I Can’t Leave

Sundays are usually the day I go to the Korean market. I drive down Olympic Blvd. or Wilshire Blvd. depending on the store to get the banchan (side dishes) and ingredients I need.

I just couldn’t today. It’s not that I’m scared of encountering looting, or violence, or being stranded. I just couldn’t bear to see my city looking like this.

View this post on Instagram

Just an #afternoon stroll in #DTLA 👀🙏🏽

A post shared by Lady Jazz (@thejazzrobertson) on

I’m saddened by all of this. Is this what Trump wants? Are we going to have an election in November? How much longer will choppers be circling overhead until 4 am and flashbangs go off all hours of the night?


Day 68 – The Last Dance

A lot of sports fans are busting their nut over this 30 for 30 44253-part series “The Last Dance” about Michael Jordan. “Oooh Michael Jordan is so great, blah blah blah.”


Growing up I hated Michael Jordan. Well to be fair, I didn’t even think about him until 1991 when he beat the Lakers in the Finals. I think what pissed me off the most was seeing kids my age wearing Bulls gear all over here in LA. Really? I think that’s also when my cynicism towards people started at the tender age of 12. People are fucking stupid and have no loyalty.

Throughout the 90s there really was no reason to watch basketball. If MJ was playing, then the Bulls were going to win the title. The Lakers were… Well no one really reminisces about the great Nick Van Exel era or Del Harris.

During Jordan’s second comeback with the Washington Wizards from 2001-2003, I got sick and tired of hearing everyone kiss his ass. So I did what any early 20-something would do, write a slanderous story about him.

I just read it, and oh fucking hell is it just a bunch of cringe. But I guess that’s what happens when you read what you wrote almost 20 years ago. So I present to you: I WAS MICHAEL JORDAN’S SEX SLAVE.

It began innocently enough back in my senior year of high school back in 1997. I had been out of the closet for just over a year and was naturally horny. I was ready to stick my dick in any orifice available (and have other dicks in my orifices).

My mom and her boyfriend had an extra ticket to the Lakers game against the Bulls. Of course this was the time the Bulls dominated the NBA. Although basketball bored me to tears (still does), I had nothing better to do that night so I decided to go.

My mom’s boyfriend, though, was a basketball nut. He wanted to get to the Forum early in hopes of meeting some of the players. I decide to separate from the old folks and sit against the wall to write my poetry of angst. As I’m lost in my world of verse and doom, I sense a shadow standing over me. “Does it say ‘circus’ on my fucking forehead,” I yelled, not looking up from my notebook.

“It’s mighty nice to see someone being productive with their time,” a deep voice intoned. I looked up and there he was – the driving force behind the Bulls (and Hanes, and Nike, and Gatorade, and countless other brands). I admit I was a bit starstruck for a moment, but that quickly passed as I realized he broke my concentration.

“You made me lose my train of thought,” I exclaimed. “What are you going to do about it now?”

“Come with me,” he said.

I hesitated. It would be cool to hang out with a superstar, but he interrupted me as I was going to respond.

“Let’s tell your parents that you’re going with me,” he offered, and off we went. He said he wanted to change his clothes and take me out to lunch as a peace offering.

We arrived at his hotel room, and I waited on his bed checking out the room as he went into the bathroom to change. As I was fiddling around with the clock radio (little things interest me so much), he came into the room wearing only a leather jockstrap that was too small for his willie.

“I’m sure you want to have some fun now, don’t you,” he asked.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I coquettishly. I could feel my ass clinching and a hardon starting to form.

Right then he tackled me onto the bed ripped my clothes off and tied me to the bed. After whippings and multiple orgasms, it was game time for him. When he came back, he continued his complete usurping of me into the wee hours of dawn.

From then, we started a bizarre relationship. Whenever he would come into town, we would “hook up”. The sex we had was way too perverse to go into details here (I’ll save that for Penthouse Forum). Let’s just say that I still have some scars from those days.

There of course was a monetary benefit for being a sex slave. I didn’t use any blackmailing schemes or anything; this was something implicit in our relationship. He was more than willing to give me money, and I was more than happy to accept. I won’t divulge dollar figures, but there was enough money to keep my CD collection flowing and build up my wardrobe.

