Saturday, April 21, 2007


HomoQuotable - Curtis Dahn

“Thirty-three people were killed. Some were queer, and others were straight allies. The GLBT community at Tech grieves in the same way as others — deeply and as part of a greater whole.” - Virginia Tech GLBT Student Alliance president Curtis Dahn, reporting that gay students are among those killed in Monday's massacre.

Dahn declined to name or number the gay students killed, saying, "Yes, there were gay people that were killed. One was a very close friend of mine. But I don’t feel comfortable talking about it because I haven’t talked to the families and I want to be respectful to the families, first and foremost. I don't want this to be a gay thing, because it’s not a gay thing. It’s an everybody thing.” (via - NY Blade)



"to laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the
affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure
the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in
others; to leave the world a little bit better, whether by a healthy child,
a garden, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed
easier because you have lived. This is to have suceeded." RWE ....

you may consider wealth and power as suceeding, too bad not all guys agree with
that. I could care less about power,and while I'll go for the wealth, I'll
never confuse that with suceeding....and you wonder while girls are always
making fun of you.

Date: August 14, 2002 04:25 PM
Author: Acts1511
My ten year high school reunion is this fall. I moved back to my hometown for the first time in years at the beginning of this summer. I don't mind seing people from HS. Most of my good friends from HS are all over the country, half are married, and half have atleast a master's degree. I really don't know anyone well who is still in town. My philosophy is that high school is the last place you are forced to go - with people who are forced to be there. After high school you get to chose your life. I don't regard people who are working at the mall or still waiting tables as failures - not everyone finds their passion at work. People who are really successes are people who are living the lives they dream of - not the life I dream of. So many people who atended my high school were poor. Success to them may mean that they get to wear clean clothes to work or that they their own town house. Looking back I realize how lucky I am to have started with so much.
Date: August 15, 2002 11:05 AM
Author: Acts1511
Thanks. Yes - I am really a member of this forum. Most of the people here are nice when they aren't acting in their "personality". I really do think I am lucky. I have a great job right now and although I didn't get what what I wanted out of the law school draw, I got what I needed.

Scissor Sisters

But, in their own country, things might not be so rosy: There's that whole gay thing, for starters. Take a band named after a lesbian sex act, with three gay members, and hidden queer themes in nearly all of their songs, and try to sell them to homophobic Middle America... and you have a surefire all-American flop. Nearly 20 years after Boy George became a household name, America's tolerance for queerness in music has gone backwards not forwards. But Sellards insists Scissor Sisters is not just a gay band.

Kate Moss

"Annals of fashion history" Dept (actually old Chic Happens columns)

From late 98 - early 99 reports:

"...Friends of Kate Moss have acted to quell rumors that the real reason the pooped pixie checked into a chi-chi London clinic last week may be a lot more sinister than “exhaustion.” According to those closest to the pint-sized prima donna, Kate is suffering from her “addiction to men” and needs help to learn how to live on her own... Apparently the catwalk queen is tired of the men who hang around her “using her for fun” and forcing her to drink too much...Kate Moss has been discharged from the Priory clinic in London after setting fire to her room. Reports vary as to how the fire started, but British tabloids are claiming the spiritual supermodel was meditating by candlelight before stepping outside to test-drive a new “get well soon” BMW from former flame, Johnny Depp. Apparently the candle ignited a nearby scarf, setting off fire alarms and almost occasioning an evacuation of the facility...She’s been through denial but now Kate Moss is coming clean about her addictions. Moss 'fesses up in the latest issue of The Face, where she says that until this year she had not appeared sober on a catwalk for a decade. Moss, 25, who in November checked herself into rehab, says she lived on a diet of champagne and drugs. “In France and London we're allowed to smoke pot all day,” she tells the magazine. “After the first picture, skin up.”..."

The Army

"You change overnight from a child to a man - a man that has the right (and the duty sometimes) to love and hate, live and die, make love and kill … The thin line between homo-social and homo-erotic in army life can be so confusing and torturous for a gay soldier. Soldiers hug and kiss each other, say "I love you brother" to each other, sleep together - sometimes lean on each others' chests, sometimes share a tiny mattress, have communal showers where they play "boy games" like throwing water and soap on each other, sometimes share a hot shower, sometimes masturbate together". KOBI

Gay Divorcees

"Chelsea, West L.A., South Beach crammed with Auschwitz-thin chain-smoking Yorkie-in-the-handbag gay divorcees d'un certain age, swilling Chardonnay while desperately competing for the very, very few well-heeled silver-haired stud muffins who might want to chaperone them through the golden portals of, um, maturity."

"Gay marriage, currently a middle-to-upper-middle-class thing, trickles down society, creating trailer parks where 90 percent of the occupants are either blousy castoff lesbian wives in dirty pink muumuus watching tapes of Ellen or scrofulous castoff gay husbands who live off Bud and whatever they can lap up at the truck-stop glory hole."

Axis of Evil

"If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts thorugh the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a part of his own heart?"
- Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1974)


“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”


Her finger hovered over the mouse for a moment or two. There'd usually be that moment where she'd second-guess her candor, her emotion, her negative feelings. But only for a moment.
She hit "send".



8. Don't believe your own spin.
"I was guilty of that," said Mr. Davis, the Clinton defender. Mr. Davis said he first spun out the argument that there was nothing wrong with political donors attending coffees at the Clinton White House because no money was actually collected there. "I tried to believe it, because I was technically correct," Mr. Davis said. "But people were expected to give money before or after the event."

9. Don't forget who your friends are.
"The biggest mistake that people make is that they base their friendships on who is in power and who is not," Ms. Quinn said. "This is short-sighted, because very few people in Washington stay in power for a length of time. In the same vein, people will count people out once they lose power. This is always a huge mistake, because people are never out unless they're in the ground with a stake in the heart."

10. Don't forget where you came from, and that integrity matters.
"People think the values here will be different than the ones they left at home, and they're not," said Robert S. Strauss, a Washington sage who is the former chairman of the Democratic National Committee and a longtime Bush family friend. "It's the same damn thing that you have in Dallas or Los Angeles or Houston. People value loyalty here as much or more as they do anywhere else."

If all else fails, Mr. Fielding has the surefire way to avoid social, political and legal ruin in Washington.
"Move to Kansas," he said.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Led Black: I hate my Northface


NorthfaceI have a love-hate relationship with my North Face. Let me explain: I don’t have one of those thin, lightweight - walk in the park on a slightly brisk morning North Faces. No, I have a climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro (pre-global warming) North Face, the type of North Face that you can wear outside on a frigid day with a soaking wet wife-beater underneath and not feel a thing. I wait until all hope is lost and the real cold weather has set in to pull it out of the closet. It is a weapon of last resort. Speaking of pulling it out the closet, it literally takes up my entire closet.

It must take a whole school of geese or whatever you call a bunch of geese to supply the feathers to fill my coat. I’m serious, a good dozen v-formations of geese is necessary just to pad this monstrosity. It is heavy, cumbersome and completely impervious to the elements, I think it might even be bulletproof. Once I was driving with it on and it took me about 5 minutes of hard fought struggle to remove it as I drove, I almost crashed. If I had crashed, I’m sure I would have survived unscathed because my North Face is way better than any airbag. Another thing about my North Face is that it has mad pockets; it has pockets inside of pockets under pockets. On one occasion in Washington Heights a cop harassed me because I “fit the description.” He proceeded to illegally frisk me; dude got tired from fruitlessly searching through the countless pockets on my North Face. Needless to say he didn’t find the twenty sac of high-grade marijuana I had stashed, to be completely honest, neither did I. I still haven’t, it ended up in North Face pocket limbo.

It’s not that I really hate my North Face but I loathe what my North Face represents, bitterly cold weather. I have lived in this country since I arrived from the Dominican Republic when I was 5 and I still have not completely adjusted to extremely low temperatures or as my father refers to it, “un frío de película.” I welcome spring every year by putting away the North Face until the next winter. With climate change being what it is, winter might arrive by June. But in any case, spring is almost here and life is good. Long live spring!!!

Fierstein on Hate

"AMERICA is watching Don Imus's self-immolation in a state of shock and awe. And I'm watching America with wry amusement.

Since I'm a second-class citizen - a gay man - my seats for the ballgame of American discourse are way back in the bleachers. I don't have to wait long for a shock jock or stand-up comedian to slip up with hateful epithets aimed at me and mine. Hate speak against homosexuals is as commonplace as spam. It's daily traffic for those who profess themselves to be regular Joes, men of God, public servants who live off my tax dollars, as well as any number of celebrities.

In fact, I get a good chuckle whenever someone refers to "the media" as an agent of "the gay agenda." There are entire channels, like Spike TV, that couldn't fill an hour of programming if required to remove their sexist and homophobic content. We've got a president and a large part of Congress willing to change the Constitution so they can deprive of us our rights because they feel we are not "normal."

So I'm used to catching foul balls up here in the cheap seats. What I am really enjoying is watching the rest of you act as if you had no idea that prejudice was alive and well in your hearts and minds.

For the past two decades political correctness has been derided as a surrender to thin-skinned, humorless, uptight oversensitive sissies. Well, you anti-politically correct people have won the battle, and we're all now feasting on the spoils of your victory. During the last few months alone we've had a few comedians spout racism, a basketball coach put forth anti-Semitism and several high-profile spoutings of anti-gay epithets.

