the international sign of want-a-blowjob-?
Just the other day, I found myself hopelessly stuck in a traffic jam - but I like to refer to them as being tragic jams.
I know this isn’t quite out of the ordinary - I mean; in L.A. alone, people spend 3/4th of their lives in tragic traffic jams. So, why am I bitching?
I tell you why; I don’t spend much time in a car. I don’t like cars. Sometimes it’s an inevitable thing, you know, there are days you cannot just be NOT in a car. But I try to avoid those days like I would avoid the plague. Or Chlamydia, for that matter. But that’s not the point. The point - me bitching - being that someone at some point changed the rules of behaviour during a jam. Without ever notifying me. I know it’s not considered nicely to pick my nose in a tragic jam, or to sing too loud to music no one wants to hear with my windows open. And peeing out of my window is also a big no-no. I get it. I live by the tragic-jam-rules. You cannot catch me doing anything irresponsible or out-of-the-ordinary during the three hour break from driving from A to B.
Anyway… I was in a car in a major traffic jam. Minding my own goddamn business. At some point - hey! I’m pushing 40, so my bones don’t behave like the 18 year old ones - I had to turn my head to the left to release the tragic jam tension building up at the top of my spine, when this 25 - could have been 30, though - year old guy in the car next to me - the executive producer type, so he’s probably Steven Spielberg’s gardener - clearly threw me a gesture that I can only refer to as the international sign of want-a-blowjob-?.
Or: wanna-give-ME-a-blowjob-?
I could be mistaking one with the other since my sign-language-knowledge hasn’t had an update since October 13, 1989. I was stunned! I mean; it’s 7.45 in the freaking morning in a tragic jam that is beyond recognition. Do you immediately think about blow-jobs at times like those? I don’t! And I have sex on my mind 24/7. But I’m not inviting the guy in the car-next-door, who happens to look like the guy-next-door into my car to give or take head. I’m sorry. I’m only an actor. I need a little more motivation than just the scenery.
So I did what any other reasonable man would have done in a situation such as that: I took off my sunglasses and threw him the WHAT?!-look. His response? Obviously, the international sign of want-a-blowjob-?! But over-acted, this time.
So I wasn’t mistaking. I was stunned!
Stunned!
And what do you do in times like these? Yes! You immediately call your best friend, your mother, your yoga-teacher and your publicity agent.
So I did. And none of them had some wisdom to shed on the matter.
Except for the best friend.
“Some one is signing to me?”
“Who,” he responded.
“I don’t know. A nobody with a great body. They’re all over L.A.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He just signed want a blow job.”
“Yes, but what are you wearing? Is it couture?”
“Does that matter?”
“Don’t ever leave your house without wearing couture.”
“I’m wearing D&G underwear, does that count as couture?”
“No.”
“In that case: I’m not wearing couture.”
“Turn the car around.”
“I’m in a jam.”
“Turn the car around. You don’t travel the Ventura Freeway without wearing couture.”
“That’s not the point right now. What do I do with this blow-me-sign?”
“Is he adorable?”
“In what scale?”
“Suppose you had Hugh Jackman sitting next to you and he offered the same thing.”
(That’s the scale these days, folks!)
“I’d go for Hugh.”
“For God’s sake, just let him suck your cock.”
“In a tragic jam?”
“What’s the problem?”
“Everybody can see it!”
“Says the man who chose to fuck an 18-year old actress-wannabe in an Oz Purple photo-shoot. Including the pornographic penetration close-ups, I might add.”
“That was art.”
“This is life. Just do him.”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
Now, I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I rely on my best friend. His words are my guidance in life. Since I only know art and I know shit about life itself. I live the fiction. So, what he said, truly made my chest hair rise.
“Would it have made a difference,” he continued, “if he would have given you the international wanna-fuck-me-sign? Or if it happened at 3 in the afternoon?…”
(with lots of gratitude to my best friend Tom)
I know this isn’t quite out of the ordinary - I mean; in L.A. alone, people spend 3/4th of their lives in tragic traffic jams. So, why am I bitching?
I tell you why; I don’t spend much time in a car. I don’t like cars. Sometimes it’s an inevitable thing, you know, there are days you cannot just be NOT in a car. But I try to avoid those days like I would avoid the plague. Or Chlamydia, for that matter. But that’s not the point. The point - me bitching - being that someone at some point changed the rules of behaviour during a jam. Without ever notifying me. I know it’s not considered nicely to pick my nose in a tragic jam, or to sing too loud to music no one wants to hear with my windows open. And peeing out of my window is also a big no-no. I get it. I live by the tragic-jam-rules. You cannot catch me doing anything irresponsible or out-of-the-ordinary during the three hour break from driving from A to B.
Anyway… I was in a car in a major traffic jam. Minding my own goddamn business. At some point - hey! I’m pushing 40, so my bones don’t behave like the 18 year old ones - I had to turn my head to the left to release the tragic jam tension building up at the top of my spine, when this 25 - could have been 30, though - year old guy in the car next to me - the executive producer type, so he’s probably Steven Spielberg’s gardener - clearly threw me a gesture that I can only refer to as the international sign of want-a-blowjob-?.
Or: wanna-give-ME-a-blowjob-?
I could be mistaking one with the other since my sign-language-knowledge hasn’t had an update since October 13, 1989. I was stunned! I mean; it’s 7.45 in the freaking morning in a tragic jam that is beyond recognition. Do you immediately think about blow-jobs at times like those? I don’t! And I have sex on my mind 24/7. But I’m not inviting the guy in the car-next-door, who happens to look like the guy-next-door into my car to give or take head. I’m sorry. I’m only an actor. I need a little more motivation than just the scenery.
So I did what any other reasonable man would have done in a situation such as that: I took off my sunglasses and threw him the WHAT?!-look. His response? Obviously, the international sign of want-a-blowjob-?! But over-acted, this time.
So I wasn’t mistaking. I was stunned!
Stunned!
And what do you do in times like these? Yes! You immediately call your best friend, your mother, your yoga-teacher and your publicity agent.
So I did. And none of them had some wisdom to shed on the matter.
Except for the best friend.
“Some one is signing to me?”
“Who,” he responded.
“I don’t know. A nobody with a great body. They’re all over L.A.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He just signed want a blow job.”
“Yes, but what are you wearing? Is it couture?”
“Does that matter?”
“Don’t ever leave your house without wearing couture.”
“I’m wearing D&G underwear, does that count as couture?”
“No.”
“In that case: I’m not wearing couture.”
“Turn the car around.”
“I’m in a jam.”
“Turn the car around. You don’t travel the Ventura Freeway without wearing couture.”
“That’s not the point right now. What do I do with this blow-me-sign?”
“Is he adorable?”
“In what scale?”
“Suppose you had Hugh Jackman sitting next to you and he offered the same thing.”
(That’s the scale these days, folks!)
“I’d go for Hugh.”
“For God’s sake, just let him suck your cock.”
“In a tragic jam?”
“What’s the problem?”
“Everybody can see it!”
“Says the man who chose to fuck an 18-year old actress-wannabe in an Oz Purple photo-shoot. Including the pornographic penetration close-ups, I might add.”
“That was art.”
“This is life. Just do him.”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
Now, I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I rely on my best friend. His words are my guidance in life. Since I only know art and I know shit about life itself. I live the fiction. So, what he said, truly made my chest hair rise.
“Would it have made a difference,” he continued, “if he would have given you the international wanna-fuck-me-sign? Or if it happened at 3 in the afternoon?…”
(with lots of gratitude to my best friend Tom)
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