Twelve Days of Excess

Dec. 25, 2000 -- Dear Adam, talk about unique Christmas gifts! When you hinted at something cute and cuddly, I was expecting a puppy or a kitten, not a poor-white-trash kid in bare sleeves. I found

Dec. 25, 2000 — Dear Adam, talk about unique Christmas gifts! When you hinted at something cute and cuddly, I was expecting a puppy or a kitten, not a poor-white-trash kid in bare sleeves. I found him on the doorstep last night, shivering. At first I didn't believe him, until he garbled your favorite Marlowe quote, "All thems that loves not tobacco and boys are fools." Then I insisted he show some ID, as the last thing I need is to be messing with jailbait. Nineteen, thank God. Aren't you full of surprises! Can't wait to see you for New Year's. Love, Evan

Dec. 26, 2000 — Dear Adam, we get attic insulation, too? Thanks again!

This will really cut down those heating bills. The kid is cute, but he's really not the warm, cuddly kind. But his jaw was on the floor when those workmen came down from the attic covered in soot and sweat, and so was mine. Woof! Those two dirty studs asked if they could clean up before they left, so I showed them to the shower. I no sooner got the water warm, when I turned to find them both bare-assed. The kid didn't miss a beat and climbed in with them. Then I said "What the hell?" and did the same. With all the heat generated by the four of us, the insulation was hardly necessary. Hurry back! Love, Evan

Dec. 27, 2000 — Adam, I don't know what you've got up your sleeve, but the caterers arrived today. Something about an "extended holiday party" you ordered? Sure, we've got the room, and it's good these three French men are cooks, because the kid and the two dirty studs are eating us out of house and home. But what other surprises can I expect? Love, Evan

Dec. 28, 2000 — OK, now things are starting to get a bit weird. The white-trash kid, Travis, has been working his way with the two dirty studs, Frank and Tom, complaining how he wants more of a party. So the three of them got on the computer last night, and today four college nerds showed up, pounding out show tunes on the piano and choreographing strip shows. I like musical theater as much as the next queen, but this has me a little concerned. But if it's a party you wanted, it's a party you've got. Just get here soon. Evan

Dec. 29, 2000 — Adam, when the UPS guy came today, I assumed it was another of your stunts. I fully expected a scene from some old porno movie to be enacted in the foyer, but he was legit. Claude, one of the Frenchmen, answered the door wearing nothing but an apron. As if that weren't bad enough, Travis, the kid, kept egging on Frank and Tom, shouting "Open his box! Open his box!" I was barely able to sign for the package before the college boys chimed in, turning this mantra into a musical number and tearing at the guy's clothes. The poor guy fled down the drive to his truck, squealing his tires to get onto the street and nearly causing an accident. The five gold cock rings are beautiful, but I've hardly seen them, as they've been in constant use. I need you here. Love, Evan

Dec. 30, 2000 — Well, I guess it was inevitable, the cops came at 3 a.m. this morning, after getting complaints about "strange goings-on," courtesy of Mr. UPS. Three squad cars, six officers. What was even stranger was the way we got out of it. It seems one or more of the officers had previous experience with white-trash Travis and intimated they could look the other way in exchange for certain "services" which Travis was more than happy to provide. Ya gotta love those men in blue; they hang together. When the other four got into the act with the dirty studs and the Frenchmen, one of the college boys had the presence of mind to man the video camera and document the scene for posterity. The threat of blackmail turned the tables on the officers, and we were treated to six police obeying whatever orders were barked out. Things are out of control, and I don't know what's next. Evan

Dec. 31, 2000 — Adam, where the hell are you? You weren't on the flight you said, and the airline wouldn't say what flight, if any, you would be on. Meanwhile, the "guests" are so wrapped up with each other, I am being completely ignored. The kid is getting increasingly surly, the caterers have taken to insulting me in French (which they think I don't understand), the cops are taking orders from everyone but me, the two dirty studs have cleaned out the fridge and the only tenderness directed at me the past few days was seven swats and rimming from the nerdiest of the nerds. Come save me! Please? Love, Evan