What surprises me, I guess, is how choosy the anti-P.C. crowd is about which hate speech it will not tolerate. Sure, there were voices of protest when the TV actor Isaiah Washington called a gay colleague a "faggot." But corporate America didn't pull its advertising from "Grey's Anatomy," as it did with Mr. Imus, did it? And when Ann Coulter likewise tagged a presidential candidate last month, she paid no real price.

In fact, when Bill Maher discussed Ms. Coulter's remarks on his HBO show, he repeated the slur no fewer than four times himself; each mention, I must note, solicited a laugh from his audience. No one called for any sort of apology from him. (Well, actually, I did, so the following week he only used it once.)

Face it, if a Pentagon general, his salary paid with my tax dollars, can label homosexual acts as "immoral" without a call for his dismissal, who are the moral high and mighty kidding?

Our nation, historically bursting with generosity toward strangers, remains remarkably unkind toward its own. Just under our gleaming patina of inclusiveness, we harbor corroding guts. America, I tell you that it doesn't matter how many times you brush your teeth. If your insides are rotting your breath will stink. So, how do you people choose which hate to embrace, which to forgive with a wink and a week in rehab, and which to protest? Where's my copy of that rule book?

Let me cite a non-volatile example of how prejudice can cohabit unchecked with good intentions. I am a huge fan of David Letterman's. I watch the opening of his show a couple of times a week and have done so for decades. Without fail, in his opening monologue or skit Mr. Letterman makes a joke about someone being fat. I kid you not. Will that destroy our nation? Should he be fired or lose his sponsors? Obviously not.

But I think that there is something deeper going on at the Letterman studio than coincidence. And, as I've said, I cite this example simply to illustrate that all kinds of prejudice exist in the human heart. Some are harmless. Some not so harmless. But we need to understand who we are if we wish to change. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess to not only being a gay American, but also a fat one. Yes, I'm a double winner.)

I urge you to look around, or better yet, listen around and become aware of the prejudice in everyday life. We are so surrounded by expressions of intolerance that I am in shock and awe that anyone noticed all these recent high-profile instances. Still, I'm gladdened because our no longer being deaf to them may signal their eventual eradication.

The real point is that you cannot harbor malice toward others and then cry foul when someone displays intolerance against you. Prejudice tolerated is intolerance encouraged. Rise up in righteousness when you witness the words and deeds of hate, but only if you are willing to rise up against them all, including your own. Otherwise suffer the slings and arrows of disrespect silently."

Harvey Fierstein in the New York Times

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Addaboy: Carefree Days

I passed a man driving in a convertible on my walk home from the train last night. What a perfect night for that...not too hot, a bit on the cool side. It got me thinking about my younger years and where I am right now. My father bought me a convertible in my late teens in a freak incident at an auction. Yes, he was there to get me a car, but to quote him "You got exactly what I didn't want you to get." I guess he was looking at Acuras, Hondas, etc. and instead, I ended up with a white Ford Mustang convertible (5.0) with red interior, etc. Of course, I wasn't the one complaining, but he wasn't happy.

The memories of that car, well besides some scary ones (anyone with rear wheel drive can attest to driving in snow/rain, etc.), there are many fond ones. Driving on the open road with the top down, wind blowing in your hair, the sun beating on your face, etc. Heading down to the beach and cruising the strip for hotties. Hopping in and out of the car with friends...the 90's version of the Dukes of Hazard? The weekends and summers were our oysters. Hell, even during the week...what did I have class 3 hours a day? I even stayed the extra year in college just to graduate with my class so I reality it was to have one whole year to slack off. I could have finished in 3 years or so, but decided to just space it out at the end and took many a Pass/Fail class. I even remember cutting class on those picture perfect Spring days and cruising the lake with people. We were young, beautiful and have our lives ahead of us.

Now, I don't have the convertible any more...I sold it 3 years ago. Life is different than those carefree days that we never thought would end.

Addaboy: Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Tuesday, September 10, 2002

It's a weird day today...I can honestly say that I'm SICK of most of my friends today. This one gets and abortion and thinks nothing of it. Spent that same night at Exit dancing away. This one gets her pregnant and won't even go with her to have the damn procedure (actually it took him 3 days to call to see if she was even OK). Now I'm sure he's hurting b/c of the events of tormorrow (he's part of the FDNY) and I feel guilty for not calling him and asking if he's OK. He's been a dick to someone really close to me. UGH!

This one lies to my face and then gets caught and wonders why I don't trust her? This one gets back with a bf that beats him, chokes him, turns him into a zombie, shows up at a club and drags him out by his arm and wonders why I'm upset and can't just get along with the bf? His therapist puts him on Paxil and tells him to try not to nag him, maybe that will calm him down.

Am I the crazy one here? Whatever...I swear, someone opened a whole can of crazy and didn't tell me. I give up!

Addaboy: Wednesday, September 11, 2002

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

It's funny, I said to myself that I really wasn't going to relive that day and write about it. It was really all I could think about, so it all just came out. I guess it's better to get it out then dwell on it....

I remember how perfect the day was. The bright blue skies, the lack of any clouds, nice comfortable temperature...a perfect day. I remember commenting to my uncle how great it was out as the boat pulled into lower Manhattan. A beautiful way to start off a Tuesday morning work day. The time now was 8:40am.

I hurried down into the subway station in a frantic rush to get to work. The train was late and the station was packed with people. You could hear the grumblings of everyone on how the MTA/NYC sucks...myself included. Another day going to work late. Great! It was then that Flight 11 crashed into the north tower of the WTC. The time now was 8:46am.

The train finally came and I hopped on the 1 train uptown. We went to Rector St. and then to Cordlandt St. There the train sat in the station and we heard a huge bang and the train shook slightly. Cordlandt St. is the station that is below the former twin towers (it was crushed when the towers fell). We all just looked at each other in the car. "What was that?" one person said aloud. I think we assumed that we had been rear-ended and that was it. The conductor made this announcement, "There have been gunshots up above on the surface. This train will be expressing to 14th Street." Gunshots? "From a bazooka maybe," one person said. None of us would even fathom what was really happening just above us. Flight 175 crashed into the south tower at that moment. The time now was 9:03am.

I got to 42nd Street and got off of the train to head to work. I worked right across from Bryant Park and you have an amazing view of the Empire State Building. I do remember looking up and seeing how beautiful it looked. Everyone on the street just went about their business. Midtown was business as usual.

I got to work and could see people huddled in the lobby watching the TV. Then I found out. OMG, that couldn't have happened here! Not in the U.S. Not in NYC! Good God! I had three relatives and a few friends that worked in the towers. I wondered how they were?

At 10:10am, Flight 93 crashed somewhere just outside of Pittsburgh. My father was on a business trip at the time in a small suburb right outside Pittsburgh. I wondered if he was near the site. If he was OK? He was.

I eventually met up with my mother and sister here in midtown. We decided to just try and get home. We walked from 50th St. all the way to South Ferry to catch a boat. F-16's crossed the sky as we headed down Broadway. As you got closer and closer, the air became darker and thicker. We had walked in the direction that the wind was taking smoke across the city. I even took off an undershirt and wrapped it around my face. Around the seaport, you could see military men with weapons, helicopters, etc. all lined up along the East River. We made our way onto a ferry and stood on the back of the boat.

Everyone stood there in silence as we pulled away from Manhattan. Our city was wounded. People were gone. Life would never be the same.

Luckily, all of my family members had made it out or were evacuated. Unfortunately, 2,801 other people weren't so lucky. I did know some of them...16 of them to be exact. Those hero's didn't have a chance. Three friends lost brothers. I lost four kids that I graduated from high school with. My high school prom king had died. One guy who I knew since kindergarten, and had only joined the FDNY six weeks before, was gone. My best friend is part of the FDNY, and we had gone out drinking a few weeks before with some friends of his from work. Four out of the five guys that was with us were gone. A close friend of the family lost her FDNY husband. They had just bought a house and had three kids...the oldest is five years old. One woman I knew had gotten a call from her newlywed husband, "Honey, I love you. I'm not going to get out. There's fire all around us. We're going to jump. I'll always love you. Goodbye." Unthinkable!

It's been a year since those events and I like to think that we're back, but we're not. There's still a lot of hurt in this town and will be for some time to come...but we're getting there. Flags lined my street at home. Not one house was without a flag. It brought a smile to my face. Rest in peace to all those're all of our guardian angels now.

I heart New York.

Wicked Man Lives: Allen RIP

The blues

How is it that when hearts break there is no sound.. How can it be that God gave sound to almost every other thing and function, yet for emotion there is just mind numbing silence. You would think a heart breaking would sound like a thousand angels softly weeping... but I suppose the world would be a very noisey place if emotions had sound.

I came out to my therapist at last.. it was just as scary as I thought it would be. She is a really fantastic lady, and said it was an honor to her I finally trusted her enough to let her in. I've been going over in my mind for days this long trek of mine.. so many twists and turns. Little more than a year ago I started seeing a therapist to help me summon the strength to end a relationship that was slowly killing me. The topic was love, and the fact I feel so unworthy of it. I can give it unconditionally without reserve yet I find it so difficult to accept.

For so long love has been a razor strap, something that has been used against me. When I was a child our house was an emotional vacuum, my mother was far too sick to be able to convey love, my father way too busy. Hugs and kisses were things I saw on TV, there were none in that house. I thought I had done something terrible to be so ignored, I was a sad lonely child, and life was very solitary.

I had my first gay lover when I was 13. Allen and I had been friends since kindergarten. Funny, cute, articulate and a romantic.. he saved things from everytime we were together, something I would later do for silly things with my kids.. ticket stubs, game tokens.. things that bring back that moment.

We were in a parochial grade school.. a place where such things were looked on as mortal sins. It was hard to reconcile going to hell for accepting his love. I was gay and in love before I had ever even heard the term, let alone understood it. I knew he loved me back, and to me that was just such a miracle.. so inconceivable. It seemed so impossible to me.. accepting his love in the face of religion that was drilled into us on a daily basis, a religion that taught that such things were greeted with eternal damnation. Fire and brimstone.. for the love of this boy, it left me in tears when I was in the dark and alone.

In the circle we traveled in at the time we were careful never to let on, often flirting with girls to keep the suspicion away.. then clandestine meetings in the woods behind the ymca and making out. hot, naked, tumbling in the grass. He wanted to go further than I was ready to go, in my head as long as I didn't let him do "that".. I had technically not completed a "Mortal Sin".

He was always the bolder one, and when he decided he had to come out, despite my begging him not to, it caused an explosion of a magnitude he never expected, his parents hatred and disgust was such that they shipped him off to some dirt track in Wyoming to "become a real man". It changed the course of my life forever, and we would never be together that way again.

In the days after he was sent away, his father and mother persisted in the hunt for the boy who had turned their son gay, phoning the parents of everyone of us who hung out together. Not a day seemed to go by in our circle that the subject was not front and center.. I was terrified. Fingers were pointed back and forth, and yet somehow they were never pointed at me. I felt awful for not coming forward and at the same time relieved everytime the target moved away from me.

Weeks later when I thought I was in the clear, walking home from a friends I ran across the older brother of another friend of mine in that woods. As I walked I could hear his steps quicken behind me, as I turned to see where he was a blinding pain shot across the back of my head, I went face down, and turned over as he kicked me in the face, and then again repeatedly in the chest and stomach.

I don't remember much else other than being dragged off the path by my shirt, the collar nearly turning to a garrot.. the whole way he ranted about knowing all about me, called me a dirty little cocksucker, and he knew what I liked. It seemed like hours but the whole thing lasted maybe 10 minutes, he left me there bloody and half naked.

I would see him repeatedly throughout my school years, one look from him made me want to run. He said if I ever told he would be sure everyone knew "my secret" but actually we existed under an implied mutual destruction, I could just as easily have destroyed him. I heard he died in a drunk driving accident in the 80's. I always hoped it would be more painful and lingering.

If I felt like a Judas for not having stepped forward as the boy who would be queer, I accepted what happened as my punishment for not having been brave enough to stand up, and God's punishment for having sinned, falling in love with a boy. I spent the rest of my teen years going out of my way to be sure nobody would ever suspect I was gay. See the post "100 things" to see where that landed me.

Allen returned shortly before I married in 1979. We spoke briefly before the wedding and he tried to talk me out of it. He came to my wedding under protest, and shortly after moved away. We never spoke again. His man at his side, April 14th, 1995 he died of Aids. He took part of me with him.. it kills me to that our last words were tearful and bittersweet.

He is in every kiss.. I can still smell his hair.



Wicked Man Lives: The One?

The trouble with 10's

The book of 10.I've talked about it here, that mental black book that contains all my secrets. "C" was straight from chapter one, smooth swimmer build, scruffy boy hot, and a sort of surety about him that just turned me on. I met him at his loft, bottle(s) of wine in hand.. the guy had it goin on.

His place was very artsy, and totally him. Decked in candles, and everything done to perfection. We talked for a while.. ok he talked, and I just sort of took him in, watching his face, his mouth.. there was this unassuming sweetness about him... they say you can't go back, but he was taking me there. When I finally leaned in to kiss him it was instantly electric.

Something in me was propelled back in time to that guy that I was all those years ago, praying inside for a moment like this, knowing it would never come. laying there behind him my arms wrapped around him tight.. I didn't let him see, just laid there smelling his hair and utterly caught in the moment. It took me a minute to realize I had tears coming, and no idea why. He would have thought I was crazy.. then I realized he was so that guy in chapter one, the one I would have sold my soul for just to have this moment. He never had a face, never had a name.. just this imaginary guy, pieces of every guy that ever made me wish that I were free.

He reached right through me, never intending to. I laid there in the dim light struggling to catch my breath, confused by this thing that just knocked me down, afraid to take my arms off him and literally shaking from the experience. He laid there oblivious.. starting to roll back towards me I held him tighter for a moment.. not wanting him to see.

It wasn't love.. it was more spiritual as corny as that sounds, like something in him unwittingly just reached back and set that lonely boy free. It was in a sort of daze trying to figure it out on the way home that night.. my exploits while they may not be many never affected me this way.. after the cop pulled me over for blowing the redlight I came back to earth. Yet the following day I couldn't get him off my mind.

I TM'd him in what can only be described as random acts of stupidity, a writer at his worst lol, and he most certainly thinks I am quite insane. *sigh* Ever write something lame and just compound it trying to correct it? LOL .. shuddup.

I wanted to explain it to him.. but there just aren't words and I am not even sure I understand it. I wanted to see him again.. but well see. Sometimes when you blow it that's just where it stops.

Wicked Man Lives: Nowhere to Hide

Nowhere to hide.

Groundhog day. Ever see the movie?

If the whole Manhunt thing hadn't run it's course the following events have certainly tainted things to the extent it is just silly. I'll be on there long enough to copy some numbers I don't want to loose get a few alternate email addys because there actually were some guys that I simply enjoyed chatting with on there.. but trust this chapter is closed.

Really in light of the following I will be puting a hold on everything.

I'm talking to my X on about some "Issues" regarding our daughter, she is in my face about my going out.. and I am on her case because she has still not tempted counseling with her - the relaitionship between them has been fire and gasoline. Her reply was that there wasn't time. She procedes to tell me that she has breast cancer and that she is terminal.

Those who were reading before I had to pull the blog the last time will recall she had eluded to this months ago but never came right out and said it. Given her history of insanely convincing fabrication my initial instict was that she was lying and trying to gain my sympathies - then at the same time imagining the bitter irony if these things she were telling me were true. Certainly everyone is well versed with the little boy who cried wolf.

So I sit there half stunned, half horrified. OK, more horrified.. by the idea that she would stoop to this, and a little sickened at the idea that I was probably correct in my initial suspiscion - yet saddened by the thought that if what she was saying was true she was facing a lonely finish. This is just twisted. I couldn't help but toss the fake pregnancy at her and she persisted that she had learned her lesson and that no, she was not lying this time. But still.. her lips are moving.

So then she goes on to rant some more about my dating habbits and tells me that she is actively seeking my new companion.. before I could stop myself "what?" just came spilling out. She goes on to tell me that she has logged into these dating services using faked profiles, chatting with various people and telling them she has been with me - that I am this that and the other thing, and that they should hit me up..

Utterly speachless for a second - she goes on to tell me that she knows what I think I want but that she knows what I need and she intends to see to it that her daughter is taken care of after she is gone. The whole while she is talking my head flips back to "RG" - that was just too weird.. coupled with a raft of random mental thoughts of strangling her where she sat. There is no reasoning, and she persists she is sincere.. Kill me now.

I tell her that I took my system in to have it checked and she laughs - "Go get a new computer for all I care, change your passwords, change your screen names, it won't do you any good." So this has to be some IP tracking system? PS.. nothing in my system, and she also picked up the activity when I was using my work laptop during the time my system was in the shop. SO - FL John.. you were on the money. I ran the adaware and they did it at the shop as well - this must be some slick technology because it hasn't as much as slowed her down.

If all of this wasn't creepy enough - she goes on to tell me she is paying to have me watched, placing people within feet of me. She goes on to describe a rather unique style of crunch I do at the gym.. and how this person who is watching me thinks I am "smokin" - then goes on to detail my every movement for the past 2 weeks, the events, the people, places, what I was wearing right down to my scent. Things I have detailed nowhere.

OK now if the idea of someone standing behind me at a club watching my every move is not disturbing enough - add to this the idea that I have no idea what type of person this is, or what their own agenda might be, she tells me the individual{s} are gay, and are watching to ensure I don't get hurt, or "taken advantage" of. I cant even wrap my mind around this.

She cries when she says that she knows what her insane behavior has done to me, I cry because she really truly has no clue. She cries when she says that she knows I will never be "with" her again, I cry because I really never should have been. She cries when she insists that she can't live without me in her world, I cry because even though I REALLY shouldn't care I do - and I am afraid that could be true. She cries when she swears that she means me no harm, I cry because harm is all I can remember, and all I ever walk away with. She cries when she tells me she only wants me to be happy, I cry because I just don't see a chance that will ever happen.

I cry at the idea that none of this will ever end... it's really all just too messed up.

Kill Bill

The drive.

I couldn't help but giggle a bit when I was driving up to meet "S", having read Toby's recent posts, I think we all want to kill Bill once in a while.. Barreling down the highway Friday night wind in my hair, radio blaring, soft lights of the dash, and pornographic thoughts causing a slight grin at the corner of my mouth.. couldn't help but think to myself - if I am driving far enough to loose radio contact this better be bloody sublime..

If you recall I had to cancel a date last week.. this was the outcome. I stepped into the accelerator, late as usual - he phoned and we were both running about the same time wise. He sounded so hot over the phone.. OH LOOK - a cop! I hate that feeling you get when blasting past them 20 miles over the speed limit.. and it's even worse when you see them pull out behind you seconds later.. Bastards. Looking up at the unpaid ticket I got 2 weeks ago I just cringed and waited. He blew past me - and I pictured the evil giggle he no doubt had while doing it. Fucker.

I don't normally consider guys that involve distance but this one made me blink.. dinner and a movie.. hehehe ok. We're blabbing on the cell when I pull up on him at the theater.. he is all that. Get the tickets to a late night screening of "Must love Dogs", and head to Logans across the lot for a quick bite and get acquainted.. these college boys are going to be the end of me.

Something about us definitely clicked.. he had a very Ryan Cabrera look to his face, taller and leaner, but definitely well worth the drive. We sat there and checked out some of the waiters.. definitely some hot "bois" hehehe. The movie was fun.. we were literally the only 2 people in the theater.. I heart Imax. We actually watch most of the movie.. Diane Lane is a funny bitch when she puts her mind to it. By the time the credits were rolling so were we.. I'll have to rent it on video to see how it ended.

Hotel rooms are engineered for fucking hot sex..... anyone doing a blacklight check of that room will leave some major questions should anyone ever do something so silly.

I woke up way late Saturday morning.. my message Q was flashing and my cell was almost dead.. Ugh.. no time to shower - I brush the teeth quick, plant one on the hottie as I press my half of the room fee in his hand - we giggle about what a hooker he looks like, even with morning breath his kisses are hot. If it weren't for the fact I broke his poor body before passing out at almost 5 am I would totally have thrown him on the floor and finished off that room. *sigh* Really, I was the one who looked like a hooker.. pillow hair, 5 o'clock shadow, something sticky here n there.. hahahhaah.

It is hard to speed on the way home.. my cruise control hasn't worked since the X ran me off the road, and my legs were weak. Seriously. Unlike Toby.. this is a trip I will no doubt make every chance I get.

And I owe it all to you guys
Ya'll keep me going.

I have reconciled myself to the idea that sometimes there just aren't any easy answers... just more questions.

Vividblurry: Blog


The doctor said it without missing a beat.

"But, you're quite the looker. You know that, right?"

Right. I'm sure that is what you say to every 22-year-old who comes into your office, whining about body image problems. Oh, no, what are you talking about, you look great! Get outta here, you're crazy! Well, yeah, that's sort of the problem, doc. I'm fucking crazy! So, like, fix me now.

Normally when I'm in an examining room, I take off my shirt and hop up on the wax paper-covered table. This time I was invited to sit in a chair with my clothes on - how refreshingly dignified! The doctor pitched me some softball questions about my general health. Do you drink alcohol socially? Sure, that's one way of putting it. Do you smoke cigarettes? Only when drinking - read into that however you please. Do you take poppers? No, I don't even know what they are. (Only a gay doctor would ask that!) I enjoyed taking his light-hearted health survey and watching him check off boxes, mostly because I knew that in a few moments, this age of yes-or-no questions would seem miles away.

The conversation abruptly shifts to, "So, why are you here?" I tell him. We both immediately know how this appointment is going to end, but he hears me out anyway. Maybe I'll take some blood, just to make sure it's nothing "organic." Yeah, that sounds fine, that's a good idea. It's possible that you have a testosterone deficiency. Wow, I never thought of that, it's definitely possible.

And then: Have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist?

Oh, no, I don't need to see a psychiatrist, I have a blog.


I, mean...

I have no idea why I just said that.

The doctor didn't really say anything, either because he doesn't exactly know what a blog is or because he knows exactly who I am. I'm laughing at this point, because who cares, no matter what I say, this type of appointment ends the same way they all do. Not that I have a problem with that. It's the next appointment that matters most, and who knows how that is going to end.

Vividblurry: Him


I won't allow myself to think of reasons why, but I really don't want to see him tonight. I think it was the dinner date on Tuesday. I mean, the dinner part was fine and everything - put a chicken chimichanga in front of me and I'll be happy for at least 20 minutes - but the whole "Let's go for a walk" thing was a bit too much. After such a flawless meal of two Coronas, good Mexican food and great conversation, I didn't want to ruin the night by having to force myself into Romantic mode. I just wanted to go home. By myself. But no - we went for a walk.

Down Wisconsin Avenue. Past the liquor store. Past the CVS. Holding hands the entire time. Oh god, it made me so uncomfortable, holding hands with a guy in public, but looking back on it, I'm sure it wasn't the hand-holding that bothered me as much as the guy whose hand I was holding. It felt unnatural for a reason. I should have realized it then, but instead, I allowed him to sit me down on a park bench and make out with me, and I even agreed to welcome him into my apartment for a movie on Thursday night. Tonight. Oh dear god, that's tonight.

I'm telling you right now - the movie at my place? Not happening. Nope. No way. I'll be out of town this weekend and I need time to do laundry and to get a haircut. I've had a stressful week and I need time to be alone. There is so much going on in my life right now and I need to just have a few drinks in front of the TV and maybe even close my bedroom door for five minutes and let it out, just let it all fucking out. I can't do any of that shit if there's a guy sitting in my living room, expecting me to put out once the credits to "Party Girl" start rolling. So, no, you're not coming over tonight.

Which is exactly what I wrote in an e-mail to him. I had initially planned on fabricating some fail-safe excuse, like "I'll be working late tonight" or "There's a networking reception I need to be at." But when I signed into Gmail and started typing, the words were honest and truthful and completely unlike me. Lying to boys has always saved me the trouble of having to deal with the fact that I can never seem to find what I'm looking for, but for some reason - well, I think I know what the reason is - I feel compelled to be straight-up with this boy.

I'm honest today, and I hope that I'm honest next week. Telling someone to his face that you never want to see him again is never easy.





Vividblurry: Kill Bill


Oh no. Oh my dear god. His hands. Augh. His hands are rubbing my back. His hands are rubbing my back and they�re creeping downward toward my waist. I knew it. Oh god, I knew it. Ah! There they go! Around my waist and under my stomach! His hands are now touching � rubbing! � oh god, they�re rubbing my stomach and I think I�m going to throw up.

I should not have asked him for a massage. Oh sure, his profile says he is licensed in massage therapy, but these days they give out massage therapy licenses to amputees, for crying out loud. No, this isn�t a massage. This is just some cheap way to get me shirtless and lure me towards his bed. Which, by the by, I passed on the way to the living room. There were three cats sleeping in that nest of a bed. Three cats! If he thinks my face is going to be shoved into one of those pillows, he has another thing coming.

This nightmare scenario � this freaking nightmare scenario, and yet, it isn�t until he opens his mouth while perched on my butt and grinding his fists into my lower back that I realize I had driven 50 miles for something I really, really, truly did not need.

�You�ve lost weight since the last time I�ve seen you.�

You son of a bitch.

�At least 10 pounds.�

Oh my god, you son of a bitch! I�m going to strangle you!

�Yeah, definitely 10 pounds. It shows in your face.�

Oh, that�s it. That�s it! I�m going to kill you!

I flip around so that I�m on my back. Of course, this means that he�s now straddling my crotch, but there�s just no other way. I ask him to remove his T-shirt. No, I demand him. Just remove your stupid white Hanes T-shirt so that I can see how much weight you�ve packed on since I�ve seen you last December, when you claimed to be strip dancing at some local dive bar. Remove it so I can see your shapeless stomach and atrophied pecs. Good. Now toss it on the floor.

He looks down at me, grinning, as if the very sight of his naked upper body is worth the 75 cents I had paid in tolls. In a way, it is. I tend to like bodies like his. A big, brawny man, with a barrel of a chest and a soft, cuddly tire around his waist. He has to be tan. A tubby tanorexic. Trust me, it�s hotter than it sounds.

The half-naked man straddling my waist isn�t tan. For this reason and many, many others, he will never be The One, but there is something about him that's enough to make me forget the horrible experience of our previous hookup, enough to make me instant message him out of the blue, to essentially throw myself at him.

Well, I say it's something about him. It's really something about me. I hook up with someone, vanish for six months, and then mysteriously resurface with the plain intention of doing it all over again. These guys have always taken me back. In a way, they are just as bad as I am.

At 2 a.m., I'm finally in my car, heading back home. I think of Uma Thurman, driving her convertible against a grainy black-and-white backdrop. "This time, I'm going to kill... Bill...." I know that I will never, ever drive to this man's apartment again. This time, I mean it.

Vividblurry: Blast from Past


Augh, he is such a tease. If it's not how much he hates rushing into sex with a guy, it's how good his ass looks in his black "undies." He says he doesn't drink or do drugs. He also says he precums to the point of being virtually "self-lubricating." A description of his ideal date (homemade dinner and cuddling), a declaration of what he finds most sensual (most bodily functions, evidently). My god. A virgin and a whore.

But as they say: A freak online, an actual freak in person. Yup, that's right. We met online. Haven't yet met face to face. Now, I'm tempted to defend myself from the people who'd say I'm a loser for meeting guys online, but let's be honest, you're the one reading a stranger's blog, not me. And there's nothing wrong with that! Let's just agree that we are all on the same level here, because the Lord knows I haven't had much luck meeting gay guys in the traditional way (hoping that hastily delivered blowjob in the bathroom of JRs will net you a phone call the next day).

By the way, he is still talking about his precum.

I'm just going to gloss over the fact that he's an entering college freshman and say that when � if � we meet in person, it will go nowhere. I mean, obviously. He's 18 years old, for crying out loud. He says he's going to wait until he's found love to have sex again. He's been burned too many times. He describes himself as "strange" � more "mature" than most guys his age, and he expects his boyfriends to be mature, as well. Most haven't been, he says.

Okay, man. Whatever. A jaded if not eye-rollingly pretentious freshman � that's gonna go over real well. And as for the "doesn't drink or do drugs" thing? I pulled that same stunt at the start of my freshman year. We all did. In three months, you'll have a handle of vodka under your bed and a box of condoms in the drawer. That's when you know to sign on and say, "toby - sup?"



If homosexuality is a disease, let's all call in sick to work: "Hello. Can't
work today, still queer."
~ Robin Tyler

I'd rather be black than gay because when you're black you don't have to tell
your mother.
~ Charles Pierce

"Dear Abby," In response to a reader who complained that a gay couple was moving
in across the street and wanted to know what he could do to
improve the quality of the neighborhood. 'You could move.'
~ Abigail Van Buren.

The one bonus of not lifting the ban on gays in the military is that the next
time the government mandates a draft, we can all declare we are
homosexual instead of running off to Canada.
~ Lorne Bloch

Why can't they have gay people in the army? Personally, I think they are just
afraid of a thousand guys with M16s going, "Who'd you call a
~ Jon Stewart

My lesbianism is an act of Christian charity. All those women out there praying
for a man, and I'm giving them my share.
~ Rita Mae Brown

Soldiers who are not afraid of guns, bombs, capture, torture or death say they
are afraid of homosexuals. Clearly we should not be used as
soldiers; we should be used as weapons.

~ Letter to the Editor, The Advocate

You don't have to be straight to be in the military; you just have to be able to
shoot straight.
~ Barry Goldwater

Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding
guns than holding hands?
~ Ernest Gaines

My own belief is that there is hardly anyone whose sexual life, if it were
broadcast, would not fill the world at large with surprise and horror.
~ W. Somerset Maugham

Drag is when a man wears everything a lesbian won't.
~ Author Unknown

If male homosexuals are called "gay," then female homosexuals should be
called "ecstatic."
~ Shelly Roberts

My mother took me to a psychiatrist when I was fifteen because she thought I was
a latent homosexual. There was nothing latent about it.
~ Amanda Bearse

It always seemed to me a bit pointless to disapprove of homosexuality. It's
like disapproving of rain....
~ Francis Maude

The only queer people are those who don't love anybody....
~ Rita Mae Brown

The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to
heterosexuals. That doesn't mean that God doesn't love heterosexuals.
It's just that they need more supervision.
~ Lynn Lavner

If Michelangelo had been straight, the Sistine Chapel would have been
~Robin Tyler

I get sick of listening to straight people complain about, "Well, hey, we don't
have a heterosexual- pride day, why do you need a gay-pride day?"
I remember when I was a kid I'd always ask my mom: "Why don't we have a Kid's
Day? We have a Mother's Day and a Father's Day, but why don't we have a Kid's
Day?" My mom would always say, "Every day is Kid's Day." To all those
heterosexuals that bitch about gay pride, I say the same thing: Every
day is heterosexual- pride day! Can't you people enjoy your banquet and not piss
on those of us enjoying our crumbs over here in the corner?
--Adam Rowland

The Story

OK, here's what happened:
He ran away scared.

Not really, we spent the whole day together:
The message didn't get posted in time. :( So I waited until it did and walked up to him and said "Someone just posted a message about you on Craigslist Missed Connections." His reply was "you're joking!" But when he turned around I could tell we were bound to be together forever... Or an hour. The chemistry was thick. I said "I'm pretty sure it was about you and it just popped up a minute ago, maybe someone in here likes you. Anyway I just thought you should know, I'm going across the street to wait for someone who might show up for coffee. Take it easy."

So I went to CorporateCoffeeHaus and waited. Well, four minutes and fifteen seconds later he came in there with a big smile and told me that was the cutest, funnies way to meet someone. Naturally, I agreed. He was in the Apple Store to buy a Powerbook and a new iPod. He had left his iPod in a cab and was looking in the CL lost and found to see if anyone had found it. Then realized no one with half a brain would return someone's iPod. In addition, he was looking at the Missed Connection ads because someone had told him about a funny post about some drugged up kid dancing in front of Hydrate after pride.

We were almost all over each other in the coffe shop; Our legs touching under the tabe, flirting. Holding hands a little, and I was still trying to get close enough to feel his warmth. We went back to Apple and played on machines and he bought what he needed. Then... we hopped back in a cab to take them back to HIS PLACE (the plot thickens). And, to charge them up.

Now here's the thing. I've met guys. I've met guys and slept with a few right away. But in the first two hours of being with Geoff (that's his name, Geoff, btw) we "hit it off."

So when we got to his place I said "it's not a good idea for me to come upstairs, and I think we both know why. He agreed. And when I said "we both know why" that's code for "who knows what either of us picked up at pride?" and "I didn't shower nearly long enough to bottom for you."

Before he went up stairs he recommended we go on a bike ride. So he grabbed his bike and the bike of his friend, who was at work but went to her apartment to grab her bike lock key and helmet.

We rode to Hyde Park and went to eat. Then we went to promontory point and sat in the shade and talked. We sat close and kissed a little, and we talked about:
Lance Armstrong and that little french race he wins a lot
Dogs rule
Cats suck (we are both allergic)
eBay addiction
Our insane mothers
Our fathers who are always there when we need them (hats off to fathers)
Our families

Then at some point we both fell asleep for either 10 minutes or an hour. I have no idea how long it was.

After deciding it was late and we need to get back to our neck of the woods. We rode home and pretended to chase down the road bikers, as if we could catch some of those S.O.B's.

We got back to his place and he asked if I wanted to watch a show he recorded from Discovery called "The Science of Lance Armstrong." I said "Yes."

So he called the friend of whom he borrowed the bike. And told her basically, "I met a guy and we'll tell you the story." Then told her that we're going to watch a show he recorded and he wanted her to come over and be there the whole time so we don't accidentally screw the hell out of each other and then don't call the next day. That was a great plan because she came over and said "I need to be in bed by midnight and that's when I'll walk you outside."

The show was great. His friend is great. He's great. I'm swooning, but realistically. We have a date tomorrow.


Advice to Young Men from an Old Man

1. Don’t pick on the weak. It’s immoral. Don’t antagonize the strong without cause, its stupid.
2. Don’t hate women. It’s a waste of time
3. Invest in yourself. Material things come to those that have self actualized.
4. Get in a fistfight, even if you are going to lose.
5. As a former Marine, take it from me. Don’t join the military, unless you want to risk getting your balls blown off to secure other people’s economic or political interests.
6. If something has a direct benefit to an individual or a class of people, and a theoretical, abstract, or amorphous benefit to everybody else, realize that the proponent’s intentions are to benefit the former, not the latter, no matter what bullshit they try to feed you.
7. Don’t be a Republican. They are self-dealing crooks with no sense of honor or patriotism to their fellow citizens. If you must be a Republican, don’t be a “conservative.” They are whining, bitching, complaining, simple-minded self-righteous idiots who think they’re perpetual victims. Listen to talk radio for a while, you’ll see what I mean.
8. Don’t take proffered advice without a critical analysis. 90% of all advice is intended to benefit the proponent, not the recipient. Actually, the number is probably closer to 97%, but I don’t want to come off as cynical.
9. You’ll spend your entire life listening to people tell you how much you owe them. You don’t owe the vast majority of people shit.
10. Don’t undermine your fellow young men. Mentor the young men that come after you. Society recognizes that you have the potential to be the most power force in society. It scares them. Society does not find young men sympathetic. They are afraid of you, both individually and collectively. Law enforcement’s primary purpose is to suppress you.
11. As a young man, you’re on your own. Society divides and conquers. Unlike women who have advocates looking out for them (NOW, Women’s Study Departments, government, non-profit organizations, political advocacy groups) almost no one is looking out for you.
12. Young men provide the genius and muscle by which our society thrives. Look at the Silicone Valley. By in large, it was not old men or women that created the revolution we live. Realize that society steals your contributions, secures it with our intellectual property laws, and then takes credit and the rewards where none is due.
13. Know that few people have your best interests at heart. Your mother does. Your father probably does (if he stuck around). Your siblings are on your side. Everybody else worries about themselves.
14. Don’t be afraid to tell people to “Fuck off” when need be. It is an important skill to acquire. As they say, speak your piece, even if your voice shakes.
15. Acquire empathy, good interpersonal skills, and confidence. Learn to read body language and non-verbal communication. Don’t just concentrate on your vocational or technical skills, or you’ll find your wife fucking somebody else.
16. Keep fit.
17. Don’t speak ill of your wife/girlfriend. Back her up against the world, even if she’s wrong. She should know that you have her back. When she needs your help, give it. She should know that you’ll take her part.
18. Don’t cheat on your wife/girlfriend. If you must cheat, don’t humiliate her. Don’t risk having your transgressions come back to her or her friends. Don’t do it where you live. Don’t do it with people in your social circle. Don’t shit in your own back yard.
19. If your girlfriend doesn’t make you feel good about yourself and bring joy to your life, fire her. That’s what girlfriends are for.
20. Don’t bother with “emotional affairs.” They are just a vehicle for women to flirt and have someone make them feel good about themselves. That’s the part of a relationship they want. For you it is a lot of work and investment in time. If they are having an emotional affair with you, they’re probably fucking someone else.
21. Becoming a woman’s friend and confidant is not going to get you into an intimate relationship. If you haven’t gotten the girl within a reasonably short period of time, chances are you won’t ever get her. She’ll end up confiding to you about the sexual adventures she’s having with someone else.
22. Have and nurture friendships with women.
23. Realize that love is a numbers game. Guys fall in love easily. You’re going to see some girl and feel like you’ll die if you don’t get her. If she rejects you, move on to the next one. It’s her loss.
24. Don’t be an internet troll. Got out and live life. There is not a cadre of beautiful women advertising on Craigslist to have NSA sex with you. Beautiful women don’t need to advertise. The websites that advertise with attractive women’s photos and claims of loneliness are baloney. All they want is your money and your personal information so that they can market to you. The posts on Craigslist by young “women” seeking NSA sex, and asking for a picture are just a bunch of gay troll pic collectors. This is especially true if the post uses common gay lexicon like “hole” as in “fuck my hole” or seeks “masculine” men, or uses the word cock (except in the context of “Don’t send a cock shot.”) There are women on Craigslist. They are easily recognizable by their 2-5 paragraph postings. Most are in their 30's or older.
25. When you become a man in full, know that people will get in your way. People who are attracted to you will somehow manage to step in your path. Gay guys will give you “the look.” Old people will somehow stumble in front of you at the worst time. Don’t get frustrated. Just step aside and go about your business. Know that these are passive aggressive methods to get you to acknowledge their existence.
26. Don’t gay bash. Don’t mentally or physically abuse people because of who they are, or how they present themselves. It’s none of your business to try to intimidate people into conformity.
27. If your gay, admit it to yourself, your parents, your friends and society at large. Be prepared to get harassed. See rule 14. If someone threatens you or assaults you, call the cops. Have them arrested. You have no obligation to self sacrifice because of who you are. As a gay person, you’ll have more social freedom than straight men. Use it to protect yourself. Be prepared to get out of Dodge if your orientation makes your life unbearable. Move to San Francisco, New York, Atlanta, or New Orleans. You’ll find a welcoming community there.
28. Don’t be a poser. Avoid being one of those dudes who puts a surfboard on top of their car, but never surfs, or a dude with a powder coated fixed gear bike and a messenger bag, but was never a messenger. Live the life. Earn your bona fides.
29. Don’t believe the crap about the patriarchy. More women are accepted and attend college. More degrees are awarded to women than men. Women outlive men. More men commit suicide. Men are twice as likely to be victims of violence, including murder. If you consider sexual assaults in prisons, twice as many men are raped as women (society thinks prison rape is funny). The streets are littered with homeless men, sprinkled with a few homeless women. Statically, women are happier than men. The myth that girls are being cheated by are educational system is belied by the fact that schools are bastions of femininity, mostly run by and taught by women. Girls outperform boys in school. It is the boys in school getting fucked over, and prescribed ritalin for being boys. Real wages for men are falling, while real wages for women are rising. Just because someone says something enough times, doesn’t make it true. You have nothing to feel guilty about.
30. Remember, 97% of all advice is worthless. Take what you can use, and trash the rest.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Shades of Gray: Triggers


EyesIt's never quite over is it? Like over-over. After all the sadness, the anger and the healing, after it's all said and done, it can come back in an instant. Set off by a trigger with the unrelenting power to roll back time. For some that trigger is an anniversary. For others, a song. For me it's always been his birthday.


"You're Invited to Seth's Big 30th Birthday Bash," reads the e-mail, three exclamation marks.

I know better than to open it, but I can't help it. An addict falling off the wagon.

I hate myself for being so weak, but mostly I resent him for opening that door again. His birthday was three weeks ago, and surprisingly this year it came and went without a hitch. I thought I was done.

My eyes follow the words on the screen.

Pool party. Swanky hotel. Midtown.

Before I get to the time and date, I come back to my senses, hit delete.

I've learned my lesson a long time ago. Tried the whole "let's be friends" thing back when the wounds were still fresh, but quickly realized I couldn't. Too much anger. It wasn't anything he did in particular that got me so mad. Just a simple resentment towards a man who was able to make the transition from lover to friend with such ease.

And so one day I stopped talking to him. No phone calls, no dinners, no nothing.

I thought it would be hard, I thought I'd miss him too much. But instead I felt happier, healthier. Then I discovered a direct correlation: the less I knew about him, the better I felt. And so I made a conscious effort to not know. Seth was angry at first. Confused by my silence. But for the first time it didn't matter.

Years have gone by and still I choose not to know. Figured no need to wake that sleeping dog.

Then an e-mail. One small gesture, and the anger which seemed to have almost disappeared is now finding its way back from the dead, like a serial killer in bad horror flick.

I tell myself as long as I don't know the date and time I can't obsess.

"Are you going to Seth's birthday party?" Comes the text from Zach.

"Wasn't planning on it, no."

"Yeah, didn't think you would. Pity. I was the one who suggested he invited you, thought we could finally spend some time together, cohort."

I cut the exchange short, before he blurts out the specifics and for the next few days try not to hear about it. But I know. It's only a matter of time.

On Friday I get another e-mail. This time there's no escape.

"Last reminder: Seth's 30th Birthday Party TONIGHT."

No need to open. It's right there in the subject matter.

And then it starts. A rush of thoughts and flashbacks and feelings and moments. Seth at 23, Seth at 24. Birthdays I've celebrated with him, those I did not. I make plans to meet friends. Anything to get my mind off the party. Soho House, drinks, a cute boy's smile, annoying interruptions, bathing suits, Seth's face, his boyfriend's tight body. I try to focus. But all I can think of is the unthinkable. I need something momentous to happen, I need this to be anything but the day I couldn't go to Seth's 30th birthday party. But I realize it's a lost cause.

I'm bored and I'm tired and now, slightly drunk. I finally glance at the exit sign, put down my umpteenth vodka tonic, head towards the coat check.

"Hey what's your name?"

I look up. Blue eyes, buzzed hair, nice smile.


"Hey Ethan, I'm JT."


"Where are you from?"


Awkward pause. I realize he's waiting for me to reciprocate. I just want my coat.

"And you?" I finally ask back.

"I'm stationed in Honolulu."

He smiles. The set up, it worked.

"Stationed? As in the military?"

"Yep." he says with a smirk on his face. He knows he's got my attention.

"I'm being shipped to Iraq in three weeks."

Smile. Dimples. Deal, sealed.

"And how many times have you used that line tonight?"

"You're the first. Is it working?"

"If I say no, that would make me quite unpatriotic."

"And callous."

"Callous? That's a big word for a soldier."



"Too much?"

"You had me at Honolulu."


A bright ray of sun coming in from the window wakes me up. My head's pounding, my mouth's dry. I open my eyes slowly trying to reduce the light's unforgiving effect on my pupils. I scan the room. A hotel. Flat screen TV, an empty bottle of Vueve Clicquot, my clothes scattered like breadcrumbs all the way from the door to the bed. I peel the blanket off my chest slowly, a prisoner trying to make his escape. That's when I notice a man's arm around my waist, his legs intertwined with mine. We're cuddling.

"Good morning," he says.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 11:00"

"Shit. I have plans to meet someone for brunch at noon," I lie. That line flies out of my mouth almost too quickly. It's convincing. I remind myself to call my therapist the moment I make more money.

"Sorry, I gotta run."

"Do I get your number?"

"Sure," I say as I fish my clothes up from his floor. "Got a pen?"

He pulls out his color Blackberry, new, shiny, bells, whistles. It's the Cadillac of hand-held devices.

"They give that to all soldiers?" I joke. "I'm in the wrong business."

"I'm a doctor. Do you have to go so soon?"

"Yes," I say. "Before you tell me that you're Jewish and single."

I leave his hotel room, look at the date on my watch. Smile. I made it through the night. No more anxious thoughts. At least not for another year.

And then it occurs to me. Last night wasn't the night of Seth's birthday party. It was the night I entertained the troops.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Ex

Several years ago I found a porn movie starring my college boyfriend. I was at a movie store where my friend worked, just wandering around, and back in the "adult section" there it was, right at eye level, the box with him on the cover. The whole room went into an Alfred Hitchcock zoom as I stared at him, standing there with his thumb hooked into his belt loop. He would never stand like that in real-life, I thought. He was much too cool for that. I loved this guy. I was head-over-heels in puppy love with him. He wore organic fiber clothing, and weird little hats, and his eyes were so bright blue they glowed in the dark. Beautiful. We would hang out in his 5-floor walk-up apartment, with his homemade orange curtains, and we'd lay on his futon on the floor and listen to Bjork, and talk about gay oppression and the meaning of life and other subjects much bigger than we could realistically handle. Or he would talk, and I would listen, as he laid on his back and I laid on my side next to him. And we'd eat falafel or some other food I considered "exotic" and have sex and sleep through all my classes the next day. It's a miracle I passed anything that semester.

He was a senior when I was a sophomore; when he graduated he moved to the woods of Tennessee and joined an all-gay commune called the Radical Faries, where he practiced Pagan rituals and danced around a campfire in the moonlight. It was around then that we lost touch. But I went out and bought a hat just like he would wear, a little black skullcap that I thought made me look artsy and alternative. In retrospect, it just made me look like an artsy Jew.

So it was years later when I found that movie; I, of course, rented it immediately, told my friend I couldn't wait for him to close the store and go out as we planned, and ran home to watch it. I thought it would be funny; really it was just creepy and sad. His eyes were really bloodshot, he was stumbling around a little, obviously completely high on some drug. I just turned off the TV and brought the tape back that same day.

Some time after that I saw him, a chance meeting at the beach; he looked much better, yet still terrible. His face aged well beyond his years, I asked him how things were. He had a job, he had a boyfriend, he had a life. I said "Things change." His eyes focused out of range as he stared back into the depths of his brain, and he nodded. "Yes, they definitely do," he said. And he glanced at his boyfriend, nervously. So...I walked away, never saw him again.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Bruce LaBruce: Miami's Vice

Miami's Vice

Just got back from a weekend in Miami Beach, and believe me, forty-eight hours is enough. That is to say, Miami is not my favourite city in the world, but as my comrade Slava Mogutin and his publisher Powerhouse Books had invited me down all expenses paid to co-host a party for the launch of his new coffee table book Lost Boys, I could hardly say no, even though I'd be getting hitched four days after my return. (Powerhouse will also be publishing my book "Bruceploitation!" late next year.)

If you want to know why the entire world loathes America so much, go to Miami Beach. Sure, it's a kind of paradise, with temperate weather, gorgeous beaches, and beautiful-on-the-outsided people, but it's also vulgar, meretricious, self-absorbed, materialistic, amoral, apolitical, and lousy with ugly-on-the-insided people. Perhaps I shouldn't say apolitical per se. In fact, their idea of being political is precisely flaunting as much wealth as possible, shopping for the most expensive designer labels, driving around in grotesque stretch Hummers, and displaying as much of their expensively engineered plastic bodies as the decency codes permit. (It's the same political consciousness that motivated Bush to encourage people to go shopping after 9/11.) Conspicuous consumption is their religious credo, and material success is their only measure of a man. Sorry to get all Gandhi on your ass, but in a world with so much starvation, suffering, and deprivation, it's behaviour that can only be regarded as selfish, ignorant and grotesque. But bracketing that, I had a good time.

Ok, here's the deal with Art Basel. I guess a country gets the art it deserves. America is a country embroiled in an ugly, dangerous war with no end in site, no exit strategy, and the potential to destabilize the entire world to the point of kick-starting a nuclear war that will make the other World Wars look like a friendly game of Battleship. (I urge you to read David Rose's article in the latest Vanity Fair about the neo-con revolt against the Bush Administration and their dire predictions for the future of Iraq, which basically boils down to the rise of a Shia theocracy and their alliance with the newly empowered Shia Mullahs in Iran; the nuclear ascendancy of the new Shia bloc pitted against a newly nuclearized Sunni Saudia Arabia facing off across the Gulf; and the manipulation by America of Israel as a nuclear proxy to fight these forces in the Middle East, to be followed by either a limited or all-out nuclear war.) The art at Art Basel was so far removed and so insulated from any of the political realities going on around the world, it was almost eerie. Whatever happened to the notion of art commenting on or critiquing or engaging even on a subconscious level the social and political realities of a culture or civilization? The increasingly aggressive policies and tactics internationally of the Bush administration and its military complex are inversely proportional to the isolationist quality of the American public consciousness, and that includes its artists. Very little of the art I saw addressed the unstable, violent, and bloody reality of the world at large even in an oblique, metaphorical or subliminal way. The art was shockingly docile and inert – either decorative or craft-based (Martha Stewart was there, sponging up the craft techniques for her capitalist exploitation machine) or so self-absorbed and self-referential in relation to art discourse that it gave the impression of being created in a vacuum. It was also surprisingly asexual, which makes sense when you realize that the only credo being ascribed to by artists and gallerists alike was that of commercial and economic viability. And explicit sex, at this particular historical moment, doesn't sell, Justin Timberlake's attempts to bring back sexy notwithstanding. The ascendancy of the gallerist, in fact, has rendered artists, and to a large extent, art itself, obsolete and superfluous. De Kooning's legendary crack about Leo Castelli's salesmanship – that if you gave the sonuvabitch two beer cans and called them art he could sell them – has become the du rigueur modus operandi of the new breed of gallerist. But the difference now is that it's not just the emperor who can't see his new clothes are non-existent: it's everybody. The gallerists, the artists, the critics, the dealers, the buyers: it's a brand of group hysteria. Of course Jasper Johns' response to de Kooning's quip was to make a sculpture comprised of two cast bronze replicas of Ballantine Ale cans and sell it for vast sums of cash. (For a cautionary tale of what happens to the human soul when it gets lost in the abyss of artistic self-reference, material overkill, and isolationism, read the chilling article about Jasper Johns in the latest New Yorker, which I read, appropriately, on the plane on my way to Art Basel Miami.)

To be fair, I was only in Miami for a weekend, so I didn't get to see any of the many alternative satellite art fairs that have cropped up around Basel, but the smell of what I'm describing permeated everything. The younger artists don't really seem to be critiquing the more established artists on any political or ideological or even moral level; they're just trying to figure out how to usurp their elders' position, to beat them at their own game. Everyone wants to be rich and famous these days. Ho hum.

Mark Simpson: Sporno

It’s the narrative of a thousand gay porn movies, but now the locker room fantasia is being acted out by the players themselves—in ad campaigns, in magazine shoots, and in the pages of a certain calendar. Mark Simpson explores the place where sports and pornography meet and produce a spectacular money shot. Now with new, hotter-than-ever photos.
The locker room after a match. Picture the scene (I know you can; I know you have). Adrenalined. Endorphined. Sweaty. Jocks. Grinning, joshing, back-slapping, hugging, grab-assing. Oiled, pumped, youthful, virile man flesh. Round, hard, dimpled butts as far as the eye can see. Steam. Swinging dicks.

Cue the cheap disco soundtrack and segue seamlessly, oh, so casually, into dick measuring, circle-jerking, deep-throating, and ass pounding: “Oh, yeah!”

Or so I and many other homos would like to think. It is after all the narrative of a thousand gay porn movies. Team sports on the field seen through the distorting eyes of the queer boy look like sex with clothes on—followed by sex with no clothes on in the locker room. In other words, the sad, improbable fantasy of the dweeby or nelly boy who wasn’t picked for the team and had to do with music and movement instead and thus spent the rest of his life wondering feverishly what it would have been like to have “hung” with the jocks, to flick towels with the godlike golden boys.

Well, maybe that was once true. But shockingly and rather wonderfully, this fag fantasy appears to be coming “virtually” true. At least in Europe and Australia. Sport is the new gay porn. Sportsmen on this side of the Atlantic are increasingly openly acknowledging and flirting with their gay fans, à la David Beckham and Freddie Ljungberg (the man who actually looks the way Beckham thinks he looks). Both of these thoroughbreds have posed for spreads in gay magazines (see Ljungberg’s story with Out here), and both have welcomed the attention of gay fans because they “have great taste.” More than this, they and a whole new generation of young bucks, from twinky soccer players like Manchester United’s Alan Smith and Cristiano Ronaldo to rougher prospects like Chelsea’s Joe Cole and AC Milan’s Kakà, keen to emulate their success, are actively pursuing sex-object status in a postmetrosexual, increasingly pornolized world.

In other words, they’re not just sports stars, but sporno stars.

Much has been written about how porn is poised to go mainstream. Well, guess what? It already has. Sporno-sport that acknowledges and exploits the voyeuristic, usually homoerotic, thrill that fit male bodies throwing themselves against other fit male bodies can generate is already the acceptable, ruddy-cheeked outdoor-broadcasting face of porn. At least in soccer- and rugby-playing pagan Europe and Australia—but it can be only a matter of time before it conquers the God-fearing, football-playing United States too. (The phenomenal success of all those Abercrombie & Fitch online sporno films featuring shirtless Weber-ish hunks playing degenerate European games like rugby and soccer are successfully corrupting a whole generation of young Americans.)

Being equal opportunity flirts, today’s sporno stars want to turn everyone on. Partly because sportsmen, like porn stars, are by definition show-offs, but more particularly because it means more money, more power, more endorsements, more kudos. It acknowledges the consumerist, showbiz direction that sport is moving in and engorges and inflates their career portfolio to gargantuan proportions. Why is Euro soccer star Beckham a household name in the United States, a country that generally has less interest in soccer than socialism? Because these metrosexual poster boys are sporno stars—young hustlers who are happy to be ogled barely dressed on Times Square billboards and in Vanity Fair—advertising a willingness to put out, or at least get it out, to get ahead that is about as all-American as you can get. Ljungberg’s Calvin Klein–clad basket of giant Swedish meatballs is the dish everyone wants to dine on and he seems more than happy to feed us (God bless him). Or try a nice cool, creamy Beckham, recently hired as the new face of the long-running Got Milk? campaign.

Masculinity has been commodified, and team sports—the last male preserve in an integrated, female-friendly, safety-belted, couch-potatoed, civilian world where male camaraderie and virility is a distant dream—is the biggest market for it. After decades of being fetishized by fags, jocks are now fetishizing themselves. Because of the spurting, fantastical potency of sporno, millions of nongay boys and men around the world are excitedly buying clothes and underwear because they are worn or endorsed by their hero.

And after all, how could a guy, any guy, not fancy a sporno star? In a consumerist culture like ours, where envy and desire are almost indistinguishable, sporno stars have everything a man could want: youth, vigor, bodies, looks, money, fame, equally handsome bosom buddies, and the numbers for really, really good photographers and stylists. The ancient Greeks would have understood. For them, sport was an opportunity to worship and admire the beauty of the youthful male form, which in turn represented the freedom of the human spirit. That’s why most sports competitions, including the original Olympics, were conducted butt-naked (clothes spoiled the experience, for the athlete and the spectator), and the gymnasium—another marvelous Greek invention—was a one-stop male shop where you went to exercise and practice—and also pick up. Most of their art was a virtuous version of today’s sporno, in which the athletic male form was exquisitely, lovingly rendered.

Euro sportsmen are going out of their way to turn men on. Don’t believe me? I have just three words for you: Dieux du Stade. Yes, that calendar you still have on your bedroom wall. These phenomenally successful sporno calendars, featuring the devastatingly handsome and usually even more devastatingly naked French National Rugby Team, copied by amateur rugby clubs all over Europe and Australia, are shot exactly as if each month were an especially hot box cover for Falcon or Jocks. (Check out this year’s February, in the shape of Will Matthews: He should definitely have his own line of sex toys.) If these calendars weren’t in tasteful black-and-white, they’d have to be sold in adult bookstores.

In these images, shot in musty locker rooms, the “gods” clutch strategically placed rugby balls as if they were fat, leather erections and gaze longingly into the camera or into each other’s eyes; they loll on the side of communal baths, arms draped around each other’s thick necks, hypnotic designer tattoos directing, inviting our eyes to their geometrically delightful butts (stand up, Frederic Michalak—and please bend over).

Yes, of course women are looking at these pictures too, but there is no pretense that this is anything but hyperhomoerotic—partly because women are being turned on to the charms of gay male porn too, but mostly because this exhibitionism, whomever it’s directed toward, is so charmingly submissive, especially from guys who live through action. Check out the “Making of” DVD and see them obediently adopting the gay sporno poses requested of them by the photographer, head placed on buddy’s shoulders, or at waist height, hands on buddy’s perfectly formed buttocks.

How things—or rather, thighs—have changed. In the United Kingdom rugby used to be the sport of hairy beer monsters with nowhere else to go on a Saturday, but in recent years the players have become alarmingly young, sexy, and built. Blond, buffed, green-eyed England International player Josh Lewsey, sporting a jaw so square you could use it to paint walls and an ass you could stand your cocktail on, is part Greek god, part Matt Sterling model. Gavin Henson, the hunky, dark-haired Wales International star who shaves his legs and wears fake tan on the pitch, is metrosexual rugby’s answer to David Beckham. In fact, Beckham whined out loud that Henson had stolen most of his gay fans and that he missed them. Aw.

As if following the French example, the England rugby team has also been given a Queer Eye makeover. Banished forever are their baggy, shapeless rugby shirts and shorts, replaced by a stretchy, skintight strip that might have been designed by Jean Paul Gaultier, all the better to show off their newly gym-built arms, chests, thighs, and asses. Understandably, the new sporno look dazzled the opposition: The year the team debuted it, 2003, England won the Rugby World Cup for the first time ever.

Certainly it’s true that the degree to which a sporno star provokes other men’s envy and desire is now a way of measuring his potency. It’s also a measure of a sporno star’s earning potential and his value to the club in merchandising. Despite mediocre performances on the pitch, David Beckham is the United Kingdom’s most highly paid soccer player for his off-pitch pouting, and his purchase by Spain’s Real Madrid has made it the most profitable soccer club in the world (replacing Manchester United, funnily enough, Beckham’s previous club). Beckham is an object of global desire, and his merchandise moves much faster than his hips. Real Madrid is his sporno studio, and he is its number 1 box cover star.

There is, however, another way that British soccer players are finding themselves on the front pages. A slew of kiss-and-tell articles have appeared in the tabloids in recent years about “roastings”: the penchant our young sportsmen have for sharing a young female groupie with a teammate—at the same time. Often with several teammates. Sporting gods naked with other sporting gods after a match, with full erections, in the same room, on the same girl, possibly sharing the same orifice, but definitely enjoying the spectacle of their sporting buddies out of their kits and in action and up close. Who wouldn’t be interested in that? It’s the locker room fantasy that underpins so much of sporno, and at least one hit TV series, the deliciously knowing Footballers Wive$.

And in recent months things have reached their logical, Footballers Wive$ conclusion, their spornographic money shot. Spectacularly confirming those “roasting” suspicions and all those timeless, dweeby gay fantasies about jocks, lurid stories were splashed across the tabloids about a “secretly shot film” showing several globally famous English soccer stars engaging in a “gay sex orgy,” while follow-up stories suggested a culture of anything-goes swinging bisexuality among many soccer stars that matches their rock-and-roll lifestyles. As you might imagine, this is a story that no one seems to be able to get enough of.

Except perhaps the footballers themselves. Although they didn’t name the stars involved, the dashing Arsenal and England left-back Ashley Cole is suing a couple of papers for libel and “breach of privacy.” In spite of the rampant interest in sporno in the United Kingdom, the coverage of this story (the gay sex was routinely described as “perverted” and “sordid,” which I guess means “really hot”) and the response of many fans on the terrace (in the form of antigay taunts) show that casual homophobia is even more rampant. Masculinity may be an object of avid, voyeuristic desire for many if not most men in the United Kingdom today, but it seems the explicitly homoerotic implications of that still give quite a few of them the willies. The sporno stars themselves might not care, but they worry about what their fans will think. Perhaps this is the reason today’s soccer stars, who are way “gayer” than their predecessors, no longer kiss one another ecstatically after a goal is scored: They have to maintain the impression that they’re only gay for pay.

This is the time-lag paradox of sport in general and today’s sporno in particular: It’s a spectator sport for men who are interested in men, who love and admire the male body in action and perhaps also in repose, who are entranced by the romance of the adolescent masculine dream that is athletic team sports—but too many of the same men still worry that if they acknowledge this, their manhood will fall off and burst into flames.

And so they have to mock and despise your full-monty faggotry—to prove there’s nothing queer about their perfectly natural interest in young men’s flashing thighs.

Soccer is a tough sport, and any perceived weakness will be exploited. As Oscar Wilde said, it “is all very well as a game for rough girls, but it is hardly suitable for delicate boys.” Opposing team fans like to chant at one player rumored to have been connected to that soccer “gay orgy” porno tape: “He’s big, he’s black, he takes it up the crack.”

Which isn’t exactly friendly. But then again, in a spornographic world, this chant might be something that excites the fans as much as it conveys their contempt.

MONOLOGUE: Chasing Amy

Chasin Amy
written by Kevin Smith

Alyssa Jones: Why are we stopping?
Holden McNeil: Because I can't take this.
Alyssa: Can't take what?
Holden: I love you.
Alyssa: You love me?
Holden: I love you. And not in a friendly way, although I think we're great friends. And not in a misplaced affection, puppy-dog way, although I'm sure that's what you'll call it. And it's not because you're unattainable. I love you. Very simple, very truly. You're the epitome of every attribute and quality I've ever looked for in another person. I know you think of me as just a friend, and crossing that line is the furthest thing from an option you'd ever consider. But I had to say it. I can't take this anymore. I can't stand next to you without wanting to hold you. I can't look into your eyes without feeling that longing you only read about in trashy romance novels. I can't talk to you without wanting to express my love for everything you are. I know this will probably queer our friendship -no pun intended- but I had to say it, because I've never felt this before, and I like who I am because of it. And if bringing it to light means we can't hang out anymore, then that hurts me. But I couldn't allow another day to go by without getting it out there, regardless of the outcome, which by the look on your face is to be the inevitable shoot-down. And I'll accept that. But I know some part of you is hesitating for a moment, and if there is a moment of hesitation, that means you feel something too. All I ask is that you not dismiss that -at least for ten seconds- and try to dwell in it. Alyssa, there isn't another soul on this fucking planet who's ever made me half the person I am when I'm with you, and I would risk this friendship for the chance to take it to the next plateau. Because it's there between you and me. you can't deny that. And even if we never speak again after tonight, please know that I'm forever changed because of who you are and what you've meant to me, which -while I do appreciate it- I'd never need a painting of birds bought at a diner to remind me of.
(Alyssa opens the door and exits the car)
Holden: (sighs and then to himself) Was it something I said?

MONOLOGUE: Good Will Hunting

Good Will Hunting
written by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck

Will: Well, I can't go to California with you.
Skylar: Why not?
Will: Well, one, because I--I got a job here, and two, because I live here.
Skylar: Look, um..If you don't love me, you should tell me because it's such a--
Will: I'm not saying I don't love you.
Skylar: Then why? Why won't you come? What are you so scared of?
Will: What am I so scared of?
Skylar: Well, what aren't you scared of? You live in this safe little world where no one challenges you and you're scared shitless to do anything else but defend yourself because that would mean you'd hafta' change.
Will: Oh no. Don't, don't, don't tell me about my world. Don't tell me about my world! I mean you just wanna have you fling with like the guy from the other side of town. Then you're going to go off to Stanford, you're going to marry some rich prick who your parents will approve of and just sit around with the other trust fund babies and talk about how you went slumming too, once.
Skylar: Why are you saying this? What is your obsession with this money? My father died when I was 13 and I inherited this money. Nearly every day I wake up, and I wish that I could give it back, that I would give it back in a second if it meant I could have one more day with him, but I can't and that's my life and I deal with it. So don't put your shit on me, when you're the one that's afraid.
Will: I'm afraid? Wh--wh--what am I afraid of, huh? What the fuck am I afraid of?
Skylar: You're afraid of me. You're afraid that I won't love you back. And you know what? I'm afraid too. Fuck it. I want to give it a shot and at least I'm honest with you.