there. Someone that hasn't been there in nearly a year. He was there for over a year. When I would have some fucking terrible night terror that was brought on by some fucked up childhood catastrophe that was beyond the control of a toddler, he was there.
Now he's off doing God knows what with God knows who, and I'm the one sitting her sobbing and writing this damned blog. How the hell do I always get the short end of the fucking stick? One of my best friends and I were talking tonight. He says "I don't think you're ready to date. You're too wound up. It might be 10 years before you settle down." Ouch. I was settled down. With Ben. I keep my dick in my pants. I tried. I tried real hard. I did the best job I knew how to be the best partner I could be. I'm not perfect. I'm nowhere near. But I tried. I tried so fucking hard to make him happy. I tried to the best of my ability. I think he found it easier to hate me than to love me. Such conflict.
Let's be honest.
I'm not the easiest bastard to get along with. I'm opinionated, old-school, bullheaded, narcissistic, and hard-nosed. I don't budge. I'm probably a terrible boyfriend. But I try. I really do.
Missing you,
-Danny
(you know I let you call me that and only you)
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
I think I still have a heart.
At 31, I've done a lot.
A lot of good, a lot of bad, and some shit that was just pure fucking evil.
I've been through a lot. A whole hell of a lot. I've seen things and been through more than most men should to at my age. Things that harden you. Change you. Sometimes for the better, though often for the worst. When you've lived a life as hellacious as the one I've been in for over 31 years, some habits die hard. Some never die. Others you have to try like hell to fix yourself. I lost something last June 13. Something that was more dear to me than I'd ever known. How did I know? Because I had never experienced it. It was love.
After 30 years on this Earth, I finally found love with a great guy named Ben. It was the most precious feeling in the world, and a feeling I'd never felt before. Sure, I was engaged before and said "The L Word" before, but this was different. Some incredible human connection that was far more than just a pretty face or sex. My soul felt warm. I could relax. I could be me. I could breath. It was so amazing until it started to unravel...
and I was the culprit.
Those old habits I was talking about die hard. Real fucking hard. You see, while I was in the middle of the best thing that ever happened to me, I still had to keep one eye open. Why? Being conditioned from the time you're a child that "right now" won't be here tomorrow. You spend you're whole life waiting on the other shoe to drop. Scared to death that it's going to change in a New York minute. In my life, it has. Parents leave. Parents move. The next thing you know, you're 18 and pushed out into society to fend for yourself. So conditioned to this "life" that you don't let anyone in even when it's time, and you know it's real.
I fucked up.
I royally fucked up.
Bad.
I'm sorry.
I truly am sorry.
From the bottom of my heart I still have.
I still have a heart.
I know I can be a prick. I often am. I spend my days being this guy that I'm really not. It's this facade placed in a glass case that I can't break out of because I'm just too goddamned scared to let anyone in. Do you have any idea how it feels to be trapped inside yourself? I sure as hell hope you don't. It's a awful feeling. Fucking terrible. I've spent time in therapy to get past it. I've changed. Finally, for the better. But at the end of the day, I'm still alone. Still without the one thing I want and cherish the most. Him. When I broke my leg, I secretly hoped he would find out and come see me. Call or something. Fucking something. I can't express in words how much it hurt my soul and my heart to be in a hospital alone. Knowing that if something worse had happened, I wouldn't have anyone there to make those decisions. Not having him there to hold my hand and assure me it would be ok. Being alone sucks. I did it to myself. Unintentionally.
It's like a self-inflicted gunshot wound without the bullet. You can't see the pain but it's real. Very real. I can honestly say, this is the only time in my life I've been in love. I never thought I would know what if felt like. A taste of love is a drug stronger than heroin, a good bottle of bourbon, or the smell of man. This is the only instance of love I've known or felt other than my grandparents. They're a hard act to follow. Very hard.. The only people that have truly loved me unconditionally since the day I was born. They brought me home from the hospital. My mother wouldn't have been there if she didn't need the ride. Of course, my father wasn't.
How do you fix something that's been broken for over a year?
How do you get back the one you truly love?
How do you right a wrong?
How do you show someone you've changed...for the better without looking like a total pussy?
How do you show you can have a sensitive side and aren't always a hard-nosed prick?
I don't know what to do but, I know what I want. I want Ben. I want things to be normal and how they should be. Is that too much to ask?
