DiCaprio Reacharound, in Icing

I'm sorry to interrupt the series in progress here, but I simply could not get my shit together last night, not even enough to warm over a pre-existing piece and pass it off as new. Instead, I've got this little tale for you:

A few years ago, my friend Eric (a heterosexual man) had a dream about Leonardo DiCaprio that was as vivid as it was erotic. Eric was kinda troubled by this. He told his roommate Jeannie all about it, describing the dream in flawless, blow-by-blow (ha! ha!) detail. She was like, "nah, don't worry about it. It's way more normal than you'd think." They both had a laugh about it and never discussed the dream again.

More to the point, they did not discuss the dream again until a few weeks later, at Eric's surprise birthday party. The centerpiece of the party, right in the middle of the drinks table, was Eric's birthday cake -- a rendering of his homoerotic DiCaprio dream in sugary, colored icing.

Before I reveal the photo, I'd like to take a second to address my family -- mainly my uncle and sister, who read this thing regularly, but any Simmermon relative should take note: You are about to see a rendering in frosting of my friend Eric (not the one you know personally) grasping Leonardo DiCaprio's genitalia. In the picture, both of them are pretty pleased about it. This would be a great time to close your browser and get a bit of fresh air -- or, if you feel like adding this post to the list of things that we have telepathically agreed to never, ever discuss, that's cool with me too.

And now, the DiCaprio Reacharound, in Icing:



There was way more cake than party attendees, most of whom had filled up on tequila before cake-time in the first place. Also, the cake tasted nasty. Eric and Jeannie sent pieces home with everyone and still had a lot left over.

Eric tells me that five days after the party, he opened the fridge for a late-night snack. And the only thing in there, other than mustard bottles and some dried-up old takeout, was a single piece of cake on a plate. Apparently nobody else had felt like eating the piece with Eric's hand wrapped around Leo DiCaprio's unit on it.

So Eric ate it alone, under the light of a lone fluorescent bulb one drunken Manhattan midnight, quietly reflecting on his life, and what the twenty-sixth year of it would bring.

Home: And I Am Not Lying, For Real

posted by Jeff Simmermon @ 9:16 AM