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I am such a fucking idiot.  Goddammit.  I should have known better than to kiss John right there out in the open like that.  But you know how I get around Jo-Jo.  I mean, I just forget about everything around me.   He was making this sexy-ass fucking face, and there it was, cute and hot and puckered and coming right at me.  I couldn’t resist. 

I could not fucking resist.

Oh, yeah, sure, it was awesome.  John’s a great kisser.  But it certainly wasn’t fucking awesome enough to be worth ending up on the front of the National fucking Enquirer.

Plus, I was about three seconds away from boofing him in the back of the plane.  I mean, honestly — I couldn’t wait? 

It was that big a fucking deal that we had to kiss right there?

Fuck.  Seriously.  I’m not kidding: Fuck!


All right.  Okay.  You’re right.  Maybe I should just chill out.  After all, no one’s noticed it’s me yet.  I wore my blue and white shirt which I hardly ever wear, so no one can cross-check this thing with me at a premiere on Wire Image or some shit.  And people, really, when they look at the picture, they’re focused on John.  Right?  Right.  You’re right… Right…

Goddammit!  No!  It’s obvious!!

No, I’m not going to calm down!  Who the fuck am I kidding?  Eventually someone’s going to notice it’s me.  I mean that’s my frigging ear, for God’s sake!  My ears are very fucking distinctive.  I’ve been told that a million times, every time I do my nude modeling gigs for extra cash, it’s the first thing they fucking tell me.  "James, your ears are way fucking distinctive!"  "Your ears are like nobody else’s!"  "I’ve never seen ears like those, James!"  "Wow, does anyone else in your family have those ears?!"  That’s all they fucking say when I’m at those things.  My scrotum’s all cold on that wooden stool, and they’re all preoccupied with my fucking ears.  I used to think it was because I had a small penis, they were embarrassed, they had to talk about something else to distract themselves.  But, no.  It’s happened enough times by now I know it’s actually my ears.

I’m not exaggerating, dude.  I’m fucking serious.  I have fucking one-of-a-kind-fucking-ears.  And guess where they fucking are now?!  Plastered all over the front of the fucking National Enquir-fucking-Goddamn-er!!  Someone’s going to notice and someone’s going to tell Jenna.

And then I am fucked.

She’ll never understand.  I don’t have a sweet "deal" with Jenna like John does with Kelly.  And that one time Jenna caught me masturbating to Men’s Health?  She just about fucking flipped.  I mean, I told her, I’m not gay — I was flipping the page — I wasn’t staring at that guy’s pecs, I was reading the article on the dangers of creatine — you know, it just sorta caught my eye mid-stride…

I mean, John — I mean, honestly — now JOHN is gay.  That’s one of the reasons I know I’m not.  Because we are totally different.  I mean, I DEFINITELY am not gay, because I’m hardly ever on bottom, and I rarely, rarely, rarely suck a dick.

WHAT?!! You don’t believe me?!  Dude, you’re making me laugh.  I’m seriously laughing right now in your fucking stupid gaydar-less face.  Ha ha!  Ha ha ha!

No, I’m not pretending to laugh, I’m seriously, honestly amused that you are such a fucking dumbshit that you actually think I’m gay.  When I’m not.

No, I don’t care what you think.  But it perturbs me when you’re sitting there with a dumb fucking thought in your fucking head like "James is gay" just because you’re fucking shallow and a fucking idiot.

If I was gay, don’t you think I would have gone off with some of those other guys who’ve tried to get in my pants?  Does the name Tom Cruise at the Vanity Fair after party ring a fucking bell?  Have you ever heard of a guy named Nathan Lane!?  Kevin Spacey!?  Perry King!?  I showed them all the back door.  (I mean, not my back door, but the actual back door.  Come on.  You know what I meant.)  So I’m obviously, obviously, OBVIOUSLY not gay.  And if you think differently — and I don’t mean this as a putdown — you’re a moron.  I am way, way fucking straight and I love, love, love to fuck pussy.

And John Travolta.  But he’s different.

All right.  You’re right.  I should calm down.  I’m sorry.  You’re right.  And, yes, I know, I agree –- even if I was gay, there’s nothing wrong with it.  There’s nothing wrong with being gay.  Besides it making you a little womanly.

So I’m sorry.  Okay?  I don’t mean to be a freak.  But John is so messing with my head right now, I can’t even begin to tell you.  He told me not to call him till this whole thing blows over.  Do you believe it?  Right when we need each other the most we’re not allowed to talk?  He says Kelly is PISSED.  He says she doesn’t care what he does, but she didn’t think he’d do it out in the middle of the fucking airport.  (I have to kind of fucking agree with her, to be honest.)

It’s torture!  When John and I started this thing, I really didn’t expect him to affect me like this…

Can I be honest with you for a second?  I know it’s fucking crazy.  But sometimes I have this fantasy… I mean, it’s stupid, but…

I have this dumb dream of John and I running off together, you know, and buying a ranch like in fucking Wyoming or something.  And, I don’t know, we’d have, like, a goat farm.  And all these cute little goats, like twenty of them, are coming up to me and John and nuzzling us, right in front of our little chapel.  I can see it so clearly as if it were true.  And the goats all have the names of characters John played in movies:  Vincent, and Zuko, and Chili, and Tony, and Ubriacco —

What?  Oh, Ubriacco.  That’s who John played in LOOK WHO’S TALKING.  Totally underrated performance.

Anyway, we’re up on our ranch, and when people ask us what’s up I’d just say to everyone, "Sorry, dudes, this is who we are.  A couple guys who love each other.  Who love to fuck each other.  That’s all.  Accept it or don’t, but that’s who I fucking am, man. I’m not ashamed!  I’m the guy who likes to come all over the face of the guy who starred in SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER.  Big fucking deal.  Get over it."  You know?

I mean, it’s a fucking stupid dream.  Talk about gay, that’s the gayest thing ever, right?

You don’t think so?  Seriously?

Thanks, dude.  Thanks.  You’re an awesome friend…


Oh, it’s nothing.  I just keep looking at this picture.  My ear is SO fucking obvious it’s fucking killing me.

The above is a work of fiction.  Please don’t take any of it seriously.  More importantly, please don’t sue me.  I have no reason to think John Travolta is actually a homosexual besides the above photo of him making out with a dude.  And a billion stories I’ve heard.  And I have no reason to think any of the other guys I mentioned are gay whatsoever.  Even Perry King, who is an asshole, but who is likely not gay.  And, by the way, I’m not gay either.  And I’m not saying, "Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, but I’m not."  I’m actually saying I’m not gay, and it would slightly distress me if people thought I was.  I have never, ever, ever slept with a man when I was sober, or for free.

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