There was a time when he escorted me on a shopping binge. After a day of scouring Melrose Ave. he decided to get me a nice bondage outfit from a store on Santa Monica Blvd. He chose one out for me and had me try it on. As I was undressing in the fitting room, he came in holding onto his dick. As the dutiful slave, I got down on my knees and nursed that baby to completion.

As with all good things, it had to come to an end. I had just graduated high school and was ready to go off to Santa Barbara for college. After nine months that we were together, he told me he was getting bored. He wanted to get into fisting and I absolutely refused. There was another boy who was “more open to things”. Like all men, he wanted the newer model with more features.

Whatever. I told him respectfully to fuck off, and that was that. I’ve gotten over it in the five years since, though it was hard as first (as with all break ups). The only thing that surprises me is that his wife was willing to take him back after they filed for divorce. Perhaps he IS a changed man and will control his urges, that we won’t “just do it”.


Day 61 – Peanuts

I moved to Los Angeles from Louisiana when I was eight years old when my mom separated from my dad. My dad stayed, and I went back to visit him a couple of years later. During that visit he made some boiled peanuts, and I remember I used to love them when I lived in Louisiana, but we did not have that out here in California.

I still don’t understand why more people don’t eat boiled peanuts out here. I get that it takes a while since you have to boil the peanuts for hours. But then seeing all of these assholes decide, “Oh I’m going to be a fucking baker during this pandemic,” and go through flour, salt, sugar, butter, sifting, vanilla, mixing, folding, eggs, stiff peaks, preheating ovens, clean toothpicks for five fucking hours only to get some shitty looking second-rate bread or cake or muffin or what not that can serve as an alternative to a hockey puck.

Yes, I’m still pissed off that I couldn’t get eggs for a month because of you assholes. I hope you can’t see your toes.

Oh yeah, peanuts. There is one place I would actually buy boiled peanuts: a dumpling stand at a Korean market in Koreatown. But because of the Rona, this stand is closed until further notice. I swear, Rona is a fucking cunt.

I’ve been craving boiled peanuts lately, so I’ve decided to make some. I bought 2 pounds of raw peanuts from the Korean market this weekend and soaked them overnight in water with 1/3 cup of salt, 3 tablespoons of creole seasoning and a teaspoon (or two) of chili pepper flakes.

Since I’m using raw peanuts as opposed to green peanuts (raw peanuts that were just dug up — they are not actually green) that’s why I soaked them overnight and cooked them for a longer amount of time. If I used green peanuts, I probably would have just soaked them for an hour then boiled them for two hours. But with raw peanuts, I soaked them overnight and cooked them for eight hours until they, shells and all, were soft and moist.

Man, they are good. That’s it.


My Mom During Pandemic

I am going to fucking kill my mom.

A few weeks ago as the seriousness of this pandemic started to elevate here in Los Angeles, I decided to call by 68-year old mother to make sure she is all right. It went straight to voice mail. Hmph. Knowing the nature of my relationship with my mom, I automatically wondered if I did anything to piss her off? Or maybe she just couldn’t take the call.

So I called again when I got home from work. Again, straight to voicemail. Strange. Even though we get mad at each other from time to time, she always picks up the phone. But whatever.

Then was my big moving day. I gave her a call again that night after the movers were gone. Voicemail. I then sent a text saying that I moved and wondering how she was doing.

Nothing. Days and days of nothing as everything here in Los Angeles County was shutting down, as the number of cases exponentially increased, as my anxiety over my mom grew and grew.

Finally a couple of weeks ago in the early morning, my mom first sends me a text message then a message on Kakao Talk (a Korean SMS app.) She texts me in Korean, I text her in English. It also doesn’t help that she misspells a lot of things in Korean.

Basically, she was stuck in Peru. I was relieved and pissed. She had left for Peru on March 11 to go see Cusco and Machu Picchu, the pandemic got real, Peru shut everything down and she got stuck.

On my birthday on Friday, she managed to get a flight to the States and got home on Saturday. She’s fine, although with the dust and pollen that built up in her house her allergies are on fire.

I’m going to kill my mother.


