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Richard: After three long years, Chase had finally reached the top. He hadn’t gotten there by luck, either: he’d paid his dues through hard work, dedication, and meticulous attention to sartorial detail. Hell, Chase knew exactly how ruthless the world of showbiz could be. He knew there were hundreds of other guys who’d be happy to take his spot as Salvatore Bowles in the half-nude, hardcore production of Cabaret, but Chase wasn’t giving them an inch if he could help it.
Before leaving the dressing room, Chase glanced at his collection of mementos for some last-minute inspiration. There was the portrait of his father and mother, painted on their wedding day. Who’d have thought that two of Terre Haute’s most famous clowns would find love in each others’ comically short arms? At his feet, the statuette of his sister, Pennsylvania’s most respected F2M Santa Claus impersonator. To his right, the white metal cross, which his watchmaker brother, Ben, had converted into a stopwatch. (It ticked off the seconds until the Rapture.) And then, the chalk stains that lingered on the carpet, outlining the body of his first true love, who made the mistake of upstaging Chase one too many times during the big finale. Oh, how he missed Ted, but bitch had to be taught a lesson.
As he stood there, Chase could hear the roar of the crowd, the tinkle of the drink cart as it rumbled down the aisles of Crazy Bob’s Smile-Time Dinner Theatre, and, of course, the screams — the endless stream of moans and groans emanating from the portal to another dimension Chase had installed in an old skylight. Every so often, he heard his father shouting encouragement from the depths of hell. That always did him good. For a split-second, Chase even thought briefly about giving up showbiz altogether and climbing through the portal himself, but he wasn’t ready to leave this behind — not just yet.
File Under:Violations of Space
35 Responses to 'A Shameless Plug for Crazy Bob’s Smile-Time Dinner Theatre'
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David K. publishes Nightcharm, the only gay porn site ever to be featured on Oprah and regularly compared to Martha Stewart Living.
Shawn Baker is the Executive-Editor of Nightcharm and hails from New York. He is a member of its young underclass, a little bit Ann Darrow, a little bit Travis Bickle.
Richard writes the infamous queer blog Sturtle.com . His turn-ons include wainscoting, ZZ Top, and sharp-dressed men. Turn-offs: sectionals, pleated trousers, and pina coladas.
Eric B. does not Facebook, Tweet or blog. He uses the internet to cruise for sex, like god intended. He has leopard print in every room of his house, save one. And he does not apologize.
Heather Corinna is the undisputed diva of online erotica for chicks. She publishes Scarleteen.com and is a sex guru to thousands of teenagers.
Sean Horlor is happy to no longer be using his judgmental prowess for the forces of darkness. He co-hosts a comedy lifestyle reality TV series called Don't Quit Your Gay Job and runs Up Your Alley.
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Nice ass. That said, the rest is a horror. A clown painting? A crucifix? Santa? Beige and gray everywhere? It’s not arousing or appealing, just depressing.
WTF? CLOWNS? SERIOUSLY? What person in their right goddamned mind hooks up with a trick that prominently displays a clown painting in the living room? Four words: John. Wayne. Gacy. CRAWLSPACE!
No good can come of this.
Is it just me or are all the angles in the room slightly off? The skylight starts to slant up in the middle of the door, but the ceiling doesn’t seem to slant until just after the door, while the floor appears to dip downward at the same point. There’s just so much beige; it’s like an infinity edge on a vast pool of blah. And what’s the blue box beneath the clowns? At least his cap picks up the color.
The more I look, the more I come to think there’s a perverse genius at work. With so much nothing surrounding it, our eyes are naturally drawn to the only attractive thing in the room, sucked into that ass like it’s a giant black hole from which nothing can escape.
Nothing says prefab commercial space more eloquently than no nap gray carpeting and rubber baseboards. But beyond that, I’m at a total loss. Nothing about this space makes sense. Door frame meeting the ceiling? Swamp cooler on the roof? Beige and Clowns, and Santa Claus? A naked man with a backpack holding the door closed (although he does get points of the nice ass, and the not all together hideous farmer’s tan)? None of it is making any kind of sense to me.
Where is Christopher Lowell and his seven layers of design when you really need him?
The clowns, the santa, the cross, the….well…nothing else. All of this I can at least rationalize. But what’s up with the little backpack? Is it the lack of storage or shelf space in the room that demands a pack to carry any necessities: remote control, ash tray, clown make up, extra chalk…
This space says Hyatt Regency conference staging room. I bet this is Tony Robbins backstage personal motivator. I mean, really, it’s hard to go out there and get all those people worked up without getting a little personal workup yourself. Now go on, walk out that door! ( I know the lyric is actually walk out the door, but I always personally felt “that” gave it more emphasis and would’ve been a better lyric.)
Also, is it possible it’s not a hotel space, and is in fact one of those multi-purpose/to-be-assigned-later rooms in one of those great big Megachurches? It sorta has that look. If so he’s wasted in whatever program he heads. That’s an ass that natives would convert to Christianity for…put him in Missions.
This looks to me like he’s in the hallway of his Memaws’ retirement condo. The scent of dried urine Gold Bond® Powder, and a hint of Jean Naté permeates the halls. Our model had stepped outside to fetch Memaws’ kitty, whereupon the study fire door slammed shut, locking him outside.
After repeated knocking and begging at the door he remains stranded, as Memaw is mostly deaf.
We have no explanation for our models’ nakedness, nor would we venture to imagine. Some things are just to frightful to visualize.
Although his hairy arms and muscular ass make my tongue hard, even if that is a different topic. Entirely.
My first thought was an American knock off of a German rucksack, but given the church basement feel to the room, perhaps our model is showing off the latest fashion in mini-scapulars. Just the thing to wear when meeting the new altar boys.
If if it’s wrong, I don’t wanna be right. Celtic cross = Irish, Catholic, little booze and he’ll do whatever you want. Industrial gray carpet = don’t worry about spills or stains. Clown paintings = something his sister or parents or whatever gave him and he had to put it somewhere. Grit your teeth, close your eyes, and prepare to have the jizz sucked right out of your dick.
Well, you can’t say the decor doesn’t match the occupant.
It’s Minimalism with a Twist: All we get are a white, wrought iron crucifix, a Santa Claus doll, a sisal throw rug, a clown painting that sets a new bar for disturbing creepiness and, of course, a bound, naked, underage hostage somewhere just behind the camera.
Similarly, Our Host contemplates his next move while [minimally] clad in nothing but his favorite halter top and baseball cap.
All is in harmony!
And will likely remain so until the authorities arrive. Soon, one hopes.
YEESH!
I can’t believe everybody’s so hung up on the backpack (and not THE CLOWNS). Remember 1995 when every hot boy (whore) wore those cute backpacks to clubs that were like little, mini backpacks (maybe 1/3 the size of this one), white ribbed tees and super tight jeans? They were good for holding your house keys, a few banana flavored condoms and the largest pump of “Wet” or “I.D.” lubricant (or something equally quaint like that) that you could find in your local sex shop.
One has to assume from his position that he’s being arrested for the crime of this room’s decor. Although, I’m pretty sure this isn’t a residence of any sort whatsoever. I tried to figure out the turquoise light and failed (maybe it’s one of those lighted “get rid of the smell of ass” Glade plug-ins). Does anyone else think that mat he’s standing on is just another piece of industrial carpet taped at the edges with masking tape??
I have never been frightened by Red Skelton. Until now.
After assuming the position, Claude was eager to have his body cavity search. So this is what the TSA back room looks like?
[...] I have a new post at Lurid Digs, which is definitely, absolutely, positively not safe for work. But then, if you don’t know [...]
I DON’T CARE
I WANT HIM
Call me Kreskin but I’m pretty sure he could be had.
(You sure you don’t want so much as a PEEK at the front first? Doesn’t the phrase “Caveat Emptor” mean anything to you?!)
You can’t see the room if your face is buried in ass.
OK Richard. I just read it through. And thought about it. That is some very, brilliant, fucked-up, shit you wrote. I honor you. Get help.
OMG. Jimbo is my hero for making a Kreskin reference.
[Blushes.] I KNEW he was going to say that.
Damn that room looks so cold I bet his Todger has shrunk to the size of a peanut.
What are you queens talking about?!?
I know a master decorator when I see one.
This man has exquisite taste and his baseball cap matches the blue of the sky in the painting.
What more could we hope for!
when they took away my aubergine velveteen sectional, i said nothing.
when they took away my brass & glass coffee & end tables, i said nothing.
when they took away my emmett kelly collectibles, i said nothing.
when they took away my bitter lemon chenille throw, i said nothing.
when they took away my pants, i said ‘let’s get this party started!’
ericthewriter, when they took away my Mitsubishi 73″ High Definition television, I said, “Hey! Rent-a-Center, I’m only three months behind in my rental payments! What gives?”
Brilliant story Richard! I smell a tragic screenplay here.
Well, I smell Ass. And clowns. And Drakkar Noir.
Good nose Jimbo. I thought it was Axe body spray at first.
Potato, Po-tah-to.
ericthewriter is my hero for making a Pastor Martin Niemöller reference…
Standing in the Gray Room of the Jerry Springer Show, Matt leaned against the door frame waiting for his cue to appear on stage. He nervously recited his lines over and over again, “I was Jerry Falwell’s lover; and boy, did he know how to pork this pig!” Before he knew it he heard the knock on the door. With all the confidence of a toreador facing the biggest and baddest of all bulls he flung the door open only to hear the stagehand say, “I’m sorry, but your segment has been cut”. After closing the door he once again leaned against the door frame and quietly wept.
This sexplains why the civic center’s door was stuck. To my untrained eye, this appears to be a clothing malfunction or a case of the best man at the wedding taking off to get his head straight. IF, if, if that is fact someone’s basement – they need to have it redecorated and THIS time don’t use the same guys that specialize in church interiors. It looks hopelessy drab! I think we may need a wrecker to set this right. All the ABBA posters in the store wont fix this one. Nice half vest. Didn’t that rental tux have a couple pairs of pants?
OK LD. i know you have (admittedly) high standards. BUT if you want to keep this site relevant there needs to be something new at least once a week. After 5 days working for the man we deserve something new. I’m bored.
This week on Project Runway, the designers were asked to create an avant garde look for a man using only priests vestments. Chase here was being barred from presenting his homage to the Catholic Church on the runway. Tim Gunn and Heidi Klum had bolted the door from the other side. Michael Kors thought the look inspired and pleaded that Chase be allowed to present his look. By the way, Lifetime’s budget is smaller than Bravo’s, hence the bleak behind the camera rooms.
This must be some protestant church community room.
Day number five of the epic meth binge and still awake and still can’t get enough of watching the neighbors through the peephole. That said, the assumption that they are all trying to get in to either rat you out to the landlord or to secretly have sex with you is 100% just the drugs talking.