HOMELESS VAGINA & HOW YOU CAN HELP

WARNING: What you are about to read is opinionated, politically incorrect and extremely crude. I Naired My Balls For This? takes full responsibility for the content of this blog, but not for what may result from reading it. This story is based on true events and has caused sleepless nights for many gay men, and severe nausea in men and women alike. Proceed with caution! If you don’t like the blog … you can f*ck off. Have a blessed Easter.


Each morning, some of us wake up naturally fierce, flawless and fabulous, and ready to start the day. Some of us … don’t. I have been told that these second-class citizens (oops) … um… I mean, these other people, have to work at it. (And bitches, Colby has seen what you look like after “working” at it … so you may be headed for the beauty unemployment line.) I don’t know what it means to be part of this second group, but I will try and image how it feels for the sake of my blog. For my craft, if you will. I will put myself in the shoes of the common people and explain what my morning routine might look like if I had to work at it. Luckily, being ugly is not my reality, because Jesus loves me more. (Dare I say … I am one of chosen pretty people?)


My mornings regretfully begin at about 5:30 a.m. I say “about” because I have been known to snooze once, maybe three times, depending on the night before. (Don’t judge, we all snooze the damn alarm.) After shutting off my lovely-sounding alarm clock, I begin my pre-work routine. I walk and feed my dog, Boo Boo. Then I shower, moisturize, hang upside down for a few minutes, primp, style, get dressed in the clothes I laid out the night before, take my vitamins, drink a big glass of water (hydrate ladies!), check my gym bag, put Boo Boo away and finally run out the door. Right before walking out the door, I stop in front of my full-length mirror, and take it all in. (Let’s just say it … it’s that good.)


While getting ready, I normally have the morning news, Today in LA, on in the background. I don’t really listen to it until they get to the weather. The reason being is that I like to know if my intended outfit is appropriate for my day at work. The selection is based on weather conditions and temperature, because a lady is always prepared. The reason I watch Today in LA’s weather, and not some other channel, is because I love my hottie, Elita Loresca. (Titties for days!)


On one particular morning I happened to overhear information about an illness being referred to as “Swine Flu.” Immediately, as I was applying my expensive Deep Tissue moisturizer to my alabaster skin, I began to conjure up a picture of the infected people with, what I imagined to be, Swine Flu. I envisioned them as being dirty grunters with rude dispositions and an intense desire to get into the garbage like little piggies. Pig people! (Oh hell no! That ain’t right.) It was too horrible to imagine! I never wanted to catch this horrific illness, and after this vivid mental imagery faded, I started to panic! I began to think that if it was, in fact, how I imagined it to be, then Venice, Santa Monica and Downtown had already been hit! I had always called these people “homeless.” (Who knew it was Swine Flu?)


Yep … I said it people. I am not a fan of the homeless, and I am not afraid to say it! Curse me all you want, but before you place judgment, let me tell you why I have a lack of affection for the “home challenged.”


First, I want to say that I’m fully aware that the homeless population is commonly plagued with mental health issues, and the rest of them just have issues. (Who’s got some Colt 45?! Anyone?!) I think that it is all very sad, and I wouldn’t wish this chosen lifestyle on anyone. (Oh … and it is a choice, like being gay is choice.) I wish we lived in a world where mental health issues and homelessness didn’t exist. I wish we lived in a world where we weren’t visually assaulted by pictures of Heidi Montag and the Octomom every second of every day. I also wish I was 6’2” and looked f*cking amazing in a wife-beater at the gym. Guess what? We don’t live in that world, so we will have to deal with reality. We will have to help the homeless and treat the mentally ill, and I will have to settle for being 5’10” and f*cking gorgeous! Reality sucks, but that’s life.


