Twerking Twink

Don't get me wrong—I’m all about moving and grooving to the beat. I honestly, unabashedly, firmly believe that every gay should be forever sauntering to a soundtrack in their head. Yes, a dance mix a day keeps the doctor away.

Some twinks seem to believe Santa Monica Boulevard is their own private dance studio. Bump and grind in the backroom at Micky’s? Fine! Drop it like it’s hot on the dance floor at The Abbey? Totally! Use the 24 Hour Fitness pool as your own private synchronized aqua-aerobics ballroom? I am totally onboard with that!

The vegetable aisle of West Hollywood’s Pavillions supermarket, though, is not the place to be practicing your pirouettes! Yes, to the blonde go-go boy who dance-kicked me in the small of my back while I was mid-avocado squeeze—to you I say, “Your studded, steel-toed slip-resistant box-dancing shoes gave me sciatica for days! Take off the damn headphones and watch where you’re spinning, or next time this Daddy’s going to teach you a lesson and take you over his knee!”

You’ve been warned ... and maybe even scared straight!

Muscle Daddy Merry-Go-Round

There is perhaps nothing more ‘cliché L.A.’ than watching the personalities and personality disorders who stumble in and out of the Santa Monica Boulevard Starbucks. Each and every day is like a new parade of cray cray! Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t in any way mean that as an insult, for I completely consider myself a member of that caffeinated fold. 

There’s the 70-year-old sugar daddy who feels no need to button his Jordache Jeans dress shirt, the stripper forever outlining his doctoral thesis, the out-of-work actress constantly updating her ‘life coaching’ website, that annoying ‘YouTube reality star’ who is nonstop Instagramming everything he puts in his mouth (and I do mean everything!) and, of course, yours truly, forever working on a screenplay that will most likely never be finished and most definitely never be sold.

But what has got my gossip-riddled panties in a bunch is the middle-aged, tall, dark and handsome muscle daddy who comes in each and every day roundabout 1 o’clock for an iced coffee. Always impeccably dressed and always with a new twink on his bulging bicep, I’ve often found myself wondering, What the heck is going on there?!

Well, this week all my questions were answered when I found myself sharing an electric outlet with one of Muscle Daddy’s long-ago-recycled twinks. The spurned gurlfriend told me:

He might be hot, but he’s cold and dead inside. He has this profile on Manhunt with all these headless pictures. That’s where we met. He’ll only talk to guys between 18 and 21, like me. [insert my eye roll here!] He professes to be totally ISO a relationship, so I meet him. He’s totally charming and hot, so, you know, stuff happens really fast. But then it’s, like, he buys me a caramel macchiato and never returns my calls. I send him, like, 40 texts and nothing! Then I’m sitting at Starbucks a few days later, and he’s already with another guy who looks just like me! I don’t get it!

Of course you don’t, sweetheart. Of course you don’t.

The spurned twink went on to give me some hot-and-bothered details about their first and only encounter, but I’ll let your imagination run wild. Let’s just say that nothing says ‘intergenerational romance’ like a can of whipped cream, an extra-large dog collar and a mirrored bedroom ceiling.

For more QueerSay, go to FrontiersLA.com/QueerSay. Drop your dirty little secrets at [email protected]. And don’t worry, I never give up my deep throat!