A lot of good, a lot of bad, and some shit that was just pure fucking evil.
I've been through a lot. A whole hell of a lot. I've seen things and been through more than most men should to at my age. Things that harden you. Change you. Sometimes for the better, though often for the worst. When you've lived a life as hellacious as the one I've been in for over 31 years, some habits die hard. Some never die. Others you have to try like hell to fix yourself. I lost something last June 13. Something that was more dear to me than I'd ever known. How did I know? Because I had never experienced it. It was love.
After 30 years on this Earth, I finally found love with a great guy named Ben. It was the most precious feeling in the world, and a feeling I'd never felt before. Sure, I was engaged before and said "The L Word" before, but this was different. Some incredible human connection that was far more than just a pretty face or sex. My soul felt warm. I could relax. I could be me. I could breath. It was so amazing until it started to unravel...
and I was the culprit.
Those old habits I was talking about die hard. Real fucking hard. You see, while I was in the middle of the best thing that ever happened to me, I still had to keep one eye open. Why? Being conditioned from the time you're a child that "right now" won't be here tomorrow. You spend you're whole life waiting on the other shoe to drop. Scared to death that it's going to change in a New York minute. In my life, it has. Parents leave. Parents move. The next thing you know, you're 18 and pushed out into society to fend for yourself. So conditioned to this "life" that you don't let anyone in even when it's time, and you know it's real.
I fucked up.
I royally fucked up.
Bad.
I'm sorry.
I truly am sorry.
From the bottom of my heart I still have.
I still have a heart.
I know I can be a prick. I often am. I spend my days being this guy that I'm really not. It's this facade placed in a glass case that I can't break out of because I'm just too goddamned scared to let anyone in. Do you have any idea how it feels to be trapped inside yourself? I sure as hell hope you don't. It's a awful feeling. Fucking terrible. I've spent time in therapy to get past it. I've changed. Finally, for the better. But at the end of the day, I'm still alone. Still without the one thing I want and cherish the most. Him. When I broke my leg, I secretly hoped he would find out and come see me. Call or something. Fucking something. I can't express in words how much it hurt my soul and my heart to be in a hospital alone. Knowing that if something worse had happened, I wouldn't have anyone there to make those decisions. Not having him there to hold my hand and assure me it would be ok. Being alone sucks. I did it to myself. Unintentionally.
It's like a self-inflicted gunshot wound without the bullet. You can't see the pain but it's real. Very real. I can honestly say, this is the only time in my life I've been in love. I never thought I would know what if felt like. A taste of love is a drug stronger than heroin, a good bottle of bourbon, or the smell of man. This is the only instance of love I've known or felt other than my grandparents. They're a hard act to follow. Very hard.. The only people that have truly loved me unconditionally since the day I was born. They brought me home from the hospital. My mother wouldn't have been there if she didn't need the ride. Of course, my father wasn't.
How do you fix something that's been broken for over a year?
How do you get back the one you truly love?
How do you right a wrong?
How do you show someone you've changed...for the better without looking like a total pussy?
How do you show you can have a sensitive side and aren't always a hard-nosed prick?
I don't know what to do but, I know what I want. I want Ben. I want things to be normal and how they should be. Is that too much to ask?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Always trust your gut...literally
I hadn't dropped a deuce in 2 days, then tonight after sushi, I had a cup of coffee. I'm still on crutches after my accident, and went home. As I'm about 4 miles from home...the pain started. I had to shit.
NOW.
I hit the flashers and drive my ass off, as I'm on the highway. I pull in my (shared) driveway and try my best to climb out of the car...with crutches. A terrible idea that I can tell isn't going to end well. As I put one foot on land it starts.
I shit my pants.
Every step I take, I'm still shitting. I can't stop. My bowels explode. I can't stop shitting.
For the love of baby Jesus my FRESH out of the dryer jeans now smell like a monkey's ass after a night out with 3 sailors drinking whiskey.
To make matters worse, my place is on the second floor. I can't hobble my girth up the stairs fast enough. As I make the landing, I fart and shit at the same time, and I feel it run down my leg. I'm in full emergency mode. I finally get in the door, after I of course drop the keys, to walk into a bathroom only 50 ft away...ONLY. As I get in the bathroom, I drop trow and the stench is of death. WTF DID I EAT! OMG! I sit down on the throne, and have 5 minutes of a massive movement. How the hell did I have that much shit in me? Jesus, I'm full of shit! When I was done, I stand up to see my ass is covered. The toilet is covered. Shit on the floor. Shit in my soft cast moonboot.
Shit was everywhere.
Literally. I just wanted to cry. I've never seen so much shit in my life. I've never seen so much shit. I start the shower, and clean the toilet. For once in my life, I wish I didn't live alone, and was glad one of my manservants wasn't here to witness this horror.
I get all the shit cleaned up, and I get dressed to go back out. I hear a horn beeping. I don't give a fuck. I just shit my pants, my leg is throbbing, and I just wanna get to the store for milk and ironically, toilet paper. I take the shitty pants downstairs to the washer and my cool neighbor ask what's going on when the dumbfuck Audi TT driving douchefag neighbor (yeah I said, it) come up barking at me to move my car. I laughed in his face told him to FUCK OFF, don't talk that way to me or I'll beat you ass, while I'm on crutches. Oh yeah see these things in my arm pits you self-centered FUCK, those are crutches. I would say suck my dick, but you'd enjoy it. Cool neighbor tells him he'd better get the fuck outta our building, because he'll beat his ass.
Douchefag retreats. I take my jeans downstairs to wash, and Fat bitch walks in telling me to move. I tell her the same thing as douche. She then tells me "Well you shouldn't be driving". I proceed to tell her "I didn't know you were my doctor. By the way, stop eating and get the fuck out, you cow." I'm in no mood. So finally after 10 more minutes, I get done and go to the store.
That's the story how I shit my pants...at 31
NOW.
I hit the flashers and drive my ass off, as I'm on the highway. I pull in my (shared) driveway and try my best to climb out of the car...with crutches. A terrible idea that I can tell isn't going to end well. As I put one foot on land it starts.
I shit my pants.
Every step I take, I'm still shitting. I can't stop. My bowels explode. I can't stop shitting.
For the love of baby Jesus my FRESH out of the dryer jeans now smell like a monkey's ass after a night out with 3 sailors drinking whiskey.
To make matters worse, my place is on the second floor. I can't hobble my girth up the stairs fast enough. As I make the landing, I fart and shit at the same time, and I feel it run down my leg. I'm in full emergency mode. I finally get in the door, after I of course drop the keys, to walk into a bathroom only 50 ft away...ONLY. As I get in the bathroom, I drop trow and the stench is of death. WTF DID I EAT! OMG! I sit down on the throne, and have 5 minutes of a massive movement. How the hell did I have that much shit in me? Jesus, I'm full of shit! When I was done, I stand up to see my ass is covered. The toilet is covered. Shit on the floor. Shit in my soft cast moonboot.
Shit was everywhere.
Literally. I just wanted to cry. I've never seen so much shit in my life. I've never seen so much shit. I start the shower, and clean the toilet. For once in my life, I wish I didn't live alone, and was glad one of my manservants wasn't here to witness this horror.
I get all the shit cleaned up, and I get dressed to go back out. I hear a horn beeping. I don't give a fuck. I just shit my pants, my leg is throbbing, and I just wanna get to the store for milk and ironically, toilet paper. I take the shitty pants downstairs to the washer and my cool neighbor ask what's going on when the dumbfuck Audi TT driving douchefag neighbor (yeah I said, it) come up barking at me to move my car. I laughed in his face told him to FUCK OFF, don't talk that way to me or I'll beat you ass, while I'm on crutches. Oh yeah see these things in my arm pits you self-centered FUCK, those are crutches. I would say suck my dick, but you'd enjoy it. Cool neighbor tells him he'd better get the fuck outta our building, because he'll beat his ass.
Douchefag retreats. I take my jeans downstairs to wash, and Fat bitch walks in telling me to move. I tell her the same thing as douche. She then tells me "Well you shouldn't be driving". I proceed to tell her "I didn't know you were my doctor. By the way, stop eating and get the fuck out, you cow." I'm in no mood. So finally after 10 more minutes, I get done and go to the store.
That's the story how I shit my pants...at 31
Rider down.
Sorry I've been MIA lately. I broke my fucking leg. Being a badass has it's occupational hazards...
I've been riding since I was a kid. Daily riding. I typically ride 600's and have no problem with keeping on the heels of my buddies that ride R1's, in the twisties. For the past few years, I've been riding a Seca II. It's a ok bike. Super reliable. Good fuel mileage, and fast enough to get myself in trouble.
Last summer I had a terrible separation, and didn't ride much. Didn't like getting on something that made me thing about what I had to deal with. A new position followed later, and I didn't have time to ride. Over the winter, my riding buddies gave me enough hell about not riding with them last year, that I decided to make the steps to buy a bike I always wanted. A Buell Lightning or a Ducati Monster. The Monster was ruled out because of my size. But the Buell fits my like a glove. The ergos are fantastic, and most importantly, no lower back pain from previous car accidents.
As I troll eBay time and time again, I really wanted a yellow XB. But I've never seen a yellow XB. Low and behold, on Craigslist I found one yellow and a black in my price range. The yellow one was a few hours away but the owner sold it before I could go look at it. The black one was 6 hours away, and I don't have time to travel on my only off day. Then I found THE bike on eBay. Yellow, low mileage, new tires, a few mods, and lower than my price range. I made the deal the same day.
I finally was a Buell owner. A reward for the hell I've been through personally, and professionally in the past 3 years since I've been on top. I'm the happiest I've been in years.
The bike gets delivered 6 days later. We agreed on 5 pm, and he called me at 1 saying he's half hour out. I was on a weekend getaway and was still two hours away. I couldn't get home fast enough. I get home at 3, and he's not answering his phone. SEVERAL CALLS and I'm starting to panic. What happened to my new bike? Did I get scammed? Did something happen to the guy? He calls and tell me he stopped at his families near my town (ironic a guy from SC has family 20 mins away from me in OH)
I pull up to my bike getting unloaded. I'm in love. It's exactly as described and pictured. He starts it up. The sound of the V-twin, with a rich bass sound, had my giddy. I can't remember the last time I smiled this much. I was happy again. We unload it, he shows me a few things, and I hand him a check. I said to him "You know I'm in the car business so before I hand you this check I wanna take it around the block to make sure it shifts and rides as good as it sound." He said "I don't blame ya! Go ahead." I take off around his truck, throw the yard, back on the driveway, and to the street. I'm in first gear, slow rolling it to get used to it. I know these are powerful torque monsters. (My first experience on a Buell last year I pulled away from the parking space and promptly popped a wheelie) I pass my neighbors driveway, and go into a slight turn. As I come out of the bend, I just start spinning. Right. Left. Right. Left.
Rider down.
I scream for the seller, and he comes running. I pick myself up and I can't stand. Extreme pain is coming from my lower left leg. I sit Indian-style in the middle of the road, and my leg above the ankle is laying there like a wet noodle. It's limp. It's broke. A neighbor calls 911, and within 2 minutes, police and ambulance are there. I'm rushed to the local hospital where I spent the next 5 days going through surgery and rest.
I never knew realizing your dreams could hurt so God damned much.
I've been riding since I was a kid. Daily riding. I typically ride 600's and have no problem with keeping on the heels of my buddies that ride R1's, in the twisties. For the past few years, I've been riding a Seca II. It's a ok bike. Super reliable. Good fuel mileage, and fast enough to get myself in trouble.
Last summer I had a terrible separation, and didn't ride much. Didn't like getting on something that made me thing about what I had to deal with. A new position followed later, and I didn't have time to ride. Over the winter, my riding buddies gave me enough hell about not riding with them last year, that I decided to make the steps to buy a bike I always wanted. A Buell Lightning or a Ducati Monster. The Monster was ruled out because of my size. But the Buell fits my like a glove. The ergos are fantastic, and most importantly, no lower back pain from previous car accidents.
As I troll eBay time and time again, I really wanted a yellow XB. But I've never seen a yellow XB. Low and behold, on Craigslist I found one yellow and a black in my price range. The yellow one was a few hours away but the owner sold it before I could go look at it. The black one was 6 hours away, and I don't have time to travel on my only off day. Then I found THE bike on eBay. Yellow, low mileage, new tires, a few mods, and lower than my price range. I made the deal the same day.
I finally was a Buell owner. A reward for the hell I've been through personally, and professionally in the past 3 years since I've been on top. I'm the happiest I've been in years.