Life During Pandemic

I imagined friends and family being able to drop by my new place to check it out and give me suggestions about how to decorate, which furniture goes better where and all that other stuff you rely on your friends for.

But as we are all stuck indoors, I just have to be satisfied with myself. And trust me, that I have no problems doing.

It is weird to be in the middle of a move while we are all being told to stay home. Last Saturday before life shut down, I had a moving crew move my big furniture to the new place. I scheduled junk guys to clean out the rest of the apartment today, and fortunately they made it.

But it was strange driving from Downtown LA to San Pedro with no traffic. Well, there were cars on the freeway, but I got to cruise a nice 80 the whole way down. What would usually take about an hour took me only 30 minutes.

So now here is my old bedroom that I grew up in which became my guest room:

Here is my new place:

I can’t wait until this is over so I can get more furniture. But wishes, dreams and wonder: I guess that is life during pandemic.


Almost Home

Since Wednesday I’ve seen a bunch of different apartments and lofts in eight different buildings. I’ve been in the South Park area by Staples Center, the Historic Core, the Jewelry District, the Toy District, the Fashion District.

Of course since I hate driving, I’ve been hoofing it and using the Metro system to get around which has been wonderful. It’s been enlightening to walk around the prospective neighborhoods I want to live in.

I’ve pretty much found the place I want to live in — I just have one more appointment tomorrow night that will need to knock my socks off. Actually at this point, I’m regretting that I have that appointment on the books. I want to put in my application and get this part of the move over.

I’m only going to post one picture because in all of the excitement about the place I forgot to take photos. But here is this:

The One?

Some of you who are observant would say, “Hey, Jimmy. That island was installed backwards. The drawers should be on the other side.”

I respond, “The island moves!”

I can theoretically be getting fucked on top of the island and be rolled around the entire apartment!

This is a 824 square-foot place at $2,095 per month. Rooftop swimming pool and hot tub. Nice fitness room. A library area. Mentally I’m already moved in.


90 Days to Nothing

I’ve known this was coming for a while now, but I have officially received my 90-day notice to vacate my apartment.

Pros: I get to get the fuck out of here. I hate living in San Pedro. I hate my three-, four-hour daily commute. I hate being far away from things. I hate being in the apartment I grew up in with relics of my childhood, adolescence, adulthood.

Cons: There is no fall-back. There is no parent’s house to store my old shit. It’s either take it or trash it.

I’ve been looking at places in Downtown LA. And thanks to rent control, I get a pretty hefty relocation payout. But unfortunately I don’t get it until after I have moved. So ugh.


Remembering Kobe

“I can’t believe it,” my coworker messaged me on Instagram late Sunday morning along with the link of the TMZ story of Kobe dying in a helicopter crash.

I was in Vegas with my cousin Gina, a late celebration for her birthday. We were getting ready to head out for the Goldwell Open Air Museum out in the ghost town of Rhyolite just miles from Death Valley National Park late Sunday morning. We were eating our chicken we picked up fron Hattie B’s Nashville Chicken.

I automatically googled Kobe Bryant since I really don’t trust the scumbag Harvey Levin and saw to my dismay that it was true. I didn’t know how to react. I told Gina about it and continued to eat.

Throughout the two-hour ride to the ghost town, I tried to keep the news away. Gina would give me updates as she saw them, but that was about it. I was not inundated with the 24-7 coverage assault which made not thinking about it okay.

But after dinner when we got back to the room, I turned on ESPN on the tv and KCAL9 on my laptop and it hit me. I did start to tear up while watching the moving impromptu tributes Angelenos made.

Why am I affected by this so much?

Kobe was not an easy guy to like throughout his career. Most infamously of course was his sexual assault of a 19-year old woman in Colorado. Despite knowing this, how am I having so much feelz for this man?

I then remembered the statement he made after his criminal case was dismissed but before his civil case was settled. It really was unlike anything we have ever seen.

