A Homo of a Different Color
I love the kitchen, a lot. I’m the type of homo that dreams of his perfect kitchen: they layout, the design, the color, the appliances, all that good stuff. But most importantly, the food. I love to cook. I love to bake. Being a scientist at heart (and no, I don’t mean a homo-ologist), I love the exact science of baking. Knowing that my snickerdoodles require exactly 1 teaspoon of baking soda so as not to be flat, boring discs of cinnamon in sugar is something that just completely astounds me. At the same time, I love how haphazard cooking can be. I have two chicken breasts sitting in my refrigerator as I type this, being marinated in a combination of soy sauce, lemon juice and tequila. Yes, I’m getting my chicken breasts completely wasted. What am I going to pair with those chicken breasts? How am I going to garnish them? I have no fucking idea. But I know that I have a pantry just full of random foods, and that some of the best food combinations happen by complete accident (for that matter, so do some of the worst, and that’s how I know you should never mix egg rolls and ice cream).
So I’m a cooking homo. I’m a little bit of a fashion homo, also. I mean, I like fashion, I like dissecting it, but it’s not something that I really devote a lot of time and energy to. I am not a housekeeping homo (and God bless you if you are, because you are a much better person than I am). Vacuuming, dusting, sweeping, doing the dishes and laundry…I hate it with a passion that I usually only reserve for things that I can’t talk about because it would violate several breaches of contracts, and I’ve probably already said too much.
And then, of course, there are the “manlier” homo styles (not saying that you can’t have manly cooking homos, or manly cleaning homos…I’d love nothing more than to be with a guy who could bench press the stove on which he was cooking the perfect chicken paillard): the mechanic homo, the construction homo. These are the types of homo that make a prissy little thing like me swoon with dirty possibility. Like…take me to the auto shop and let me see the muscular, hairy mechanic strategically covered in grease, with jeans ripped in all the right places and shirt bulging with the possibility of being torn open by the slightest flex, and I guarantee you, I will have a fantasy constructed faster than a Jag can get from 0 to 60 (is that fast? I know nothing of cars, because I’m not a car homo). And if I could then get that mechanic to fulfill that fantasy? Game over. I’d never have to have sex again, because my sexual life would be complete.
This ended up in an entirely different place than it started. My point is, there are classifications of homo. Luckily, there’s a lot of crossover so that you don’t become a stereotype (one would hope). That’s why every now and then, you’ll see me roll up my shirt sleeves and change a car battery, or put on my grubby clothes, grab a power tool and go to town on a stage set (because I’m a theatre homo, too).
So…what kind of homo are you? And before you get all up in arms about whether or not this is offensive, I’d like to point out that you’re on a porn review site. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t fuck in the day time.
- Stephen
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