Richard Lawson writes the American Idol recaps for Gawker and he does this bit with Ryan Seacrest having an affair with last season’s hot boy Tim (the one with the abs and not a very good singing voice, but was really hot). Such brilliant writing. So poignant… and… I don’t know, oddly enough… heartbreaking.

Ryan’s cowboy boyfriend from preliminary auditions was executed, which made Timmy sigh with relief as he watched the show last night, wrapped in a fur shawl and nothing else, drinking gin and lemon juice. (Ryan worries about his increased drinking, but figures it’s just nerves, just the painful fraughtness of being in love.)

Don’t you? Don’t you feel it?” Ryan says as he strokes Tim’s hair, Tim who is looking away, lost in a fog of booze and tiredness, Tim who hasn’t left the house in days. “Don’t you feel that I love you?” Tim laughs, a sort of froggy throaty chuckle that’s new for him, it seems old and weary in a way that Tim shouldn’t seem old and weary. “I don’t know. The cowboy’s gone, I guess. That helps. Who knows.” He wanders out to the balcony and stares off into the valley. Ryan looks at him, silhouetted in the doorway, and he wonders. He wonders how something can suddenly be going so wrong when everything else is going so right. It’s just the pain and weight of years, he guesses. Just that. Just that he’s starting something new and here Tim is, just frozen in time. Ryan sees the orange flicker and glow of Tim lighting a cigarette, another new habit, one that Ryan actually likes a bit, makes Tim seem a little more… French, but still one that worries him. But oh well. He’s tired. And there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow belongs to them.

He’s just a brilliant writer, that’s all.

Love Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,
all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Here’s the original Spanish version:

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.

“I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.” Beautiful. No one can describe obsessive lust quite like Pablo Neruda. I bet he wouldn’t mind sniffing your morning breath in the morning, either. Heck, he’d probably even write an ode to it. Oda al olor fétido que es tu respiración.

I’m always finding ways to circumvent actually working out, while trying to attain rock-hard abs like whoa. The only exercise I’ve ever enjoyed that still make my abs and thighs work like a mother is hula. Like “Pearly shell… on the ocean…” and shit. But even that’s too much work. So then I found this:

Daaaamn. I might have to borrow Doc Brown’s Delorean so I could get ahold of one of these beauties. A hui hou!

…if that doesn’t prove there’s magic left in the world, I don’t know what would.

P.S. If that’s not enough awesome for you, here’s the gayest thing in the world… and I mean that in the most loving, awestruck, admiring way possible.

Hellooooooooo… writers and writerly-types! Want to guest-blog? Want me to feature your short story on The Serial? Come on, all the cool kids are doing it! If you’re interested, email me and I will hook you up. Do it. Be one of us, one of us, one of us!

Btw, Jamie Craig’s sinfully delicious Forsaken is wrapping up next week (thanks, thanks, thanks to Pepper and Vivien) with a very yummy, satisfying conclusion and I need someone to jump in when it ends… HEEEEEEEEELP ME…