Bumpin' donuts

So, the liminal liberal and I went out last night to check out the Sweet Action release party. We got there kinda early, all the better to varda the talent, and situated ourselves at the bar. People began pouring in. Cute boys, but also: women in droves. It was like a stampede of boobs. After being elbowed and shouldered by a number of different double-x's, I said to her: "Man, this is like the opposite of a sausage party. What would that be?" "A donut party," she replied, unequivocably. We had our fun, and pored over the premiere issue, which, as promised, was chockablock with thick, slick members and arty photographs. All in all, I'm impressed. Plus, there were commendable articles on handjobs and tossing salads. We should've stayed for the raffle, but it was just getting too mobbed.

The magazine reminded me of a gayed-down Butt, but glossy, and colorful. Me likey.

Afterward, I went home, and then brought over some moving boxes to HereIType, because I am a *good friend.* She declined my offer to loan her my .22, but that's because she's more of a people person than I am.

Unfortunately, I made it home in time to watch the last 20 minutes of "Real Sex," a TV program which has the ineffable ability to inspire the female equivalent of a softie. If they are to be believed, real sex involves a lot of blond perms and a lot of swinging Dutch men. Gross.