The above title has nothing whatsoever to do with this entry. It was just a personal thought, really. Well, it was a personal thought and a manipulative use of an implied intention of sexual dirty talk to reel you in. And thirdly, it may also have been an attempt to scare my mother away from ever visiting this site again (Hi Mom!).

If you’ve been reading my blog for some time you should know that I never share the details of my sex life here, I only share the details of the sex lives of the people around me. If you know me in real life, you should know that my apartment is never clean enough to bring women over and I don’t ever seem to get to have sex so its a moot point anyway.

But come to think of it, there does seem to be a direct correlation between the cleanliness of my apartment and the frequentness of my own sexual activity. Sure, there are the obvious reasons. If your apartment is a filthy stinking mess and you live in fear of your landlord needing to get into your apartment for some reason and seeing how disturbingly disgusting your life is (not to mention her finding out about the El Salvadorian family that’s subletting the coat closet), you’re not going to get any action. Not to mention how on those rare occasions when the sexual tension between myself and some female acquaintance is building up to a boil and I find myself mantically scrubbing my apartment up and down, you know, just in case.

Now I find myself, sitting in a revolting pig sty, wondering how I’m going motivate myself to clean it up even though there is no sight of sex for me in the foreseeable future. It also makes me wonder why exactly I allowed it to get so bad in the first place. Is my intimacy phobia causing me to keep a dirty apartment? Am I over thinking this? Am I screwed in the head? Am I just putting off getting up and actually cleaning by writing a meandering and pointless weblog entry? Am I all of the above?

This realization into my own sexual clean/dirty pathology adds a whole new dynamic into that one spotlessly clean year I lived eight years ago that I’ve never before considered. While sharing an apartment with a platonic female friend outside of DC, after about four months into my lease with her, I realized I was hopelessly painfully in lust with her. We discussed the situation, and it was mutually decided that I would continue to be hopelessly painfully in lust her, she would continue to NOT be hopelessly painfully in lust with me, and that I would spend the next eight months, trapped in the lease, deliriously polishing carpets, vacuuming toilets, dusting dishes and scrubbing litter boxes, infuriated with her for not wanting to clean with me. Of course, that was EXACTLY why I was angry with her. How dare she not want to obsessively clean the apartment.

(I’m thinking that maybe I should erase that last paragraph, seeing how she’s still a friend of mine and actually occasionally reads my blog, but I think I’ll let it stay. Hi ESF!)

Granted, that may have been one of the worst years of my life, but man was that one clean fucking apartment.

Completely unrelated laugh of the week:

While my coworker Snookems and I were in the middle of serving a happy lesbian sixtieth birthday party, and a gay sixty year old man who had too much to drink and kept pawing and man handling Snookems, Snookems leans over and whispers in my ear, “Adam, I’m going to have to put a stop to this right now. You’re going to have to make out with me right here to set this guy straight.”

of all the embarrassing details of my life that i publish here, uploading these photographs is the most painful thing i’ve ever done in relation to this site because i know my mother is going to see them

click images to enlarge: