Remember Furrowed Frank, the big TV figure who has a straight trainer whom he sends out to hunt for bedtime playmates at the gym where they both train? Sure ya do! Only because the heartless fagola lothario is so predictably dude about it all, and not only does he not bother to secure his own ass assignations (thinks he'll be too recognized, as if F.F. standing by drooling while the deal's going down isn't obvs enough), he ditches the poor guys right after he's had his way with them.
Why are men—both gay and het—so damn unconcerned with their partner's feelings, huh? Were we all kicked as children, or something? Regardless, F.F. and his muscled accomplice continue right along with their disposable mattress machinations, blithely unaware the A.T. is totally on to them. Or not?
Went to a snot-butt din-din party the other night, and who would be seated across from me other than F2's prime purveyor of all things manly and clandestine—yes, the trainer himself. And said pro pumper is either one smart deltoid dude, or he's as dumb as Lindsay Lohan's current life coach. 'Cause, how can I put this? Let's just say I was given the opportunity, if I cared to, to take a turn on F2's casting bench.
I demurred. After all, I'm married now…otherwise?