Ted C. Blind Item

Pricey Dicey is a mucho gifted performer, everyone agrees on that. The Emmys adore him and occasionally show that fact, come fall. TV fans just go on about the sorta-cutie dude every time they blog, cheer ‘n’ gab about him, which is often. This helps P.D.’s latest boob-tube project, which is a bit o’ a gamble for the network currently employing Dicey’s always amusing talents.

Are these check-doling TV suits aware Pricey likes the boys, not the girls? Of course they are. People aren’t dumb in this town, they’re just stupid, know what I mean? Like, come on, these network ninnies actually expect Pricey to be discreet and keep his peter-on-peter ways in private? If they only knew. ‘Cause here’s what P.D. lives to partake in from time to time, whenever he gets the he-man hankering:

He gets his horned-up snake on a plane, flies it to a medium-size midwestern town, checks into a nondescript old hotel near a truck stop, which is next to a stripper joint, which is next to a dirty-movie arcade—see where we’re goin’ here? Yep, you guessed it: The “straight” truckers hit the girlie joint, get all worked up, and then stop on over to the arcade to utilize one of the many glory holes, behind one of which Pricey always parks himself. After all, it’s always anonymous, right?

Wrong. See, some of those holes are—like Hollywood egos—bigger than others. And while Mr. Dicey was doin’ the deed one time recently, the recipient stuck his eyeball right at the cutout opening and grunted, “Hey, aren’t you on TV?”

“Oh, no,” blurted P.D., before promptly going back to work and finishing off the job—an impending orgasm is such a reliable tool for getting a guy’s mind off what you’d prefer him not to be thinking about, don’t you agree?

Pricey hasn’t been back to his salacious stomping ground since. But we’re sure that’s merely a temporary situation, much like Lindsay Lohan’s nascent sainthood.