Now, with that being said, I would like to continue on and explain why my experiences with the homeless have been less than stellar. (You will forgive me, I’m sure.) My encounters have consisted of homeless people barking at me, kicking at my head, screaming at me and my dog, bumping me, asking me for money and food relentlessly, and yesterday I witnessed a homeless woman yelling at two men of the same income level. I got to see her express, with passion: “I like to f*ck! I want to f*ck! It’s my business!” Hell, that was a positive interaction! I shed tears of joy upon witnessing that at 9 a.m. I wanted to yell, “Preach Sista’! Preach!” My friends have also had horrible run-ins with the homeless. One story that stands out for me occurred when my friend was walking down the street and a homeless woman spat upon her. Spat!? That is NOT ok! If Swine Flu was what I thought it was … well … my friend would be dumpster-diving somewhere in Downtown Los Angeles with the Pig People. That would be so sad, because we obviously would not be able to remain friends. (Ladies, don’t dumpster dive.)


But the one homeless moment that stands out above all other encounters, the one story that will be forever burned into my memory occurred outside of a 7-11. (Most homeless stories start outside of a 7-11 or a similar location.)


Imagine the voice of Mrs. Sofia Petrillo as I say, “Picture it!”


Picture it! A young man (me) pulls into a 7-11 one sunny morning in Los Angeles. (All classic stories start at 7-11 or Walmart.) I was in a fine mood and looking good. I jumped out of my Jeep Wrangler (Gay!) and headed for the entrance. On my way into the store, I passed a woman standing near the entrance, which happened to be directly in front of my car. I noticed her and identified her as homeless and possibly deranged, so, of course, I kept my distance. (Fuck mace … I had Lysol Wipes and Purell ready to go!) I went into the store and got my morning Big Gulp filled with diet soda. (I don’t do coffee in the morning, but I use to get diet soda on my way to work. Call me high class!) As I strutted my hot sh*t out of 7-11 and passed the woman once again, she grunted. This grunt was directed at me. I have learned that I bring that type of reaction out in homeless people. (Just like when my Grandpa sees me and each time is compelled to ask, “When are you getting a wife?”) I faced forward and headed right for the car. I did not want to reinforce her negative behavior. If she had been Boo Boo, I would have grabbed the spray bottle. (Naughty homeless person! Naughty!) I climbed into my vehicle and looked straight ahead. As I set my gaze forward, I looked into the eyes of a woman who could have taken me apart with her rough and in- desperate-need-of-lotion hands!


She was stout and had a bit of a weight issue. (Can you say “Precious”?) She was angry-looking and the aggression just fumed off of her and her reddish complexion. (I could have suggested laser treatments, but it slipped my mind.) Her hair was unruly and a dirty brown color. She was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of men’s basketball shorts. It goes without saying, but she was in need of a shower and a washing machine, but that was not what I was worried about. You know what? Now that I am thinking about the movie “Precious,” she resembled a white and homeless version of Mo'Nique’s character from the movie. (Yummmoo!)


When our eyes met, my heart started to race. (This happened once before when I worked at American Rag and helped Simon Rex on my first day.) All I could think was “Pamplona.” (I wanted to run. Fight or flight, bitches!) I froze like Bambi in the headlights of a f*ckin’ Mack Truck, and I felt the urge to pee myself. I stopped myself from panicking and tried to focus on putting my drink in the drink holder and on getting the keys in the ignition. I was failing on all accounts. She would not stop staring me down, and this caused me to break into a cold sweat. I believe she may have huffed and puffed and stomped her feet like a bull, but scary moments play tricks on your brain.


I finally got my keys inserted where they needed to be, and I steadied my breathing. (Let me tell you … I had never had such an issue sticking it in!) My eyes never left her face. I didn’t trust this woman. In my head I imagined an old Western, and only our eyes would be shown on camera. Back and forth the camera would show each of us squinting with anger before we would draw. In the background there would be that dramatic Western music. One of us was going down, and I prayed it would not be me and my car.


