Gotty visits Nantucket…things get weird

I’m not sure why expected anything less from my trip to the island. Perhaps I was blinded by the overbearing pastel rainbow that confronted me as I stepped off the dock or simply I allowed my logic to vacation as well. It’s in hindsight that I realize my blunder and in which things become clear. On an island that is recently for designer juice and killing whales, how could things be normal? Examine this further please. Nantucket Nectars: two guys, on a boat, making juice, alone, out at sea, making juice, alone, making juice—the warning signs were there. Whaling: the phallic penetration of a morbidly obese mammals—sounds more like a typical Tuesday night for Eric Speed then a means to support a global economy. I highlight these two aspects as both justifications for my actions and also to make fun of Speed for his fat girl fetish.


For those of you who know me, you may be thinking that I made my journey out to “ACK” to visit my four-year roommate who hails from that pathetic rock. False. I have made a point for the short end of a half a decade to avoid the island simply to spite him. I’ve been to the Vineyard nearly two dozen times, not so much for my own pleasure, but purely my roommate’s pain. Call me a sadist, but I loved it.

The reason I went was a close friend from Deerfield was celebrating his 21st birthday on Nantucket. I was invited. I went. Making the trip went against the entire four-year statement I had made, but the white and green blood that cascades through my veins left me no choice. Plus, it was a chance to meet up with old boarding school buddies, which as we all know means lots of dicks. This is when most would say “no homo”, I am not most; so therefore, no hetero.
I’m not gay. I just appreciate dicks. The lack of dicks on display was actually the single hardest adjustment I made when going to college. No group showers after practice, no peeing on each others toes, no awkward accidental touching—I had the mental stability of a heroine addict the first month of freshman year. To this day, I still have no idea of how I stand with my friends. This of course is not based on lack of effort on my part as by the end of sophomore year nobody would pee in a urinal next to me for obvious reasons.

My biggest friend is Declan. With this is, Dec, to this day owns the greatest pick-up line ever, “I’m going to take Viagra and you’re going to take Ibuprofen.” An untouchable classic. I hadn’t seen Dec in over 6 months and was excited to see him on the island, see all of him.
His trip was delayed at all stops. Chicago was delayed. New York was rescheduled and eventually re-routed to Providence because of fog. Fog is gay. Liking dicks isn’t. He ended up being 36 hours late, but got on island in time to go out to the bars for the night of our friend turning 21. I was the last to shower that night and made a point to take my time once my turn came up. It proved to be my opportunity to hydrate via osmosis and recuperate after a healthy day of drinking. It was mid-mosis and mid-rection when Dec beat down the door demanding the shower. He was straight out exhausted from almost two days of travel and was operating purely on adderal and libido.
When the Persians demanded earth and water from King Leonidas he killed them. When Dec made the same demands, I offered welcomed with open arms, he assumed I was bluffing. It became a Mexican-stand-off, a gay Mexican-stand-off, a gay Mexican-stand-off with no real Mexicans, but plenty of gay to compensate. I in the shower, curtain aside, welcoming him. Dec, naked across the room, the bluff called. We both lost. Unwilling to forgo the alpha-male domination of the shower, we showered together. But it wasn’t gay. We both swore never to speak of the incident. I lied.

The bar we went to was some cheesy local establishment that opted to be as unoriginal as possible and gorge itself in nautical themes: the Lobster Trap. I am convinced that they bar was named after it was built. Instead of investing in an architect, builder, painter, or anyone with class/taste/ability, they simply slapped some rough lumber together, put a tent roof up, and started serving. In society we would call this awful, in Nantucket its called ascetic. Apparently ascetic justifies outrageous drink prices. The only saving graces of this place, and by only I mean only, was the bathroom doors were easy to shimmy open once locked (which means more dicks) and I sold the rights to the blog. Granted moments after selling the blog my financier bought a live 4lb lobster, I still consider it a success. The biggest failure at the bar, and there were many, was Dec’s negative review of my manscaping from our shower earlier in the night.

Manscaping, is another Gotty-ism. It’s a term I coined up early about two years ago. It’s the act of a male shaving, grooming, trimming, or waxing his body hair. Apparently mine was not up to par. Though I desperately wanted to avoid seeing aforementioned roommate, even I am humbled by his industry leading knowledge on the subject. I could go into vivid description of the process and post here the minutes of the meetings we had on the subject, but I’ll let the images speak volumes for themselves and act as a concluding remark on my visit. Oh, and it’s not gay…

…fucking Nantucket



~Gotty

Fellati-UH-OH!

As the Gotty faithful are well aware, my sexcapades (sexual escapades), never run as smoothly/normal as they should. From erectile disfunction, to strange fetishes, to the rush of being watched, one could say I'm a little fucking weird. To prove this point, I am currently writing this post while listening to the "Closer to fine" by the Indigo Girls, nuff said.

Anyways, I'm starting to grow up. I'm living, happily, with the lady friend in an apartment that we split 30:70, I round out the Top 5 waiters at the Vinny Ts on Beacon St, and I jog now. Not the atypical American Dream, but God-Damnit, I'm making it, baby! Despite these strides towards normalcy, maturity, and adult-hood, my libido lingers in limbo. [Reader's note: Currently listening to "Come to my window" by Melissa Ethridge]

Though my sex drive accelerates faster than Tony Stewarts #20 machine coming out of turn two at Pocano, my erection goes down faster than a Red Wood felled by Paul Bunyon when it comes to oral. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I could maintain an erection longer in a Quaker church than a could in a girls mouth. [Note to self: go to church on Sunday].

The lady, now very understanding of my issues, came (no pun intended) to my aide. Now I've never been a fan of jewelry, but cock rings are something else. For the first time in nearly 4 months, I was able to maintain blood flow to my penis indefinitely. I had saved face, or so I thought.

I had an erection, yes, but I was more desensitized to the friction than Mel Gibson to the Holocaust. For the first time ever, physical arousal could not compete with mental disgust. I couldn't climax. No matter how much I focused on the act itself, websites I viewed earlier in the day, or premonitions of Michael lingering in the shadows, the status quo of my penis remained unchanged. At that point I felt a feeling that I had never felt before--guilt. Guilt in my inability to perform, guilt that the lady was performing CPR on a lifeless victim, and guilt from not manscaping in months. I had an epiphany, a perfect storm of guilt, embarrassment, and genius surged upon my cerebral tissue and exploded in actions. Spastically, I reached to the bedside table and reached for a Klenex.

This is where I ask you to pay close attention, this is where I ask you to remember me for the martyr that I am becoming, this is where I ask you to believe. As if lifting a newborn from the doctors arms, I gently lifted the lady's head from my lap. I then rolled to one side and smothered my moistened groin with the tissue and tensed every muscle in my body in contortion. Eyes rolled back, whilst breathing heavy, I excused myself to the bathroom. I threw out the clean tissue, removed the ring, and returned to bed greeted with "I love you," and a smile of pure satisfaction.

When our children look back on the great escapes of our time, three will hang together, immortal to time: Tom Brady's tuck, OJ not guilty, and Gotty's fake fellatio orgasm. You're welcome.

Keeping it trill,

Gotty

Growing Up Gotty

First off, FUCK ITALIANS. If any of you have ever spelled my last name as 'G-o-t-t-i' do me a favor: stop reading this and jump off a bridge. To associate me with fist pumping, gel soaked, faked tanned meatheads is not on insulting, but hurtfull as well. If you spelled my name ending an '-ie', we can continue.

Secondly, I need to apologize for my last post. I thought about simply removing it, but that wouldn't display the evolution of my inner-pyscie (spelling?) that I am trying to develope. When re-reading said post I came to one startling conclusion: that post would most likely defeat Larry David, Ari Gold, and David Shwimmer in tag-team draddle match nine out of ten times. I apologize. I am many things, but I am neither Jewish nor Italian nor some crosss-bread pizza bagle that I dont even want to think about. I will work on making my social commentary less jewy from now on.

Thricely, the last post was also a form of transition that I am dealing with in the apex of my quarter life crisis. I felt that my sexploits (sexual exploits) had fogged the lense into my self conscious that I am working to create. The ruggedly vulnerable individual that I am trying to display was being hidden and masked by cunnilingus wishes and wet dreams. My goal, which I have so far failed to accomplish, was to create a transition to an arean where I felt that I could bring to light the issues that I struggle with daily in our increasingly politically correct society. Though I havent completely figured out how to deliever my opinions in an accurate and unbaised manner, heres the topics I was/am hoping to play with: my solitary struggle to bring back the n-word (the one that ends in 'a'), bringing the legacy of Chris Benoit out of the mud and into the light, as well as creating a forum that would forbid gays from using the word 'straight' as a sort of collateral for ruining the sanctity of marriage.

Lastly, this took up my chance to discuss my future manscaping plans as well as to mention that a tenative contract was offered to me as a writter the other night. However, immediately after agreeing on terms around midnight, the Suit went and purchased a 4lb live lobster from the kitchen, exhausting my expense account on the spot. We'll explore this later.

Love,

G-O-T-T-Why the fuck not!