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.
Richard: Going bare isn't for everyone. It's hard work and requires loads of planning. If you think over-the-top is daunting, just try going under-the-top.
Seriously, any idiot with a Walmart gift card can buy a bunch of crap for the casa. Scuffed table? Put a doily on it! Hole in the wall? That inspirational cat poster will cover it just fine. Maximalism can be artful, but the way most people do it, it's more properly called "thrift store tornado aftermath". Or "hoarding".
Minimalism, though? That takes balls. Designers can dream about a minimalist room, but if that room hasn't been properly drywalled, taped, and painted, fuck it, game over. Do you trust your contractors to pull off stunts like that? If so, please pass me their numbers, because at last count, I had 27 in my contacts list, and tragically, all were born without clues.
This sparsely decorated monk's bunk is what I'd call "mostly successful". If the walls were a more personal color and the outlet weren't so plastic-y, maybe we could assume they were thoughtful choices. However, it's more likely that we've stumbled into an apartment complex whose owner went hog wild at Home Depot's annual Dover White sale. That said, I'd fuck the shit out of the navy/gray headboard and bed--so long as they've been Scotchgarded for easy clean-up, of course.
David: There's nothing like self-awareness married to consideration to ease the potential pain you might cause a loved one who harbors a cleanliness fetish. And because this guy is aware that he's a slave to his various ADD compulsions, he is keeping things real for his mom by:
• Bringing his own snacks, lots of snacks (like his favorite cabernet to compliment his Captain Crunch), carefully assembled on a placemat for end table protection.
• Having a dime on the ready should he need to go down to the corner to make a phone call to report a fire. (Do phone booths even exist anymore?)
• Lugging along an ugly blanket to protect an even uglier sofa from any beverage spills or free-flying body fluids that might erupt after abandoning ESPN to make a scheduled appearance on Chatterbate. (Or maybe he'll be Skyping with his FB in Prague -- despite the time zone shift due to DLST).
Our lone style recommendation would be to get a decent size painting hung over the couch, preferably something monochromatic so as not to clash with the clashing sofa patterns. Or a large mirror would work too, great to watch himself scooting across the floor in his socks, doing his best Risky Business impersonation.
Richard: Ignore, if you can, the linens, which are anything but linen. Suffice it to say that the owner of this poorly feng shui-ed Airbnb cubbyhole doesn't give two bumps of Boudreaux's Butt Paste if his guests break out in rashes after sleeping on 110% acrylic dropcloths.
No, there are bigger issues looming here, like cracks in the bottomless abyss of Cost Plus World Market home decor. The first is those wall hangings, which...I mean, given the stats on most Scruff profiles, I know that there's a shortage of rulers out there, but don't people own straight-edges anymore? A scrap of picture molding? A disused curtain rod? A vintage Kris Lord dildo, perhaps? Shit like this isn't whimsical, it's sloppy, and positioned so low to the bed, it presents a real safety hazard for the vacationing couple who've stumbled home from Senior Frog's to engage in a clumsy three-way with their coked-up, swing-shift bartender. Though I suppose the sheets will clean up nicely.
Then there's the other problem, which is WHY IN THE NAME OF BARBARA HERSHEY IS THAT MATTRESS LEVITATING? Is someone expecting a booty call with Beelzebub? Drop the molly, girl, you in danger!
Eric: As a double Capricorn, I must admit that I like it when a guy invites me to come over, and when I get there he's already naked. It's so efficient.
(History lesson: 'wanna come over?' is what used to be code for beer and unspecified sodomy long before 'Netflix and chill' came into usage. Then, as now, '...and hang out' = anal.)
So now we're inside with a naked man. What to do? Take down the large poster, of course, and put it in the dining nook where it belongs. Then paint the walls a nice, quietly masculine color like loden green.
Next step is a 2/3 scale Edwardian hall tree. Or a nice Shaker bench and peg rack. Clothing torn off in a fit of passion and strewn down the hallway is hot. On the living room floor, it's just tacky.
Can't help but see the chair or couch or loveseat, no matter how I try not to. That particular plaid reached its apogee with the neo-traditional cults of the Reagan era and has been in Rent-A-Center decline ever since. Slipcover it immediately.
But maybe fauxpholstery isn't your thing. I can work with that. You've got 5 colors in front of you. Pick three of them, hopefully not including the red. Now list everything you need to finish the room -- lamps and shades, artwork, frames and mattes, skeet blankets, toss pillows, objets d'art, semen-masking scented candles, curtains, and so forth. Do half of them in your main color, about a third in your second choice, and the rest in the other.
There's also a tease of repro Mission here. That's fortunate, as you can goose it in several directions. Historical accuracy would call for wrought iron, Saltillo tiles, and pierced tin. That's a bit too dykey for this love nest. You're a gay man, so break out the Aubussons and Art Nouveau.
This type of shorthand masc furniture, if you take the shortcut and buy the entire suite, will make it seem like you did a one-stop at the Butch By Default store. If you're in danger of overdose, slap on a distressed coat of pigment to some of the pieces. Most surely, the coffee and end tables will suffice.
Going overboard will tilt this room into Laura Ashley painted cottage territory. And that will leave the menfolk running for the door.
Eric: Not our usual Holiday XXXtravaganza, as you may have noticed.The world has taken a turn these last few months. Chaos, corruption, hysteria, confusion, fear, lack of manscaping. It's even trickled down to our own little corner, the naked selfie ('nelfie'? 'peniselfie'? surely someone can coin a phrase).
We here at Lurid Digs are determined to soldier on in spite of the havoc wrought by the recent electile dysfunction. We will continue to search out the cock within the schlock, the ass in the morass, the fuck in the WTF.
What a perfect example we have here, the tiny and the pink trees. Is it defiant inclusion (you're welcome here in the antebunker whether you're Orthodox Gay or Reform), or tonight he's gonna party like it's 1969?
Here are the pre-apocalypse Airbnb, who needs a mattress on the floor? Maybe there's one in the backpack, but making do with a pizza carrier, tarp and Barbie bistro chair are a subtle yet pointed reminder of all that we have to lose.
Speaking of quiet harbingers of the pain yet to come, who needs lube when you have a tub of Noxema at the ready?
Speaking of ready, let's leave this year behind and brace ourselves for what's coming next.
That's enough Auld Lang Whining. Merry Christmas, bitches, and Happy New Year. We'll see you soon. With our pants off, of course.
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