Friday, February 12, 2010

Welcome to Selfish Peasants

Hello Dears,

Martha "Sunny" Von Bulow welcomes you lot to my blog. Sunny is a personal heroine of mine. Her dog "Pan" is also excited to say hello, though he much prefers Sunny's company to yours.

My name is Cyril and I am young. I will be telling you all about my life here in beautiful San Francisco, my native city.

I am going to start with one Friday, I guess about a month ago now....

San Francisco is very small and if you want to change what you are doing, the distance from point A to point B can be relatively little. On this given Friday, what I was doing was hanging out with a bunch of straight people (well, not a bunch, two of my best friends and one of their boyfriends actually) at a Burmese restaurant, and what I decided I should be doing was hanging out with my friend Karif at a drag show, and hence with a bunch of gay people. So I was in the Richmond district at the time and on my way to an Irish pub (disgusting!) with my ladies. I might add that at this point I had already hit myself over the head very firmly with an umbrella (I was attempting to display a suave umbrella move I had been practicing). I decided what I had better do was A) get some cocaine into my system STAT, and B) go home and change while simultaneously downing a flask of whiskey. The drugs and alcohol, which are always welcome additions to my night, were in this case a necessity because I felt I had to "catch up with" the night. Still not sure exactly what I meant by that justification.

You know, whoever this bitch is, I really hate her:
Don't Bother I'm Not Drunk Yet

Anywho... I had been texting with Karif and I knew he was already at the drag show, which was at a bar that is not very far at all from my apartment. I was having a generally lovely time getting myself ready, gussied up, and certainly caught up with the night. On my way to the drag show though, I began to feel a little wobbly in my klickitty-klacks (my beloved shoes, which go klick and then klack as I walk). I realized I may have caught up with the night a bit too keenly and that if I was going to surround myself with a bunch of hyper-critical thin gay bitches in the coming minutes I should definitely try to pull it together. Well, I guess I failed at the pulling together bit.

I arrived at the drag show, and at first I really enjoyed watching from the sidelines. It was the grand finale, so all eyes were on the stage ("Diamonds are a Girls Best Friend", if memory serves). You know, I am not a huge drag show fan, but when it is done well it can be pretty uplifting, I think. As the finale finished the lights came back on the dancefloor and I spotted Karif, who unbeknownst to me had arrived with a date. Now Karif and I are strictly friends, but had I known he was with a date I may not have hurried over there, because it left me with not a soul to talk to. As I previously noted, I was feeling a little unsteady, so I felt like being attended to or at least indulged conversationally. I partook in some very middling small-talk with another friend of Karif's, Claudio, and introduced myself to the date, Trent, but I decided that I would overcome the situation by upping the level of toxins in my system and thereby alleviating any sense of boredom.

Now, I made a beeline for the restroom. The Stud, the bar in question, has three restrooms. Two of them are constantly frequented with long lines and one of them is far off by the coat check and nobody ever remembers it is there. If only I had remembered the forgotten restroom!! Instead, I went straight for one of the popular spots. I think I had also been sipping on a double Jameson and Soda, which I had ordered upon arriving. To my relief, there was no line for the restroom and I grabbed the door handle, ready to pee and to imbibe cocaine, but also ready for the private hedonism of the space. I pulled and pulled on the door, but oddly I encountered resistance. It did not occur to me that there might be somebody inside, just that something was wrong with the door. Now, I am a pretty sizeable individual. I am tall and I have a lovely thickness to my mid-region. So I leveraged by entire body weight against the door and pulled with all my might. What I ended up doing, quite easily to my chagrin, was tearing the latch lock right off the door frame, and opening the door of the already occupied restroom!

A lithe, lovely African American tranny was standing in front of the toilet peeing. As I tore open the door she turned, making a horrified expression (which as a non-tranny, I think I would be unable to duplicate). She then yell-screamed "Can't you wait!?" as I stood with both the door and my jaw ajar, mired in the surprise of the situation. The shame! The shock! The need to pee! I was very overwhelmed by the chain of events, but I did manage to close the door. After the Tranny had finished her business and had exited the restroom of her own accord, I began to apologize profusely, "Iamreallysorry so sorry Ireallyam very sorry," The Tranny, I suppose feeling she was above all this, politely smiled and walked away.

After my muddled apologies, my feelings of guilt and embarrassment began to dissipate. I remembered that now was finally my time to be alone in that enchanted abode I had longed for. Of course, I failed to remember that due to the interaction that had just taken place, I would now be unable to lock the restroom. I entered, shut the door tightly, "locked" the latch (which was no longer attached to the door frame), peed, and then commenced the key bumps! I enthusiastically piled the cocaine on to my key, ready for a third and final key bump that would really send me on my way. It was at this point that I was reminded about the door situation. Apparently, a lengthy line had formed outside as I went about my business.

I stood with the key poised underneath my nose, piled high with nothing short of a behemoth of a key bump, when the door whished open wide, revealing me to what seemed to be 15 pairs of gay men's eyes. The individual responsible for opening the door, a large bear dressed as a boy scout, cub scout, or scout master, literally recoiled upon viewing me in the midst of my activities. He yelled his heartfelt apologies through the door he had firmly closed, as I quickly finished my business and splashed a little water around my nose and my mustache. As I left the restroom, he again apologized, a look of fear in his eyes.

Though I did not return home immediately. My story pretty much ends there. As though my little episode with the Tranny hadn't provided enough shame, after the Scout Master, I felt just about how this individual probably should:

Drunk sailor

Thats all for now,




  1. so can you post one a day so i might read them with my morning coffee?

  2. what a trauma... you poor dear. well head up and off you go. and don't forget that although trannys are disimilar from elephants in several ways, still they never forget. xxx

  3. i just realized this isn't the first time you've had trouble with the latch on the bathroom at the stud. if memory serves, there was also an altercation with your thumb a week prior, no? keep up the good work, cybil!

  4. holly shit im laughing so loud that all of the nuns are glaring at me