COCKOHOLICK

HomoQuotable

2007-04-21T16:31:00.001-04:00

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)

SUCCESS

2007-04-21T11:01:00.001-04:00

SUCCESS:

"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

2007-04-21T10:59:00.001-04:00

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

2007-04-21T10:54:00.001-04:00

"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

2007-04-21T10:50:00.001-04:00

"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

2007-04-21T10:35:00.001-04:00

"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

2007-04-21T09:31:00.000-04:00

"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)

Quote

2007-04-21T09:28:00.001-04:00

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

Hesitation

2007-04-21T09:27:00.001-04:00

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".

HOW TO SURVIVE IN WASHINGTON:

2007-04-21T09:25:00.000-04:00

HOW TO SURVIVE IN WASHINGTON:

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.

Led Black: I hate my Northface

2007-04-14T07:21:00.001-04:00

I HATE MY NORTH FACE: AN ODE TO SPRING

I 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

2007-04-14T07:13:00.000-04:00

"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

Addaboy: Carefree Days

2007-04-12T16:25:00.001-04:00

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 said...in 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

2007-04-12T16:09:00.001-04:00

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

2007-04-12T16:04:00.001-04:00

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 souls...you're all of our guardian angels now.

I heart New York.

Wicked Man Lives: Allen RIP

2007-04-12T15:29:00.001-04:00

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.

Vividblurry

2007-04-12T15:01:00.000-04:00

Wicked Man Lives: The One?

2007-04-12T14:37:00.001-04:00

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

2007-04-12T14:27:00.001-04:00

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

2007-04-12T14:22:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-12T13:13:00.001-04:00

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.

Um.

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

2007-04-12T13:10:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-12T13:08:00.000-04:00

Vividblurry

2007-04-12T13:07:00.000-04:00

Vividblurry: Kill Bill

2007-04-12T13:06:00.001-04:00

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 Gay.com 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

2007-04-12T13:03:00.000-04:00

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?"

Observations

2007-04-12T04:22:00.000-04:00

OBSERVATIONS

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
faggot?"
~ 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
wallpapered.
~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

2007-04-12T04:05:00.000-04:00

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:
Books
Lance Armstrong and that little french race he wins a lot
Dogs rule
Cats suck (we are both allergic)
Curry
Photography
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

2007-04-12T03:43:00.000-04:00

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.

Shades of Gray: Triggers

2007-03-22T18:21:00.001-04:00

Triggers

It'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.

"Ethan."

"Hey Ethan, I'm JT."

"Hey."

"Where are you from?"

"Chelsea."

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."

"Marine."

"Stop."

"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.

The Ex

2007-03-21T06:49:00.001-04:00

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.

Bruce LaBruce: Miami's Vice

2007-01-24T17:47:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-24T17:44:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-24T15:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-24T15:18:00.000-05:00

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.

Reader Responses to the Question, How is Your Love Life?

2007-01-21T14:26:00.000-05:00

Well lets see... I met my partner while I lived at one of the gayest addresses in the one-double-oh-fuckyou zipcode. And, even though we shared some of the same friends, and belonged to some of the same social groups, and had actually been introduced one or two times over the previous decade, it was not until we exchanged vitriol and bitterness via internet ads voicing our mutual disenchantmant with internet dating that we met and fell and in love. "Oh Shit" was what my soul yelped when I first peered downstairs at him after buzzing him in. The kind of 'oh shit' that told my soul 'thats him, I'd recognize him anyware'. It wasn't just the 'Awesome! He's hot!' or pleasant surprise of a cute date. It was the stirring of the soul that screams 'Are ya really ready for what you asked for?' YIKES! In an instant it was happily ever after. Not much has changed except the mortgage payment and a couple of pounds. Each day is just as precious as the first. My Dad used to say 'There is a lid for every pot'. After years of figuring out whether I was a lid or a pot, I found my match. Bitterness and demographics are just callouses on the soul. Love can happen anywhere and usually when you least expect it. But, the best advice I ever got was from a terminally fabulous queen on Christopher Street who told me early on "The object of the game sweetie, is to become the man you always wanted to date".
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Just before I turned 50, a guy I knew in my 20s called me up seemingly out of the blue. He wanted to come over, supposedly to pick up a box of books I had promised to a friend of his. A ruse, of course. He brought a pie & stayed 4 hours. The fact that he is, & has always been, strikingly good looking was, I will say, an actual negative. I didn't want to have to ride in the back seat of all the attention he gets. The conversation over pie was highly animated. We laughed a lot. I realized that even though I'd known him for 20 years or so, I never had any real idea who he was. After he left I thought: you are such a fool, WHY DIDN'T YOU ASK HIM OUT? So rather than moderate a prolonged mental debate on the subject, I picked up the phone. Our first date consisted of 6 hours spent in a swamp called Tinnicum, out by the Philadelphia airport. Hiking and birdwatching. We've been boyfriends ever since. I've never had more fun, or better sex, with anyone. Relationships in your middle years are definitely different. But like so many other things, it's a difference you can only know through experience.
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Awesome. My man and I are coming on 5 years together. Is it perfect? Hell no. Nothing is. We sometimes fight like wild cats. But we're both radically hot-blooded and passionate, so it stands to reason. We always talk it through, though...and more times than not, laugh about it later.

And to the guy asking if it's normal to lust after other people...uh, IMHO the answer is yes. My bf and I talk about other guys a lot. Some would find this distasteful, or threatening to the relationship...but that level of honesty has only intensified our level intimacy and connection.
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I was blissfully, happily single on July 22 when I went to a little brunch where I was inroduced to a big handsome fella. We fell so hard and so fast, we're closing on a condo together in eight days -- just a few days short of knowing each other for six months.

I am so in love with him I don't even know how to categorize my feelings.

So I'd say my love life is pretty spectacular. Spectacular enough, in fact, that it warrants one of these irritating little thingies:
----------------
I am constantly amazed by the human capacity to love and accept, and will continue to wander blithely through life seeking love, sex, friendship and affection where I can find them.
----------------
feast or famine, as usual...
----------------
I AM IN LOVE !!!!!!!!!!! We are officially in the " hey , Listen to this song on my IPOD" , Phase.

Its corny, its sappy and horrendously idealistic for a cynical 33 year old New Yorker .. but who gives a shit !!
----------------
After almost nine years, we're still in L.U.V. We met, went on a date and he never went home.
----------------
i am freshly madly in love with my husband after 15 years and a recent trip to mexico.

i would like to fuck one man in houston one more time (or several) before i die. 27 years since i've seen him . . .

but my husband ~ life is good.
----------------
I was in a serious he-might-be-The-One relationship for a while until he dumped me a few months ago, and since then I've embarked on the slutty phase I never went through in my youth. It's been fun so far. No love involved, however.
----------------
My man's name is Mike. He is the love child of Mr. Rogers and The Marlboro Man.

His formidable aura, forged in P'town and The Castro by way of Brooklyn, has not always kept me in line. Last September he asked me to move out.

But ours is a relationship Henny Youngman could have appreciated: it's so bad even the breakup fell apart (bi-doop)!

Once again, he cooks for me every night. We watch old movies on Turner Classic, and go on endless mindwalks to the beaches and woods and along Commercial.

We're trying to work things out, but not too hard. We play around, but not too much. A bad night at the A-House recently proved that I will never get this man on the disco floor...there is some hurt in that part going back to the "good old days," that I can only guess at; he never tells.

The unstudied quality seems to be key to this phase of our life together. The proof is in the passion, which has begun to resurrect itself like Lazarus -- plenty stiff, if not with the freshest smell and sprightliest the step. When things began two years ago, we were bed-busters.

Still, can't complain!
----------------
I keep telling myself it could be worse. Which is what you tell yourself when it couldn't. So I've done what most urban single girls do: thrown myself into my career.

Just can't seem to get guys to notice me..
----------------
Ah, love… that delightful interval between meeting a handsome man and discovering that he's just another asshole.

To fall in love, you have to be in the state of mind for it to take… as with any disease.

It appears that I am no longer capable… of doing what English soles do, and goldfish in the privacy of bowls do; even pekineses in the Ritz do it, apparently… not to mention the Electric eels, though it shocks them I know.

Have I evolved?

Ms Cuentin Quisp
----------------
It's been two years and still i love him enough to lie about the black eye, the broken ribs, the constant bruises... or maybe I just love myself too little.

how's my love life? dysfunctional and codependent and slowly killing me.
----------------

FAGAT Guide

2007-01-21T13:48:00.001-05:00

We Wrote To The Ethicist Once, But He Didn't Answer Our Question. Maybe We Should Have Asked The Dirty Guy In the Back of Time Out New York Instead.

Dear Fishwatch,

I recently broke up with my boyfriend of 4 years, and I am pretty upset. I mean, 4 years is probably not something you understand given that you are so good looking and it would be unthinkable to ask you to be tied down for so long, but, trust me, it’s a long time, and ending something like this sucks. What can I do to help myself move on?

Sincerely,
Melan Choly

Dear Melan,

Our longest relationship has only been about 4 months long, which we always assumed was due to our thick emotional walls and underlying insecurities. But now that you mention it, it probably is a result of our good looks.

Anyway, a good friend of ours developed this signature 6-step plan over the course of many break ups, some small crushes gone wrong and some as serious as yours sounds, and we have found that it really does work. If it doesn’t, think of all the money you will save by wallowing in self-pity on your couch all day and night.

1. Focus on His Faults.
Did he have gross toe-nails? Did he have really weird dietary restrictions? Did his slim-fit shirts get too slim-fitting? These are things to constantly think about all day long.

2. Maintain Distance.
Absolutely NO late night texts or emails, and ESPECIALLY no texts or emails or voice mails after imbibing substances or watching The Notebook.

3. Surround Yourself With The Power of Friends.
We recommend the long-term, caring, long discussion over red wine, good advice friends, and not the Friendsters you met at the Out 100 party last year whom you text when all your other friends are out of town. Fag Hags are especially useful at times like these.

4. Self Improvement.
This involves a makeover or a new outfit, or finally getting those extensions out. Buy those skinny jeans, you deserve them.

4b. Related, Reprioritize Your Life.
Putting work and your sense of decency ahead of things like taking part in Go-Go Idol at Boys Room? Putting groceries and getting rid off your credit card debt ahead of paying out of pocket for Propecia? Re-think your focus, but maybe not too hard.

5. Find Out Who His New Boyfriend Is And Convince Yourself That You Are Hotter, Skinnier, Younger, Smarter, and More Talented Than He Is.
This one is pretty self-explanatory.

6. Get a New Man.
Also pretty self-explanatory, but can be interpreted as going home with different boys each night for a week or so, OR forming a crush on a boy and having a project. Or both.

Also, please note that while jumping directly to step 6 without carrying out 1-5 is tempting, chances are said man will be significantly older and maybe kind of ugly, and your ex will likely find out about it, making his step 5 all that much easier. And we don’t want that.

Best of luck,
Fishwatch

FAGAT Guide: Miles

2007-01-21T13:48:00.000-05:00

FAGAT Guide: "Miles...

Last night we finally got around to opening some mail from the last 2 months and came across our “2006 Annual Summary of Charges” for our trusty piece of plastic, which has every charge we ever made in 2006 separated neatly into categories. Some observations:

* We can see in the “Restaurant Category” every date we went on in 2006, which was a fun, although very brief, walk down memory lane. Not so fun was seeing how many times we ordered an entire pie from Patsy’s 69th Street ($20.59) and ate it, alone, in our apartment, most likely while watching something from Netflix ($10.83/month).

* We noticed that on one date back in March, we were charged the same amount twice, which seems to indicate that the waiter swiped our card twice instead of both our card and our date’s card (ladies, gay people split meals when they go out on dates, (or at least this is what the gays we go out with tell us)). This means WE paid for dinner ($40.59 + $40.59). In the end, this may be a good thing, as now we do not feel so bad for not calling said date back.

* We got 11 haircuts ($32.47 – $88.76) in 2006, by 4 different institutions. One lady at one institution thinks she is our exclusive hair person.

* We made 105 charges at Starbucks in 2006 for a grand total of $221.55 (105 x $2.11). These charges stopped when we discovered a new coffee place near school that charges basically double what Starbucks does ($4.00 x 16 = $64).

* And finally, our internet porn charges ($[redacted]) fall under “merchandise” and not “services.” We guess this makes sense. Our co-pay at our dermatologist’s office ($35.00) falls under “miscellaneous,” and not “services.” Now this we do not understand."

The Great Gatsby: Part 2

2007-01-12T06:09:00.000-05:00

He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was. . . .

. . . One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.

His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.

The Great Gatsby

2007-01-12T06:06:00.000-05:00

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Dogpoet: Diagnosis

2007-01-12T06:04:00.000-05:00

Friday, January 31, 2003

A month after the diagnosis she sends me an e-mail:

Dear Michael,

How are you? I am doing okay but have been sad lately. Mary Thornton is holding a healing service for me at Plymouth on December 23rd. It doesn’t change the fact that I am dying, but it will be nice to have friends and family there. I am so sorry lately. I’m so sorry that I won’t get to see you and David grow old together.

Love,
Mom

David and I don’t know yet that we won’t grow old together. Maybe we have our suspicions. And I don’t know what a healing service is, exactly. It sounds a little New Age-y and gross. But she’s my mother. David and I fly to Minneapolis.

We gather together on the evening of the 23rd in the small chapel at Plymouth Congregational Church, off of Franklin Avenue downtown. Family and friends; maybe thirty people altogether. I sit in the first wooden pew with David on one side, my brother Mark on the other. Mom next to him. Lee, her lover of twenty years, beside her.

The red carpet below our feet stretches up the aisle to the three small steps leading to the alter. A simple wooden cross hangs overhead. The walls are bare and white. There are stained glass windows set high around us, though at night they only appear dark.

Mary Thornton is a lesbian minister that my mother has been confiding in since her diagnosis. She’s a tiny woman; no more than 5 feet tall, with short dark hair shot through with grey strands, and green eyes that never leave yours during conversation. She wears a small gold cross on a chain around her neck. She stands before us at the front of the altar, and she smiles.

“Thank you all for coming, for joining us here today.”

I look over at my mother, who is gazing up at Mary with an almost childlike expression of trust. A stab of grief tears through me, and I look down at my legs. I run my finger along the crease in my pants; the only nice pair I own. David sits beside me, mute and withdrawn. He doesn’t like to talk about what’s happening to my mom, and for a second there in the chapel I hate him.

“We’re here to show our love and support for Susan McAllister, as she faces with courage the journey ahead. “

I look at Lee, who is fighting to keep her expression neutral. I know she’s not crazy about churches. “God is not my favorite person right now,” she had told me.

“We invite each of you, who care to participate, to come up here and say a few words to Susan. But first, I’d like to ask Susan if there’s anything she’d like to say. Susan, would you like to come up here?”

My mother shakes her head gently. The muscles that control her speech and swallowing have already weakened and it is often difficult to understand her. When she begins to speak we all lean forward, to catch every word. But she speaks slowly, and clearly.

“I just want my sons to know how sorry I am, for not being a better mother,”

My brother Mark bows his head beside me. My vision blurs, the chapel swims for a second, red and black. Tears boil up hotly and I blink them back. I suck air into my lungs. But my hold breaks on the Michael I was trying to be, the strong one, the man of the family. The tears rush forth and I lose it.

Dogpoet: Ask the Dawg

2007-01-11T07:55:00.000-05:00

Friday, December 27, 2002

Ask the Dawg

No, I’m not attempting to pull an Ann Landers. But I received an e-mail from a friend that was like several I’ve received lately. I thought I’d write about it.

Dear Michael:

I have sorta become involved with someone who it would appear has a serious crystal problem. Who knew? It was a chapter that was missing from my portfolio of disasterous relationships, so i felt compelled to fill it in. But the bottom line is that, beneath all the shit of the addiction, I can still see he is a sweet, lovely, gentle guy and I hate to just walk away. Since you are my inside track to addicitions of such a flavor, is there really nothing else I can do to help? I mean, it feels like desertion of a really decent person in serious trouble.

It was like smoking cigarettes. Nobody ever likes their first cigarette. But if you persist, against all wisdom and evidence, smoking becomes your new, clingy friend; if not exactly good for you, then at least very dependable.

I didn’t like crystal the first couple of times I tried it, snorting a bump on a South of Market dance floor very late at night, a friend of mine showing me with his finger how to rub the residue along my gum line. It gave me the energy and drive to stay longer, to move more, to sweat more. But later I’d lay wide-eyed in bed, anxious, heart pounding, unable to fall asleep.

I think it was the third time that did it, sitting in a car with three other men outside a South of Market club. They showed me how to flick the lighter under the glass pipe, to wait for the smoke to form, and to suck it into my lungs for a split second (any longer was supposed to be dangerous, imagine that!) and then release the smoke. The bitter chemical film covering my tongue; someone handing me a bottle of juice to clear the taste. My pounding heart and our laughter filling the car, an overwhelming feeling of power and sex. Driving with these new, barely-familiar friends to my house where I put on a CD of house music that I still find difficult to hear to this day. I shared my stash of GHB with them. Another round with the crystal pipe; opening the living room window so we could blow the smoke outside. Then back in the car (driving while intoxicated, who, me?) and down to the Power Exchange, my first time in a sex club. The crystal and the G forming a chemical atmospheric perfection that I would never be able to duplicate again; the energy and the power and the sex, the sharp edges rubbed from everything; every man that passed a shadowy figure of potential. I wouldn’t touch anyone that night; I just watched, the vicarious thrill pumping juice through my veins; porn playing on a big-screen TV in a musty, thin-carpeted room tucked around the corner, honest-to-god pup tents set up in a gymnasium; boys walking by carrying dixie cups full of lube. Two men clutching each other in a flourescent-lit, poorly equipped weight room.

Again back into the car and now on to the Pleasuredome (my breath constricting with these memories, I have to pause now and look out the window at the overcast San Francisco sky, the pale houses stacked together on the green hills, the dark line of minor mountains behind them) where we danced on a half-empty floor. Later as I stood off to the side I could not stop moving; the drugs and the music synchronized in my bones like black magic; me unable to resist the bass, my eyes flying over the boys around me, again and again. Hours later emerging into the fucking sunlight, wanting sunglasses to shade my dilated, tweaking pupils as a boy leaning against his white Mercedes bore holes in my body with his eyes.

We weren’t finished. We drove to an after-hours club, some dark ruin of a bar in the Tenderloin that didn’t seem to have a name. As we walked in, a bus passed us and I caught the eye of a man dressed in a suit on his way to the office. He gave our motley group an amused once-over before turning his gaze away. Twenty people in the bar, my friend disappearing into a bathroom stall with a boy he just met, me finally wanting to go home, to get the hell out of there and to get back to my bed, sleep or no sleep. Driving home after letting the others off, hands gripping the steering wheel, and underneath my shame was a throbbing excitement, having glimpsed the city’s underbelly for the first time, the desire to shed “good boy” for awhile. I had already begun planning how I’d call my dealer and ask not for the Ecstasy, but for the crystal instead.

“Once inside a neuron, methamphetamine causes that neuron to release lots of dopamine. All this dopamine causes the person to feel an extra sense of pleasure that can last all day. But eventually these pleasurable effects stop. They are followed by unpleasant feelings called a “crash” that often lead a person to use more of the drug. If a person continues to use methamphetamine, they will have a difficult time feeling pleasure from anything.”

That was the beginning. There is a good two years worth of more scandals and stories. I would spare you from them but I keep writing about them, little by little, as the doors unlock and the regret fades into a need to understand. But not today.

To sum it up: the shame turned to fear as the months passed and I began to realize that I could not stop. I tried every goddamned week. I’d snort or smoke the last of the powder (visions of gasoline and drain cleaner emptied into a bathtub ringed with grime) and by this point I was such a tic-ridden wreck that I often threw it out, into the swirling toilet or once, following the final rehearsal for a play, into a gutter in the Mission district). This would be a Sunday, or a Monday. I was bartending by this point, so normal business hours didn’t apply. And I would quit. And I’d suffer the crash, the darkest depression, the inertia and the hopelessness and the dwindling afternoon light. And by Wednesday I needed it again. I needed it to breathe. I rarely made it past Thursday before calling the dealer again.

I could not stop for my boyfriend. I could not stop for the play (for which I received very mixed reviews in a role that one critic said had more lines than Hamlet). I could not stop for my job. I could not stop for my dying mother. When I finally slunk into the rooms of AA I still could not stop; I’d get twenty days and then use, I’d get twenty-eight days and use.

What changed? I gave up. I was beaten down into a state of total despair, of what they call “incomprehensible demoralization”. I had come into AA with the notion that I didn’t need to do what everyone else did; go to meetings everyday, find a sponsor who’d help me work the steps, ask for help. My individuality was still so crucial; I needed to be different from all the other drunks. Terminal uniqueness, they call it. Finally, after yet another night of reckless despair, I slunk in; hung over, tweaked-out, hopeless. I turned to a friend who had asked “how are you?” and replied, “I don’t think I can do this.”

He found me the sponsor, who I refer to as Bearbait on dogpoet. And the next time I wanted to use, the next time I felt completely alienated from everyone and everything, I called him instead. And somehow the urge disappeared. I called him everyday. We began working the steps. And little by little the days stacked up, one upon the other.

I’ve been sober a little over two years now. I’m not an expert in addiction and recovery; all I have is my experience and my observations of other people’s experiences. There are people who have stopped without the help of 12-step programs. All I can offer is my experience.

I don’t think it’s possible to get sober for anyone else. I’ve seen people try, and they always fail. I think someone needs to lose nearly everything before they have the willingness to try something new. Benjamin Franklin said “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” The half-baked attempts to cut back, to control, to modify one’s drug intake; doomed from the start. We are very stubborn creatures, raised to believe we are all masters of our destiny, that we can control other people, circumstances, events. The fallacies that kill us.

Some people need to lose everything; love, jobs, homes, cars. They need to end up in jail or institutions or dead. I’m a bit of a lightweight; I needed to have only the threat of homelessness before I came into AA. And even then I needed to lose more hope before I finally changed.

Crystal is epidemic; Like AIDS in the eighties, we are only seeing the tip of the iceberg. Crystal is so highly addictive. People who may not have become alcoholics are brought down by crystal. I am haunted far more by the visceral, throbbing memories of snorting and smoking crystal than I am by my drinking memories. I can be around alcohol quite easily. I doubt I could stay in the same room with crystal.

There is still such a stigma about needing help. Some people who are not addicts think that everyone should be able to control their usage. If I hear one more bitchy queen get on her rickety, glitter-stained soap box to tell us why she’s so fierce because she can control her drug use, I’m gonna start bitch-slapping. Such opinions are akin to a healthy person telling a cancer patient “You’re sick? Get a life.” Grrrr.

Yes, this is an issue I am passionate about. I rarely preach on dogpoet. I can’t stand preaching and soapboxes. But I’m going to ask those of you who think that everyone can just “control” their usage to think about it, think about the repercussions; who are you helping? (That is, if helping is even a concern of yours)

I was telling a friend recently that the media depictions of AA meetings are all wrong: they’re always dark and grey and depressing, and there’s always the mocking of “Hi, my name is…”. That hasn’t been my experience. Meetings are jovial, boisterous, full of laughter and yes, sometimes tears. Not because of despair. Because all of us in that room have visited the antechambers of hell, and have returned, and are busy creating better lives. Yes, sometimes I miss drugs. Sometimes I want to get really fucked up. But now and then I get the kind of high that is sustained, that is pure and overwhelming and I don’t have to pay for it the next day or the next week or the rest of my life. Oh yeah, and as Bearbait once said, “Sober sex can make your toes curl.”

What can you do? You can tell your friend that you love him no matter what, and that you will help him get sober, if that’s what he wants. But addicts are master manipulators; they will squeeze every ounce of compassion and money and love out of you as long as it helps them stay fucked up. Don’t buy into the excuses and the lies. If you need to, cut him out of your life. Maybe the loss of friendship or love will be the final straw. Or maybe not. Unless a man is willing to surrender, he will always find a reason to use; to celebrate or to console. Always. Always. If he questions whether he’s an addict or not, challenge him to go 30 days without using. This is a list of questions that may help someone decide if he is an addict (substitute “drugs” for “alcohol” in the questions)

If he does go for help, it may be a long journey before he finally “gets it.” It took me at least a year. Many friends of mine found the structure of a treatment program very helpful.

If you have a problem with co-dependency, read some books, go to Al-Anon meetings, find support from people who’ve been through it themselves. I’m not going to lie to you: the odds against the addict are staggering. Of all the people who got sober the same time I did, there is only a small handful left. The good news is that many who leave do return, and they try, again and again, and many of them do finally get it.

If you know someone who is sober, ask them if they will talk to your friend (in person is the most effective). That is, if your friend is willing. There is something about one addict talking to another that seems to work where other attempts fail: one alcoholic helping another is the basis of AA’s success. It was crucial to me to have men and women in my life who had been through it, too, and who had survived. They gave me hope; they showed me that it was possible. The power of example is much stronger than words. And here I am, with so many words. I will leave them with you as my little offering. I don’t know if they will help.

My life when using drugs was so tiny. Now I must struggle to keep up with an ever-widening life; with days that spill over with joy, pain, and possibility. I must learn, each day, how to get out of my own way.

///

Although cystal may have been my “drug of choice” (believe me, it chose me) I ultimately found that the best sobriety in San Francisco was in AA. Other cities and regions of the country may differ in that respect. Some AA meetings are much more open to drug addicts than others.

Alcoholics Anonymous

Narcotics Anonymous

Crystal Meth Anonymous

Rummaging in Craig’s Closet

2007-01-11T05:56:00.000-05:00

Opinion

Rummaging in Craig’s Closet

Published On 12/12/2006 12:32:03 AM

By BEN KAWALLER

None

In recent months, there has been an increasing awareness among the Harvard student body of an apparently steamy, seedy, underground gay sex scene, enabled mostly by online communities like Craigslist and boredatlamont.com, which host advertisements for, among other things, discreet sexual encounters. So far, the Harvard press has presented bemused impressions of Harvard students’ use of these websites from an observer’s point of view. Unfortunately, though, Harvard has yet to hear about this bizarre subculture from any of the people who have experienced it firsthand. Well, Harvard, this is your day: here are your confessions of a shady, sex-obsessed online hunter of horny Harvard men.

For the uninitiated, here’s how a Craigslist hook-up works: people looking for “nsa” (no strings attached) fun can locate a page for the desired city and sexual orientation. Respondents e-mail anonymous addresses, and, if there is mutual interest, cheap, slutty sex can be enjoyed within minutes. In theory, at least.

I, however, am probably the lousiest Craigslist cruiser at Harvard. (I have yet to figure out the intricacies of boredatlamont; that site is too confusing for a mind as simple as mine.) You see, Craigslist is the go-to location mainly for closeted Harvard gay boys who have, evidently, no outlet for sexual fulfillment other than to pursue fellatio in Harvard’s various public restrooms. In contrast, I am very out—I have been since I was 14—and I’m through with giving blowjobs in toilet stalls. (We can fool around in my room, thank you very much.) I am also fairly obviously gay, which appears to set me apart from the rest of the Harvard Craigslist community, most of whose members advertise themselves as “masc[uline]” and “discreet.” There appears to be a large contingent of self-described “jocks”: closet-cases who feel, maybe rightfully so, that they will be ostracized should they reveal their secret to any of the other hot, sweaty, godlike boys they throw a ball around with.

So here’s your typical Craigslist ad: “Masc, muscular, discreet Harvard jock here looking to hang out with another masc Harvard dude.” I am neither masculine, nor muscular, nor terribly discreet about anything, but these seem to be the requirements. I couldn’t very well hope for success if I posted, “Skinny dorky Jewish flamer seeks fleeting sexual gratification from Harvard jock fantasy,” and so I’ve found myself manufacturing a Craigslist alter ego. In Craigsworld, when my faceless torso photo lures some guy into a conversation, he is “dude,” “man,” “bro,” or any of the titles those Real Boys unironically bestow on each other. Am I out? “Nah, man, closeted and discreet here.” Have I done stuff with guys? “Just j/o and shit. Maybe looking to do more.” I’m probably a bad person for lying about these things, but I’ve found that admitting my outness, or the fact that—gasp!—I’ve actually had sex with a guy, usually begets a terse, “Sorry, dude.” At any rate, considering that none of us seems to be looking for any real human connection, and that anonymity is part of the Craigslist code of ethics, these fibs feel like victimless crimes.

I have also spent considerable time using my new webcam to take photos of myself in various “jockish” poses. Sure, if you visit my facebook page, you’ll notice that half of my pictures are of me in drag (be sure to see Hasty Pudding this year, it’s faaaabulous!), but this doesn’t mean I haven’t taken a few shots of myself humorlessly glaring at the camera, awkwardly forming my lips into some sort of porno-star sneer in a disturbing attempt at whatever I think of as masculinity. I even recently flipped the collar of my pink polo shirt and donned a Red Sox cap during one of these personal photo shoots. This was truly the low point of my existence.

And of course, it never works. I have passed many early morning hours waiting for this jock fantasy to materialize, but in the end, a baseball cap does not a straight boy make. (Of course, these guys may just think I’m a total mieskeit, masculine or not, but as I’ve always thought of myself as strikingly attractive, I am unwilling to explore this possibility.) I also live in the Quad: you might as well tell a River boy you’ve got warts; he’s not making that trip at three in the morning. In truth, I have managed one or two successful Craigslist trysts, but (no offense to you guys) these were with nice boys, not the athletic Adonises who seem to dominate the Craigslist circuit, not the fantasy that keeps me coming back.

Maybe there is an underground gay sex community at Harvard. If there is, though, these homos are not interested in faggots. So when I promised you all the juicy insider details, I may have been misleading you, just as I mislead the men of Craigslist, just as they mislead their girlfriends. A part of me empathizes with them, though given my easy past, I can never really know what it’s like to be truly frightened of coming out. At this point in my life, however, I’m beyond dealing with closet cases. It’s beneath me, this posturing to these “masculine” boys. That said, if any members of the Harvard lacrosse team are up late tonight, look me up.

Ben Kawaller ’07 is a sociology concentrator in Currier House.

http://www.thecrimson.com/article.aspx?ref=516342

Dogpoet: Tension

2007-01-11T05:54:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, October 29, 2002

Tension

Im in my fathers living room, or rather the television room. Truth be told, there are several rooms on the ground floor of their Alexandria townhouse that contain couches and televisions. Im in the farthest room from the kitchen, which is where his partner Fred is making dinner, and quite honestly I need a break from Fred and Freds opinions, which are strong and plenty and are often given in dramatic pronouncements in a voice that could, with minimal provocation, rise more and more shrilly into higher octaves for maximum effect. Fred, who had extolled the racial diversity of their church but says mildly offensive statements about certain neighborhoods. Who sat in the pew nodding sagely during the ministers sermon, but who later, in the car, said Hes great eye candy but he needs to find another job.
I thought he was okay, I said.
Ugh. God help him, he stumbles and fumbles over every sentence and you CANNOT follow a WORD he SAYS. Freds screeching fills the car and for the second time he passes the turn-off and my father says, nearly inaudibly, Fred, you were supposed to turn back there. The opinions only strengthen with age, and the voice only gets shriller, such that Ive begun wondering about his mental faculties. I dont know why I always forget this about him, only to be reminded within the first ten minutes of our reunions.

Ive gone for quiet relief into the farthest room, eyes scanning their bookshelves for escape, but Ive seen all the videos and the shelves only contain travel books of every country theyve visited over the years since I left for college; places Ive never been. Above the books is a map of the world littered with push pins indicating every single accomplished destination. Their collection seems like one of Freds pronouncements; look at all the places weve been. But their external travels take them further from themselves, I tell myself, from the rumblings of their hearts. Yes, youve been everywhere, I think, but your insides are dry and fossilized. Fred knows everything already; there are no surprises left in the world for him, and my father is the quiet companion whose silence allows it all to continue, unchecked, unexamined. Or so Ive come to believe.

Are you okay? he asked me last night, after we had returned home following a harrowing two-hour dinner experience in downtown D.C. which involved a forty-five minute car ride with Fred at the wheel. We had circled the same five streets endlessly, Fred convinced a parking meter would open up, unwilling to pay money for a spot in a garage, the tension rising with each turn and each missed stop light, Fred slowing for a woman in a crosswalk but spitting Bitch at the windshield as she passed unknowingly before us. He laughed at his joke and turned to me but I looked out the opposite window, biting my tongue till it bled.

Its not you, I later told my father. I justI just find that I get tired when I spend a lot of time with Fred. Ive never ever said anything like this to him.
My fathers brow creases. Has he done something?
I shake my head. No. He just, well, has a lot of really strong opinions.
There is a flicker of humor in my fathers eyes. Fred likes to say things to get a reaction. Ive just learned to ignore him.

In their living room I turn on their television and channel surf my way into a painless vacancy. My shoe-less feet curl in upon themselves: I stretch out the cramped arches, my feet sore from walking earlier for several hours through the streets of Georgetown with my father. Fred had stayed home, said hed been to Georgetown more times than he cared to remember. I had felt such relief at his words.

The hours alone with my father were perfect in their own way; his quiet and mine walking together. He followed me into several stores as I hunted for a decent pair of sneakers. My steel-toed boots had set off the metal detectors at the airport and I wanted to avoid the strip search on my return flight. I settled for a trendy pair of Steve Maddens, then I pulled him into Urban Outfitters.
They have an interesting variety of products here, he said.
I dug through a pile of Adidas t-shirts and turned to find him sitting in a lounge chair, waiting patiently, a middle-aged man surrounded by loud music, loud furniture, loud boys and girls. Later in Banana Republic he brought me over to a sweater display. This is the only thing I really like in here, he said, pointing to a black v-neck with white stripes, but do you think its too young for me?
I laughed at first but then stopped short. I saw him clearly then, a good, hesitant man in strange surroundings. I saw that I had grown bigger than him, in shape and size. I saw that I had been handling him gently, to avoid hurting him, and I saw that I would continue to do so. My heart broke a little and I told him, No.

Later when the sales boy at Diesel asked him Is that a Members Only jacket? I whirled and glared, sure that the trendoid was trying to pull an insult in sheeps clothing over my father. I wanted to protect my father, I wanted to spit at the boy but the boy said he keeps seeing them in thrift stores and I watched him carefully, unsure if he was genuinely interested or dissing my Dad. I watched for the joke but then turned away, not wanting to know the answer. We left the store.

Back in their house now I need peace, solitude. I sit in the dark living room, pressing the remotes UP button over and over. I dont hear my father enter, only glimpse him from the corner of my eye; his hesitant, apologetic posture registering in me as a burning, cruel affront. Because the resentment is familiar, it finds its way back to me, again and again. What does he want now?

Is there he says in his soft voice, the one I inherited from him, the thankless gift. I should tell him about speaking from the diaphragm. I have to turn down the volume to hear him. Is there anything else youd like to talk about? he asks. Fred is safely distant in the kitchen.

No, I think. I dont want to talk about that, about my resentment, about the incident. I dont want to talk about you and me. Uh, I say. umnot really. I pause as he stands there, waiting for my answer, and I know I should give in, I know we should talk. I offer a smile to cut the edge from my voice. Well, maybe a couple of things.

Dogpoet: Fugitive

2007-01-11T05:53:00.000-05:00

Monday, October 28, 2002

Fugitive

Oh my God I saw your slice of Heaven and really, Id like to stay there for a little while. Will you commit crimes with me and run away? Oh, yeah, you have a girlfriend. Well, next time maybe.

Wont someone out there commit crimes with me and run away?

I was pulling out of the Best Buy parking lot yesterday when a car of boys pulled up nearby. The two hotties in the front were checking me out. It was five pm; beer bust time at the nearby Eagle. They were going out, I was going home. This has been my life. I am currently spending too much money on home electronics, DVDs and searching the Internet for movie posters. Also spending lots of time with women classmates and co-workers. I will soon be in the gay Hollywood Square, making you laugh while desperately covering up my sexually neutered status. And failing. I will live vicariously through all your sex lives while pretending not to understand what punch my kitten means. I will write closeted fan mail to various San Francisco Giants, hoping they might want to hang out during this difficult time. Also I will build a shrine to Paul Wellstone in my bedroom and hang roses upside down from the ceiling so that they dry the right way. At the grocery store I will hide the Enquirer in my underwear while buying lots of frozen dinners and making inappropriate remarks to the bagboy who wont understand English anyway. Ill channel surf for Law and Order reruns while wearing a flannel bathrobe and fall asleep before eating the vegetable portion.

Unless you become my partner in crime.

Dogpoet: Visit Home

2007-01-11T05:48:00.000-05:00

Thursday, October 24, 2002

Visit Home

Its clear were above the East Coast. Sprawling green farms dotted with white farmhouses and honest-to-God red barns slide below us. Everythings lush; its like looking down on the broccoli section at Safeway. Thick emerald tree cover and drizzly wisps of cloud slowly burning away in the rays of the emerging sun. I press my nose against the glass; eyes devouring the architecture of another world.

If it werent the closest airport to their house I might have avoided the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport (Everyone still calls it National”, my transplanted barber told me earlier). I stand with my bag in the D.C. dusk, waiting for my father who is unusually late. I call his partner at home.
Where are you? he asks.
Im at the airport.
Really?
Yeah, Im looking at the sign now. It says ‘National Airport’”.
Hmmm.
Actually, I say, Theres kind of a new shiny building over there that looks more like an airport.
Oh! Oh, youre at the old terminal.
It figures.

My father is waiting for me in the baggage claim of the new terminal. I see him a hundred yards away; a hesitant figure scanning the crowds for my face. Hes never had the natural ease of other fathers, other men in the world. Hes always seemed stiff, reserved, pleasant. Like theres a layer between him and emotion. His unease reflects mine; my emotions constrict in his company. When my mother would get angry with me shed say Youre just like your father, knowing it would sting. I am quiet like him, shy like him. But I was her, tooher passion and her temper and her selfless abandon. Her generosity and her need. I am both of them, but her death has made me value the part of me that is her more than the part that is him. In missing her I seek out what she left in me. When my father told me he wanted us to be closer because she was dying and soon hed be my only support, I ducked my head, resenting his presumption. I didnt want his support; Id done well enough without it. I am here under obligation but driven by something else. Three weeks ago he had dreamed about her, dreamed they had been going through papers together. The next morning he had searched for her name on the Internet, and found me instead, found my site. I know my mother is orchestrating forgiveness. Shes pushing us together and because I love her so much Im letting her push.

He sees me coming; his eyebrows raise and he smiles nervously. Its the first time weve seen each other since he read my site, since he unearthed my resentment, since we talked, haltingly, about the memories wed rather forget.

Dogpoet: Gay Parents

2007-01-11T05:47:00.000-05:00

Gay Parents

Having gay parents means everyone thinks you had an AMAZING childhood and that they’re hip and funny like all your friends and well, um, no.

They’re still my parents, people (or, at least, my Dad is…I don’t know if I can say that about my dead mother…can you say “she’s still my mom?” or is that, like, past tense?) Meaning that they weren’t cool and they had taste in furniture that I thought was funny. Especially my father and his partner. Really, you would expect questionable taste from lesbians, but from the men, too? YES, like, who ARE these people and who told them that a cityscape made entirely out of mirrors and hanging over the white couch is a viable aesthetic decision? (Dad, you said you wouldn’t read this anymore, but if you lied then you can’t blame me for speaking the god-honest TRUTH). And wardrobes from J.C. Penny and American cars and lots of casseroles for dinner. Cool Whip in the fridge, always (I know, I like Cool Whip, too) and no pets because that would mean hair on the furniture and gay RSVP cruises and buying toiletries in bulk and buying groceries from the cheapest store in the neighborhood and FAKE bonsai trees and bathrooms decorated so they look ASIAN (whatever that means) and no, we never went clubbing together but yeah, sometimes we cruise guys together and I still love them.

Dogpoet: Control

2007-01-11T05:44:00.000-05:00

Monday, October 14, 2002

Control: Or, no my name ain’t baby

“I really admire your strength; two years of sobriety, that takes incredible will power,” he says.

But will power is the red herring; sobriety isn’t about will power or control; it’s all about the opposite; the surrender, the release. Two years of will power is doomed from the start; a crack, a hairline fracture will spread; the whole affair will come crashing down.

You don’t build it up, you tear it down, day after day. You strip away your will, you strip away expectation and control. If you don’t you’ll die. You’ll get fucked up again, and you’ll be taken (no control) to the edges of life; jailed, hospitalized, homeless. And it’s either kill yourself quickly or do it slowly, gutlessly.

There’s not much we can control. We can’t control lovers, parents, bosses, presidents, public transportation. We can’t control their approval, their acceptance, their love. We can’t control corporations, traffic, disease. (Manage, maybe, if we’re lucky, but not control). We can’t control editors, publishers, arts councils. We can’t control people with guns or bombs.

We can kill them, sure, but do we wipe them out? What about their friends, their children, their lovers? Don’t we just welcome revenge? I don’t think killing stops killing; I think it begs for more. You can’t stamp it out like a fire; it’s more like water, running, dripping, pooling. It escapes confinement.

All I have are my actions. Naive as I may be, I choose negotiation. I choose olive branches and compromise. I choose who are you and how do we get this to work. If you don’t want that, guess what, I can’t control you.

I started this with a mission, a message. A thesis statement supported by facts and figures. But it’s come out forced, clunky, self-conscious. All I know is to try and learn how to love more. And to strip away everything else. To love and then surrender. To screw it up one day and try harder the next. To look for the spark and sugar in others. To scratch my dog more often.

And yet, in spite of all this it feels okay to take a break from the Love Bomb this week. I don’t know what to tell you except that I’m spread thin and I couldn’t do a target justice; it would sound half-baked. Ultimately though the Love Bomb is not my creation, not really; it’s more than the sum of it’s parts. It’s also all of you who participate; that’s what makes it a bomb. So choose your own; someone in your life, perhaps, that needs to know they’re loved.

I’m off for a few days on Wednesday to D.C. to visit my Dad and his partner, to dodge sniper bullets and to hopefully connect with at least two other bloggers while I’m there. There’s much to be done before I leave; I better get moving.

Dogpoet: Daddy

2007-01-11T04:29:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

Daddy

What is it about dream sex? I never seem to consummate the act, yet the deliciousness lingers upon waking, coloring the day’s absurdities with keen frustration; I wanna go back and see it, feel it more. It’s the longing, the teasing, the flirting on the edges of twilight sex, the nakedness in my vision’s periphery, the unbelievably pleasing pressure of his body against mine. How come I never thought of that position? How come I can’t say or do those things upon waking (alone)? How come when I talk to him I sublimate, smile like a friend, hang up the phone?

Seemingly unrelated, it’s striking me that suddenly everyone’s younger than me. The boys on underwear boxes, the boys on circuit posters, other bloggers, new friends, co-workers, actors, athletes, authors, boys at the gym. I woke from this dream screaming, HOW THE FUCK DID I GET OLD?

I’m turning thirty-one in about two and a half weeks. The funny thing is, I don’t mind. At least, I didn’t think I did. I don’t drool over the Young Ones. As one half of the Studly Couple said, “I prefer men with a few rough edges, a bit worn, like old boots.” (Good thing he’s in a couple; we’d be wrassling over the same hotties.) I remember my mom and her partner telling me that their forties were absolutely the best decade. You don’t give a shit anymore, they said (well, they wouldn’t say “shit”). I pay attention to my elders, believe it or not. I listen when they say follow your heart, life is short, love matters more than work. I listen so I can get a head’s start on the rest of you boys. Pay attention, or you’ll never catch up.

If it’s true (and I wonder) that all gay men are particularly sensitive about getting older, if they truly worship at the alter of the Boy, then I don’t find these men terribly attractive. Oh, you only think twenty-year olds are hot? I gotta go, life’s calling. I tend to think that cliché is a self-perpetuating neurosis, encouraged by gay media. If everyone shaves their chest, maybe I should, too. If everyone watches Queer as Folk, maybe I should, too. If everyone hates getting old, maybe I should, too. Remember stupid kids saying they’d rather die than turn into that old troll at the bar? Well, not everyone thinks you’re the shit, stupid kid. I’d hazard to guess that those of us aging gracefully (say what you will) don’t do so in a bar.

Now I’m smiling, because if you’re forty, you’re laughing at me. You’re just a baby, you say. Call me in a few years, when fewer boys watch you walk by. I guess it’s easy, aging gracefully, when you’re young like me.

Dogpoet: W're here, We're Queer

2007-01-11T04:27:00.000-05:00

Monday, March 18, 2002

We’re here, we’re queer, we’re used to it…

This morning I walked solo into the Hometown Deli, whereupon the Vietnamese proprietess asked, “No dog today? Too cold?”
“Actually”, I said, “my ex has him. We have joint custody.”
To which she laughed incredulously. “Like kids?”
“Yes.”
“Ha ha ha…So she gets him sometimes? On weekends.”
“Yeah”, I said, “she helped raise him, so she likes to see him now and then,” I said, pouring cream into my coffee as that peculiar pronoun guilt rose its ugly head.
“Good thing you don’t have kids, huh?” she says, “Ha ha ha ha!”
“Yeah, right,” I say, laughing with her as I leave.

Out on the sidewalk I smack my closet-face. “What the hell did you do that for?” I ask myself.
“Sometimes it’s just easier to go along with the other person’s conversation,” I answer.
But the little activist in me is burning with shame. “You should use EVERY opportunity to be out, asshole. Challenge their assumptions. You’re taking it for granted. It’s fags like you who killed Matthew Shepard.”

Well…I didn’t really say that last part. But you get my point. Welcome to the abandoned carnival that is my head.

http://www.dogpoet.com/blog/archives/112

Dogpoet: Trouble

2007-01-10T05:48:00.000-05:00

Friday, April 26, 2002

Trouble

A little over six years ago, I was still living in Minneapolis, pining over a player. A recently-out butch man with a buzz cut, an ex-wife, and a four year-old son. We had met at a bar and cruised each other, and within a half an hour were making out, much to my friends amusement. We drove in his enormous pick-up through the icy streets to my apartment. Walking to the front door, he drunkenly took my hand and we half-skated the sidewalks together. Inside, in the darkness of my room, his naked, sturdy body felt amazing. He hadnt done this with very many men. So thats whats its supposed to feel like, he said. I was hooked.

Fool. I learned quick that getting involved with a man just coming out wasnt wise.
One night we met at the bar, had a drink together, and I watched as he proceeded to make out with another guy. This happened a lot. He wanted sex, I wanted more. Though we slept together a couple more times, each time hotter than the one before, we never became more. I nicknamed him Trouble and spent some time feeling all melancholy and unrequited.

I thought about him when I read this. Around the time I first met Trouble, TLC had come out with Crazy Sexy Cool, which I bought solely for the single, Creep. I wore that tune out over the next few months. Her tale of cheating, the down-beat, the trumpets notes got under my skin and said it all for me. Though I didnt care much for the rest of the album, and hated the preaching on Waterfalls, Creep stuck in me and with me. I still have the CD.

He slept with a lot of men. (Listen to me. A slut is anyone whos had more sex than me.) Over the course of time, his mannerisms began to, uh, change. The girl speak, the tearing down of other boys, the all-gay-men-act-the-same-way view of life. Each time Id see him, Id ask about his son, to whom he was devoted. Over time, he became less animated when discussing the boy, hinting the ex-wife was becoming increasingly impatient with him. The last time I saw him, he hadnt seen the boy in awhile.

I met the man who would become the Ex, and fell for him. The Ex had jealousy issues, to say the least, and he always hated Trouble, the last guy I slept with after I met the Ex. They once had words in front of me. I should have taken heed of that jealousy, but thats another tale. We moved to San Francisco.

We visited Minneapolis over Christmas of 1999. I was trying to quit speed, hiding the majority of my usage from the Ex, but failing miserably. We ended up at a party with some friends, where I could see that Tina was fast making friends in the Midwest. Three boys stood around a fourth boy sitting at a computer looking at porn. My dealer was in the bathroom, making out with another boy. The Ex and I made small talk with others in the living room. I was too high; jittery, fucked-up. After a couple of hours of teeth-gritting conversation, we got up to leave. It was 3 oclock in the morning. The front door opened and Trouble walked in with this young blonde boy. The kid was wearing nothing but a frilly pink apron, carting a vacuum cleaner in one hand and an enormous dildo in the other. Trouble stood to the side, smiling weakly, as his boyfriend pretended to vacuum the floor. Everyone laughed. All I could think was that it was winter, incredibly cold, and we were in a very quiet residential neighborhood. My friend who owned the house disappeared into the basement, leaving his boyfriend to deal with the party-goers.

What did Trouble say, that last time? You were always the biggest sweetheart. I wasnt ready when I met you.

Neither was I, apparently.

Dogpoet: The Bad Seed

2007-01-10T05:44:00.000-05:00

Thursday, May 30, 2002

The Bad Seed

Oscar Wilde once said; “It’s an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.” (and Billy Graham said “The Bay Area is so beautiful, I hesitate to preach about heaven while I’m here, ” a feeling we wish he honored more often.) Nobody visited me in Minneapolis, but the longer I live in San Francisco, the more people I see from my past. Such is life in a destination city.

The first time I got sober, I was nineteen and still living in Minneapolis. There was a guy who got sober about the same time I did. People used to say we looked like brothers, but I often felt like the ugly sister in his company. Guys loved him. Hell- girls did, too. Though we both worked out, his body just took to it in a way that mine never did. It seemed overnight that his muscles grew; a speed so disheartening to me; the eternal skinny boy. He was truly stunning. Eventually he met a man equally good-looking and they became the unofficial Beautiful Couple of Minneapolis. They were whisked off on one of those gay cruise ships to be photographed frolicking in the surf, kissing in the pool, laughing over dinner on the Acapulco Deck. It was impossible to open a gay rag and not see pictures of them splashed all over the ad pages.