The bike gets delivered 6 days later. We agreed on 5 pm, and he called me at 1 saying he's half hour out. I was on a weekend getaway and was still two hours away. I couldn't get home fast enough. I get home at 3, and he's not answering his phone. SEVERAL CALLS and I'm starting to panic. What happened to my new bike? Did I get scammed? Did something happen to the guy? He calls and tell me he stopped at his families near my town (ironic a guy from SC has family 20 mins away from me in OH)
I pull up to my bike getting unloaded. I'm in love. It's exactly as described and pictured. He starts it up. The sound of the V-twin, with a rich bass sound, had my giddy. I can't remember the last time I smiled this much. I was happy again. We unload it, he shows me a few things, and I hand him a check. I said to him "You know I'm in the car business so before I hand you this check I wanna take it around the block to make sure it shifts and rides as good as it sound." He said "I don't blame ya! Go ahead." I take off around his truck, throw the yard, back on the driveway, and to the street. I'm in first gear, slow rolling it to get used to it. I know these are powerful torque monsters. (My first experience on a Buell last year I pulled away from the parking space and promptly popped a wheelie) I pass my neighbors driveway, and go into a slight turn. As I come out of the bend, I just start spinning. Right. Left. Right. Left.
Rider down.
I scream for the seller, and he comes running. I pick myself up and I can't stand. Extreme pain is coming from my lower left leg. I sit Indian-style in the middle of the road, and my leg above the ankle is laying there like a wet noodle. It's limp. It's broke. A neighbor calls 911, and within 2 minutes, police and ambulance are there. I'm rushed to the local hospital where I spent the next 5 days going through surgery and rest.
I never knew realizing your dreams could hurt so God damned much.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Dann starter kit...what you need to become The Dann
Thank you all for the support from the first posting. I'm trying to make this more regular but, life, (attempted) love, and boozing gets in the way. Have you ever tried to write shitballs drunk? It's not as easy as it sounds. Hell according to Curt, I'm a handful drunk. Maybe that's why I'm getting the cold shoulder? Aww piss...So let's get at the matter at hand. Things it takes to be The Dann. These are daily items needed to operate under the tawdriness, debauchery, and down right hell raising that I do.
The List.
1. Condoms: Preferably. the #1 trusted brand, Trojan. Why? They fit my legendary member how they should. I've never had one break, or had any concerns. Remember, you get what you pay for. I like the best. Never leave home without at least 3. You never know when it could be a busy day.
2. Sunglasses: Big ones. When you leave the house, after a night out raising hell, your eyes are gonna hurt. Bloodshot, under eye bags, or maybe even a black eye. You need to protect those beautiful blues. Have you ever tried to do the walk of shame without sunglasses? I don't advise it. I swear it makes your hangover worse, and you feel more slutty, since you can't hide your shame. Besides what would the boss say if you looked like hell?
3. Audi keys: The Dann only drives Audi's and other German brands. If your gonna be a playboy, make sure it's ready to make a statement. When your at a bar with a chick or a dude (in my case) placing keys next to your drink is a subtle way to show you have class, and taste. Even if you're a total dickhead that's just looking to fuck. These are the keys to their pants.
4. Skoal: Yeah, I know it's not very gay of me, but you know what? 95% of you faggots smoke. You can't taste my Skoal nor, does it stink up the entire fucking bar. Besides, it's a good stress reliever, nicotine fixer, or date ender.
5. A good bartender: Let's face it. If your going to be a bad boy, Charlie Sheening poonhound, you must have a good bartender. The guy or gal that will have a drink ready when you walk in the door to make you look like your important, listen to how big of a prick your boss is, or give you the dish on who's the newest catch to fuck that night. A good bartender is worth their weight in gold...and have you seen the price of gold lately?
6. Bourbon: When I say bourbon, I don't mean that fucking well shit that some of you fuckers try to trick my palate with as a cruel joke. Haven't you realized, my tongue has been in a lot of dark places but, can still taste a good bourbon a mile away? Let's get something straight, I ONLY drink Kentucky bourbon. I don't like whiskey, or scotch. Preferred brands of The Dann include, Woodford Reserver, Marker's Mark, Blanton's Buffalo Trace, Pappy Van Winkle, and when I feel rough or wanna start a fight, Booker's. Uncut bourbon...like my men.
7. Good looking men/dates: Let's face it, I'm a prick. If I'm going to a social gathering and I'm not with one of my right hand buds, I'm with a really hot dude. I don't mean good looking, I mean he's a fucking 10. Think Abercrombie hot. I'm a good looking bastard, why shouldn't I have the same? Besides, I can't disappoint my fans. Who are these men? My thing is blondes, or redheads. I melt over blue eyes. Green's my other fav. But somehow, I've dated and been partnered with brunettes with brown eyes. The exact opposite of what I like, but those dudes get inside of my and make me realize I still do have a soul.
8. Jeans and a T: After years of corporate bullshit, wearing suits, slacks, collared shirts, and ties, I'm fucking over it. When you see me out and about, 98% of the time, I'm in a T and jeans. Doesn't matter the weather. Although, my uncle Ralph just gave me the "your over 30 now, start dressing like it" speech. Fuck him.
9. Flip-flops or loafers: I hate shoes. As much as the Klan hates blacks, but without the violence or hate speech. I only wear them because it's socially unacceptable to walk into a bar barefoot. I wear the bare minimum that's still fashionable to get the job done.
10. Good lube: I don't care if you're flat broke, or down to your last $20. BUY GOOD LUBE! Without it, sex sucks. Who wants bad sex? All of my partners will assure, sex with me is something to write home about. Cougars have told me they've heard about me, and dudes wanna know my secret. There's a dude right now that wants to fuck based solely on my dicking abilities. No date. No hang time. Just a good old fashioned dicking. My dick and Wet brand lube are to contributing factors.
11, A good watch: Yes, I know we all have clocks on our cells fucker, but a watch is a timeless piece of class that can't be forgotten. The right one can upsell a date since your already in your jeans and T. Currently, I wear a Citizen in stainless steel. It's going on it's 4 year birthday, yet has survived daily use and abuse of being The Dann.
12. A wingman: I don't care if your gay or straight, man or woman. You need a wingman. I'm a helluva salesman, but, a wingman can help seal the deal. Last week, my wingman got my laid by some dude dressed as "Donkey" from Shrek, I shit you not. I knocked boots with Donkey...yet he didn't have a donkey dick...but that's another story. Wingmen are supposed to be there on stand-by to step up when you fuck up. To dot your "i" and cross your "t". Last weekend, my wingman John was on his game. At 3 bars, he was at my 6 catching the bombs. Wingmen do whatever it takes to seal the deal. Need drinks for you and your conquest? Forget conquest name? Wanna change conquest? Wingman has you covered. YOU do the same.
Last but not least...RED BULL. It's not just for frat boys and Jagerbombs anymore. Red Bull gets me doing every morning. Piss, Red Bull, shit, shower, shave, and scoot out the door. That's my routine every morning. I can't get going until I get a fix. Later in the day on a weekend, I'll get the one more as a pick me up. It's a guarantee to get me going all night. ;-)
These are the things it takes to be The Dann on a daily basis, give or take a few things. I never said it was easy being me. Now as I approach another weekend, I leave you with one question. Who will I do next?
The List.
1. Condoms: Preferably. the #1 trusted brand, Trojan. Why? They fit my legendary member how they should. I've never had one break, or had any concerns. Remember, you get what you pay for. I like the best. Never leave home without at least 3. You never know when it could be a busy day.
2. Sunglasses: Big ones. When you leave the house, after a night out raising hell, your eyes are gonna hurt. Bloodshot, under eye bags, or maybe even a black eye. You need to protect those beautiful blues. Have you ever tried to do the walk of shame without sunglasses? I don't advise it. I swear it makes your hangover worse, and you feel more slutty, since you can't hide your shame. Besides what would the boss say if you looked like hell?
3. Audi keys: The Dann only drives Audi's and other German brands. If your gonna be a playboy, make sure it's ready to make a statement. When your at a bar with a chick or a dude (in my case) placing keys next to your drink is a subtle way to show you have class, and taste. Even if you're a total dickhead that's just looking to fuck. These are the keys to their pants.
4. Skoal: Yeah, I know it's not very gay of me, but you know what? 95% of you faggots smoke. You can't taste my Skoal nor, does it stink up the entire fucking bar. Besides, it's a good stress reliever, nicotine fixer, or date ender.
5. A good bartender: Let's face it. If your going to be a bad boy, Charlie Sheening poonhound, you must have a good bartender. The guy or gal that will have a drink ready when you walk in the door to make you look like your important, listen to how big of a prick your boss is, or give you the dish on who's the newest catch to fuck that night. A good bartender is worth their weight in gold...and have you seen the price of gold lately?
6. Bourbon: When I say bourbon, I don't mean that fucking well shit that some of you fuckers try to trick my palate with as a cruel joke. Haven't you realized, my tongue has been in a lot of dark places but, can still taste a good bourbon a mile away? Let's get something straight, I ONLY drink Kentucky bourbon. I don't like whiskey, or scotch. Preferred brands of The Dann include, Woodford Reserver, Marker's Mark, Blanton's Buffalo Trace, Pappy Van Winkle, and when I feel rough or wanna start a fight, Booker's. Uncut bourbon...like my men.
7. Good looking men/dates: Let's face it, I'm a prick. If I'm going to a social gathering and I'm not with one of my right hand buds, I'm with a really hot dude. I don't mean good looking, I mean he's a fucking 10. Think Abercrombie hot. I'm a good looking bastard, why shouldn't I have the same? Besides, I can't disappoint my fans. Who are these men? My thing is blondes, or redheads. I melt over blue eyes. Green's my other fav. But somehow, I've dated and been partnered with brunettes with brown eyes. The exact opposite of what I like, but those dudes get inside of my and make me realize I still do have a soul.
8. Jeans and a T: After years of corporate bullshit, wearing suits, slacks, collared shirts, and ties, I'm fucking over it. When you see me out and about, 98% of the time, I'm in a T and jeans. Doesn't matter the weather. Although, my uncle Ralph just gave me the "your over 30 now, start dressing like it" speech. Fuck him.
9. Flip-flops or loafers: I hate shoes. As much as the Klan hates blacks, but without the violence or hate speech. I only wear them because it's socially unacceptable to walk into a bar barefoot. I wear the bare minimum that's still fashionable to get the job done.
10. Good lube: I don't care if you're flat broke, or down to your last $20. BUY GOOD LUBE! Without it, sex sucks. Who wants bad sex? All of my partners will assure, sex with me is something to write home about. Cougars have told me they've heard about me, and dudes wanna know my secret. There's a dude right now that wants to fuck based solely on my dicking abilities. No date. No hang time. Just a good old fashioned dicking. My dick and Wet brand lube are to contributing factors.
11, A good watch: Yes, I know we all have clocks on our cells fucker, but a watch is a timeless piece of class that can't be forgotten. The right one can upsell a date since your already in your jeans and T. Currently, I wear a Citizen in stainless steel. It's going on it's 4 year birthday, yet has survived daily use and abuse of being The Dann.
12. A wingman: I don't care if your gay or straight, man or woman. You need a wingman. I'm a helluva salesman, but, a wingman can help seal the deal. Last week, my wingman got my laid by some dude dressed as "Donkey" from Shrek, I shit you not. I knocked boots with Donkey...yet he didn't have a donkey dick...but that's another story. Wingmen are supposed to be there on stand-by to step up when you fuck up. To dot your "i" and cross your "t". Last weekend, my wingman John was on his game. At 3 bars, he was at my 6 catching the bombs. Wingmen do whatever it takes to seal the deal. Need drinks for you and your conquest? Forget conquest name? Wanna change conquest? Wingman has you covered. YOU do the same.
Last but not least...RED BULL. It's not just for frat boys and Jagerbombs anymore. Red Bull gets me doing every morning. Piss, Red Bull, shit, shower, shave, and scoot out the door. That's my routine every morning. I can't get going until I get a fix. Later in the day on a weekend, I'll get the one more as a pick me up. It's a guarantee to get me going all night. ;-)
These are the things it takes to be The Dann on a daily basis, give or take a few things. I never said it was easy being me. Now as I approach another weekend, I leave you with one question. Who will I do next?
Monday, July 26, 2010
Well I guess you wonder what the hell this is all about...
At the suggestion of several friends, and finally being convinced by my friend, Brian Niehaus, I started a blog.
This is my first post. If your reading this congrats! YOU WIN!
I don't know what the fuck you just won, but you just won something.
So I guess you wanna know what the hell this is gonna be about? It's about me. Life's adventures, trials. tribulations, and good ol' fashioned stories about what happens in my daily life. I've been told by several I'm the gay-version of Tucker Max. If you don't know who he is, then look it up. Yeah, you just caught that, I'm gay. 6'2", 200-ish pounds of the meanest fag you'll ever know. Have you ever seen a gay dude with a country accent? Yeah I got one. Raised in Kentucky all my life, spending most of my time in Fleming County. Had some good times down home, as several of my ex;s can verify. I like to raise hell, drink bourbon, defend honor and justice for all. And fuck...a lot. Not your typical fag...far from it.
Your going to see that my life is a fucking reality show, that I'm not getting paid for. This shit you just can't make up. BTW, I'm opinionated and stubborn as fuck. Trying to change my views or arguing with me, is pointless as locks on a 24 hour Wal-Mart. I welcome comments and constructive criticisms.
Some random things about me.
- I'm a dick
- I'm nice if your cute, a woman, or old.
- I drink bourbon. A lot.
- I say fuck, and every other tawdry word.
- Don't fuck with my inner circle. You'll get hurt.
All that being said, you can probably gather I'm a real fucking character.
Here's your initial story....
It was about 1995, and I was kinda steady with this girl Vanessa. Well, I was steady with her, a few guys, and another girl named Misty. Whoring around started at age 14 for me, on a creek bank one house over from mine. Vanessa was my neighbor, until she moved into town. Her parents fucking hated me. I meant HATED me. I was on and off again, with this other girl, Misty. Just so happens, Misty and Vanessa lived so close that I could literally walk across a IGA parking lot to their respective homes.
Of course being a 16 year old horny kid, I devised a plan. I would park my car on a side street, between the two. Regularly, I would fuck both them in the same few hours, and they would never know about it. This was also at the time, I was fucking around with this one dude, Eric. We both had girlfriends, but he sure hell liked getting fucked by me every chance he got. He was all about my dick. Now he's married...what a sham. The dudes gayer than a Pop Tart.
That's all for now..let me know what you think
This is my first post. If your reading this congrats! YOU WIN!
I don't know what the fuck you just won, but you just won something.
So I guess you wanna know what the hell this is gonna be about? It's about me. Life's adventures, trials. tribulations, and good ol' fashioned stories about what happens in my daily life. I've been told by several I'm the gay-version of Tucker Max. If you don't know who he is, then look it up. Yeah, you just caught that, I'm gay. 6'2", 200-ish pounds of the meanest fag you'll ever know. Have you ever seen a gay dude with a country accent? Yeah I got one. Raised in Kentucky all my life, spending most of my time in Fleming County. Had some good times down home, as several of my ex;s can verify. I like to raise hell, drink bourbon, defend honor and justice for all. And fuck...a lot. Not your typical fag...far from it.
Your going to see that my life is a fucking reality show, that I'm not getting paid for. This shit you just can't make up. BTW, I'm opinionated and stubborn as fuck. Trying to change my views or arguing with me, is pointless as locks on a 24 hour Wal-Mart. I welcome comments and constructive criticisms.
Some random things about me.
- I'm a dick
- I'm nice if your cute, a woman, or old.
- I drink bourbon. A lot.
- I say fuck, and every other tawdry word.
- Don't fuck with my inner circle. You'll get hurt.
All that being said, you can probably gather I'm a real fucking character.
Here's your initial story....
It was about 1995, and I was kinda steady with this girl Vanessa. Well, I was steady with her, a few guys, and another girl named Misty. Whoring around started at age 14 for me, on a creek bank one house over from mine. Vanessa was my neighbor, until she moved into town. Her parents fucking hated me. I meant HATED me. I was on and off again, with this other girl, Misty. Just so happens, Misty and Vanessa lived so close that I could literally walk across a IGA parking lot to their respective homes.
Of course being a 16 year old horny kid, I devised a plan. I would park my car on a side street, between the two. Regularly, I would fuck both them in the same few hours, and they would never know about it. This was also at the time, I was fucking around with this one dude, Eric. We both had girlfriends, but he sure hell liked getting fucked by me every chance he got. He was all about my dick. Now he's married...what a sham. The dudes gayer than a Pop Tart.
That's all for now..let me know what you think
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