Eric B. does not Facebook, Tweet or blog. He uses the internet to cruise for sex, like god intended. He has leopard print in every room of his house, save one. And he does not apologize
Heather Corinna is the undisputed diva of online erotica for chicks. She publishes Scarleteen.com and is a sex guru to thousands of teenagers.
Eric: Not our usual Holiday XXXtravaganza, as you may have noticed.The world has taken a turn these last few months. Chaos, corruption, hysteria, confusion, fear, lack of manscaping. It's even trickled down to our own little corner, the naked selfie ('nelfie'? 'peniselfie'? surely someone can coin a phrase).
We here at Lurid Digs are determined to soldier on in spite of the havoc wrought by the recent electile dysfunction. We will continue to search out the cock within the schlock, the ass in the morass, the fuck in the WTF.
What a perfect example we have here, the tiny and the pink trees. Is it defiant inclusion (you're welcome here in the antebunker whether you're Orthodox Gay or Reform), or tonight he's gonna party like it's 1969?
Here are the pre-apocalypse Airbnb, who needs a mattress on the floor? Maybe there's one in the backpack, but making do with a pizza carrier, tarp and Barbie bistro chair are a subtle yet pointed reminder of all that we have to lose.
Speaking of quiet harbingers of the pain yet to come, who needs lube when you have a tub of Noxema at the ready?
Speaking of ready, let's leave this year behind and brace ourselves for what's coming next.
That's enough Auld Lang Whining. Merry Christmas, bitches, and Happy New Year. We'll see you soon. With our pants off, of course.
Richard: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to our holiday home tour of Bay-Area basements, sponsored by Airbnb.
Airbnb: depleting rental housing stock and destroying communities since 2008. Next, we're checking out this tastefully decorated mancave that should give you football fans plenty of decorating ideas. And just look at all that holiday cheer: the dazzling lights! The Santa! Santa's Coca-Cola big rig!
This one-bedroom, half-bath has a very special feature: an incredible shrinking drop-ceiling! It's like someone took a split-level ranch and turned it upside down. It's a metaphor, I think! So, so cosy and not remotely claustrophobic.
But to fully appreciate these digs, you need to breathe it all in--literally. Take a whiff. That kind of super funk can't be artificially manufactured, no ma'am! It requires Regan-era wall-to-wall carpet, a redundant area rug, and a chain-smoking inhabitant who's addicted to porn. Two delightful Yankee candles and a dissipated Glade room deodorizer add to the elusive scent--and they make great decorations, too!
Now, back to the bus for the next stop. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but I'll give you a five-word hint: "Facebook indentured servant bunk beds"!
Richard: These are not our usual interiors.
For starters, they're meticulously clean. (The homeowner probably isn't responsible for that.)
They're also a bit grand, in the same way that we'd be "a bit" excited to slobber on Christopher Meloni's pendulous nutsack or gargle with Chris Noth's DNA.
And of course, they're aggressively bland. Sure, there's a lot of baroque bullshit -- the gilt chairs, the inset ceilings, the tops of those completely decorative, not-at-all architecturally significant Corinthian columns. But the monochromatic monsoon of gold and rose-gold and beige makes this the decorative equivalent of a real-housewives hairstyle: tasteful and camera-friendly and utterly devoid of character. That plain, white phalaenopsis at the top looks positively decadent by comparison, that's how goddamn bland this shit is.
Worst of all, these rooms aren't meant for fucking. They're not comfortable or sexy enough for that.
No, these rooms are meant for fucking people over. They're meant to impress. They're built for a person with something to prove. I wouldn't trust anyone I met here further than I could throw him/her across those marble floors.
Which means that this is either the Pope's house or someone with even tinier hands.
David: A good friend who knows about things like this told me that the heart-shaped wreath on the wall suggests that this fellow is a married cheater. I'm not sure how he knows that sorta thing as he's a big ole single fag, but maybe it's related to his own childhood and some dysfunction between his parents.
This living room does have a very QVC-Home-Shopping parental vibe about it, so my thinking is that this guy showed up to housesit for his parents while they were down in Florida and thought he'd do some horticulture magic on the house plants after he was done with his Grindr hookup. Why he thought a chainsaw was the appropriate tool will remain a mystery to all parties involved. Unless said individuals are headless, their bodies stuffed in a hall closet.
One particularly horrifying element to this room is the dog turd-like sofa ensemble -- a brownie-colored monstrosity that threatens to swallow whole anyone who dares to place his derriere on the sinkhole. And that near-ragged Santa cushion is not really working to mitigate the horror. The only bonafide crime here is this room's homogenized boringness -- the story it tells is simple: Pier One had a post-holiday sale and these homeowners committed enthusiastically to the jamboree.
Richard: Lurid Digs has always cast its goggling, gimlet eye on dodgy design choices: terrifying sofas, unkempt bedrooms, Babylonian towers of tchotchkes, and so on. What we've never done is peek inside people's closets.
That's because closets are safe spaces where it's perfectly okay to stash the good china, the bad china, yesterday's laundry, and the cat food that you bought two weeks ago but haven't managed to stack in the pantry. Fuck the Container Store: a clean, uncluttered closet says that you've either got a very sick, homicidally inclined mind or you're a Republican housewife who arranges shoes alphabetically by designer to hide her self-loathing shame. You know which one you are, Melania.
But this? This is exactly what a closet should look like. (Though admittedly, it's the size of a $5,000-a-month studio in Tokyo.) The clothes are orderly, but not Patrick Bateman orderly. The clutter is appropriately cluttered. The color screams either "oops paint" from the Habitat for Humanity ReStore or "left by the previous owner". And the terrifying industrial carpeting is...well, wearing socks is advised.
But that's not all. The most laudable thing about this closet is that the owner has chosen to hide his most appalling possessions in here. If that tower computer, pressboard desk, and stolen-from-an-office-park swivel chair were in the bedroom, we'd be tsk-tsking so loud, the neighbors would think an army of cyborg raccoons had invaded the neighborhood. As it is, we consider placing those items out of sight a blessed act of charity. Move over, dearest Mommy Teresa: someone should nominate this homeowner for sainthood.