2.27.2009

2.26.2009

Ginger Flucking and the Near Raping of the Conchord

This is Tila Tofeelher signing in for The Dicktator. I'm her West Coast Identity. I'm working on a better pseudonym, but this is what I got right now.

Here's the report from the sheets.

I realize my whole adult life has been a revolving door of D. Good D and bad D. I don't think I've been able to get through more than a month without crashing into the D. Quite literally. And a girl needs to take a break every so often-- like the Master Cleanse, but instead of drinking lemonade for 10 days, I was trying to go on a dick fast and meditate about my how my obsession with the D was totally counter productive to my life. So for three months, I went on a D break. My goal was to get through six months of a D break.

I had all sorts of "cheats" built in. I dry humped this comedy writer and made out with some dude at a bar in Dumbo. But I did manage to keep out the D for three months. A world record for me, Tila Tofeelher.



Well, I broke the Dick fast a couple days ago, when this redhead boy from two years ago crashed in. I have a thing for Ginger men (Ginger, a term popularized by South Park). They are like little peals of innocence in big manly packages. Recessive genes and ghostly skin replete with literary innocence.

I also have a thing for Korean men. Yet somehow, I don't think I'd ever be inclined to boink a cross between a Korean and a Ginger.

Anyway, this Ginger came back into my life. He must have scraped the bottom of his booty call barrel and found me because I thought I'd never hear from him again.

It was a good night of D. Unlike the last D who came by (I call that last guy "The One Thrust Wonder"), this Ginger can't come. He just kinda stays hard forever... like a dildo with a nice temperature and good a face!

I kept asking all night: "How can you not come?" And he just said he has a hard time coming and usually has to jerk off to actually come. We went for a really really long time at night, and then again in the morning. My mouth got dry because we were going at it so long. I went into the kitchen for some water and then he started to pump away from behind me as I hovered over the sink. And even when I finally told him I was done and he should just jerk it off, he couldn't-- with all the lube and wanking. We were getting so bored waiting for him to come already that we started talking about our taxes.

Which leads me to this question...

Are gingers genetically inclined to stay hard forever and not come? Is there a recessive gene linked to red hair that cause gingers to stay hard so long?

He's the first ginger I've actually bedded. So I'm ready to test out my theory if I find more of them. Where will I find them? NOT in the sun!




In other news, I totally suck at celebrity rape.

I saw Bret from Flight of the Conchords at a quiz bowl event in Los Feliz. I had been told he would be there and made sure I sat at the table that was reserved for him.

He's somewhat gaunt in real life (why is it most hipsters have scoliosis? And why does it affect the celebrities?).

I stammered about what to say to him. Unlike David Cross in Mr. Show, I actually don't have a whole lot of Flight of the Conchords taglines memorized. So I couldn't even stoop to the obnoxious level of quoting his work.

Instead, I accused his table (who won the quiz bowl) of cheating with iphones (an ungrounded accusation) and then sat five feet from him updating my facebook status about him. Then I ran off to go fluck the ginger.

2.25.2009

STROKIN'.

Our girl Anthrax reminded us of this little dickalicious ditty. All we have to say is: dick clock. Clarence Carter, Carence Carter, oooooooh shit, Clarence Carter!

2.24.2009

Flight of the Conchords vs R Kelly



Calisha Jenkins walked in the door and told me there was a R. Kelly inspired song on the last episode of Flight of the Conchords. Immediately our night was transformed. I fucking fucking love this song. I would love nothing more than for Jemaine and Bret to be on the cover of Ligerbeat beat side my side with their dicks in two hot dog buns covered with ketchup and mustard while relish was being squirted out of their d-licious Lord to the Rings dingdongs. Christ Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Everything we do is based on R. Kelly.

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masonroselee

TRICK OR TREATIN LIGER BEATIN: She's A Marvel




Photos by Caitlyn Bridges
Models: King Fisher and Nice Natalee

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Mason Rose Lee

2.22.2009

Pepa is my role model.

I just got in a Youtube hole right quick and stumbled across this totally excellent heavy metal version of the Salt'n'Pepa classic "None of Your Business." This song has been one of my personal anthems since long before I even had the experience to understand how serious the real talk is in this jam. And I don't know if you guys watched their reality show last year, but Pepa is seriously that bitch. Salt got all Christian and wanted to clean up some of the verses on their reunion tour and Pepa was like, fuck all that noise, I am a nasty motherfucker and people need to hear this shit. Swoon. So take a a moment to behold this awesomeness.

Dicks In Our Box: Things I'm Barely Tolerating This Week

Before I rattle off the list of things I'm barely tolerating this week, I will explain how on Wednesday I find myself with a new dude who is texting me to the point of chronic irritation. Last Saturday afternoon shortly before dinner, I am forced by a persistant friend to leave my bed (I spent all day sleeping one off) so I can listen to her talk at length about dudes. As per standard. I show up smelling like I belong in a barn, hair fucked into an enormous hank at the back of my head, wearing flip flops and a DARE t-shirt, still hung over and irritated that I'm not in my room with the blinds drawn. So we trade stories about trawling for bottom feeders and repeat offenders in crappy bars, leaving out none of the obscene details. All of this is usual. Only this afternoon, there is some dude there I have met briefly once or twice, but who listens to us both prattle on at length about the people in our beds the night before. I actually thought he was gay, so I wasn't too embarassed (but more about that later). Long and short of it, I think him attractive but boring, and apparently he likes the way my tits look in my stinky DARE shirt. I make up an excuse to leave because I'm tired of listening to him talk about being a salesman after criticizing my friends ill-manicured nails. He texts me, I go to the bar without him to get drunk, I text him after last call, he comes over... [yes, I am a six dollar whore]. THE CONVERSATION IS AWFUL. And now we have arrived at the list of things about him that I am barely tolerating this week and will probably not be tolerating next week.

1. He is a helpless fiend for text messaging. This included sending pix messages of the view from
my apartment to his roommate.
2. He talked at length about his "bromance" with his roommate, how close they are, how terribly he misses him when he's gone, etc. I know everyone is a little bit gay, but come on now...
3. After seeing that every surface in my room is covered in stacks of books, he comments that he only has two books, and that he hasn't read anything in two years.
4. He looks through my closet, commenting that I don't have many clothes or shoes.
5. He tells me that he has 32 pairs of shoes. This makes his shoe-to-book ratio 32:1.
6. We wear the same perfume.
7. He tells me how much the car payment is for his Audi.
8. He thinks it is all right to use the word "cuddling" when not preceeded by the phrase "I hate".
9. He expressed irritation that he couldn't find his Marc Jacobs sunglasses; he could only find his white-rimmed aviator Raybans.
10. And to round the list off at an even ten, I will repeat, WE WEAR THE SAME PERFUME.

So the guy's a dandy straight out of an Oscar Wilde novel. But, because the sex was awe-inspiring, multiple orgasm inducing, second only to one person in memory, and in short almost WORTH THE PAIN, I saw him again Monday. He spent the first forty minutes in the bar two-handed texting his roommate/gay fake husband, and finally he asked me to put his phone away. I was heaving a relieved sigh and fiddling with his jacket pocket when he PULLED OUT A SECOND BLACKBERRY. Motherfucker's got two. Later, he seemed unhappy with my choice of outfits and tried to convince me that I should take off my hoodie and put on the tiny jacket thing he's wearing. So, of course, in the future he will doubtlessly try to dress me like the life-sized blonde Barbie he always wanted. I spend every moment I possibly can steal standing at the bar making fun of him to whomever will listen, because, apparently, laughing at his expense does NOT get old. Later, he drove me to his loft in his Audi and fucked all of my reservations about his mind-numbing materialism right out of my head. And every time I hear my phone beep to indicate that I have a text message, my heart sinks a little in dread of what inanity demands my response. Last night, he referred to himself as a "sad boii". And then I threw up all over my not-nearly-stylish-enough shoes.


masonroselee
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