Jan. 1, 2001 — Mmmm! What a difference a night makes! I was just about ready to kill myself when you came through that door last night. There's something about New Year's Eve that wipes away old animosities and gives everyone a fresh appreciation of those around them. Even in a house filled with 16 drunken freaks, I found myself enjoying every minute of it, as long as I could look across the room and see you. I thought the nerd's drag show was fabulous; those boys really can sing! And the look on the faces of those newbie cops when Travis did his George Michael striptease act in that borrowed uniform — it was too precious! Even the Frenchmen turned sweet on me when they'd had enough champagne, taking turns grabbing my ass and shoving their tongues down my throat, punctuated by deliciously dirty Gallic expletives. But the highlight was you, finally alone with you in our room, and your eight inches dripping all over me in the candlelight. I wish you hadn't had to leave this morning! Thank you, sweety. Love, Evan

Jan. 2, 2001 — Adam, something's gone wrong. I started cleaning the house today, thinking the party was over; but they won't leave! What's worse, the college boys spread the word to their friends in the club scene, and I'm stuck with nine faggots dancing all over the place, tripped out on coke, x, k, g — whatever psychedelic alphabet soup is fashionable these days — guzzling the bottled water, blaring the music at all hours and wearing our new carpet threadbare. I can't call the police; they're already here! I don't know how to get rid of them. Please advise. Evan

Jan. 5, 2001 — Look, asshole, when I say I need your help, your reply is not an option! We have some serious shit going down here! Now you started this fucking mess, so take some responsibility. The white-trash kid, Travis, is turning our home into Hustler's Haven, bringing in all his buddies from the corner of Seventh and Walnut. There are 10 punks a-pumping away, watching pornos on the VCR, turning tricks for the dirty studs (they're still here), the Frenchmen and the cops and scoring their drugs from the disco divas, or at least the ones who haven't yet fallen into a k-hole. And now the traffic out front is getting creepy. Get your ass back here. Evan

Jan. 6, 2001 — Adam, what the fuck are you up to? The hustlers have now imported their "clientele" right to our doorstep. I came back from shopping today to find 11 trolls a-peeping in our windows and jerking off in our bushes. I've chased them away twice already, but they keep coming back. I can only imagine what the neighbors must think. This is Hyde Park, ferchrissakes, not Burnet Woods! Is this your idea of a joke? To max out our credit cards, trash the house, encourage prostitution, facilitate drug dealing, shock the neighbors, piss off the cops, ruin our relationship and leave me to clean up the mess? No way Jose! I guess I'll have to grab that video camera myself and record the whole spectacle for either a PBS documentary or a weeklong series for Springer. And guess who'll get all the credit? You, asshole! So much for that shit you feed your mother about me being your roommate. I'm gonna give that cunt such a shock, she'll be spasming for weeks! Believe it. Evan

Jan. 7, 2001 — Adam, I've had it with you and your Christmas surprise. Maybe you don't even care. But with the six cops, the nine cha-cha boys, the 10 punks and the 11 trolls, there are now no fewer than 58 sleazy perverts occupying our home. The most recent arrivals were 12 truckers fucking in our basement, who barged in this afternoon after reading about the scene on the bathroom wall of a rest stop somewhere in Kentucky. The place stinks to high heaven. There are no clean towels, and the punks and their johns have taken to wiping themselves off on my curtains. The college nerds deleted all my gardening files and filled the hard drive with every available scrap of Internet porn. I just kicked them offline long enough to send out press releases to the newspapers, TV and talk radio. And to send this e-mail to you. I am at peace. I've paid what bills I could, cleaned out the rest of our accounts, said goodbye to those friends I could look in the eye and packed a few bags for the road. Where it will take me, I couldn't say. But wherever it does, it'll be a place where I can live life on my own terms, and not have to put up with someone else's outrageous fantasies concocted to replace the realities they can't accept in themselves. I've sent this e-mail address to the media, so enjoy your time in the spotlight. I know I will. Goodbye. Evan. ©

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