Sex makes me uncomfortable. Sure, I like it. Yet, the carnivorous aspect of coitus has always been lost on me. And here, in this Houston home with a red light in the window flagging down gays like the Bat Signal, everyone is ravenous.
In the mirror, I’m a barely recognizable 98 pounds — “Olsen-twin chic” as I call it. But there’s nothing chic about this at all. I’ve been self-destructive, chasing pretenses of glamour — and for what? I’m disgusted with myself.
There are a few of us having a fancy meal and drinking a douchey French rosé called Ruse le Douche, talking about how dissecting comedy is awful. It’s the show’s host, the playwright, my girlfriend, and myself. I should have gotten more stoned.