Right before I got the car turned on, a crazed look came over her face. (My sudden movement might have spooked her … like cattle.) What happened next seemed to go in slow motion, but I know it only lasted about 10 seconds. I watched as she reached down and across to the left leg of her soiled gym shorts. She did this all with such speed that I couldn’t look away in time. She grabbed the leg opening (Slow motion, “NOOOOO!”) and pulled those f*ckers up and over and exposed full bush! (Bitch went commando!) I panicked! (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!) I screamed and cried! I felt like a big black lady wailing and fainting in a Southern Baptist church. (Sweet Lord, save me!) I finally got the car on, but some how I forgot how to get it into reverse. While this is happening, she is standing in daylight outside of 7-11 on Fairfax Ave. with her coochie saying, “Howdie-Do!” to all the citizens of Little Ethiopia.


I was mortified, but I finally got the car to shift as she continued to threaten me with her vagina. It was angry! What made this worse was when I shifted the car into reverse, I knocked my Big Gulp over onto the floor. (Life’s a bitch!) Now I was scared and parched! I felt like Nancy Kerrigan after the clubbinh, “Why! Whhhyyyy!”


I began to back up at top speed. I might have taken out a few small children and/or someone’s grandmother, but I had to get out of that parking lot, and I was willing to accept the casualties. As I shot backward at warp speed, I took a chance and took in the full picture below the equator, and the following description may never make you feel horny again. My love for passionate nakedness left my body and soul for a long time after that moment. Oh … it’s back now, but for a few hours that day it was not happening. (The compass would not point north, okaaay?)


All I can say about the Beaver was it most definitely had rabies and needed to be put down like Old Yeller. It needed its damn vaccinations and it needed them YESTERDAY! I thought I might even need a shot or a cream from just looking at it. (“Hello Free Clinic! It’s Colby … yeah the regular!”) Let me tell you that this wildly furry and untamed creature had never heard of a Brazilian. From what I saw in my glimpse, it had collected a great deal of lint over the years, and I think I saw a lollipop stuck to it. You know the Green Apple kind with caramel? Oh … and one word … Baguette! (Think about it.) I am sure that Beaver had done some things that no little Beaver should have to do. (Call PETA!)


As I drove away, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw her slowly allow her shorts to slide back down. I may have been mistaken, but I think I saw her lips mouth, “I love you.” (You know what lips I am talking about, you nasty sluts!) On a side note, she really should read my blog and learn some dating etiquette. I know she wanted me … but damn! The Beaver stays in the cage until after dinner at least.


Let me tell you that typing this out has made me flop sweat. Wow! Now … we can all breathe. (In … and out …) This truly illustrates that I am a survivor. We can all put that behind us and move on. Never look back. I will admit that reliving the trauma was a lot for me, but I will do anything for my loyal fan. (Thanks Chuck!)


Two weeks ago, I promised that there would always be a lesson to be learned from my stories, so here it comes. Yes, even this can have a positive spin. (I know you all were wondering where this was going.) I am challenging us all to give back and help. Though the homeless folks are not my cup of tea, I do give back in my own ways. I care about the environment and work to protect it in the little ways that I can, and I also volunteer with an amazing organization that helps youth in crisis. (I am not a complete bitch.)


Think it over and see what you are passionate about. If it is the environment … go for it! Go build a house made out of used shoes or protest some toxic waste place. If you love animals … go help those little bastards! Adopt a dog or a cat, or volunteer to save a big fish. God bless those big fish! If you love those homeless … um (swallow) people … God bless you! Go hand out food, but don’t expect me to be there next to you. With my luck, I would run into the Beaver and she would want seconds on biscuits. (With a side of the Colbs.) I can’t take that chance.


In all seriousness, giving back can change your life, especially when it is something you truly care about. It gets you out of your own head and allows you to focus on something bigger than yourself. At times, I too, though I am attractive, talented (Seriously, read this blog), giving and intelligent, need to get out of my own head, and focus on something bigger than myself. It helps you be well-rounded, and it helps you to be thankful for what you have. Bitches don’t even try to tell me that you “don’t have any time to give back.” We all can find one day a month, or even a few hours of one day per month. Hell, write a check if you must!


So, I release you, my people, out into the world to help those in need, and to spread the message. Be dedicated to whatever you choose, and be open to how it can enhance your own lives. Start small, if need be, and work your way up to Colby status. You can do it!