First, I want to apologize directly to the young woman involved in this incident. I want to apologize to her for my behavior that night and for the consequences she has suffered in the past year. Although this year has been incredibly difficult for me personally, I can only imagine the pain she has had to endure. I also want to apologize to her parents and family members, and to my family and friends and supporters, and to the citizens of Eagle, Colorado. I also want to make it clear that I do not question the motives of this young woman. No money has been paid to this woman. She has agreed that this statement will not be used against me in the civil case. Although I truly believe this encounter between us was consensual, I recognize now that she did not and does not view this incident the same way I did. After months of reviewing discovery, listening to her attorney, and even her testimony in person, I now understand how she feels that she did not consent to this encounter. I issue this statement today fully aware that while one part of this case ends today, another remains. I understand that the civil case against me will go forward. That part of this case will be decided by and between the parties directly involved in the incident and will no longer be a financial or emotional drain on the citizens of the state of Colorado.

Here we have Kobe basically admitting what he did. We get none of this from Harvey Weinstein, from Ben Roethlisberger, from the Steubenville football team. But Kobe realized how wrong he was — that always stuck with me. He was able to see past his ego, his masculinity that taught him a woman’s body is not her own.

I think what LA, and what I, identified with Kobe so much is all of his flaws. That despite that, he did try to be the best person he could be. That is all we can do.

We witnessed this for 20 years while he entertained us on the hardwood, winning championships, enduring losing seasons, saying he’d rather play on Pluto than with the Lakers during those turbulent post-Shaq years. We watched the 81 points, the 60 in his final game, him willing the team through Game 7 of the 2010 Finals against Boston despite having a horrible shooting night.

He made us feel great, feel shitty, feel angry, feel in awe of his majesty, whatever. He made us feel something.


Oops I Did It Again

Excuse the horniness of the last post. There is something to be said about the threat of utter annihilation and having your prostate battered within an inch of its life.

It seems that war talk has simmered back down, so we’re back to our regularly scheduled program, whatever that means. After the holidays, we’re back to the five-day work weeks and everything that entails. Well until this weekend with the three-day weekend, and then I’m off to Vegas this weekend for my cousin Gina’s birthday weekend — a four-day weekend.

I don’t feel regular.


Iran and Fucking

So we have an illegitimate president breaking the War Powers Act of 1973 and assassinating folks halfway across the world, and it’s hard not to regress to childhood and the threat of nuclear annihilation. It’s how I grew up, and old habits die hard.

All day Friday at work with the end of the world looming in my mind, there was one thing that I kept thinking of: I need to fuck like crazy.

SOCguy and I had been messaging to one another the last few months on various platforms: Scruff, Recon, Asspig. Since we’re a little far apart as he lives in South Orange County, we’ve kept missing each other. We finally made it work Friday night and he came over around 9 pm.

SOC walked in and immediately started kissing me knocking me onto my couch. I love a man with initiative, and fuck he tasted good, like he sucked down on an Altoid about half an hour ago. Each time his tongue snaked past my lips made me moan.

He shucked his shoes off, and I pulled him by his hoodie towards my bedroom in the back of my apartment, bumping into everything down my narrow hallway as we exchanged saliva. There was a desperation in our intimacy, and it seemed like we were of one organism with no time left in this worlf. Off went his hoodie. Then my tshirt. Then his tank. Then my pants. This his shorts.

We made it to my bedroom and my bed — the centerpiece of the room. He pushed me back onto it all the while continuing to maul me. Next thing I’m acutely aware of is him fucking me hard without abandon. I’m moaning up a storm and realizing that for the first time since I’ve come back from Europe I am sweating.

I cum first — I usually do because my prostate really loves dick. All over my comforter. Fuck, I guess someone is doing laundry tomorrow. It’s at this point I want things to be over, but I’m sure Emily Post would frown upon sending a suitor home without allowing him to cum. I am a gentleman after all.

So I pull him out of me and suck him off. I instantly remember a joke I’ve been telling this holiday season: that gay guys will eat ass but we refuse to touch the bathroom door knob. Here I am putting a dick that had been in my ass into my mouth. I stifle a laugh and get on with it.

He finally pulls out, strokes his dick a couple of times and cums all over my chest.

We kiss slowing getting our heartbeats back to normal. “That was wild,” he said making conversation.

“Indeed it was.”

We showered together, and he took off. I sat on my couch, my asshole buzzing from the pounding and thought about war. Guess it didn’t work.