I developed a slight jealousy problem. Because his boyfriend was an economics professor, I nicknamed my friend “Mary Anne” behind his back (as in “The Professor and Mary Anne” of the 3-hour tour fame). I had some insecurities. But I was also human. After one hundred men asked me about my friend, the one hundred and first had his head ripped off. Metaphorically, of course. It became easier to spend less time with M.A., especially as he became lost in the first throes of a perfect romance. The jealousy never sat well with me (does it ever?)

That was when a certain segment of the gay population held an allure for me; a segment that was pretty and shallow and seductive despite its shallowness, maybe even because of its shallowness. The Beautiful and the Buff; an exclusive club tantalizingly out of my reach. M.A.’s membership was a given, and through him I saw doors open that for me had always seemed shut and locked. I saw rooms of men shift chemically at his entrance; I saw his modest awareness of his beauty, and the modesty made it worse; harder to like him, harder to hate him. Yes, the club too closely resembled popular high school cliques. Yes, I disdained it. But I desired it more. This is the club that we think of as mainstream, when really it’s only a sliver of our population; a sliver photographed far more than its fair share. I wanted membership. If only, I told myself, so that I could revoke it. Torn between pretty and punk, I became neither.

Eventually I met the man who would become my Ex, and we moved to San Francisco. When my mom got sick and I moved back to Minneapolis for a few months, I ran into the Professor. He told me that M.A. had fallen spectacularly off the wagon, ran off to a treatment center in Dallas, and then vanished into the city without a trace, leaving the Professor alone and confused. That was five years ago, and the last I had heard about M.A. I’ve thought about him frequently, wondering what became of him, feeling my bitterness wither and die.

Last night I looked around the fluorescent-lit AA meeting and spotted, under a flannel shirt and baseball cap, my Mary Anne sitting alone in the back, no longer buff but still cute and uncertain. Turns out he came to San Francisco last month to visit a friend who then got him admitted to a treatment program where he’s been ever since. Things do change. “Look how big you’ve gotten!” he cried, pinching my cheek. Serendipity is more than a John Cusack movie.

It certainly felt like something came full-circle last night, just in time to test me or teach me a lesson. Which is silly, because it’s not all about me. But still. Residing within me is a creature that I think of as my Inner Child’s Evil Twin Sister. It demands total attention from men. It whines and wheedles and pouts if someone gets more than me. Granted, I’ve made enormous progress in exorcising this Demon Child. I don’t want everyone’s attention, and I don’t want a club membership; just some good friends and maybe a hunky man with a good heart somewhere down the line. But I felt her stir and kick when I saw Mary Anne, like an angry little fetus, like the ghost pain of an amputated leg. I may never be completely rid of her, but I’m getting better at seeing her for what she is; a whiny brat who needs to go to her room.

Dogpoet: Music Sounds

2007-01-10T04:53:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

I Feel Like the Music Sounds Better With You

I didn’t know there were mountains near Palm Springs. At night they loom up suddenly; massive black shapes against the dark sky, like enormous ships along a shoreline. As we round them and turn in towards the city, I look up at the digital temperature gauge above the rear-view mirror. It was at 75 degrees. Within five minutes it climbs to 85. We roll down the windows. Low, pale buildings and palm trees are rushing past us. I think of crime novels, alcoholics, crackling neon. The sandy earth in the moonlight glows like snow. My blood thrums quickly. I look out and see myself push a man up against a wall in the dark. I see a turquoise pool and someone swimming up to me in the water. I smile to myself.

Handsome had said all types, not just pretty. But in the hotel lobby cute L.A. boys are lounging together on inflatable chairs and green fuzzy bean bags. A watery light washes over them. They have made the hotel into Atlantis. Blue balloons and green vines. Giant tubes of dim light stretch towards the ceiling. We’re early. The convention committee turns to look at us. They are all cute, relaxed, confident. The fear in my belly flickers. I’m grateful they know Handsome.

The hotel surrounds a large courtyard. We step out into the warm night air. A pale blue pool and dozens of palm trees strung with white lights. An outdoor bar and cabanas and green grass and hundreds of deck chairs facing the pool. We’ve changed into our swimsuits already, and walk towards the empty pool. There are dark figures grouped together on the deck chairs, their voices murmuring. Its the Fabulous Crew. We hug and laugh and compare travel notes. I pull off my shirt, grateful for the night sky. I dive into the warm water.

///

Thursday morning; registration day. Handsome and I sit out at the pool in the morning; I slather sunblock over my pale skin and watch nervously as the courtyard begins to fill with other men; tanner, bigger, smoother. Huge speakers are set up and the house music begins. I feel frozen in my deck chair.

They throw dozens of air mattresses and beach balls and inflatable whales into the water. I dive into the pool with Handsome and curl my arms around a beach ball and float in the center of the pool. The heat is intense. Around me men laugh and smile and stretch out on the air mattresses. My skin reddens slightly. Handsome is kept busy catching up with friends, and after a couple of hours at the pool I slip back to the hotel room as more and more men arrive.

Our room is on the ground floor facing the courtyard and through the blinds I can see the crowded, colorful pool. In the dark room I change into dry clothes and the fear is throbbing. I don’t like these people. I can’t talk to anyone. I don’t measure up. How the hell am I supposed to do this without getting fucked up? I look out the window at all of them and I feel regret. I wish I had stayed home. I am this close to staying in the room for the rest of the weekend.

But I don’t.

Each night everyone comes together for a big meeting; five hundred men altogether. We gather in the Plaza Ballroom; five hundred beautiful smiling men. Before us there is a raised panel table and a podium. Six people sit at the table; five of them take turns reading AA literature that is common at most meetings. The sixth is asked to share his story. A dark, handsome man my age approaches the podium. He is nervous as he speaks into the microphone.

“My name is Guy and I’m an alcoholic.”

Five hundred men reply “Hi, Guy.”

He is sweet and charming and has an adorable Georgia accent. He has come all the way from Atlanta and, like me, has never been to the convention. As he tells his story some of the shyness wears away. I am smitten and I can feel the entire room falling in love with him, especially when he mentions his thirteen-year old son. A father! His story is powerful; tracing his roots in a boisterous house full of athletic brothers, his gradual estrangement and the journey through drugs and alcohol that led to him sleeping on the streets of the crack hoods. I try to picture him there. He speaks with such warmth and passion of the work he’s done in AA, of the people who helped him and of his desire to now help others, and when he finishes the entire room lines up to thank him personally. Me included.

That night the convention organizers have rented out a nearby water park. My God, I think, will the torture never stop? But I go. The Fabulous Crew shows up at the park in bathrobes and flowered shower caps and sunglasses. They are applauded and pose for pictures. I know them, I say to someone.

Like everyone else I stand in line in my swimsuit, dripping wet, waiting my turn on the giant slides. I stick to Handsome like glue, self-conscious yet feeling invisible next to his big blue eyes. I see his effect on others.

There is one ridiculous, insane slide: a five-story vertical drop that curves at the bottom into a chute of water. I cannot believe they’ve built such a thing. It looks like people would die on it everyday. But we get in line, along with everyone else. And for an hour the line creeps up the staircase, hundreds of wet gay men in swimsuits laughing and cruising each other. The fear is a dull roar now; constant. I don’t know where to put my hands. Ahead of us Guy from Atlanta is waiting with his friends. I see him and we smile at each other before he turns back to this friends. For an hour my fear of the men is greater than the fear of the slide, but then we reach the top. Off in the distance I see the mountains and palm trees. I cannot believe I am about to do this. I sit at the top of the slide, water coursing over my legs, afraid to look over the edge as I wait for the girl’s signal to push off. The seconds stretch. Far below me people are watching. I hear her give me the count of three and before I can think I push off and fall over the edge, my eyes squeezed tight. I fall and fall and feel like I’m going to die and I keep falling and falling and then suddenly theres a giant wave of water and I’m shooting through like a bullet. At the end Handsome and some others are cheering. My legs are shaking. I stumble over to them and we all hug each other like we’ve survived a plane crash. Then we turn and watch others falling. One man climbs out of the chute and looks at me. “Are you the prize?” he asks. I blush, and the others laugh. The temperature seems to have dropped a little, or maybe its delayed nerves. We shudder together at the end of the slide.

Later a cute man with dark skin and a hairy chest walks past and smiles at me and I smile back. I recognize him from the pool. He trots by in a red swimsuit and some of the fear drains away. In its place the excitement of flirting throbs, flickers.

///

Handsome and I return to the pool in the morning. The temperature is in the 90’s by 9 am, and I cool off by diving into the water. Though the fear is quieter it sticks with me. It helps being in the water. I let myself get caught up in a game of water volleyball, and at one point Guy from Atlanta joins us. I thank him again for his courage up at the podium the night before and he smiles. I want to say more but the fear stops me, and soon he drifts off.

Three hours later I am still hitting the ball around, and my left ear has plugged up with water. Life plays out around me in mono. A small thrill courses through me when I see the hairy-chested man from the water park swimming nearby. Handsome gets tired of my shyness and pushes the guy over towards me. His name is Blair but it doesnt seem to fit him. Half Armenian and a deep voice he says is intensified by a scratchy throat. We start talking and discover were both writers, though hes made a living at it through television and the Internet. We bob together in the water, talking and talking for over an hour. At one point he reaches out and rubs the hair on my chest and a minute later I return the favor. I wade closer to him until his back is against the pool wall. We hug and smile and he looks over my shoulder nervously. Im feeling a little self-conscious, he says. Can we go to your room?

I hesitate for a split second. Yeah, I say. We pull apart.

I cant get out of the pool yet, he says, and I laugh.

Me neither.

We swim away from each other but it doesnt help. He calls to a friend on the side to throw him a towel and I see him climb out of the pool and wrap it quickly around his waist. Its so cute it makes me laugh, and I follow him. We walk to the room and along the way we pass Handsome. I give him a sheepish grin and he laughs at me. Blair and I go into the room and close the blinds. The room is dark and the air-conditioning is on full-blast. We are shivering as we towel-off quickly. We peel off the suits. Which bed? he asks and I point. He gets under the covers and Im still smiling when I join him, laying on top of him. The sensation of our skin together is amazing. The warmth spreads between us. We have fun. I watch his dark brown eyes as I kiss him, looking in them, searching for the things I dont know. I look over at the chair and see his red swimsuit hanging there and it makes me smile.

Later the maid wakes us by knocking on the door. We dress quickly and head back to the pool. We sit together at the edge and friends of his swim up to chat. I spot Handsome in the water and he smiles at me. There is a familiar voice in my head spinning. There is a familiar boy within me, and he is still scared. He wants to be the most beautiful and the most loved. He wants the hairy-chested man to need him in a way that wont work here. As the sun dances over the water and as the men jump and splash and the music plays out over us I try to talk the boy down from the ledge. I tell him to pay attention to the moment and stay with it. I ask him not to run with it, not to make fun in a dark room something it cant be.

Blair and I walk to lunch nearby and eat over-priced burritos. He likes guacamole as much as I do.

Youre soft-spoken, he says.

Yeah.

He tells me he used to be an interpreter for the deaf in New York and sometimes feels the urge to speak loudly for those of us who often cannot be heard in bars and restaurants.

She said she wants a rum and coke!

He tells me about writing for Showtime and I tell him about the Campfire. He wants a mention and I tell him hell get one. He wants me to use his real name. I try to stay at that table with him, to keep the boy in place, to open his eyes to this moment and be grateful for the company. The boy struggles; he wants everyone to fall in love with him.

Back at the hotel we part company and I attend some of the workshops. Im grateful for each one. In the dim, air-conditioned conference rooms groups of men sit together and talk, and I am reminded of why I love AA; surrounded by people engaged in self-examination, committed to giving it away to others. Like life there are those I dont care for, but ultimately I have found more love in these strange people than anywhere else.

///

Handsome and I are standing in the crowded lobby that evening before the big meeting. I look around me at everyone and notice Guy in the middle of a circle of admirers. He catches my eye and smiles and I turn to Handsome.

Hes so cute, I say.

Oh yeah, I forgot, he says, he asked me about you today.

My heart backflips. No!

Yes.

No.

Yes, he did.

Really?

Yeah.

Youve got to be kidding. What did he say?

It was at the pool. First he asked me if I had a boyfriend and I said no. He thought you and I were a couple. Then he asked me if you had a boyfriend and I said No, hes singlewould you like me to tell him you asked? And he said sure.

I look back at Guy and see him smiling at me. I smile back, all goofy-like. He comes over as Handsome slips away.

So, Michael, how much time do you have?

This is his way of checking to make sure Im not a newcomer. October will be two years, I say.

Thats great. There is something crackling between us. Im suddenly sure that everyone can see it.

You were great last night up there, I say. You have a powerful story.

Thanks.

We smile at each other again and before I can say anything else his friends surround him.

Id like to talk more with you one-on-one later, if thats okay, he says.

That would be great, I say. The crowd pulls him away.

I will not lie to you. I feel lucky. And blessed. I float back to Handsome, who is standing with John, one of the convention organizers. As I join them John says, Michael, Id like for you to read for me at the meeting tonight.

Another backflip. Really?

Yeah. Youll sit up at the table with the rest of us. Meet me in five minutes and Ill introduce you to the speaker. He walks away.

Oh my God, I say to Handsome.

I told him to ask you.

Really? I have been talking like a seventh-grade girl all night.

Yeah. He asked me if I knew anyone who should read and I thought of you right away.

Wow. Well, thanks, I say to him.

In the ballroom I walk to the raised panel table and meet the other readers and the speaker. We shake each others hands and I wish the speaker good luck. Were asked to take the stage and as I take my chair I look out over the crowd, over five hundred men looking up at us. I see Handsome and the entire Fabulous Crew from San Francisco. I see Guy off to the side with his friends and he smiles at me. I see Blair off to the other side. My heart is pounding. I remind myself that I am reading a short piece, and its not about me. I breathe out and listen as some announcements are made. Suddenly my left ear opens fully and an entire symphony of noise floods my brain. The world is again in stereo, and it feels like the times I used to take Ecstasy at the clubs; as the drug kicked in the music would suddenly seem bigger, fuller, enormous. The room around me is vibrating.

Now lets open the meeting, John says into the microphone. Ive asked Michael from San Francisco to read the preamble.

I stand up and suddenly everyone from San Francisco is cheering. They are screaming and whistling and being ridiculous and I love it. They carry on and on and when I get to the microphone I wave to them. The entire room is smiling. I am shaking. I lean into the microphone.

My name is Michael, and Im an alcoholic.

Five hundred men reply, Hi, Michael.

I try to hold onto my voice.

Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism. The only requirement for membership is the desire to stop drinking. There are no dues or fees for AA membership. We are self-supporting through our own contributions. AA is not allied with any sect, denomination, politics, or organization, does not wish to engage in any controvery neither endorses nor opposes any causes. Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety.

Its over. I walk back to my chair at the table and they are cheering and whistling again and I smile and pretend to wipe the sweat from my brow. They laugh.

The meeting continues, and another man tells his story. I have a hard time looking out at all of those people so I watch him instead. When he finishes, the last reader stands at the microphone and reads another selection. As he speaks I finally let my gaze settle over the room, over the five hundred men sitting before us.

“The last fifteen years of my life have been rich and meaningful. I have had my share of problems, heartaches and disappointments, because that is life, but also I have known a great deal of joy, and a peace that is the handmaiden of an inner freedom.”

I see them, all their faces, the men I know and the ones I dont. The friends who saw me two years ago come in a broken man, who welcomed me and who were my companions, who walked with me and most of all laughed and cried with me. The strangers out there who have come together in this room on this night in this city in the desert.

“I have a wealth of friends and, with my A.A. friends, an unusual quality of fellowship. For, to these people, I am truly related. First, through mutual pain and despair, and later through mutual objectives and new-found faith and hope. And, as the years go by, working together, sharing our experiences with one another, and also a mutual trust, understanding and love- without strings, without obligation- we acquire relationships that are unique and priceless.”

As I see them I feel something inside, something around my heart break open, like a glass shell, and a warmth spreads out from my chest and it fills me up and the only thing I feel is love, love for all of them. And I understand that I dont need to be afraid of them, of anyone.

“There is no more ‘aloneness’, with that awful ache, so deep in the heart of every alcoholic that nothing before, could ever reach it. That ache is gone and never need return again. Now there is a sense of belonging, of being wanted and needed and loved. In return for a bottle and a hangover, we have been given the Keys to the Kingdom.”

I am full, I am spilling over with something that is my friends and my mother and God and all of the beautiful strangers. I close my eyes to say thank you, and when I open them Im no longer afraid.

///

From that night on I am known as Michael from San Francisco. They think Im popular or something. I call it Divine Grace. I meet a lot of people. I look them in the eye. I give hugs to people I know and some I dont. My friends see it, whatever happened. They are proud. And they see something else.

That night by the pool Guy and I talk. People rarely leave his side, so there is something critical in each moment we have alone. Come swim with me, he says.

We dive into the pool and have all of forty seconds alone, before the friends converge on us again. In that brief span he looks at me and in his adorable Georgia drawl says, Youre a sweet boy.

My friends watch. They tease me. Look at him chase you, they say.

I make another break-through when Tyler drags me over to one of the cabanas. There is a crowd around it and inside there are four drag queens perched on four deck chairs, painting the mens toenails.

I get blue glitter on mine.

///

He had spoken of testing out relationships during his story, something that was just starting. Were in the whirlpool together and he tells me hes not sure where itll go, hes just begun dating again. I ask about his son and the ex-wife. Were not alone. Im realizing his friends are very protective and watchful. From the corner of my eye I see one peer over my shoulder to see if my hands are on Guy under the water. Which theyre not.

I know were not going to have sex this weekend, and I know it wouldnt be right. There is something there that needs more time. The moon is so bright the palm trees cast shadows on the grass. That night I sleep alone.

///

I steal the moments as I can.

My shoulders are burned. I sit at the edge of the pool with my shirt on and he swims up. He hangs onto the wall, his hands on either side of my legs.

I dont know what it is, he says. I saw you the first night and I knew I had to get to know you.

Its not that Im just cute? I say, teasing him.

Out of all the people here I only wanted to meet you, he says. I glance up and see people watching. I want to tell him that I do know. I know there is something about me. I know it, I hold it dear. And I want him to know.

A song I love comes over the speakers. I get up and I dance alone. I dont care. Its a great song.

///

In the intense afternoon heat I walk with the Fabulous Crew to Jamba Juice. As we order I notice a family staring at our feet. I look down. Our toenails a gleaming array of color.

///

The speaker that night breaks my heart. I cry and I laugh and I cry some more. During the break I hug everyone I know. Guy kisses me in the lobby.

///

From the sidelines I watch people dance, watch the sweat roll from their shoulders. Blair passes, we hug and kiss. I know the songs and I dance in place. Another moment with Guy and then hes swept up into the crowd again. Then there is a very sexy man talking to me. I know Im not going to sleep with Guy. My body wants comfort and I tell the man Ive got HIV. He does too. We sit in a deck chair by the empty pool and after a few minutes I let him kiss me. Is this right? Does “right” really matter, does it matter that much? Ive got something to give away, something to share.

He drives us to his friends empty house at the edge of the desert. In the backyard there is a gleaming turquoise pool. We swim naked and above us the stars are so bright. He pushes me up against the wall.

I didnt get much sleep that night.

///

Almost over.

The final meeting on Sunday morning. I want to hold onto this as long as I can. I look around me at everyone in the ballroom. I love these people. The man from last night needs to leave. We exchange numbers and he tells me hell be through SF soon. The sad boy inside me is quiet, content. Each of these men have given me something different, something small or wonderful.

One last moment with Guy. We exchange numbers, promises. I know Ill keep mine.

Youre a beautiful person, I tell him.

Thank you, he says. Im so glad I met you. One last kiss.

The hotel is emptying. Handsome and I take one last dive into the pool. Blair swims to me and we hug and float together for awhile. As hes leaving I spot his name tag on the side of the pool. Is this yours? I ask. Are you the only Blair from L.A.?

I am, he says. You can keep it. You were the only one for me this weekend. Then he waves good-bye.

I dont lie to him. I just wave back.

///

Handsome and I drive back to L.A. in the afternoon. There is a song I want to hear, one that he played on the way here. I find it and we sing along. It catches on the grooves of my heart and pulls it in its wake. Five hundred faces flash through my head. I think of Atlanta, of sharing my bed back home. We listen to the song again. And again.

///

It takes forever to get home. The car and then the plane, delayed. And delayed again. During the flight one of the attendants argues with a couple several rows back. I hear threats of police. I want to know and yet I want to hold on to what Im carrying.

The bus to BART, which carries us under the bay and into the City. We wait for the final leg; the MUNI underground. More delays. Its past midnight. Finally it arrives and we collapse into the side seats, the ones that face into the car. Our bags at our feet. Three stops from home a tall bearded man in a denim jacket and a firefighters ballcap gets on. He walks with a swagger and something else, something hard. He takes the seat nearest us, facing our profiles. I glance at him and see it in his eyes; the alcohol and the fight. He sneers at us and I turn away. But I feel him stare, feel his contempt. Theres no mistaking it. Is he looking at us? I ask Handsome.

Yeah

What does he want?

I dont know what he wants, he says, loud enough for the man to hear.

I turn to him. Can we help you? I ask.

He shakes his head slowly. Just thinking, he mumbles.

But its rolling off him in waves, the anger. He wont look away. I want to hold on to what Im carrying.

We pull into the Castro station. Handsome and I grab our bags and wait for the doors to open. I can feel his eyes on us. As we leave I glance back at him, at the hardness.

He bolts to his feet. Fucking faggots!

We walk to the staircase as he follows us. Around us are others, some gay, some straight. We take the stairs with our bags over our shoulders. He’s picked the wrong guys. Im not scared. My pulse is quick but its not fear. I want to hold onto it. We rise up to the street, to the Castros main intersection. Around us are more faggots. The night air is cool. Im home. When I turn back again hes not there.

At the corner Handsome and I squeeze each other tight, and I thank him for everything. He knows what happened, he knows it matters. When he leaves I duck into the drug store. I buy a new bottle of lube. And some nail polish remover.

Confessions of an (Ex-)Go-Go Dancer

2007-01-09T17:27:00.000-05:00

Confessions of an (Ex-)Go-Go Dancer:

How to disappear completely

My brother commented yesterday that I look smaller than I used to. I think living in New York can do that to a person; as soon as I moved here, I lost ten pounds, completely by accident. If it weren't for H&M and the shrinking effect of the dryer, none of my clothes would fit.

I realize that this is not the problem that most people face.

I feel a little smaller than when I was go-go dancing; ending this blog makes me feel a little smaller, too. It's suffocating, living in New York, where the crush of people in a tiny space has a way of squeezing at the psyche. Living in America, land of SUVs and stretch limos and Hummers, land of Big Macs and their kin, I tend toward feeling invisible. There's so much pressure in this world, the natural tendency is to implode. I have to fight to take up space.

But I'm glad to be finishing the blog. It's nice to finish something, to say, "This is complete," and to move on to bigger things.

I started go-go dancing at an underwear party, hosted by the inimitable Daniel Nardicio. I didn't know that "underwear party" meant that people might take off their underwear. When I figured it out, I took off mine. I'm ending this blog after a bathhouse party, not hosted by Daniel, though he was present. I knew that it would involve more than just bathing. I was surprised that the vibe was so relaxed, that sex was not the reason everyone was there. I was certain that if you put a bunch of gay men in a room, their natural inclination would be to have sex. It's the law of gravity: bodies are naturally pulled toward each other. But I was wrong.

Sometimes invisibility has its advantages. It can be nice to go to a party and not be touched by strangers. Last night at Bana (too lazy to insert the tilda) was my first full night out since go-go dancing, and it was nice to be present without being at the center of everything. I was just the right size.

I think I might've lost everyone by now, but that's OK, because this is the end of my blog.

Confessions of an (Ex-)Go-Go Dancer

2007-01-09T17:26:00.000-05:00

Confessions of an (Ex-)Go-Go Dancer:

The final frontier

All blogs have their day in the sun, and this one is, frankly, getting a little long in the tooth. I've had more than my share of sexual misadventures, and now I'm just working on settling down. It's not all that fun to spectate at this point, I fear.

On top of that, I really need to stop diddling with this website and get a new damn job. I can't say the blog (and the dancing) haven't helped a little with the job search, but at this point, they've done all they can do.

So this blog, which might be my one chance at fame (other than the numerous nude photos of me circulating on the Internet) is nearing its end. I'm sad about the end of my power trip, but frankly, given the effluvium of mean-spirited comments of late, it'll be nice to stop wondering what anonymous porn surfers think of me. Now I can be one of those porn surfers, inflicting my judgment on optimistic striplings.

Ode to the intern

2007-01-09T17:22:00.000-05:00

best of craigslist : Ode to the intern I am forced to share an office with:

Since our office was renovated, one of our interns was moved into my office because the public room she once sat in, out on display, is being used for other things. Thank you, I’m ever so happy!!!

You are so ghetto, but thankfully, 50% less ghetto than what I’m used to. I appreciate the effort!

You wear very inappropriate clothing to work…. everyday. Your shirts are usually so tight that your pancake-sized nipples protrude all day. This is unless you are wearing one of your ever so stylish ponchos. Your ponchos remind me of my grandmother. That’s a very bad image….my grandmother with your pancake-sized nipples. In the words of Napoleon Dynamite, “GROSS”.

Stop shopping in the juniors department! You are an adult. You are not shaped like a shapeless white teenager, so why do you try and squeeze your large behind into pants that obviously appeal to those lacking a large jungle bootie. I didn’t appreciate walking into MY office and seeing your anus because your low-rider pants were almost around your ankles as you bent over to pick up your pen, which you were only chewing on, not actually using for anything productive (Like the first of many rough drafts of a two week notice letter)….. And your pants were so tight, you must have figured they had built in underwear because it was obvious to me and several others, that you had on no panties….no less a thong at least. I am so traumatized by the very existence of your anus now. Also, if you have not noticed yet, it is summer and very humid. Going commando will not be tolerated in the office, especially when you’re in such close quarters with someone (me) who has an ultra sensitive sense of smell.

Every time you use the word “mine”, you make it plural. “Mine” is a first person
singular possessive pronoun. Do you make this plural because there is more than one of you? Dummy, who issued you your GED. No, I do not plan on “gettin mines lunch.”

You claim you cannot see anything without your glasses. 90% of the time, you are not wearing your glasses. Coincidence? No, I think you just don’t do any work. Actually, I know you do not do any work. I’m doing your work that was so kindly reassigned to me after you fucked it up. Now you have more time to listen to The Tom Joyner Morning Show and talk on the phone to your “Boo”.

You always come in, spend 30 min organizing all of the material possessions you haul around in the 2 large fake Louis Vitton bags you always carry, turn on the radio, call your mother to talk about absolutely nothing, take off your shoes and complain about how your feet hurt. One day I asked you, “Maybe your heels are too high. Humans have not evolved enough to walk around on 6 inch wedges.” You then proceeded to ask me what I meant by “evolve”, and then you said, “oh its not the heel, they are from Payless”. That’s your problem Rocket Scientist. Cheap shoes equals foot pain. I could insult you right to your face, and unless I spoke in minimal syllable words, you would not get it.

I almost shat my pants the other day when you obliviously left your cell phone ringer on high and left to go take one of those long breaks where we wonder sometimes if you got lost or hope you were kidnapped. (By the fashion police that is). I was minding my own business, busting my ass doing your work, and all of the sudden, Louder than a Chipotle fart in a car, I hear the sound of some obnoxious rapper screaming with the sounds of gun shots going off in the background. I almost dropped to the floor and rolled under my desk; wasn’t taking any chances considering we work in N.W., near the Whitehouse.

Lastly, for now that is. Your voice is worse than any length plastic finger nail scratched on any black board in the history of man……More vicious than two cats humping in my ear canal……Worse than any baby screaming after being in a well for 3 days…..worse than hearing my mom grunt while being on top of my dad…..Oh the agony of your baby voice. Sometimes your voice gets so high pitched, I think all dogs within 2 miles, perk their heads up and begin running. I cannot take it anymore!!! You look and dress like a 13-year-old drag queen stuck in the ass crevasse of a 40 year old BBW. Your voice, your clothes, the winter hat you wear when you “didn’t get your hair did”(even though our boss has repeatedly told you not to wear it because its unprofessional)…..everything you do including breathing, annoys me. The only thing about you that does not annoy me is when you go home. Which is usually 2 hours before your regular time, you lazy fucking idiot.

I Probably Hate You.

2007-01-09T16:10:00.000-05:00

I Probably Hate You.:

Same Thing Missies.

Seriously, I am finding it really hard to find the difference between Bears and Trannies these days. They are both a bunch of girls that are dressing up to play a gender that they are trying to be....but both usually end up failing miserably, but at least the trannies are in on the joke, you know?

Not to judge, BUT Tell me the difference between this,

And this,

Only thing I see is that one embraces their bloatedness and the other ~~tries to~~ hides it with duck tape.

But seriously, there is no difference. They are both gay and they both don't like hanging out with one another and they both are constantly judging people in their own "cliques". Trannies will be like " Mary you need to shave your legs!" and Bears are all like ," Mary you need to stop shaving and stop wearing deodorant or else your not masculine! Anyone see my Prada wallet?" . Whatever I just say let live and stop placing labels and just except us instead of breaking into sub-levels of gayness.

Good bye

2007-01-08T10:18:00.000-05:00

An Open Letter To Buffalo Gay Bars

Dear Buffalo gay bars,

First, I'd like to thank you for your years of service. From March 23, 1996, when I first stepped foot into my first-ever knob-gobblin' watering hole, to the night I met Ben, to my various birthdays, to each illicit hook-up, to the two instances in which I was totally roofed, your various establishments, designed to lubricate the throats of those who later wish to lubricate elsewhere, have provided adventure, danger, and no shortage of memories.

That said, I think I'm done.

Each trip to the various video, cabaret, and cruising bars comprising Buffalo's low-thread-count tapestry of gay life has been met, since moving away, with diminishing returns. It's no longer quite as fun to play "Count The Hard Rock Cafe Jackets". Drinking a mason jar filled with some rotgut dubbed a "Motherfucker" doesn't quite give me the same charge anymore. And as amusing as tucked-in sweatshirts, blond tips, and the passionate aversion to any body type other than that of a twelve year-old boy is, it's no longer enough.

So carry on, fellas. Continue to pour mixed drinks that would incapacitate a midsized elk. Resume your drag shows featuring performers that at last solve the mystery of what Roseanne's been up to since her talk show got cancelled. But you will now have to sport tapered jeans, weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and be racist in my absence.

Besides, we all know the hot guys in Buffalo are straight. And we also know just how much they'll be willing to do and how little they'll be able to remember after their thirteenth Jagerbomb. Mary Christmas. And no, I spelled that correctly.

Love ya like a sister who hates ya,
Michael Francis Hartney II

Tags: cockoholick gay queer fag cum cock homo homosexual dick semen jerk off gay orgy erection masturbation

How was your day, Dan?

2007-01-06T08:43:00.000-05:00

How was your day, Dan?: "I just wanted to update you on the progress of Operation: Husband Hunt 2007. I'll have you know that things are not going well, it has been 5 days into the New Year and all I have to show for it is...well, nothing.

I am concerned, because I may have to send in more troops to reinforce the effort, but Congress believes that will stretch my armies to the breaking point, with no tactical benefit. Unfortunately I'm afraid I may have no other choice, as the present course is proving to be a failure.

Excuse me while I search the Tiffany & Co. site for my wedding china. Hope he likes it, whoever he ends up being."

D O G P O E T » 2002 » August

2007-01-06T08:07:00.000-05:00

D O G P O E T » 2002 » August: Shut up, brain, I’m trying to live

You have to hold it like this, he says, forming a diamond between his two hands.

Like this? I ask. He steps closer to look at my grip on the dumbbell.

Yeah, he says.

Okay, thanks, I say, hefting it over my head, It always felt kind of funny the other way.

He smiles and nods Any time. He sustains the eye contact for a few more moments and I kind of forget to breathe until I look away. I lower the weight behind my head. Hes right, I can feel the difference. But I guess he should know, being a trainer.

A trainer. One of those gay fantasy icons. Hell, straight fantasy too. I look him over as he does shrugs, watch the tiger tattooed on his shoulder ripple and stretch. Old enough to be my dad, I think. Which has never been a problem for me in the past. We smile again at each others mirrored reflections, and I imagine kissing him, imagine him without clothes. I can picture the sex, cant picture a date. Guys his age seem to want more, though, like I usually do. But consciously or not Ive been aiming younger. Do I want to grow old with someone closer to my age? Is it vanity?

He keeps looking back, and Im conflicted. Should I encourage it? Am I leading him on?

Oh relax, dude, I think. One smile and youre getting married. My head; itll keep me from anything. Let life bring you what it wants. Hell, maybe hell train you for free.

Dogpoet: Power of Now

2007-01-04T07:22:00.000-05:00

Its a little upsetting to stumble across a friend in a porn movie from the 80s. Nothing kills an erection like seeing this friend, who has cultivated a rather Daddy-like image, speaking in stilted tones with frosted hair in an office with teal-flocked wallpaper getting his ass plowed on top of a cheap, varnished desk. Not that I ever search the web for streaming video porn or anything.

But even if I did, I would do it to excess, as I do any sort of addictive substance. And since I no longer partake of substances, other activities will sometimes take their place. Like the occasional porn marathon, say, or this recent music-downloading habit Ive picked up like a bad cold. I never got into the whole Napster thing, but I often come to fads and fashions much later than everyone else, out of a misguided stubbornness against anything popular. And I wont tell you what site I am using, because now that the Feds are indicting people for music-swapping, it would be just my luck to land in jail and end up as someones bitch, just for being a little cheap. Ive probably said too much already.

So yes, downloading over a hundred songs within a 24-hour period might seem a little compulsive. It was rather short-lived, however, as I have reached a mental block; I cant think of any other song I want. And it must say something about ones character development that most of the songs I downloaded were from several years ago, during the 80s and early 90s. The songs I fell in love with during those years have attached themselves to my emotional core. They dont entertain so much as elicit past moods; a form of nostalgia towards which I have always been prone.

So between these songs and my friends frosted hair, I have retreated into the softly neon-lit 80s, where memory smoothes over all rough edges to produce a simpler, more naive era. Memory distorts; its not to be trusted, which means that most of my writing is suspect as well. What lies have I conjured, all with the best of intentions? But thats what happens when youre always looking over your shoulder at the past.

Then again, thats not entirely true. I am a red blooded American, I believe in possibility. I tie my happiness to the uncertain future, to events and people and cities I hope will come to me. I count down the days, over and over, till the long-delayed arrival of my handsome space monkey. I pore over catalogues for schools across the country. I imagine myself in better jobs. I mentally shed the two or three pounds that must be obscuring my six-pack abs. I sometimes even let myself imagine a cure for the virus in my bloodstream.

But theres no harm there. Im just saying I would make a lousy Buddhist. The Power of Now is lost on me. Between the past and the lurid future I am torn, missing out on the present and all of its simple gifts, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Dogpoet's Brilliance Again

2007-01-04T07:09:00.000-05:00

What I Want to Tell You

It is easy to see the beginning of things, and harder to see the ends.
Joan Didion

There are several formats to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and depending on where you live, certain formats are more common than others. A popular format in San Francisco is the speaker/discussion meeting. One member stands before the others and tells his story. Later the floor is open for discussion. Anyone who has been to a handful of speaker/discussion meetings knows that they follow a basic formula: The speaker shares what it was like, what happened, and what its like now.

It only takes a few meetings to see the pattern of loss and redemption. What we give each other is the darkness, and then the light. We give hope to the hopeless, each of us a radiant phoenix rising from the ashes of our own self-destruction. At least, that is the idea. Darkness, then light. Always end with the light.

Despite a general shyness in the company of new strangers, I have always struggled with the time limits of my story; trying to compress thirty-two years into twenty minutes. I love the anecdote, the episode, the telling detail. Luckily for the audience, I also believe in leaving them wanting more. So like most others in AA, I pick and choose. Over time, through repetition, led by the audiences gratifying laughter or hushed silence, I hone my life story. I choose a handful of episodes; familiar signposts leading me through the tale.

When I was newly sober the what it was like took much longer to tell. It was very grim, because I was still so close to it all, the mess Id made of everything. I could not see the dark streak of humor running through my days of desperation. I could not yet laugh at the ridiculous lengths I had gone to get high. In those days I was scared of the world and preferred the immediate escape of chemicals to just about anything else life could offer. I ate more of everything; drugs, drink, love, sex. The more thewell, no, it never got better. I was a rabid hamster scampering within a wheel, never getting anywhere, certainly not better.

But thats not what I want to talk about, because its simply the same story told over and over, with different characters and different outfits, and the lighting is harsh and the scenery quite dull. What I want to tell you is what happened.

One Sunday in October of 1999, deep in the gloom that descended whenever I crashed after a crystal meth binge, I was bickering with David, my boyfriend of the time, who by then was a little sick of my mood swings.

He had been after me all weekend to call my mother. In my current condition I didnt want to talk to anyone, not him, certainly not my mother. I had a couple of e-mails from her, unread, sitting in my inbox. She had been out to visit only a month before, and her tentative diagnosis of Parkinsons was a subject that I could not, on that day, begin to handle. I did not have within me the ability to string together a few syllables of hope for her, though my boyfriend would not let up. Finally he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and thrust it at me.

Fine. Here. I didnt want to tell you. She called. She wanted to tell you herself. There were a few words scrawled in his hand: Not Parkinsons. ALS. Lou Gehrigs.

I didnt know what it meant. What does this mean? I asked him. He didnt know. She didnt tell you? No. I only knew that the name Lou Gehrig meant something bleak.

Will you call her now? he asked.

Just a minute. I sat down at the computer and logged onto the Internet. I typed ALS into the search engine, and followed a link:

ALS is a fatal neuromuscular disease characterized by progressive muscle weakness resulting in paralysis.

And several lines later:

There is no cure for ALS. In general, weakness progresses steadily with no periods of improvement or stability and leads to death, usually within 3 to 6 years.

///

When I was growing up my mother could be unpredictable. There were the good days; days that register in my memory with the warm timbre of her voice, her laugh that broke up the ice within me. And then there were the other days, of inexplicable rages and hysterical sobbing. Years later, after my own experiences with addiction, I understood that those were the days she had been drinking. Eventually wed both have AA in common.

Despite these mood swings I had always felt that my mother understood me better than anyone else. One afternoon, when I was ten, she and I were in the backyard of our house in Falcon Heights, Minnesota, painting my bike. I stood off to the side and watched her shake the can of spray paint: ticka ticka ticka. My bike, stripped of its wheels and chain, sat upside down on a patch of dirt beneath the oak tree. The leaves above us were lit up green in the warm summer sun. My mother had acquiesced to my demand for a more masculine color. I was nine when my parents bought me the bright yellow bike, but at ten I was ready for a change. We were painting my bike blue. Or rather, she was painting my bike blue and because she was in a good mood I was keeping her company.

Through the thin gaps between the slats of our tall wooden fence, I saw a shadow crossing our yard. It swept along the fence until it reached the open gate of our backyard, and in walked Mrs. McIntyre.

Mrs. McIntyre was the closest thing our neighborhood had to a busybody. She and her husband lived two doors down, and her son Johnny was my younger brothers age. They played together all the time, but in my mothers opinion Johnny was a spoiled brat, and because my mother rarely expressed a negative opinion of anyone, I liked to agree. The McIntyres had bought Johnny every single Star Wars action figure and spaceship and trash compactor available at Target and it made both my brother and I jealous. When the inevitable squabbles erupted between Johnny and my brother, Johnny would sweep all the Stars Wars toys into his lap and tell my brother to go home.

The week before I had stopped at their house, collecting my brother for dinner, when Mrs. McIntyre cornered me in the foyer. Michael, I heard about your parents, she said, using a tone of voice that she probably thought sounded concerned. Why did they get divorced?

Her bluntness caught me off guard. I had looked away from her, down at my shoes. Nobody on our block had ever been divorced. Nobody on our block had ever come out of the closet, either, but I wasnt about to tell Mrs. McIntyre that both my parents had done just that. I dont know, I told her.

That afternoon she crossed the yard, a small bundle of determination wrapped in a cardigan. She dispensed with small talk.

Michael, did you teach Johnny to say asshole?

I stood there with my mouth open, looking at her and then at my mother, who stood with the spray paint can frozen in mid-air. My mother looked back at me.

Uh, no, I said. No, I didnt.

Well theres nobody else around who could have taught him that.

I looked back at my mother, certain that her fear of confrontation would lead her to choose Mrs. McIntyres side, if only to be nice.

I didnt teach him that, I said. I dont know who taught him that word, but it wasnt me.

Johnny said you taught him the word, she said, smiling as though shed caught me in a trap.

That little lying brat, I thought.

Mrs. McIntyre turned her attention to my mother. Susan, this makes me very unhappy.

I looked with dread at my mother, and saw a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She shook the spray paint again ticka ticka ticka, looking Mrs. McIntyre straight in the eye. Michael said he didnt do it. My heart leaped.

Well then, why would Johnny say that? Mrs. McIntyre snapped.

Maybe, my mother said, Johnny is lying.

Mrs. McIntyre stood there, glaring at my mother. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She shook her head in disgust, then turned and stomped across our yard. She slipped through the gate, chin held high.

I looked at my mother with adoration. She smiled back. That woman, she said, is such a bitch.

///

I would like to tell you that I sprung into selfless service immediately after her diagnosis. It is true that I could not sleep, there in San Francisco. The compulsion to go to her was overwhelming. Within a month I had quit my job as a bartender and bought a one-way ticket to Minneapolis, imagining myself rushing to her rescue, when the truth was that nobody could protect her. But I couldnt stay still.

After a few years of addiction, however, my emotional compass was a little off. The only way I knew how to connect with others was to elicit their sympathy. Oh, my life is so awful. Well, now I had the definitive trump card; a new excuse for old problems. My mother is sick, and thats why Im such a mess. I couldnt understand why bill collectors could be so callous. My mother has a terminal illness, as if I was the first person in the world with such trouble.

I do not want to tell you this: that even after her diagnosis, during a time when I can only imagine what she was feeling, I continued to whine about my struggle with drugs. She had always been the person I confided in, the first person Id go to with my problems, the first person Id tell of my successes. Of course, there had been few of the latter back then. After a few such earnest confessions her partner, Lee, finally wrote me a letter: Michael, please stop. Your mother can no longer handle hearing such things; they make her lose sleep, which she needs so desperately. Please tell anyone else, please tell me, if you must, but dont tell her.

To say I was ashamed would be an understatement. My face flamed with embarrassment while reading her words. But she was telling me something that I did not want to hear, something that took me a long time to learn: my confessor, my confidante, was already gone.

///

Two months after her diagnosis, I packed for Minneapolis. I told my boyfriend that I wasnt sure when I’d be back, but that I couldnt stay in San Francisco, losing sleep over my mother every night. There wasnt much he could do but give me his blessing. I think he hoped that a change of cities would sober me up. So did I.

Every Sunday Id wake early in the little studio apartment I had rented a mile from their house. Sometimes I was hung over. Sometimes, though, I had managed not to drink for several days. Id make myself a cup of coffee and shower. While I dressed I listened to NPR. I had it on all the time, even when I was sleeping. The murmuring voices made me feel less alone.

My mother and Lee had loaned me their Subaru, since my mother could no longer drive. Id pull up in front of their house every Sunday at eight. Shed watch from their front window, and when she saw me coming up the street shed push open the front door, bundled tight in her long winter coat, her canvas bag in her hand. She wore a brace on one foot, and shed takes forever to navigate her way down the stairs to the sidewalk, which fortunately gave me time to run up and grab her arm. She wouldn’t wait inside. Lee had tried for months to get her to relax and slow down, to stop cleaning the kitchen and vacuuming the rugs and doing the laundry, but since she had to leave her job my mother had refused to sit down. She wouldn’t stop moving.

Our ten-minute drive to church grew more silent over the weeks. Unlike most people with ALS, my mother had a rare type of the disease that included dementia. She did not grow disoriented, like a person with Alzheimer’s. Rather it seemed like the dementia simplified her. She stopped initiating conversations and answered questions with only one or two words.

The eight-thirty service at Plymouth Congregational Church was small; only forty or so regulars. She and I would sit on the right hand side of the chapel, always, four or five rows from the back. Wed smile and nod at the other parishioners, though we rarely talked to anyone. On the mornings when I was hung over I was consumed with guilt, my soul sick and fearful. I was beginning to think that I couldn’t stop.

But other mornings it was easier for me to sit with her, and to believe in myself as I looked people in the eye and said “Good morning.”

Each week a woman who wore turtlenecks and cardigan sweaters and a red pair of glasses with large, round frames sat at the piano beside the altar and began to play. We stood together, clutching hymnals in our hands, our voices barely filling the small chapel. When the music began, my mother would cry. Each and every time. Barely five notes into the hymn and her shoulders would start shaking. The muscles of her face had weakened, and her mouth fell open while the sobs shook her entire body. They were silent sobs: when the muscles that controlled her swallowing began to fail, she had begun choking on her own saliva. The fluids could be dangerous to her already-compromised lungs. The only solution was to block off her airway, and perform a tracheostomy. As part of the surgery her vocal cords were removed.

Her eyes would grow frightened and confused and sometimes shed look up at me, standing beside her, with a look of such utter pain and bewilderment that Id vow inwardly to hunt down God and kill Him.

Every Sunday she cried, and every Sunday Id do the only thing I could. Id hold her with my right arm, and Id hold the hymnal in my left hand, though by that point the book was useless, as we were both crying too hard to sing.

When the music stopped we could sit again, and collect ourselves. Shed open her canvas bag and search for the pack of tissues inside. After three weeks I bought a handkerchief and carried it in my pocket on Sunday mornings.

Wed dry our eyes and blow our noses during the sermon. If I hadn’t completely soaked the handkerchief, there was always the Communion. Once a month the small congregation gathered in a circle at the altar, and Communion wafers were passed, followed by a chalice of grape juice. My mother often choked on the wafer; her swallowing muscles had weakened, but she was too determined to call it quits on the body of Christ. Let it dissolve on your tongue, Id whisper to her, but even that was risky. She tried to wait until we were back in the pew before spitting it out into the handkerchief.

The parishioners were good sports. They noticed the tears and the choking and the spit, but looked away politely. Sometimes after a service one of them would come up to me, hold my hand between theirs and say “You’re a good son.”

I knew they meant well, but on the mornings when I was hung over, I didnt quite buy it.

One day during the sermon she opened her bag, fished around inside, then pulled out a pen and her pad of paper. She grasped the pen as well as she could, placed the tip against the paper, and scrawled something there. I pretended to pay attention to the sermon, but wondered what she was up to. She finished writing, then turned the pad to me.

I’m afraid I won’t get into heaven, it said.

///

I finally got sober. After enough demoralizing mornings of remorse I went to AA, and after a few more I asked for help. On October 2, 2000, nearly one year after her diagnosis, I finally stopped. What happened is not that her diagnosis got me sober. What happened is that it heightened the urgency to get here.

The overwhelming fear I had carried during those years, a fear of nearly everything, faded slowly, by degree. I faced up to some responsibilities. I paid some bills, and made amends to people I had hurt. My mother told me to go back to San Francisco, and to live my life. Lee and their tight circle of friends were caring for her better than I ever could, so I did. I went home but was not able to salvage my relationship with David. I was single for the first time in five years. I moved out on my own, and learned through much trial and error how to take care of myself. Then, for the first time in years, I was tested for HIV. I had four vials of blood drawn from the crook of my arm, and two weeks later the test came back positive.

I can say that one of my first moments of maturity came when I decided not to tell my family. I knew, finally, to keep this particular trump card close to my chest. I knew that my mother deserved not to worry, and I knew she deserved the full attention of my family. It may seem like it was the obvious thing to do, and drawing attention to it only shows how long it took me to grow up. But I made many mistakes back then, and its a relief to know that I did one thing right.

///

Sometime during those first few months after her diagnosis, she told me that she hoped I could forgive her for having been such a bad mother. I dont know if she ever stopped feeling that her illness was punishment for past deeds: between the dementia and the loss of her speaking ability, it was difficult to know what she was thinking. Of course I dont think she deserved ALS, and I told her that. And maybe shed tell me the same; that my disease is not my fault. But Id disagree.

A recent Rolling Stone article caused a minor sensation when it described the existence in the gay community of self-described bug chasers: men who knowingly engage in unprotected sex in an attempt to seroconvert. Whatever their motives, these men became lighting rods for moral outrage, from gays and straights alike. As you might imagine, this phenomenon was blown a little out of proportion, but underneath the tabloid-style frenzy was a sliver of truth.

I was not a bug chaser, but neither can I condemn these men. I cant tell you why exactly I did not always protect myself; whether it was youthful rebellion or drug-clouded perception, whether it was a lack of self-regard, or a desire for sex without barriers. Maybe it was all of these things. What I can tell you is that being an HIV-negative gay man was often like standing on the edge of a cliff, peering over the edge into an abyss; a swirling vortex that grew wider and wider. And because of the new drugs there were fewer men dying. And because HIV can deplete testosterone, and because many HIV-positive men are on testosterone replacement therapy, they have beautifully muscular bodies; what I would call, in my less charitable moments, the Holy Grail of modern gay culture. And it was said that positive men were having guilt-free, unprotected sex with other positive men. And then the abyss seemed more like a big Jacuzzi, a pool with a little leak at the bottom: some got sucked out, but most everyone else was having a pretty good time. And I toed the line and felt the sick pull of vertigo and then, without ever making a real decision, I fell in. When I was negative it seemed as though everyone was positive, and then I seroconverted and found out I was wrong. And then the virus was inside me, and there was no going back.

I am to blame, there is no doubt in my mind. I cant decide if its the same thing as deserving it. Had she known of my diagnosis, my mother would have probably disagreed, just as I tried to convince her that she didnt deserve ALS.

///

On February 1st, 2002, I boarded a plane for Minneapolis. Lee had called, Mom again was not doing well. I endured the three and a half hour flight, staring out the window at the dark landscape, at the lights of the cities and the small towns moving slowly below us.

We finally landed, and as we were pulling up to the gate I checked my cell phone and there was a message. It was Dorothy, one of their friends who helped take care of my mother. Her voice was low, she had been crying. “Michael, your mother just passed. Call us when you get in.”

I pressed the “end” button, and slid the phone back in my pocket. I glanced around at the other passengers. All of us standing, waiting in the back of the plane, watching everyone ahead gather their coats and bags and head up the aisle.

///

In the last two and a half years I have been to over 500 AA meetings. They have an effect. Instinctively now, I want to show you the light. People need these meetings because they need hope; they need the possibility of redemption. Like any culture, AA has its social constraints and customs; expectations of certain behavior. Yes, we admit our faults, we acknowledge our depression and fear, but always we must find the light. And telling you now all of this, I must fight the urge to finish the narrative arc, as if there was such a thing.

There are days when I am asked to stand before the others and tell my story, with the usual implication: give them hope, end with the light. There are days when I want to say that I dont know what I am doing, that I would rather be at home, sitting vacantly in bed with the television flickering its blue rays across the walls of my room. There are days when I dont want to give anything to anyone, and that if one more person speaks to me I will just be rubbed away. But my mother was never one to sit home and sulk, and I still try to learn from her example. So I go and tell my story, and at the end I give them the light and the hope, because thats what they come for. And at the end I feel a little better myself.

But for you I will not finish the arc, because for this story there is no such thing. I can tell you that everything keeps changing. I can tell you that the five or six guideposts of my story are under constant revision, because new ones rise to take their place. I can tell you that I have plans for the future, that Im very healthy, and that I may be in love. I can tell you that sometimes Im angry that other people still get their mothers, and that Im probably too melancholy for my own good.

A friend of mine recently asked what it was like to have HIV, how did it affect my life? Mostly, I told her, it just means I go to the doctor more often than other people. Every three months I have several vials of blood drawn from the crook of my arm. I meet with my doctor, who tells me that I may be one of the lucky ones; I could go years without the medications. It means I have to make a choice; when do I reveal my HIV status to prospective lovers? I prefer to get it out of the way. If it means rejection, then at least were not wasting each others time.

I have recently begun seeing a man who is HIV-negative. As you may imagine, there are many issues that arise in such a relationship; issues of risk and mortality, attachment and fear. And then there are the smaller issues. One of the side effects of the new HIV medications is facial wasting: the loss of fat beneath the cheekbones, leaving many with sunken cheeks. No one knows why, exactly. Last year I was talking about this with another friend of mine, who is HIV-negative. He told me hed rather kill himself than suffer such side effects. Im vain, I know. I cant help it, he said. But Im inclined to agree; its easy to have HIV, when no one can tell. How could my own vanity withstand such a blow? With what disappoint would my boyfriend wrestle?

At the time I told my friend that Id rather die, too. Which is something Id never admit to my mother, were she still alive. She gave up so many things in small increments; her running, her voice, good food. I learned some things, watching her. We make adjustments as they come, whether we thought we could handle them or not. Which is to say that Im vain, but not enough. What Im trying to tell you is that Ill take them, the medications, when the time comes.

Dogpoet: Blast from the past

2007-01-04T06:33:00.000-05:00

I get tired of my stories. The predictability of the subject matter or my wide-eyed boy motif, whatever it is I keep saying. And while I believe that all of us have one or two stories that we will constantly retell or relive or re-create, I resist. I’m aware of Michael watching Michael as stories, new and old, occur to him. The Michael watching finds flaws in each story, or sighs dramatically in the backseat like “god, haven’t we circled this block a billion times by now, we’re late for the party, for Christ’s sake.” But Michael the backseat driver has no parties, not really; nobody’s invited him anywhere because quite frankly he just sulks in the corner. I need to drop Michael off at daycare or something and take a few “personal” holidays.

Sometime in the last couple of weeks I started jotting down little notes about other people’s funny stories, as if I intend to write a novel filled with quirky characters like my friend Ted, who is a mortician. Ted’s friend died and Ted had him cremated and took the ashes home “for a couple of days” but ended up keeping them for twelve years. Or this other boy I barely know who admitted at an AA meeting to taking out a contract on a business partner when he was dealing crystal meth. I find this fascinating because honestly my “drug story” is rather tame in comparison. He also told a story about showing up at his ex-boyfriend’s apartment when he was homeless. The ex invited him in, locked the door behind him, then pulled out a gun. He told the boy to get naked and he tied him to a chair where he molested him for five days. At one point the ex-boyfriend, who was HIV-positive, injected a syringe of his own blood into the boy’s arm. The boy was negative.

As the boy told his story I felt the numbed silence settle over the room and I realized that I was jealous. Not of the boy’s life, just his story. I had always prided myself on my ability to tell a good story at an AA meeting; and I believed the people who told me it was one of the best stories they had ever heard. Listening to this boy tell his story, I became uncomfortably aware of my envy, that his resurrection trumped mine. Fortunately I was able, about ten minutes later, to laugh at myself, to laugh at my childish need to feel special at all costs, to be the most fill-in-the-blank to everyone; the most intelligent, the most honest, the most talented, the most handsome, the best lover, whatever you need I thought I was your man. I’m sure I could lay blame on my parents, who didn’t exactly fall over backwards making my brother and I feel cherished when we were young. But so what? I’m almost 32 now and blaming your parents only takes you so far, certainly not into adulthood. Let’s see, what was my point, I’m losing track here.

There’s always someone more talented, more handsome, more charming, more extroverted, more muscular, more fabulous. But somehow we all get by. Somehow, somewhere in the last couple of years I realized that there is enough for me in this life, certainly enough love. A few years ago when I used to spend many hours in AOL chatrooms, there was a regular guy who would breeze through each Man for Man room in the city asking “Anyone in here with dentures?” And it finally hit me that there is someone for everyone. Sure, the pretty ones may get more than their fair share but somehow we all get by. And honestly, if you listen to enough guys tell their stories in AA meetings, you come to realize that it’s the pretty ones who are the most fucked up of all. God love ‘em.

Maybe someday, after I get my own story out, I will write a novel, full of fictional characters. But if it’s any good it will still be about me, it will be the same story I’ve been telling all my life. It will have insecure losers who look their entire lives for love. It will be painful and sad. It will have resurrections. It will be about boys who are afraid to say their dreams out loud for fear that it’s too much to ask. It will have a big, wheezing heart. It will have beautiful men who break the heart, who handle it poorly, who drop it on the floor on their way out. And it will have one man who shows up with his own heart, wrapped up in a plastic bag, tucked in the pocket of his Carhartt jacket. And the two of them, if they’re very lucky and very patient, will take out their hearts and unwrap them and show them to each other. And who the hell knows what happens after that because I haven’t gotten that far. I’m hanging on for the ride.

Dogpoet: Call me

2007-01-04T06:26:00.000-05:00

Call me

Pema likes to talk about impermanence a lot, as though it weren't a bad thing, you know, celebrate it as the central force of life; change, change, leaves fall breathe out love fades people die feel free the wheel of life says to rise up on my spokes but don't bitch when we spin back down.

It's all true, of course.

It's the only thing you can really count on, you know, change. Things just, well, never stay the same so rid yourself of neurotic our love will last forever fantasies and just celebrate the moment as people come and go.

Like a bus station.

Two good friends in one week have relapsed, one on prescription (though not his prescription) painkillers and another on speed. As in, at eight o'clock he's in an AA meeting and three hours later he's got a needle in his arm.

I'd like a needle in my arm.

No, really, I would. I'm not just saying that.

I was the first person each man called, which might say something about my character. But I'm a little sick of character. I feel safe and comfortable with you, Ski says, I always have.

Well, screw that. The got-it-all-together character in this saga (that would be me) rarely leaves a mark on history. I want marks. Scars maybe. Motherfucking hickies.

Another friend has a new boyfriend.

At the gym I am surrounded by little boys walking around like they're back in high school; cool, cold boys talking loud so that everyone can overhear their conversations; conversations so fucking inane I'm convinced I'll never fall in love again.

That's not what I meant to say.

I meant to say "I want to meet someone who isn't covering up their insecurities with fashion and attitude; life's short, time's wasting, who the fuck are you, really?"

No, not that either. I mean, I don't want to meet anyone. Really. Trust me.

I feel bereft. A week of "showing up", "supporting", taking you to meetings. Motherfucker. I'd like to put a needle in my arm and call you and say oops and then get all rescued and shit. I'd like to lose myself for a bit again, I would. Feel that lightning juice pump through my blood, yammer on at you like we're motherfucking BEST FRIENDS and everything we say is BRILLIANT and HILARIOUS and then fuck all day in a windowless room, the world on hold till, well, later.

"Needless to say, after that we noticed very clearly what we did when we felt attacked, betrayed, or confused, when we found situations unbearable or unacceptable. We began to really notice what we did. Did we close down, or did we open up? Did we feel resentful and bitter, or did we soften? Did we become wiser or more stupid? As a result of our pain, did we know more about what it is to be human, or did we know less? Were we more critical of our world or more generous? Were we penetrated by the arrows, or did we turn them into flowers?"
(Pema again)

Stupid. I got stupid and I'm stupid enough to want to stay here for a little while and burn all the safety and comfort into the ground. Rise up like a movie star phoenix from the ashes of caring and compassion, everything I touch lit up like a rollercoaster at night, everyone throwing their hands in the air and screaming, their hair on fire.

Dogpoet: From the archives

2007-01-04T06:21:00.000-05:00

Thursday, March 20, 2003

“My only suggestion would be to change the words ‘letting go’. It’s just become this phrase, kind of new agey, you know?”

My writing instructor looks at the girl who’s read her poem aloud, then around at the rest of the group for affirmation. Everyone nods. I have to agree.

The girl’s not so sure. She wrinkles her brow. “Like what? Change it to what?”

I know how she feels. Everything you learn sounds cheesy, eventually. All those words you pick up in church basements; pithy little sayings on cards printed by AA’s Central Office. Cards with layers of masking tape on the back, cards that can’t stay up all week so they’re taken down at the end of each meeting and stored in cardboard boxes next to tins of Maxwell House, bags of sugar, non-dairy creamer, a mess of plastic spoons. Cardboard boxes stacked into a closet in the hallway outside the room. Each box belonging to a different group: “Monday Night Big Book Discussion”, “Tuesday Keep Coming Back”, “Thursday As Bill Sees It 7pm”. Words and phrases that have worked their way into mainstream consciousness far enough to generate parody in movies and on Saturday Night Live: “One Day at a Time”, “Keep it Simple”, “Easy Does It”. Familiarity breeds contempt.

I forget to let go. I hang on tight to trouble, to worry. I obsess, I sweat, I toss and turn. I want love and assurance. I want affection. I want success. I want comfort and money and sex. I want a life free of embarrassment and boredom. I want a better job. I want the world to be okay. What does Meryl Streep say in “Postcards from the Edge?” The problem with instant gratification is that it takes too long.

On Tuesday we filmed a scene where I used to bartend; early in the morning I parted the thick black curtains hanging inside the front door and slipped inside, the bright sun cutting off abruptly as the curtains fell back in place. The dark windowless rooms, the smell of old beer and urinals and ashtrays and sex. Walls covered with Tom of Finland-like art; beautiful paintings of men, butts, penises. Flyers for every night of the week; a xerox of a boy in a jockstrap, head tilted back, mouth wide open as a leatherman empties a bottle of tequila onto his waiting tongue. A beautiful blue painting of a man’s backside on the restroom door, done by one of the bartenders; does he still work here? Who still works here, how do they do it, year after year? I know where the sinks are, I can lean across the bar with three beer bottles half-full with tea (for the scene) and drain them without looking. I know where the light switches are. I know where to find the votives, where to toss the bottles. I know you have to push the trashcan in front of the restroom door when you take a piss, if you want any privacy. As they set up for the next angle, I leaf through the bar rags, more snapshots of half-naked men, groups of shirtless friends at all the clubs, all of this, it was my life for awhile.

My barber, a former Mr. International Leather, was wearing a “Manhunt.net” T-shirt the other day. I was looking at it thinking, “I don’t want to hunt for men anymore; I don’t want sex just for the sake of sex.” I never have; I’ve always wanted more. I may have acted otherwise for awhile, then again I was doing a lot of drugs, chemicals that would let me do things I didn’t want to be doing.

I don’t want to wait another month to meet the space monkey. Another month of the Imaginary Friend, when I’d rather get my hands on the real thing. I want a date I can circle on the calendar; an oasis in this desert; an eye in the storm. I want a chest to sleep on, a hand to run through my hair. I want the comfort of another man’s arms in uncertain times.

I can’t seem to control anything; my job, the war, my virus. Love. I want to know it’s going to happen, I want it all today. I don’t want to let go of anything; I want to hold on tight. If I can’t clutch him I’m gonna clutch something. What do you have if you let everything go? Who are you without anything to squeeze? I’m not that evolved. I’m changing, but not that fast.

Dogpoet: Show the World

2007-01-04T06:20:00.000-05:00

Show the World

"...and then I saw another plane veer and crash into the second building, and I knew then that the person I loved was not going to get out because I counted the floors and when I got to seventy-seven I knew because they were on the ninety-third and I knew there was no way they were getting out of there so I turned and started to run because the buildings were going up like Roman Candles and as I ran my foot turned and I stumbled and looked down and their was a finger with a wedding band and then I turned and looked to the right and there was a row of four airplane seats with four bodies in them on the ground and someone said look and I looked up in the trees and there were people's innards hanging from the branches and I kept running over feet and hands and..."

It seems both wrong and necessary to hear it; exploitative and crucial all at once.

I've never really said it out loud, but that day and the ones that followed were like watching the world catch up with, well, me.

The two years and three months that stretched between my mother's terminal diagnosis and her death were a surreal vacation in a parallel universe; I saw the world go on around me as it always had, now tantalizingly out of my reach. A plane of glass encircled my family, and within that space we walked in a stunned silence and I wondered what the fuck everyone was always laughing about. Like nobody else in the world understood that death walks hand-in-hand with life. America has no space for the sick or the dying; we shut them up in homes and institutions while all around us Britney Spears rotates her navel on a million screens of pixilated light. There's no space between J-Lo's endless marriages for the dying so the dying and those lives touched by the dying don't exist. It was terminal and cure-less so I waited for that moment in the future while desperately pretending the moment wasn't everything. We have to live, we can't just shut down.

So when the country began to mourn, began to discover the things that really mattered; began to leave their dumb jobs for school and volunteering and quality time with the kids I thought yeah, well, I did that a year ago and when everyone became tense and depressed and talked about 2001 being so fucked-up I thought welcome to the club. I felt impatient and somehow, sickeningly, justified.

Once when I was visiting home I went to the Mall of America (or "The Mothership", as my friend used to call it) and nearly vomited when I saw a "9-11 Store". Yes, they did. I stood in that foul-smelling shrine of consumerism and hated everything this country stood for, hated the smarmy ubiquitous capitalization of tragedy and death, hated the NYFD t-shirts and flag pins and "we will never forget" stickers. Around me ugly white families clad in matching track suits that barely covered their sloping stomachs and hips ambled with shopping bags and baby strollers, so perfectly at-home and righteous in this horrifying place. I couldn't leave fast enough.

So AOL says "Light a virtual candle and show the world we'll never forget" and I just stare blankly at the screen thinking what idiot sat down at a computer and composed that vacant sentiment? Show the world? Like they'd notice.

Your fucking virtual candles aren't good enough. They only clutter up the universe with more trite, empty symbols; candles that don't illuminate anything except pretty American Idols.

I can't live like that. I need something to get me out of bed in the morning. Something contained in the people I love, something that continually defies my expectations. Something mysterious that I can't examine too closely because it's the mystery I love and because any examination only reveals false conclusions; expectations that are thwarted or surpassed over and over. An awakening in a hotel conference room. An infatuation turned inside-out. A lover? Ha! No, dear, that's not what we had in mind. Just bring him to a meeting and like, chill.

Enlightenment, if that's what this is, kinda sucks. Can't I just be selfish, just for a little while? Can't I screw friendship and fuck the boy? Can't I escape this sweetness, burrow into the bed, cry for my mom?

Yeah, I can. And then I can't.

So just cry for a little while. Fuck the symbols and the prayers and the closure. You can't find the ending to this, you can't shut if off. It follows you home and eats your shoes, a mangy dog looking for love.

Notthatboy

2007-01-03T17:42:00.000-05:00

Notthatboy: We’re back!

After a bit of a hiatus, we’re both back and ready to start posting in our blogs again.
As you might have guessed, there were some personal reasons why we stopped writing. The biggest of which is that about a month ago, we broke up.

Its been Four years since we met in Toronto, and the two of us have been living this whole time in a very public relationship (LITERALLY on camera for the first two years while we were in the voyeur dorm) , and then when we moved to NYC, started our blogs, and started doing movies. After a while, “Damon and Hunter” started to feel more like a franchise than a relationship. Its not easy to have articles about your relationship being written, being interviewed about your boyfriend, and having a documentary about your relationship being screened. The blogs, which were a great tool for us at the beginning, started to feel too invasive into our personal lives. So when things between us hit a rough patch this summer, the last thing we wanted to do was blog about it, or blog about what was going on in our lives.

Long story short, we broke up. and we’re good. Really good. We’re not going to go into details of why we broke up, but thats not really any of your business, now is it? We still have an amazing friendship, still live together, and are actually still planning to continue living together as friends. We met as roommates four years ago, Its fitting that we would continue as such.

The last month for us have been full of highs and lows. Hunter just got a job working in the offices of a great little porn studio here in NYC called Dirty Boy Video, and Damon has been writing for Fleshbot.com. We’re both working at a club called mr. black on the weekends, Damon as a cocktail server on friday and saturday nights, and Hunter as a go-go boy on Saturdays for Johnny McGovern and his Boys Gone Wild.

The next few months for us will be about adjusting to this next phase in our lives, and our blogs will be evolving to reflect that. I think we could both do without tons of emails asking us about the “why?”s of it all and would appreciate you guys resisiting that temptation to do as such. We thought it best to release a joint statement so that we didn’t have to tell two different versions of the exact same story. Thanks so much for all of your continued support and for checking in!

Damon and Hunter- Doing it Separately(ok we couldn’t resist that one)

Watching The Defectives

2007-01-03T17:30:00.000-05:00

Joe. My. God.: Watching The Defectives:

Last Sunday, at 12:30pm, I was in position on Christopher Street with Terrence, his glamour boys, and touring UK bloggers Dave and Darren. The Pride parade was due to round the corner any minute, but I tore off in search of a bodega, crossing my fingers that my desperate need for a soda wouldn't cause me to miss Dykes On Bikes. Half a block away, I found a little place and ducked in, weaving thru the customers clogging the aisles on rushed missions like mine. I was third in line, two bottles of Sprite under my arm, when the man in front of me spotted a friend entering the store.

"David! Sweetie! Where are you watching from? Come hang out with us on Allen's balcony!"

David, a bookish looking middle-aged man, destroyed the festive mood in the little store in an instant. "Absolutely not. Those defectives and freaks?" he spat, indicating the colorful crowd outside the store, "They have nothing to do with MY life, thank you very much. This parade has as much dignity as a carnival freak show. It's no wonder the whole country hates us."

Luckily for David, the Asshole Killer mind ray I've been working on is not yet operational. I settled for pushing him a little, just a tiny bit, just to get by him in that narrow aisle, of course. I returned to my sweaty little group and tried to put what I'd heard out of my mind for the remainder of the day, because I knew that by the next morning, the thousands of Davids of the world, the ones who have media access anyway, would all issue their now familiar day-after-Pride rant. The one where they decry the drag queens on all those newspaper front pages. The one where they beat their chests and lament, "Why don't the papers ever show the NORMAL gay people? Where are the bankers and lawyers? Why must all the coverage be drag queens and leather freaks in ass-less chaps?"

And every year, the logical answer is that bankers and lawyers are boring to look at, and that pictures of marching Gap employees don't sell newspapers. There's no sinister media agenda intent on making gay people look ridiculous, no fag-hating cabal behind the annual front page explosion of sequins and feathers. It's just good copy. Drag queens are interesting. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

But sure enough, the day after Pride, the Davids of the blogosphere dished out their heavy-handed dissections of parades around the country. Only this year, there was a palpably nastier tone to an already traditionally nasty annual debate. Blame the election, blame the recent avalanche of anti-gay legislation, but this year, the usual assimilationist arguments went beyond the hypothetical speculations that maybe our Pride parades were too outlandish, that maybe we weren't doing the movement any favors by showing the country a face that happened to be wearing 6-inch long false eyelashes. This year, there was some actual discussion about HOW we were going to "fix" Pride parades. How we might go about "discouraging" certain "elements" from taking part in the parades.

This is the part of the story where I have my annual post-Pride apoplectic attack. This is the part of the story where the swelling volume of Nazi analogies overwhelm my ability to speak, and all I can do is twitch and bark out little nonsensical bits. This is where I always forget the name given to the Jews who went to work for the Nazis, helping load the trains. "Because that's what you are asking us to do, you assholes!" Then I always ask, "Who are we going to sacrifice to "save" ourselves? Which child will it be, Sophie?" And this is the part of the story where my friends accuse me of being a hyperbole-laden drama queen, wasting spiritual energy on a non-crisis, and of coopting the Holocaust as well. More on that later.

These people that want to "fix" Pride don't understand the role that Pride parades have come to play. Initially, the gay parade was about visibility. It was about safety in numbers, and more importantly, "normalcy" in numbers. It was about the idea that if only straight America could see us, could just SEE US, that they'd love us. And accept us. That if we'd mass and march by the righteous millions, the sheer unstoppable force of our collective image would topple bigotry. Would right wrongs. Would stop hate.

Of course, that doesn't happen, not anymore.

What DOES happen, is that Pride parades, at least in the big cities, have become nothing more significant to straight America than an annual traffic nightmare. As a tool of the gay movement, the Pride parade is now merely a walking photo op for politicians, and not much more. A couple of years ago, the ultimate arbiter of America's cultural zeitgeist, The Simpsons, made note of this:

(The gay pride parade is going past the Simpson house.)

Chanting marchers: "We're here! We're queer! Get used to it!"

Lisa Simpson: "You're here every year. We ARE used to it."

What does all of this mean to the Davids of the world? The gay assimilationists that want to, wish they could, somebody do something, there's gotta be a way we can, Dignify This Parade? The ones begging, "Can't we get our people to at least DRESS respectfully for one lousy day? Is that too much to ask of our people? " Yes, yes it is. Because you are wasting your breath if you think Pride parades, in any form, will EVER change the minds of homophobes. The straight people who show up to see Pride parades are already largely convinced. We're parading to the choir, Jesse. Those straight people love our freaks, bless them.

Oh, you could test run a "defective" free parade. You could form urban anti-tranny squads and go around to all the gayborhoods on the morning of the parade and give all the drag queens 50% off coupons for Loehmann's, offer good during the parade only. And they'd GO, of course, cuz hey, those girls love a bargain. But the resultant bland, humorless, "normal" gay parade wouldn't change the course of the gay movement one bit. The part of straight America that is repulsed by drag queens is quite possibly even more terrified by the so-called "normal" gays, because "those clever calculating creatures look JUST LIKE US, and can infiltrate and get access to our precious children, and that's been their disgusting plan all along, of course".

So where does that leave us? Are we post-Pride? Is the parade just a colossally long waste of a miserably hot summer day? Is the Pride parade just an event that does a better job of moving chicken-on-a-stick, than it does of moving hearts? I'd say that, yes, as an effective tool of the gay movement, Pride's usefulness has largely waned, in many U.S. cities. So do we even need to keep having these parades, since they no longer seem to have much of an impact on the state of the movement? No, we don't.

But...YES, WE DO.

Because even if Pride doesn't change many minds in the outside world, it's our PARTY, darlings. It's our Christmas, our New Year's, our Carnival. It's the one day of the year that all the crazy contingents of the gay world actually come face to face on the street. And blow each other air kisses. And wish each other "Happy Pride!". Saying "Happy Pride!" is really just a shorter, easier way of saying "Congratulations on not being driven completely batshit insane! Way to go for not taking a rifle into a tower and taking out half the town! Well done, being YOURSELF!"

I'm not worried what the outside world thinks about the drag queens, the topless bulldaggers or the nearly naked leatherfolk. It's OUR party, bitches. If you think that straight America would finally pull its homokinder to its star-spangled bosom, once we put down that glitter gun, then you are seriously deluding yourself. Next year, if one of the Christian camera crews that show up to film our debauched celebrations happen to train their cameras on you, stop dancing. And start PRANCING.

All you suburban, lawn mowing, corpo-droid homos out there, hiding behind your picket fences, the ones wringing your hands and worrying that Pride ruins YOUR personal rep, listen up. Do you think that straight Americans worry that Mardi Gras damages international perception of American culture? America, land of the free, home of "Show Us Your Tits!"? They don't, and neither should we. Our Pride celebrations are just our own unique version of Mardi Gras, only instead of throwing beads, we throw shade. No one has to ask US to show our tits. We've already got 'em out there, baby. And some of them are real.

A co-worker of mine heard me discussing my Pride plans last weekend and said, "I really don't understand what it is you are proud about. I mean, you all say that you are born that way, so it's not like you accomplished anything." She wasn't being mean, just genuinely curious, and I think that a lot of gay people probably feel the same way, quite frankly. On this subject, I can only speak for myself.

I'm proud because I'm a middle-aged gay man who has more dead friends than living ones, and yet I'm not completely insane. I've lived through a personal Holocaust (here we go again) in which my friends and lovers have been mowed down as thoroughly and randomly as the S.S guards moved down the line of Jews. You, dead. You, to the factory. And you, you, you, and you, dead. I am inexplicably alive and I am proud that I keep the memories of my friends alive. I am proud of my people, the ACT-UPers, the Quilt makers, the Larry Kramers, the Harvey Fiersteins. I'm proud that I'm not constantly curled up into a ball on my bed, clutching photo albums and sobbing. And that happens sometimes, believe it.

And outside of my personal experiences, I am proud of my tribe, as a group. Sometimes I think that gay people are more creative, more empathic, more intuitive, more generous, and more selfless than anybody else on the planet. Sometimes I think that if an alien culture were surveying our planet from light years away, they might classify gay people as an entirely separate species of humans. It's easy to spot us because of our better haircuts.

But sometimes I think we are the worst people in the entire world when it comes to standing up for each other. The gay people who'd like to soothe their personal image problems by selectively culling some of our children from Pride events? They disgust me. They appall me. They embarrass me. To them I say: the very road that YOU now have the privilege of swaggering upon was paved by those very queens and leather freaks that you complain about, as you practice your "masculine" and give us butch face. If you want to live in the house that THEY BUILT, you better act like you damn well know it! United we stand, you snide bitches. America's kulturkampf ain't gonna be solved by making flamboyant people go away.

I'll end this by making one final Jewish reference. Possibly you've heard the Jewish in-joke that sums up the meaning of all Jewish holidays? "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat." My Pride version?

They wish we were invisible.

We're not.

Let's dance.

Saddam

2007-01-02T04:49:00.000-05:00

Obviously, Saddam is a very, very bad man. But if he was still in
power, Iraqis wouldn't be getting slaughtered in the streets by roving
bands of professional ethnic cleaners. Granted, free-thinkers and
opposition politicians would be getting their heads chopped off (or
whatnot) in secret prisons. But there are a lot less of those folks
than there are random, every day citizens who happen to be the wrong
ethnicity in the wrong place at the wrong time. And those secret
prisons are now run by the CIA, and those sociopaths--our
sociopaths--may not be beheading political prisoners, but they are
water-boarding them, ripping out their finger nails, and sticking
electrodes on their penises and zapping them every time they refuse to
say where the guns are hidden. Monkey see, monkey do. Sigh. I wonder
if anyone will feel better when Saddam's neck is broken and his eyes
fill with blood. Will that bring anyone's son back? Will history be
changed? Will those mass graves be emptied? Will it make W feel better
about his dad losing the 1992 election? Will people be more free? Will
the radical Muslims who hate Americans throw out their guns, dismantle
their bombs, and kiss their wives? Will I stop having nightmares about
September 11th? The answer to all of these questions is: No.

The Danger of a Twelve Year-Old Girl

2007-01-02T04:44:00.000-05:00

The Danger of a Twelve Year-Old Girl

Cursed to be alone. That’s what I thought. Five years had passed, after all, since my last boyfriend. My way of life: destined never again to experience a real reciprocal love! Forced to seek solace elsewhere. In books, in writing, in Literature! I grew certain of this in New York, in the middle of grad school, where the prospect of being married to Art seemed more plausible. I even began taking pride in my fate, this life of independence, no longer leaning on boyfriends. After five years I had proven myself, in a Lyndsey-Wagner-on-the-Lifetime-Channel kind of way. I was a pillar, a rock, an island of self-reliance, if you’ll pardon the redundant.

Enter the Manly Fireplug, and that old problem of love, which promptly turned me into –yet again – a twelve year-old girl. Apparently she’d never gone away, hiding within me in some dark pulmonary cavern, scraping by on pop songs and Reese Witherspoon, shuddering and swooning and generally losing her mind whenever a man with 17-inch biceps wandered by.

I did my best to keep her under wraps, assuming that the Manly Fireplug would find her presence disturbing. Instead I polished and pumped my studly exterior, mostly for his benefit. He insists that I spent an awful lot of time bending over in front of him during our work-outs at Gold’s, but I was merely obeying proper gym etiquette and re-racking our weights.

And for a while I could keep the girl under wraps; she tended to burst forth during times of emotional insecurity, but in those days, in the first blush of our lust, as the Fireplug and I exchanged lewd glances near the lat pull, she was more than pacified; she was delirious with joy. After several years of infrequent exertions, I was finally gettin’ some on a regular basis. And with an International Mr Leather, who could give it to me in ways I’d never quite experienced before. The future was bright.

In the evenings, I’d come over to his house for dinner and (just home from work, answering the door without a shirt on) he’d pull me inside his foyer, push me up against the wall, and swap spit with me for a tender hot minute, his pit bull sniffing the bag of Chinese take-out I held in my left hand, while with my right I pulled his daddy closer.

Everyone wants to get pushed against a wall by a shirtless pit bull daddy. It was certainly my favorite moment of the day. Sure, we exchanged sweet nothings (I love you, fucker or I want to break your nose) but it was his actions - the physical sensation of him gripping my waist, pushing me against the wall, and coming in close for a kiss - that made those words real to me.

So maybe I felt a little needy. Maybe, aside from the twelve year-old girl, there were other forces unleashed within me; a lust-drunk monster woken from slumber, tearing through oceans and stomping skyscrapers with its insatiable hunger. Maybe my delirious excitement was matched by fear; maybe one night I cried in his kitchen because I wanted the one thing we never get in life – a guarantee that this would last.

And that fear – tempered by our sex life – reared its ugly head when, a mere two weeks into our budding courtship, he was diagnosed with the whooping cough. (Maybe you’re thinking, “Come now, Mike, only small children get the whooping cough.” Well, I’m here to tell you, Manly Fireplugs are at risk, too. Have yours checked out.) Within a day or two, the man who used to push me up against the wall, the man who once drove to my house just to kiss me in the driveway, turned into a hacking wheeze. The cough itself was horrible: a gut-wrenching, soul-twisting noise that left him doubled over and gasping for breath. Needless to say, his appetite for sex waned. I did my best to be patient, with mixed results. Once, after a particularly horrible spell that left him gagging and drooling over his bathroom sink, he looked up and I caught the reflection of his red, tear-stained eyes in the mirror. Leaning against the doorjamb I gave him a look of utmost concern and compassion.

“Can we have sex now?” I asked. Believe it or not, he turned me down.

Our sex life ground to a halt, lurching into action only once a week or so, when the Fireplug did his best to placate my raging hormones. The intervening six or ten days grew fraught with tension. Deprived of the physical manifestations of his attraction to me, my inner brat hyperventilated into her pillow at night. I grew moody and sullen, and pouted when, night after night, I didn’t get laid. My awareness of my impatience did little to quell my axiety. My proud moments were few and far between.

But gradually I became aware that my anxieties over the question of the Fireplug’s attraction for me shrouded a deeper concern; I had no Life. This lack was most apparent when I mentally placed my daily calendar alongside the Fireplug’s busy schedule. A small business owner, his days teemed with commitments while I, faced with yawning hours of unpaid supposed-to-be-writing, found that I had plenty of time to think about him, and whether or not he still dug me.

Clearly I needed to rediscover a sense of purpose, other than getting the Fireplug to fuck me. I needed to write my book.

This required preparation. I’ve come to think of “writing the book” as an enormous, Dr Seuss-like contraption, something that can fly only with tremendous effort, with grinding gears and spinning wheels kicking the whole thing to life and, with sweat-streaked exertion on the driver’s part, slowly levitating into the air. Once it gets flying it can coast along with some effort, obeying the laws of physics: a body in motion stays in motion. Of course, it also obeys the converse: a body at rest stays at rest, and my contraption had stalled and sunk to earth during my move back to San Francisco, where it sat out on the front lawn, gangly weeds growing up through cracks in its floorboards.

My mission was clear: get the damn thing up in the air again. But I needed a little help first. As it happened, three or four other Columbia students had landed out here in San Francisco. Suffering a shared exile from the East Coast intelligentsia, we followed the national trend and formed a book club. I suggested Madame Bovary, which fell into the broad category of books-we-should-have-read-by-now, and the others agreed.

A few pages in, I was reminded of something I knew, but had stubbornly resisted remembering in the months following grad school; in order to write, I needed to read. Nothing else set off the little voice in my head that supplied me with ideas, words, a turn of phrase. Having read forty books in my final semester, I had taken, well, a little “break” from reading, and devoted myself instead to the Fireplug, gardening, and Project Runway.

That little voice flickered to life again, and soon I was scrawling in my notebook. This wasn’t quite “writing the book,” but it was a good nudge in the right direction. Inspired, I continued to plow through Bovary.

And with each page, I grew more and more uncomfortable.

The novel follows the life of Emma Bovary, a dreamy girl who, inspired by the novels she’s read, pines away, picturing the arrival of her One True Love. Instead she ends up with a rather dull, if sweetly devoted, country doctor for a husband. Frustrated by her situation, and hungering for the kind of love she’d always read about, Emma embarks on one, then two affairs with other men. One needn’t be psychic to see that it would end badly, for everyone.

Nabokov, in his lecture on Bovary, defined romantics like Emma as “characterized by a dreamy, imaginative habit of mind tending to dwell on picturesque possibilities derived mainly from literature.”

The following passage from Bovary describes the novels she read; “(They) were all love, lovers, paramours, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every relay, horses ridden to death on every page, somber forests, heart-aches, vows, sobs, tears, and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in shady groves, ‘gentleman’ brave as lions, gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed and weeping like tombstone urns.”

I saw too much of myself in Emma. “You want that One Big Love,” my first boyfriend (a confirmed non-romantic) once told me. I’d been called a romantic my whole life; usually by well-meaning friends, who’d offered the diagnosis with the kind of look one gives a tender, wounded squirrel limping through our Darwinian jungle.

Hadn’t I been consumed with romantic fantasies? Hadn’t I grown petulant with frustration as my fantasies of an early, sex-drenched romance were dashed upon the rocks of whooping cough? I had fallen victim to romantic thinking, led there by images and ideas tied to certain words. Labels, in particular, have that kind of effect. Tell someone that you’re dating a Penthouse Centerfold, and certain images and ideas will come to them unbidden. Same with “International Mr Leather” – a label that implies a wealth of images and narratives; romantic fantasies drawn from stories, stroke books, and dirty dvds passed down over generations of gay men.

I had fallen victim to fantasies, picturing a romance with the mythical figure of International Mr Leather. And my fantasies were all lust, leather, porn stars, passive plow boys tied in gloomy play rooms, pecker hounds speared in bed, honchos ridden to sweat in bonus scenes, dim-lit dungeons, bite marks, whips, chains, straps, and dildos, well-worn slings by red light, progressive house in piss-stained bars, muscle daddies big as stallions, gruff as bulls, virile as no one ever was, flogging muscle boys and pounding pigs like pistons.

Maybe you miss the romanticism in these fantasies, but to each his own, I always say.

The whooping cough, and its effects on our sex life, had frustrated my fantasies, and dragged into view the sullen form of that twelve-year-old girl. Reading Bovary brought me to a new realization. I had always viewed my romanticism as a harmless, if inconvenient characteristic. It hurt no one but me. But in Emma’s plight I finally saw the danger of romance. Emma could not see the devotion with which her husband loved her; blinded by the images of love she’d culled from books, she could only see a dull bourgeois, a provincial man incapable of giving her the lifestyle she so stubbornly believed she needed. And her blindness had horrible consequences.

And wasn’t I the same? Romance had blinded me to reality; I had paid closer attention to what I wasn’t getting, than to the particulars of the Manly Fireplug, and the way we fit together. I’d missed, or passed over too quickly, so many things. There were the obvious: his blue eyes. His ripe, unshowered scent. His backyard hot tub. But there were others. That he’d made my weblog his home page. That he’d pre-ordered the anthology from Amazon months before it was published, that he read it three of four times, and quoted back to me his favorite sentences. That on my sixth anniversary of sobriety he’d given me his own six-year coin as a gift. That he called me every day.

I began to pay attention, and found the particulars I loved. The way he talked to dogs in the street. The college sweatshirts he wore. The goofy hand gestures he made listening to “Rhapsody in Blue” in the car on our way to Tahoe. I loved that he had a sense of humor about his role as International Mr Leather (”Don’t you know who I used to be?” he’d exclaim). I loved the udon at the noodle shop we discovered in Japantown, the words he muttered during sex, the sight of his little red car parked in the Castro. How, after we watched two seasons of The Wire, he walked around the house saying “True, dat,” like a gansta. I even grew to appreciate the look on his pitbull’s face as he (the dog) humped my leg.

Of course, in spite of my realization, in spite of my attention to these details, I may always be a romantic. And by writing this, by turning our romance into narrative, I only add to the canon of romance. Some little gay boy will stumble across these words, and fall prey to dreams of twisted pit bull daddy barbers, and may miss what life does offer him. But what else can I do, but pay attention to our particulars, and honor the buzzing, breathing detail over the dull, dishwater taste of the general.

Of course we fight. We teeter at the brink of break-up on a weekly basis. We each harbor doubts, some secret, some spoken aloud, of our compatibility. I know what I want to ignore; that there are no guarantees in love. But his cough fades by slow degrees, and if nothing else I’m getting laid more often. The other night, after a particularly rigorous fuck, we lay together on my bed in the dark. He slumbered beside me peacefully. The twelve-year old girl had disappeared for the moment. I lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling, where I saw, in the corner above my desk, the reflection of two flashing green lights. It took me a second to realize that the lights came from our cell phones, which lay together on my desk. In the early days of summer, before we had become an “us,” I had bought the same phone as his: an act of infatuated imitation. Over the months our phones had archived a daily collection of text messages to each other. Sometimes, in boredom, or amusement, I’d read through the archives and follow, obliquely, the progress of our romance.

The lights on the phones flashed, reflected off the ceiling, first one, then the other. I lay there in the dark watching them. Would we stay together? Would we split? I felt alive in that moment, perched at the edge of doubt. I could not predict; I could only pay attention. The lights flashed together in a steady rhythm, like the lights of a plane passing far overhead. First one, then the other, a call, then an answer.

Apocalypse Now

2007-01-02T04:43:00.000-05:00

Apocalypse Now, or Whenever You Might Have a Spare Moment

I’ve always been soft-spoken. Even in bed. “Are you having a good time?” is a question I’ve heard a dozen times by various men, always with the most disappointing timing, such as immediately following a bout of what I think are obvious noises of my approval. I go through life speaking, and groaning, at volume level 9, while the world hears me at 3.

If ever there was a case of opposites attract, it’s the Workout Partner and I. Talking, and volume, are not a problem for my hot, manly fireplug. Even with his mouth shut Joe’s communicating, like the first time I saw him, sitting across a crowded room from me, wearing a t-shirt that read: “I Make Boys Cry.”

That was four years ago. Frankly the t-shirt scared the shit out of me, and led me, in a burst of self-protection, to mentally cross him out as candidate for My Next Husband. But still I found him, and the t-shirt, and what the t-shirt implied, compelling. My attraction ran hand-in-hand with my fear, skipping and careening through the landscape of dirty daydreams. Some of us are simply cursed with a need for Bad Boys, God help us.

Three years ago my barber died, and I started taking my buzzcut compulsion to Joe. Every two weeks I’d sit in his chair, where he’d manhandle my skull and whisper in my ear sweet prescriptions for my current love ailments. “You just need to get fucked,” was one of his favorites. “Really hard.”

It was a good set-up; I could flirt safely with him, (he had a boyfriend, after all) for a good thirty minutes, and then run back to my quiet, reserved life. Of course my idea of flirting with Joe was to simply turn red for a good twenty minutes; I never came out and told him any of the things I pictured us doing together, because, well, that just wasn’t me.

Then I went to New York, and grad school. Joe opened his own shop, and mailed me an invitation to his Grand Opening. I stuck the invitation on the fridge, where it remained for my entire two-year stint in Manhattan. Three months ago I came back to San Francisco, and to his barber’s chair. Both of us were now single. We started hitting the gym together several times a week, where we exchanged playful, sick banter. Sometimes, emboldened by my time in New York, or my years at school, or some strange alchemy of both, I could match his filthy talk, both of us engaged in a kind of extended foreplay that only delayed the inevitable.

He challenges my reserve. A few weeks ago, in bed, he said, “What do you WANT?”

“Huh?” I said. “What? What do you mean?”

“What do you want?”

“What? When? Now?”

“Yeah”

“In sex?”

“Yeah.”

And for a moment I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t say what I wanted aloud. I hemmed and hawed. I blushed.

“This,” I finally said. “I want this.” Meaning he and I, together, and what we were doing.

“Good,” he said. “What else?”

Again I stalled. We already had our clothes off, but his questions, and the answers I couldn’t give, stripped away more of my cover. We don’t raise our voices. We don’t say certain things aloud. We are taught modesty, and humility, and prudence.

“Fuck that,” he said. “Tell me something sick.”

I stammered, scarlet, for a second or two, before I revealed a long-held, deeply private fantasy. “Well,” I said. “picture us on a boat. And I’m the cabin boy…”

And that seemed to work, for both of us.

But his challenge was not confined to sex. Later, after dinner, after the plates and silverware had been tucked into the dishwasher, we stood necking in his kitchen. And he asked the question again; “What do you want?”

“What?” I asked. “In sex?”

“In life.”

My eyes focused on his chest. I don’t say my ambitions out loud. We are taught humility, and superstition; to say dreams out loud is to lose them. So I keep mine modest.

“I want to make a living doing what I love,” I finally said, mumbling against his neck.

“Fuck that,” he said. “You want to be famous.”

“Um…”

“You want to go on all of the talk shows.” He grabbed my chin and locked his eyes with mine.

“Um…”

“You want Matt Lauer to fawn.”

“Um,” I said. “Um…yeah.”

And in my head strange things happened; I heard my voice crack open walls, which crumbled to the ground.

He kissed me. “Good. Keep going.”

“I want to change people’s lives,” I said, before I had time to think. The sky darkened, and a hurricane swept through a city.

“Good.” Kiss.

“I want to matter.” A string of cars exploded.

“Good!” Kiss.

“I want people to say, Finally, someone put that into words!”

“Yeah!” he growled.

“I want to make money.” A stadium full of innocent people, all of them screaming in fear, trembled.

“Yeah!”

“I want more money than those assholes who walk around the gym like they own the place.” Tsunami, thunder, terror.

“Fuck yeah!”

“I want to be invited to parties.”

“Yeah!”

“And say, No!”

“Oh my God,” he said, and stuck his tongue down my throat.

Muy Caliente

2007-01-02T04:41:00.000-05:00

A ha.

I have a good story.

It's about Mr. M.

There's some sex involved, beware.

I'll make it as condensed as possible.

...the story, not the sex. Well you know what I mean.

~~~

First of all, I did ask him if he was married. He said he was, but they were separated. He told me he has 2 daughters, early teens, he tells me all about them, lovely girls. Several times I looked at his hand for a sign of a wedding ring, perhaps a tan line from where he took the ring off, is he really "separated?"... Nothing. Perhaps he's telling the truth.

Hmm.

Anyway--

So when we left off, I was getting these cryptic emails from him, saying "I'll see you next week, when I'm not busy" etc. And it seemed like he was hiding something, right? Okay.

I get a call from him, saying "Hey bud, miss you," blah blah blah, "I can't wait to see you, will you be around tomorrow?" I say yes. Let's go for dinner? "Let's just play it by ear when I come over," he says. Fine.

He walks in the door, grabs me, plants a big kiss on me, and we start to screw around.

So much for dinner.

We're lying there, after all has been said and done, and his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID--and his face grows dark, he frowns. But just for a second. "I need to take this, hang on," he says, and then answers the call speaking in Spanish. Which I do not understand, other than "Estoy a la playa," which is "I'm at the beach." And then "...no...no...no." Someone asking something.

And he has to go.

Not right away, but soon thereafter.

~~~

The next time we meet, it's at Starbucks, since he's already near there and I told him I was out. We chat, we hang out...and just as we're being social for once, we go back to my apartment and have sex. (Not that I complain.) This time the phone rings WHILE WE ARE IN BED--as in, uh, do I need to be graphic?--and he is...

Please be advised against the graphic nature of this part but I have to tell it, skip down a few paragraphs if you don't want to read these details

...bent over (!) with me in the midst of performing unspeakable acts of the nitty-gritty variety--and he says "Hang on" and answers it. While I am still all up in there.

He's talking to some guy, presumably a co-worker--with his voice lowered several steps, apparently to sound more manly, "Hey, Anthony, what's goin' on?..." and they discuss some work issue that apparently needed to be taken care of at that very moment. Again, I don't know what he's talking about, much of the conversation is in Spanish.

He hangs up, says "Sorry, I had to take that call," and just turns back around like nothing happened. And I ask, "Are you still supposed to be at work?" and he says "Yeah, I'm playing hookey." So I ask, "Did you mention to Anthony that you are in the process of getting fucked in the ass?" He laughs, and says "No." And...we just keep going.

~~~

Several days pass, and he comes over again. Pleasantries exchanged, chat chat chat, and we're once again in the bed. And THIS time, his phone rings, he answers it, talks for a little while, and then says "...where do you want to go?...what time?...11? No, 10:30. Yes, 10:30. Okay." And when he hangs up, he smiles and says "Sorry, that was my daughter, she wants to go to the movies."

I casually asked, "Where's their mom?"

And he says..."She's at a meeting."

Really.

If they were separated, I wouldn't think he'd know her nightly whereabouts.

...and as if he knew what I was thinking, he followed with "...she asked if I could take the girls for the night." But then...if their mother didn't want them home alone, why were they at his house, if he knew he was going to spend the evening with me?

~~~

And then none of this detective work matters.

The weekend comes, and I'm walking down the street--lots of tourists, everyone comes to Lincoln Road now--and as I approact the corner to go to my apartment, I see him.

With his daughters.

...and a woman who is obviously his wife.

She looks just like the girls. And she walks snuggled up against his arm, in the familiar way that only comes from years of being together.

So I stand there, watching them meander down the street, he and his wife holding hands while their daughters jabber away a few steps in front of them. The wife is really pretty, shiny hair the perfect shade of blond, she must get it done in Coral Gables. And as they walk past my street, he casually looks up the block towards my building. Which I knew he would do. And that is why I made sure I was standing right there, so he could see me. I wanted to make sure he knew I was there, and that I had seen him, and that it would be best for him to not call me again.

And as he looks up the street, he freezes for just a moment, and then keeps walking like nothing happened. His wife looks at him, and I can see her mouth say "What?" and his response of "Nothing," as she looks around to see what caught his attention. And then they just keep walking.

I guess that's over.

Tags: cockoholick gay queer fag cum cock homo homosexual dick semen jerk off gay orgy erection masturbation

The FAGAT Guide

2006-12-08T06:36:00.000-05:00

The FAGAT Guide: "The website www.gayghettos.com (who knew?) has come up with a list of up-and-coming new, well, gay ghettos. Obviously the founders of the site are cleverly just trying to corner the luxury online real estate ad market. After all, who wouldn´t want to target a wealthy minority as they peruse the web looking for places to overspend on up-and-coming neighborhoods? But who knows, it might be accurate.

The list is interesting for a few reasons, not the least of which because it includes Andersonville, the Chicago neighborhood where official Straight Fagat Brother, Bald Knob, lives with his girlfriend. (And, oddly, the South End in Boston, the former home of our mom´s ex boyfriend. Like we ever had a chance.)

But we must object to the inclusion of Hell´s Kitchen. Sure, some bargain-hunting gays live there, and yes, Therapy is nearby. But if HK is the future of gay life in the city, we may just move to South Second, WI. We´re no experts, but this is a neighborhood best known for its cramped sublets with fake walls, framed posters, second-hand futons, fake plants, and mismatching Ikea furniture. From what we can tell, the gays that live there are a bunch of double-denim-wearing, TKTS-stub-clutching, DEP-gel-using, Instinct-subscribing, chin-pube-sporting, RENT-soundtrack-(still)-singing, triple-finger-snapping members of Dolphin Fitness. Who couldn´t even get their shit together to live in the East Village.

If this is what´s up-and-coming in New York, we might as well be up and going."

How was your day, Dan?: Stealing From The Ex's

2006-12-08T06:08:00.000-05:00

How was your day, Dan?: Stealing From The Ex's: "Once, when my ex was in the shower, I went into his wallet and stole all his phone numbers from guys he'd picked up when we were dating 'exclusively.' I then called them all and told them he had the clap. I also stole his brother's phone number, because he wasn't out to his family. I called and left a message that I was calling from a gay clinic about his brother's test results and that was the only number we had on file. To this day I sometimes call one of his 'friends' asking if he's seen or heard from the ex lately. I pretend the ex is the best sex I've ever had (NOT!) and that I need some NOW. Evil? Yes! Repayment for all the grief he gave me? Absolutely! Remorse? None!"

How was your day, Dan?: meme

2006-10-28T05:11:00.000-04:00

How was your day, Dan?: meme:

meme

If you don't like the q&a "meme" thing you'll hate this, don't read it. It's just a meme. From The Queen of Tuvalu who got it from somewhere else. Apparently they do them every Friday. Very introspective, personal-diary-ish, old-skool blogger kind of post.

1. Flip to page 18, paragraph 4 - in the book closest to you right now, what does it say?

Well...it's "The Superior Person's Book Of Words," and on page 18, there are only three paragraphs--so the last paragraph is "Caudacity," the dropping of an unneeded appendage after it's been used; also means insanity. Weird word. Great book.

2. If you stretch out your left arm - as far as possible, what are you touching?

Air. I almost can touch M, but he drives me insane with all the sesame seeds he chews, spitting out the shells everywhere, so I moved my desk further away to get away from him. Although he smells really good. But I would never tell him that.

3. What's the last program you watched on tv?

On TV, I watched Sex And The City last night, a late re-run. But I watched Ugly Betty online today, since I missed it last night, and it filled me with joy. What a ridiculous, hilarious show.

4. Without looking, guess what time it is.

4:23 (It's 4:24. I have an uncanny knack for pinpointing the time at any given moment in the day.)

5. Except the computer, what can you hear right now?

R yelling at L because she's taking too long with editing the trailers for a television show, and L saying "Well leave me alone so I can get the f*cking tape out!" Heh. I love her. And the air conditioning, it's whirring constantly.

6. When was the last time you were outside and what did you do?

At 2:03 PM. I know that because I looked at the clock on top of the bank and thought "Oh no, it's 2:03, I'm late." I was jogging down Washington Ave, dodging homeless people and tourists, trying to get back to my desk quickly after taking too long a lunch break.

7. What are you wearing?

Brown pants, an orange striped button down shirt, and black sneaks. I'm wearing the shirt for Halloween, and because my boss left me in charge for the day and I wanted to look a little nice. It didn't work, no one is listening to me.

8. Did you dream last night? If you did, what about?

I don't remember. I usually have extremely boring, detail-oriented dreams. I will walk onto the sidewalk. I will walk down the sidewalk. I will walk into a store and buy some bread. I will walk back. It sucks.

9. When was the last time you laughed?

A few minutes ago. M said something stupid. Does it count if I'm laughing at someone? If that counts, then I laugh a lot.

10. What's on the walls, in the room you're in right now?

An assortment of 31 Post-It notes. I just counted them for the first time, there are 31 of them, all with bits of info. It's very A Beautiful Mind, all these scraps of paper on the wall.

11. Have you seen anything strange lately?

Well, I'm looking at a wall covered in 31 Post-Its, which makes me look like I'm a crazy person. That's strange.

12. What do you think about this meme?

I dunno, it's just questions.

13. What's the last film you saw?

The Departed. I was exhausted by the end. Very good, and I am not (a) a mafia-movie guy, (b) a Leo DiCaprio fan, or (c) a person who can normally handle 3 hour movies. But I loved it. Oscars for everybody!

14. If you became a multimillionaire, what would you do with the money?

Call Switzerland and put it all away. Then carry my checkbook with me and give money to people I meet who need it, small non-profit organizations who can't get grants but do the best work.

15. Tell us something about yourself that most people don't know.

I had sex today. Did you know that? I bet you didn't. (See #6.)

16. If you could change ONE THING in this world, without regarding politics or bad guilt - what would it be?

I would get rid of cocaine. It is ruining the lives of almost all of my friends, all around the country. I don't know how all my friends are coke addicts, but they are, and their lives are falling apart. I've never been in a situation like this, where I really don't know what to do. That, and the resurgence of fanny packs has me extremely worried.

17. Do you like dancing?

When I'm drunk. I'm too big, I stick out on the dance floor, and I get really self-conscious. I took lessons all through my childhood, though. Tap.

18. George Bush?

Sad. What a mess.

19. What do you want your children's names to be, girl/boy?

I want little girls, silly little girls named Chloe and Olivia and other such niceties. I want to adopt several, all of different nationalities, so everyone matches through their separateness and no one feels out of place. Of course I'd gladly take a boy too. This is a sore subject with me, sadly, I fear I'll never have kids of my own.

20. Would you ever consider living abroad?

Sure, I did the Europe thing for a while in my waif-model days, I'd go back...albeit not for the same career. If I had my choice, I'd do Berlin or Prague.

21. What do you want God to tell you, when you come to heaven?

"Alright, I'm standing right here, are you convinced?"

How was your day, Dan?: long post

2006-10-28T05:08:00.000-04:00

How was your day, Dan?: long post:

Hello there.

I’m sitting on my couch, laptop on my lap top, watching Pretty Woman on HBO. Perhaps more telling about me than a “100 Things About Me” list is the fact that I am, yet again, watching Pretty Woman. Because I like it.

Did you ever notice Julia Roberts’ bra in the first seduction scene is the same shade of lavender as her dress in the final scene of My Best Friend’s Wedding? Perhaps she made both wardrobe choices for herself, and she really likes lavender.

Speaking of hookers—

When I was 21, I worked at a bar called Splash, in New York City. At the time, Splash was the cornerstone of the burgeoning gay scene in up-and-coming Chelsea; Splash catered to the gay after-work happy-hour scene, where professional gents in Zegna suits sat around cocktail tables with their ties slightly loosened, talking and laughing laughing laughing at nothing much. Above the businessmen stood several go go dancers strapped into brightly-colored thongs, who danced as much as they could on individual little platforms dotted here-and-there. There was also a stage that stuck out in the middle of the room, where dancers would splash around in water that streamed from a giant golden showerhead. Hence the name of the bar. Splash was delicious old-school burlesque, lots of drugs all over the place, people screwing in dark corners from time to time. It was very naughty. I didn't partake in the goings-on, but I felt dangerous just being there. That was enough.

As beautiful as the dancers were, the patrons would largely ignore them as naked wallpaper, as if you see that type of thing every day. Of course, in New York, sometimes you do. At the time I found nothing unusual about the place, either; or the fact that my work uniform involved combat boots with electric-blue square-cut trunks, which if I were a woman would have been called "hot pants." Hot pants, FYI, that I still own, and can no longer fit into. Because now I have a bigger butt. Anyway--so I would leave work, with my huge roll of tips stuck in my shorts' waistband, and just walk down Sixth Avenue, hop on the train, and go home. I never put on pants. Who cares? It was New York, you could get away with it.

“Reg... Bev... Wil.” Best line in the movie.

My first day on the job came about somewhat by accident. I was wandering around lower Manhattan, fresh off the plane from making no money as a model in Milan, when I ended up in Splash and half-heartedly asked if they were hiring. Lucky for me the coat-check guy called in sick that day, and the manager said if I started working immediately they would put me on the schedule. So I took off my coat, then took off my shirt, took a deep cleansing breath, and I went to work. After an evening of tearing little paper stubs off hangers and tracking down the occasional lost scarf, the manager offered me a job serving cocktails and chatting up the gentlemen looking for a friendly face once in a while. “There’s a rumor that you have to have sex with one of the managers here in order to get a job,” he said. And he didn’t blink or move his eyes from me when he said it. “I don’t know if you’ve heard that or not.”

Do you think I did it? I didn't. (...of course!) I fired back at him with some haughty comment like "Allow me to be the first to break the trend," or something of the sort. I got the job anyway. And I made good money working there.

Several of the dancers were “escorts,” which is a polite way of saying “hookers” or “sex workers” or whatever you want to call it. They were very nice, actually, for the most part; after performing, (and drying off), they would chat up would-be customers in the lounge, where they would sip drinks served by yours truly. Not all of the dancers were for sale, by any means; one was a law school student, for instance, who carried books with him everywhere he went. Then some of the dancers were straight, and their girlfriends would visit to watch them work. It wasn’t hard to pick the girlfriends out, being the only women in the bar that weren’t surrounded by a group of gay men repeatedly telling them how “FABULOUS” they were for no reason at all. Instead, the girlfriends always had a look of quiet, victorious strength on their faces, watching male patrons slip dollars into their boyfriends’ thongs and knowing that beautiful man on the stage was going to go home with the woman he loved. Too bad for some of those women that many of their boyfriends ended up snorting lines of coke in the bathroom and having sex with a bartender or two, who were of course also men, surprise surprise; but it was none of my business, and I always presumed the women knew deep down inside anyway.

“Thongs” is a silly word.

In the bar's back room, the dancers would all stand around in their little outfits and chat casually, with their hands on their hips, as if chatting in a purple thong was the most casual thing in the world to do. It looked like a weird underwear catalog, where all the men look so happy. One day a new dancer was struggling with fastening a cock-ring around his junk, to make it stick out more and look bigger (the male push-up bra, if you will) when an older, more-experienced dancer saw him and gave him pointers on how to do it right. The older guy had a very fatherly, kind tone to his voice, taking the youngster under his wing, and the young guy was very appreciative. No one understood why I found that scene to be funny, or so strangely touching.

Several months after I stopped working—perhaps it was years later, I don't remember—I heard one of the owners died. He was a very nice man, and the story bothered me a lot. Rumor had it he died of a drug overdose while at a sex party of some sort. I never delved much into it, as (again) it was none of my business, and it was an entirely believable story judging from what I knew of the bar's drug supply and the prevalence of sex. But the thought of him getting so high, trying to force himself to have a good time, that he ended up killing himself...I just couldn’t imagine it being a very happy way to die. Although is there is such a thing?

Now Splash is a gay tourist trap, catering to non-New Yorkers who think they’ve hit paydirt because they read about the city’s nightlife in a Damron guide. The shower stage is mostly gone, having been replaced by a cheesy dance floor where wannabes bounce around to sterile remixes. It all seems very sad, the whoooooole situation. At least the smut days were exciting, if you could tough it out.

People talk about drug overdoses as if there’s some glamour in the whole thing, like a nightlife battle scar. It’s like when alcoholics repeatedly boast about not going out and getting bombed, as if the world owes them a pat on the back for living a life that is so much harder than anyone else's. It just seems so self-indulgent and gross. There's a fine line there between moving on, and resting in your past accomplishments. I wonder if they’ve ever accepted responsibility for their own actions. Really. Probably not, right? And they never will. It’s frustrating. Sometimes you want to slap people.

Self-control is always in fashion, people. And think what you want about Splash, back in the good ol' days--but at least the "escorts" were honest.

Time for bed. Hugs.

Commendation or crimiticism: Let the comments decide

2006-10-26T16:24:00.000-04:00

Gay Ex-Gov. McGreevey Wants to Marry; Issue Goes to Lawmakers -- towleroad:

Comments

Ex-Gov. McCreepy is a typical politican. He is a proven serial adulterer and liar. He cheated before he will surely cheat again. He was forced to resign not because he was a "gay American" as he claimed but because he abused his office and endanged his constituents by putting his wholly unqualified fuckbuddy into a critical public safety position. He deserves continued condemnation from all upstanding gay Americans.

Posted by: rudy | Oct 26, 2006 2:42:12 PM

I second that.

Posted by: DC8 Stretch | Oct 26, 2006 2:45:58 PM

I never felt endangered by anything Governor McGreevey did. I feel threatened every day be GWB. McGreevey used poor judgement in his choices but I won't condemn him. He lives in my neighbourhood and the gay community of Plainfield have welcomed him.

Posted by: LiamOg | Oct 26, 2006 2:55:18 PM

Make that deserves condemnation from ALL americans, gay and straight. He regrets not having the fortitude? Try not having a spine or any balls.

Posted by: patrick nyc | Oct 26, 2006 2:56:49 PM

I wonder if he'll invite his ex-wife.

Posted by: FizziekruntNT | Oct 26, 2006 3:03:34 PM

McGreevy is a hypocritical piece of slime, i.e a politician. He used his gayness as subterfuge for his corruption while in office. "I am a gay American" Blech! And right away, the gay community called him brave and courageous and fell for it hook, line and stinker. Wonder what their reaction would have been if he was ugly?

Posted by: soulbrotha | Oct 26, 2006 3:03:36 PM

"He is a proven serial adulterer and liar."--Rudy

Jesus, Rudy, I know you're a Republican, but can't you have even a little empathy? Were you never in the closet? Never once lied to anyone about being gay? If so, my hat's off to you, but most of us mortals had to struggle with the issue once or twice. I would certainly urge any gay man who felt he had to get married to realize there are alternatives, but I can't condemn someone merely because of that. When our relationships are recognized in this society as the equal of straights', then let's talk. But we're a long way from that, even in NJ.

Posted by: Glenn | Oct 26, 2006 3:03:49 PM

Make that 4 for those who cannot stand MCgreasy. He only found the fortitude to come out after a newspaper found his boyfriend getting an inexplicable position in his administration. He's no role model for anyone - gay or straight. As a lifelong Democrat/liberal, he makes my blood boil.

Posted by: Marco | Oct 26, 2006 3:04:47 PM

I wonder if he labored this much when discussing his plans to marry each of his two wives: one of whom he isn't yet divorced from

I mean really, he sounds like he's laboring over every word instead of proudly proclaiming his love for, and desire to marry, his boyfriend.

I notice this discomfort in a lot of previously, opposite-sex, married gay men when talking about committing to their male partners.

I also notice that "ex-wife" is a term that carries more legitimacy than anything (other than husband) that a man can call the male love of his life, no matter how long they've been together.

My best friend calls his "ex" his kids' mother. He has a very good relationship with her but he realizes that the term "ex-wife" in our society puts his boyfriend in a secondary position of legitimacy. She completely understands and certainly takes no offense to being called their children's mother. His kids' mom is a wonderful person and is very close to him AND his husband.

Some people believe that words are words and we shouldn't read anything into them. I have always been of the opinion that words are powerful and their thoughtful use or careless misuse makes a difference.

Posted by: Zeke | Oct 26, 2006 3:05:49 PM

Seriously, I don't think McGreevey is one to be speaking on the value of marriage.

Posted by: Anita Woodward | Oct 26, 2006 3:07:44 PM

Or Dina, for that matter. One ex wife, one not-quite-divorced-yet wife, and the new love of his life. My, my, my. And just how does the state law deal with the fact that the paramour's object of desire is an Australian? Doesn't he need to be a citizen of the U.S. to legally get hitched? Or working toward citizenship? What a can of worms.

Posted by: FizziekruntNT | Oct 26, 2006 3:10:31 PM

Fizzie, I don't know where you're getting that from, but no, you don't have to be a US citizen to get married here.

Posted by: Glenn | Oct 26, 2006 3:22:36 PM

I do not condemn McCreepy because he got married even though he is gay. I condemn him because he cheated on his wives. It does not matter to me that he cheated on his wives with other women or men. It's the cheating that deserves condemnation not the gender of the person with whom the adulterer is cheating. And I am fortunate. Coming out was never a problem for me but I relaize that it can be a very difficult process for others. I have always been who I am and never felt the need to announce anything so obvious as my sexual preference. I assume that the vast majority of people are sensate beings and have not had frontal lobotomies. But I repeat, I am very fortunate. My huge family of Hispanic Catholic cowboys has always accepted me the way I am. Hell, my Dad's a cattle rancher and told all his bud's that I "lettered" in ballet at Julliard! Moreover, I found the love of my life almost thirty years ago. Not a day goes by that I am not thankful for him. Most of my gay brethren are not so well treated by their familes or by societey at large. Mistreatment, however, does not absolve us of moral behaviour. When we commit to someone we should honor that commitment regardless of gender. That is the way to build societal support for same-sex realtionships.

Posted by: rudy | Oct 26, 2006 3:28:38 PM

Hey Glen A lot of us may have "struggled" with who we are but we did not go out and marry two women to hide and sleep around with guys behind their backs.
How Long has he known this guy for anyway? I just hope his man's money doesn't run out because McGreasey will be right behinf it. Before he talks about a third marriage he should divorce his current spouse.

Posted by: hephaestion | Oct 26, 2006 3:30:43 PM

GOOL / Gayz Of Our Lives

2006-10-25T17:00:00.000-04:00

GOOL / Gayz Of Our Lives: Our friends over at Queerty asked us to make a list of frightful fashions for fall as party of their frightful issue! Check out the list we made especially for them by clicking the link above.

Here are 20 more that we inlisted the help of our fellow GOOL-ies on:

11.True Religion Jeans-- Those big pockets on the butt might hold all your halloween treats; howevah, you won't get no TRICKS if you homoz continue to wear ‘em.

12.While we are on the topic of jeans, enuf with the bootcut, if you haven’t caught on to the skinny leg jean, you must still be wearing True Religion.

13.Square toe dress shoes. Add a chunky heel and we are ready to blow chunks!

14.Slogan t-shirts-No one cares that you’re “sexy” and we can see you are “a boy” unless you are Shania Rendezvous.

15.Rings – If you ain’t married or betrothed, keep the fingers bare.

16.And it’s not about a tongue ring, you fools!

17.No nose-rings unless you’re from India and at least one of your dead relatives has been set afloat on the Ganges.

18.Leather pants – There are like 10 people that can pull them off. Chances are you’re not one of them.

19.No Tongue Rings—Cuz no matter what chu think, it’s just weird to kiss someone with that shizz in their mouth.

20.Diesel footwear- Anyone who wears these shoes should be forced to pour diesel fuel up their bung hole and then eat their own diesel infused bowels!

21.Oakleys: They’re for surfing the urban jungle. Bitch please!!

22.Cell phones clipped to your belt: Chances are your ass is big enough, you don’t need anything else adding to the problem.

23.No one-strap cross-chest backpacks. G-d No! If you want to accentuate your chest, hit the gym chica!

24.Mandals: We know you’re planning your winter getaway but please leave them at home, and while your away, perhaps you’ll have a small electrical fire destroying ONLY your thick leather-strapped numbers cuz there’s nothing like fixing a fashion disaster with a natural disaster.

25. ANYTHING that is trendy or " of the moment:" just coz it's a “must-have item” featured in a magazine does not mean it belongs in your closet! KNOW YOUR STYLE BEOTCH!

26. Coats, suits and/or jackets that are baggy and fit poorly. Get a tailor and cinch that waist and shoulders. And if you don’t have waist then u just need to not exist
anymore.

27. Fake tans: It is one thing to get a nice glow while on vacation in the Carribean with your lovah, but it is another to have a season pass at your local Tan-Faster.

28. Baseball hats on guys who are losing their hair. It’s just dishonest.

29. Camper shoes: We know Thanksgiving is coming up but that don’t mean you gotta wear shoes like the first pilgrim to hit Plymouth Rock. So be thankful we gave you this warning laydie.

30. Athletes feet- not a cute look as Goolies have seen better actin’ in tough actin Tinactin!

Comments by Jadorezola - Gawker

2006-10-25T14:40:00.000-04:00

Comments by Jadorezola - Gawker: "Anderson, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. An-der-son: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the roof of my warm mouth. An. Der. Son."

WOW Report

2006-10-22T10:47:00.000-04:00

WOW Report: "Yes, again with the videos. I know, I know. But these are special. The first is the trailer for the long-suppressed club-kid movie Shampoo Horns, and it's sweet and nostalgic, and you'll wish you could see the whole thing. It's special to me, in that this was the last time all the clubkids were together, alive (ahem), and working on a project. There is a wonderful shot at the end where some of us are walking down the West Side Highway at dawn, and in the background are the Twin Towers, and it's sad because we're gone, they're gone, IT'S ALL GONE! (choke)."

World of WOW

2006-10-22T10:40:00.000-04:00

World of WOW:

We at World of Wonder pride ourselves on being champions of the eccentric, the bizarre, the kooky, the outlandish, the subversive, the outcast, and all things that exist on the fringe of society. We believe that the underground of today is the mainstream of tomorrow, and that the true innovators of the present are found not at the crest of pop culture, but lie just underneath, creating the groundswell for the next great wave. It is our goal to bring into the spotlight those people and ideas that now reside at the edge of civilization. This is our manifesto, and these are our beliefs:

We believe that there is an artist inside all of us (but usually a bad one).
We believe that imagination is second only to good looks.
We believe the superficial is the most profound.
We believe that soup cans are art.
We believe that celebrity is the disease of the 21st century.

We believe that everyone is the star of their own musical.
We believe that children should be named after consumer products.
We believe genocide is a lousy way to solve demographic problems.
We believe that history belongs to those who write it.

We believe that beauty is on the outside (and if you don't believe us just peel off your skin).
We believe we are living in the age of the thing.
We believe that chartreuse is the new yellow.
We believe that salmon can be served with either red or white wine.
We believe the children are the future.

We believe your car is your suit.
We believe that Las Vegas is the pinnacle of modern architecture.
We believe that video did not kill the radio star, but only hurt her feelings.
We believe in the sixteenth minute.
We believe that the television is a good device for raising your children.

We believe that two wrongs almost invariably make a right.
We believe that you should never drink the water in Mexico.
We believe that the glass is neither half empty nor half full, but simply confused.

We believe that modern life is rubbish.
We believe the wrapping's the thing.
We believe that a man should be allowed to marry his horse (but only if the horse can speak and voices its consent).
We believe in the emptiness of emptiness.
We believe that the missionary position is best left to missionaries.

We believe glamour is where you are not.
We believe that the mullet never got the attention it deserved.
We believe that seltzer water is primed for a comeback.
We believe that Elvis is dead, but probably preserving nicely.

And finally...

We believe that you should never, ever turn off your tv.

Rest In Peace, Alex

2006-10-21T15:40:00.000-04:00

Alexander Capelluto Foundation | ACF Blog:

Jeff Tierney Says:
September 7th, 2006 at 11:48 am
I have a hard time writing about Alex. It isn’t for lack of things to say, rather it’s a lack of words that I feel can do justice to his memory. In truth, it was hard even when he was alive to describe what I thought of him; to try to explain to someone that didn’t know him the strength of his conviction or the way he could cheer you up with a smile and a word was a wasted effort. No one could truly understand what was so special about him because there was no frame of reference - there was no one else like him. Even so, though I could never hope to capture in words what it was about Alex that made him so special, I want to try to share a little bit about why he was so important to me.

Alex and I were fast friends and from the moment we met until our last goodbye I can’t think of a single moment I didn’t appreciate him being by my side. On my short and ill-fated tenure with the crew team he kept me motivated during practice when my enthusiasm waned. He encouraged me, mostly by example, to work harder and be more responsible in school and when the work was done he was ready to play as hard as anyone else. Whether it was watching Steven Seagal movies or playing Super Smash Bros., he was always there smiling and laughing. I’ll tell you this much: that is no small feat in a group whose video game grudge matches, often as not, result in insults not suitable even for the latest of late night TV. Somehow though, it wasn’t so bad when Alex was around because, as so many people have repeated in the past few months, Alex seemed to bring out the best in people. Where other suites of roommates broke up and went their separate ways ours stayed together, even growing from year to year in both size and closeness. I promise you that it wasn’t my eneffable early-morning charm that made our friendships so strong - it was Alex, his contagious love of life and his selfless devotion to the happiness of others that he so generously shared with all of us. In short, Alex taught me about life, about how to embrace it and cherish it.

Though my time with Alex was regrettably short, shorter even than the little time he was alotted on this earth to share with us all, I take comfort in the fact that people aren’t measured by the length of their lives but by the difference they make in the lives of others. There are so many people that are blessed to live long lives but are never enlightened enough to know how to make the best of them, going fifty or seventy or a hundred years and leaving this world just as it was when they came into it. Alex, on the other hand, had a way about him that put him in a class far apart from such individuals. He had the rare gift to touch the lives of not an occasional few but of nearly everyone he met. He changed the lives of so many, making their personal worlds better places just for having been a part of them, as I know he did mine.

With Alex gone there is a hole in my heart. Over the past few months the love and support of my family and friends has helped to make life without him more manageable, but still I can’t imagine a day will ever go by that I don’t think of him. It hurts, but I know this is a good thing because it means I will never forget the things he taught me or what he meant to me - no, means to me. In this I know I’m not alone and that is a comfort too not because I wish to commiserate but because it reminds me that his legacy will live on. All it takes is a little love, a little kindness and a little effort as we all try to live a little more like Alex Capelluto.

I’ll never forget you,

Alex. I love you, man.

Your friend and roommate, Jeff Tierney
Jocelyn Keehner Says:
September 12th, 2006 at 6:25 pm
One of my favorite things about Alex Capelluto was his laugh. It was the laugh of a giddy little kid. And I think sometimes you can tell a lot about a person by their laugh, his wasn’t mean-spirited or maniacal it was happy and incredibly infectious. Have you ever been in the presence of someone who when they smiled, could make you smile, and their laugh could make you giggle. For me, Cappy was one of those people. Whether we were arguing over something stupid like why surf ninjas is the greatest movie ever, or just sitting watching a movie in his common room (scratching his head) I always had a good time hanging out with him.
I’ve always admired him. He had strength of character that you don’t see very often, and I wish I had. His dedication to his school work, his crew team and his friends was truly something out of the ordinary. When you’re young sometimes you don’t have your life in order, I know that I don’t. But Cappy had it down, and I think that was because he realized what was most important in life: loving and being good to the people who were most important to him, and knowing that the rest would just fall into place. It’s kind of intimidating to be friends with someone who has it all together, but I never felt out of place with him.
One of my favorite memories of Alex was the Berkeley trip to six flags last fall, when he skipped crew practice and we snuck him on the bus. There’s just something about amusement parks that bring out the little kid in everyone. We had so much fun riding all of the roller coasters, and there’s this awesome picture of Liz, Dan, Haruko, and Cappy on the nitro roller coaster and Alex has this fabulous expression: his mouth is hanging open and he has this look of extreme excitement with a little fear. I love that expression. That trip to six flags still stands as one of the best days I’ve ever had. With Cappy everything was all good and I will miss him dearly.
Matthew Lawlor Says:
September 13th, 2006 at 9:31 pm
Alex was a unique in the truest sense of the word. There is no one I have ever met who possesses his self-confidence, his zest for life, or his integrity. He was effortlessly an amazing friend, never judgmental, always happy, and most importantly he was always there for his friends in moments of doubt or weakness. He had the ability to easily distinguish between what he could and couldn’t control, dedicating all his time to one, and laughing off the other. He was relentlessly cheerful, even in the face of disappointment. Many times walking back from physics he would tell me about his goals and expectations for his next time trial or race. Often I would ask him how he did later. It didn’t matter if he had succeeded or failed, he was always optimistic, always planning for the next opportunity.

Alex may have lived one of the happiest, most fulfilled lives that I have ever seen, despite its length. Most remarkably, the happiness was truly earned. He got the most out of every minute of life, never content to be bored or to be boring. He understood the value of living in the moment, and the value of planning ahead, a rare combination. He could buckle down and work towards a goal that was months or years away, yet could at the same time know when to drop everything to enjoy the simple pleasures of a summer day. His life was filled with these seeming contradictions. He was kind to his friends when it mattered, sharp, witty, and biting when it didn’t. He was relaxed yet determined. He was always filled with happiness and yet could empathize with the suffering of people hundreds of miles away. He worked relentlessly towards his goals, yet withstood failure effortlessly.

Though I only knew Alex for two short years, I will cherish them as the most important in my life. He was a teacher, a role model, and a friend. He showed me how to make the most of the short, precious time we have on this world, and I will never forget it. For those of us he left behind, it is all we can do to try to live our lives by his example. We owe it as much to him as we do to ourselves.

Goodbye Alex. I’ll always remember the little things, your laugh, your jokes, your terrible taste in movies. But most of all I will remember what a privilege and honor it was to, however briefly, have you as a friend.
Love,
Matt Lawlor
Adam Levine Says:
September 14th, 2006 at 7:03 pm
Alex was my best friend throughout middle school and high school. My memories of him in these years are similar in tone to what his Yale friends have identified: Alex was always happy and always smiling; he tried his hardest at everything and, as a consequence, never shortchanged himself or anyone else. In fact, in many ways it was for these other people that Alex tried so hard–Alex was the most selfless person that I ever knew. He is a model that everyone should aspire to emulate. Yet despite all of these qualities, if I had to identify the one characteristic that best defined Alex it would be that he was a problem-solver. It did not matter whether the question was academic, athletic, social or common sensical; when Alex was confronted with a problem or an obstacle he ALWAYS found a way to solve or overcome it.

With that in mind, rather than sharing a specific memory of Alex, I would like to address one problem relating to Alex that I am not sure anyone has been able to figure out. This problem is, quite simply: how do you describe him? Or, more aptly, how can you describe Alex? Is it possible? How many times has the reader tried to describe Alex to someone who hasn’t met him; tried to explain the void that exists in the world now that he has gone and known that the listener did not truly understand how special Alex was? I have never been able to convey to someone how amazing Alex was, and I am sure that it is the same for anyone reading this. To understand Alex you had to meet him.

Language, which is itself a conceptual construction, inherently limits what we can say, and every ounce of Alex transcends even the most descriptive, most insightful words in the English language. A catalogue of his character traits is, no matter how long, inexhaustive because Alex was so much more than words. Likewise, the use of terms like “ineffable” and “indescribable” fail in that they have become cliches. In fact, it might be cliches which are the most apt descriptions of Alex, for such expressions were likely thought up to describe people similar to (but never the same as)Alex. Unfortunately, people have overused these expressions and stripped them of their meaning. So, how do we describe Alex?

A few months ago, over dinner with Alex’ parents I expressed to them the thought that I am about to share with you, and while I do not think that it is perfect I do think that Alex the problem-solver would have appreciated the following description. Theodor Adorno, a German philosopher of the Frankfurt school, wrote extensively during the 1930s and 1940s. Early in his career he argued that the traditional Hegelian/Fichtean dialectic was inherently flawed in its assumption that it could truly understand reality. Adorno called the flawed Hegleian/Fichtean dialectic “positive dialectics.” As an alternative, Adorno proposed what he termed “negative dialectics.” While the concept is certainly a complex one, it can best be described as the realization that some things cannot be accurately described because linguistic concepts cannot adequately describe reality. For Adorno, there were some things which were immeasurable and unquantifiable. These “qualitative elements,” while intangible, were no less important to understanding the essence of a thing. I lthink that we can all agree that Alex was far beyond what any of us can describe in speech. So, to solve the problem that Alex has inadvertently posed to us, I like to imagine that Alex is the quintessence of negative dialectics. He was so special, so amazing, so perfect that we need to recognize that we will never do him justice.

Alex, I love you, and I hope that this description brings the smile to your face that we all remember you for.

Love,
Adam
Danni Lovell Says:
September 25th, 2006 at 1:19 am
I didn’t know Alex as well as many of the people here, but our short times together were always hilarious and wonderful. I knew him through FOOT and through the planning stages of HBC.

During August training, last fall, organized things the FOOT leaders had to do around Old Campus had slowed down, leading Alex and some other partners in crime a little extra time. I turned around to see him and several others running full speed and diving onto a couple plastic tarps spread out in the mud, with a hose providing a little bit of lubrication (who knows where he got it from…). However, after the 20 minutes they spend diving head first down this mud strewn, glorified saran wrap, Alex had big red welts on his chest and back. He looked down, and started laughing hysterically at them and me.

He then folded up the tarp and snuck it over to my house, storing it while he was out on his trip. He then promptly called me after returning, scooped up his SlipNSlide treasure and used it again in the Berkeley Courtyard a couple more times before the weather turned…

Although I didn’t know Alex well, the few times we spent together were ones that I will treasure.
Alex Maggio Says:
September 25th, 2006 at 11:51 am
I redshirted my freshmen year, and, as a sophomore, I rowed on the Freshmen Heavyweight Crew with Alex. I found out about the accident while I was studying abroad in Beirut. I don’t remember much of that day, except that it was paralyzingly heavy. I won’t pretend that we were particularly close, we were just bonded in the ordinary way that teamates do, but that simple headline on the YDN website struck close to home. I guess at this age you never see something like that coming. The world back at Yale, across two oceans, somehow seemed to lose its intregity for me. If someone so solid, so real and confident and vivacious could disappear just like that, what was to stop the rest of the world I left behind from crumbling? In a way, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more helpless in all of my life.

What I remember about Alex is that he was remarkably courageous, indomitable, and possessed intensity that you could almost sense as soon as he walked into a room. He was also kind. When I was forced to leave the team in the spring with a painful knee injury, he wrote me this “good luck with everything. and i look forward to seeing you killing small dogs and tearing ergs in half.” I loved the humor.

Sitting at his memorial service this year, I couldn’t help but wonder how few there really were in the world who could engender such an outpouring of love and admiration. A death is only as quiet as the lips of one’s friends. And in that sense, Alex left this world with a bang. And as I left, I couldn’t help think that I’d missed a tremendous to spend more time with him. I hope that some day, I’ll deserve to be half as loved as Alex.
Berry Kennedy Says:
October 2nd, 2006 at 1:28 am
This is what I said at Alex’s memorial service in September, and a month later it is no easier now than it was then to be at a Yale without Alex— we miss you Alex.

Alex Capelluto was one of the people I most deeply respected and admired at Yale from the beginning of my freshman year. I remember going to eat lunch in Branford one Friday afternoon and sitting until long after everyone else had left the dining hall talking about what we wanted to do in the future, and what kind of families we wanted to have. Alex wanted to provide his children with the best education. He wanted to be able to spend time with them, teach them things and pass down traditions he’d gotten from his own parents. Most of all he wanted them to value the things he valued—family, kindness towards others, hard work, service to the community. And as the dining hall workers kicked us out, I remember thinking what wonderful father Alex was going to be and how lucky I was to get to get to watch him as he went forward.

I was so impressed, and awed in a way, at his level-headedness and his clarity about what kind of person he wanted to be—and was. It was just so Alex to talk about the future not in terms of career goals but rather in terms of how he wanted to treat people and values he wanted to uphold.

Alex was spontaneous, he was joyful, even silly at times. During the time when he sported what in my opinion were an absolutely ridiculous set of mutton chops, we had an eleven e-mail exchange debating the merits of muttons which escalated into a full out debate on muttons, mullets and what I called bad hair in general. I was staunch in my position, convinced nothing could ever bring me around to facial hair. But wisdom, even in his most playful moments, was characteristic of Alex, and I remember being annoyed at having to admit defeat when he wrote:

To look at it another way, much of the fun of doing it is that
there’s absolutely no good reason to do it. Many people pull stunts that fit that description when they’re drunk; i happen to pull a few, occasionally, when i’m sober. there’ll come a point when i am no
longer amused by my chops, at which point i’ll shave them off and start
myself on some other, equally pointless project– like seeing how long i can
go without saying the word “mitten”.
–alex

The muttons were just a small example of Alex’s enthusiasm and sense of humor; his willingness to try anything, to do everything to the max. We had so many adventures and laughs and silly experiments, just to see how things would work out.

One of my favorite things to talk about with Alex was his family who I felt like I knew long before I finally met them. Alex’s stories about his sister Katherine were my favorite—however, less for their content than for the chance to watch Alex tell them. I loved to watch Alex talk about Katherine—his expression changed, his face lit up, his voice was full of admiration and pride.

Two years after graduating high school, I realize how few people you can actually keep in touch with after graduation. You only remain close with those who mean the absolute most. I never doubted that Alex would be one of those lifelong friends. I will never find the words to describe how much Alex means to me, or the magnitude of his impact on my life, but I have realized over the summer that that impact will be endless. As I go forward I will carry with me not only Alex’s memory, but his friendship as well. I will forever be inspired by his character, his enthusiasm, his love.
Jack Vogelsang Says:
October 3rd, 2006 at 3:29 pm
Everyone can attest to Alex’s spirit, there’s no question that he was one of the greatest guys I have ever gotten to know. I personally had two experiences that stand out to me as places where I choose to preserve his memory.

I rowed with ACapps freshman year on the heavyweight team, and you couldn’t have asked for a better guy to row with. Unfortunately for him, he was the ninth guy in a boat of eight, in a league where you needed the biggest guys possible to compete, so he spent the season practicing with us but sidelined during races.

Tampa training trip 2005: a quintessential part of the spring training trip is the Casino Padre, a Saturday morning race between the team which lasts about 45 minutes, a hell on earth if there ever was one. The format is 4 boats, chosen by captains the night prior; which make the bridge loop twice, a trip out by the casino, around a small island and the finish in the bay. ACapps wasn’t picked, but the night before the race a guy who was chosen to be in my boat (who was on the verge of quitting) decided he truly didn’t want to race. We looked somewhat reluctantly to the guys who hadn’t been picked and saw Alex, so we okayed it with Coach if we could switch him in. With ACapps sitting right in the middle of the boat (the engine room, as we call it), we suited up, had a very smooth row and won that Casino Padre by two minutes.

That freshman year we didn’t have a great boat, we had worked so hard that everyone was tired for most of the practices. The boat felt slow, heavy, and sluggish. The week before our league championship our head coach decided to have practice with all 4 boats competing that weekend: the Freshman 8, Varsity, JV and 3V; so we summed up all our energy to show the team that we were ready to compete. The problem was, that day our 5 seat (the strongest member of our boat) was sick. We put in Alex to fill in (again, right in the engine room), and immediately the boat picked up. Our boat felt lighter, more energetic, and ready to compete. For all of the pieces we dusted the JV and 3V, two boats that would go on that weekend to take bronze and gold medals; and lost only by 2-3 seats to the Varsity on each set. In a season that I usually don’t remember fondly, I regard that practice as the best we had all year.

I had so many great experiences with Alex, but those two memories from that freshman season stick out to me as a testament to his selflessness and determination, because I believe Alex already embodied everything about the sport that keeps me coming back.
Jeff Tierney Says:
October 5th, 2006 at 1:36 am
Nico -
Just thinking of you, man, not that a day goes by when I don’t. Anyway, I thought it would be good to write to you since I don’t like just thinking it because I feel like a schizo and if I talked out loud I’m afraid the neighbors would think me slightly perturbed. I’m sure you understand. I find it striking how it’s the little things that are sometimes the hardest. The big ones I expected and dealt with in due course, but its the random little things that really strike a chord in me. I don’t think I’ll ever look at meatloaf the same way and I think your Halo character has a permanent home on my X-box. I’ll try not to let anyone use him unless they promise they’re going to lose - wouldn’t want to break your streak. Matt and I started this thing with our HBC friends. We call it Meat and Movie Mondays (or MMM, M cubed). We just get together and eat manly meats (no chicken allowed - dead and red, baby) while watching bad action movies. We started out a few weeks ago with hamburgers and Above the Law; I thought you’d be proud. Not sure what we’re going to do next. I’m thinking maybe a Seven Samurai/Magnificent Seven double-feature. I know they aren’t action movies really, but they’re still pretty manly. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. We met Bruce Campbell! No joke, honest-to-god, in-the-flesh, zombie-slaying Bruce “Gimme some sugar, baby” Campbell! It was pretty much the awesomest thing ever. You would have loved it. I miss you, Alex. My thoughts and prayers are with you always. Yours truly - Jeff “Danger” Tierney

PS: What do you think about the middle name? I’m thinking about making it official, then I’ll always have something to say at those lame events where you have to make introductions by saying your name and something interesting about yourself, as if anyone cares and remembers the name of the guy sitting next to them five minutes later. I could save time though by doing both at once so I would be super popular because I get everyone out of there faster. Name and intersting fact wrapped into one - score.
Matt Lawlor Says:
October 14th, 2006 at 6:40 pm
Hey buddy,
I missed you in class today. I couldn’t hear a word the professor was saying, I just stared at the empty chair next to me. You would have loved this year so much, I know it. So much has changed, and so little at the same time. Sometimes there is only an empty space around which life simply moves on. Some things just can’t exist without you. There are still times where, for a moment, I forget that you are really truly gone and I take a half step towards some curly-haired guy walking in front of me, only to remember that it can’t be you. I’ve had this image of you bobbing your head to the chorus of “Peaches” stuck in my head the last two days. It still makes me smile. So many of my best memories of you have songs attached to them. Some of them have become my favorite songs, some of them I doubt I’ll ever be able listen to again. I just want to have a few more minutes of pointless banter, one more late night conversation. I still ask myself what you would say, but I don’t have the imagination to answer. I hope you’d forgive me if I screw it all up. I miss you, always.
Matt

One more

2006-10-21T15:00:00.000-04:00

How was your day, Dan?:
Philadelphia:
Who you want to meet: A nice pediatrician with Mainline Money who rows every morning on the Schuylkill and wakes you up with fresh Italian pastries on Sundays before strolling the Rocky steps.
Who you'll meet instead: A wife beater-wearing Guido or Mick who's cock reminds you of a cheesesteak (the smell-not the length unfortch) who doesn't tell you when he's cumming because "den you's wouldn't swallah."
Opening Line: "Where do you work?"
What that means: "I saw you at the free clinic after the Blue Ball, where I got more crack than the Liberty Bell."

A Letter

2006-10-21T09:38:00.000-04:00

Joe. My. God.: Sharing my concern over the cavalier attitude that so many young gay men seem to have regarding HIV, on Monday a reader sent me the chilling letter reprinted below. Please read this guy's story and reconsider what you think you know about HIV being a "manageable disease." For some people, it may be. But for many others, including this reader, it is a daily hell. I thank the reader for his letter and for his kind permission to print it here.

Hi, Joe --

I am sixteen years into being positive. Ten of those years I have been on a triple combination of Crixivan, Epivir and AZT. The first few years, once I got over the constant stomach cramps and nausea, were okay. My blood numbers improved and I eventually reached undetectable levels of HIV.

But I only had about six months between the end of the stomach cramps and the beginning of intermittent diarrhea. It's gotten so bad that I'm afraid to fart, because a couple of times I thought that was what I was doing and I ended up shitting myself instead. You can imagine what sort of stomach cramps I get sometimes after lunch. I now keep Depends (Depends! -- I'm not old enough for diapers!) at my desk at work.

I've had three bouts of pneumonia in the last two years.

My skin has gone from pretty trouble free to being covered with eczema patches, and I've developed a whole slew of allergies to things that are just part of life, like tap water -- try buying enough distilled water every day to shower and shave (I don't, but I'm allergic to something in the tap water -- we're trying to figure out what it is).

And I went from 135 pounds to 118 -- my former lover thought I was skinny at 135.

My liver and kidneys are beginning to show their damage. I don't make a lot of money. The medications I currently take would be beyond unaffordable if it weren't for a fairly decent health insurance program at my work; if I begin to suffer from serious organ deficiency or, god forbid, failure, there would be nothing between me and the Pearlies if I hadn't been able to get work with companies that insure their employees. That's something for the youngsters to chew on -- how many retail stores, especially the trendy, single-door types, insure their employees? How many bars, cafes, messenger services? How many companies in general, for that matter, insure their employees? Being young and carefree often means not paying attention to things like health and dental benefits, but how are they going to feel if they get infected and can't get coverage?

My social life is gone. I'm always afraid of an accident with the diarrhea, and I can't drink any more at all -- not wine, not beer, certainly not liquor -- although I never did drink much. Now, alcohol just makes me sick. The AZT has made my fingernails fall out once already, and they look and feel like they're getting ready to do it again. I also have "chemo hair" -- not much, with no body, and no life. My doctor and I agree that we don't want to change the medications -- I can't face having to go through a whole new set of physical miseries, and there's nothing like a guarantee that a new combination would keep the HIV in check.

All that is the negative. Of course, there is positive. I am grateful to be alive, and to be able to do some good in the world in a small way. I still enjoy little things even if I can't do the big stuff anymore. When my stomach's okay, I still like to cook and to eat. And once in a while, I can actually get over the physical pain and get some satisfaction in a decent jerk-off. So it's not all bad. But anyone who says the HIV has become a manageable disease like diabetes or high blood pressure is just plain not speaking from experience. Take it from the cranky old fella. It ain't no bed of roses.

A JMG Reader.....

The Things We Do For Love

2006-10-20T02:37:00.000-04:00

How was your day, Dan?::

The Things We Do For Love

So I have a funny story.

Several days ago I visited a special someone on his birthday. This "someone" is a gentleman with whom I had a romantic relationship last year; we parted ways, as sometimes happens, but we always kept in touch. A quick note here, and thoughtful letter there. And as sometimes happens, we're back in each others' lives again, this time definitely for the better.

For his birthday, he requested that no one give presents, instead making donations to his favorite charity. But of course his close friends are still going to buy him something, little knick-knacks of thoughtfulness filled with inside jokes. Dollar-store finds piled on his couch, his kitchen table, everywhere.

So as he showed me all his new toys, he reached behind a table, and pulled out a thick cardboard tube. On the side it said Do-It-Yourself Stripper Pole Kit. And he handed it to me. "This is for you." And he smiled.

He was very excited to get a dance for his birthday, he said, when we were alone. I laughed, and said the moment would definitely need to involve large amounts of liquor. And I dropped it, as I thought he was kidding. Because really, it wasn't going to happen.

Oh, no. He really wanted a pole dance for his birthday.

He wanted the whole thing, the hanging from the pole and swinging around of the legs, and spinning around the pole in the air and the sliding around while shaking back and forth. And he rubbed me on the bum, and smiled. "It's my birthday," he said. "Please."

I looked at him like was crazy.

I waited until he was in the shower to take the contraption out of its box. I wanted to look at it alone, and get in a trial run without anyone watching. The pole came in three pieces, with a spring-loaded extension to wedge it between the ceiling and the floor. I put the pole together, and locked it into place between beams criss-crossing his ceiling. Wedged in-between those beams, it was really stable. I shook it back and forth. it didn't move. I grabbed it with one hand and leaned back, putting all my weight on it, and it didn't move. I jumped up onto it and wrapped my hands and legs around it, holding myself up in the air. All good.

But no way. There was no way I was going to dance on that thing. I could see myself in a little thong or something stupid, bouncing around like a trained monkey. A pudgy, out-of-shape trained monkey with pasty skin. I would rather die. So I got down and walked away, blushing so hot I could feel the burn. Imagine how ridiculous I would look. Good God.

I walked into the other bathroom, and looked in the mirror. I took off my shirt. And I looked at myself, looked at the weight I've gained and the wrinkles on my face and the hair that has myseriously migrated off of my head and found a new home scattered around my chest. Once, I did not look like this. Once, I could dance around naked and get away with it. Once, this layer of fat over everything did not exist.

I put my shirt back on.

I walked into the living room again, and looked at the pole in the middle of the room. I could hear the shower running, he was still in there. And I thought about him, and how he is such a great, great guy, so nice and funny and kind. When he says the things he says, the little comments of "you're beautiful" and such, I know he means it even though the voices in my head tell me he's just trying to be nice. And there is nothing wrong with what he asked, the fact that he'd get turned on by getting me naked is flattering, really. The only thing holding me back is the problem that I'm just insecure about the way I look. And it's my problem, not his. I need to lighten up.

If it's a pole dance he wants, I thought, he's gonna get it.

I took a deep breath, and took a running leap to jump on that pole and execute an ultra-sexy move that would be the sexiest, the hottest, the most amazing move ever. One two three UP!

When all my weight hit the pole mid-air, it ripped through the beams on the ceiling, sending a chunk of wood flying across the room, and crashed into the fireplace mantle, knocking a gash into the trim. The shelf above the mantle was filled with scrimshaw, antique pieces of ivory hand-carved into intricate designs--these are now impossible to find, as ivory trade is illegal, and incomprehensively expensive--and the pole ripped through the little stands holding all those pieces, clearing the shelf and scattering scrimshaw around the room. I could do nothing more than hang onto the pole for dear life, and the pole slid off the mantle, crashing me onto the hardwood floor. Right square flat on my ass. BOOM.

He ran out of the bathroom, with a horrified look on his face. "Are you alright?!?" he yelled, as he entered the room, first looking at me, then at the pole that was now back in pieces, and then the chaos of his once-nice house. I just stared at the ceiling, flat on my back, gasping for a breath.

"I think I'm too big for this thing," I sputtered.

He laughed, and extended a hand to help me up. "I can't believe you actually tried it."

Joe. My. God.

2006-10-12T22:34:00.000-04:00

Joe. My. God.: "Christopher Street, Sunday 5pm, outside The Hangar bar.....

Twink 1: What's that Ty's place like?

Twink 2: Ugh. A total Foley bar.

Twink 1: Ew."

more city

2006-10-10T21:59:00.000-04:00

How was your day, Dan?: "Washington, D.C.
Who you want to meet: A gorgeous, high-powered politico with a job on Capitol Hill and a brownstone in Georgetown, who is fascinated by your thoughts on world affairs and loves kissing the nape of your neck.
Who you'll meet instead: A workaholic in a bad suit who binge drinks and wants a quick blow job in the bathroom.
Opening line: 'Where do you work?'
What that means: 'Is your job as shitty as mine?'"

Greek love

2006-10-10T01:36:00.000-04:00

Greek Love: