Waiting for my Christmas elf......

Christmas day and I cried. Now, this is nothing new. It has been the theme of 2006. However, these tears were different. They were shed over the love shared between a pig and a spider. Yeah, my family and I went to see “Charlotte’s Web,” and yeah, I cried. Death is sad, even a spider’s, well, at least this one’s death was sad. I spent all day with my family and all four of our dogs. Truly a great day. Wonderful, actually. Diet starts tomorrow. Woop woop! Shit, I really did just say, woop, woop, didn’t I? The end is coming soon.
One of the things I have looked forward to all year was getting to make love in front of the fire place, by the Christmas tree. Probably a strange, irreverent desire, but still… Obviously, that didn’t happen. Maybe next year, or the next decade. Somewhere in there.
I just found out about ten minutes ago, that the plans I have for New Year’s Eve in Telluride fell through. A bunch of us where going up there and stay for a few days. It was going to be a blast. Unfortunately, I just discovered that there will be four cats in attendance as well. As they tend to make my eyes and throat swell up, and breathing cease, I decided it may not be the best way to bring in the New Year. I believe I have mentioned my birthday curse. Well, there is also one on New Year’s Eve. Not as bad, but still, not good. I thought this year was going to be a change. I knew it would be hard as I would not be kissing the boy I love (who, I realized this week is never coming back—I thought I already had experienced that revelation, apparently not), but I would be surrounded by several of my boys. So, now I am not sure what the plan will be. Maybe there will be other enjoyable plans, maybe not. Either way, I am fairly certain 2007 will enter into existence and begin the ongoing rush towards the next Christmas… with all the joys and hurts in between.
I do have to say, though, I am fully aware at the moment how charmed my life truly is. I have a Mother, Father, and Brother that I not only love, but enjoy being with. I have two phenomenal dogs who I fall deeper in love with every day. I have amazing friends. A lovely house. I have experienced love I never dreamed possible. Laughter and food still exists. And, re-mastered “The Little Mermaid” DVD is still on my DVD shelf waiting for me to pop it in and worship at any time. Damn! Life is good! Praise Jesus!!! (and, no, I don’t mean that sarcastically, so fuck off! ;) )

random tid-bits

This weekend saw the passing of one of my very favorite days of the year. My annual ‘gay boys’ Christmas dinner. It started nearly five years ago with me, TB, JS, and TC. This year, there were thirteen people in attendance. Every one I invited is someone I trust to the highest degree and has greatly affected my life and increased the wonderfulness of said life. There was a moment at the very beginning of dinner, right when I first sat down, I simply sat, breathed for a second, and took in all the love around me, all these equally amazing men (each in their own individual way), and was truly thankful for how my life has progressed. Sure, this year has been harder than any before, a fact that still shocks me, and in some ways continues to increase in difficulty even to today. However, I would not go back, there is very little I would change, and I am humbled by the beauty that is so clearly defined in my life. Would that everyone could be so blessed and surrounded by such a vast and diverse expression of love.
The house felt extremely empty the day after my boys left, but full of good memories of the night before. I am slowly able to enjoy my home again, as the pleasant times occur, allowing me to overlap the ghosts of relationship past that still seem to linger in every seeable space. The blizzard outside is keeping me captive in my home today. A fact that would normally drive me insane, but is kind of welcome today. I got out just enough to run to the store and get food for tacos, and now my car is stuck in my driveway—at a very strange angle. I have read the latest novella of Kelley Armstrong, played with the puppies—they are so cute in the snow, cleaned fish bowls, done ever more contemplating of the why’s and how’s of ‘the relationship’ and of what the future may hold, and I may even begin working on a novel idea that has been rolling around in my mind for the past month or so.
The other day, I got a call from my mom letting me know that she and dad are going to go to a Christian counselor to talk about my issues around gayness. I am proud of them for taking the step to talk to someone, as they would not have done so years ago. However, I was under the mistaken impression that they were gradually becoming more accepting of how my life is. Well, I guess no news is not always good news. I hate that it hurts them. Who can blame them? By all that we know and were taught, their child is going to Hell, and is doing nothing but rush towards that destination. I would be distraught too. Any parent who did not feel these things would be dead inside. Still, I really was hoping that they were beginning to believe that maybe that subject was not so black and white. As has been demonstrated to me oh so clearly over the past several days, I am perpetually caught in wishful thinking that has no basis in reality and can cause others to misconstrue my intentions and sincerity.
The year is drawing to a close, as you may have heard. This year was 100% different than what I expected or anticipated. I have no clue what to expect for 2007. Maybe that is a good thing. Maybe not. Regardless of what is to come, I have learned this: life will continue (until it doesn’t, anyway), strength will be broken and cemented again, loves will deepen, though some may get lost, there will always be something to cry, ache, and mourn over, and there will always be something to laugh at, rejoice for, and embrace in love.

the moment after pause

Well, I did it. Last night (Friday) after I had my girls over for Christmas dinner, I slept in my bed. If I could have afforded it, I would have bought a new bed, new mattresses, new everything. I couldn’t. However, I did buy sheets, the nicest sheets I have ever had. Very comfortable. Turns out, I am glad I could not afford a new bed. I experienced the greatest love of my life in that bed (no, not talking sex). Why would I want to trash that?
I didn’t cry. I guess I did enough of that the night before taking our old sheets off. It was unreal sleeping there again. It felt as if I was stepping back into a life I had left behind. I have felt different all day—not to mention that my back already feels tons better. I missed the dogs terribly, and I could tell they missed me when I let them out this morning. There were moments, like when I would end up sleeping on my side, that I expected to feel his arms encircle me as they always did. Of course, they did not, and I simply hugged my pillow tighter. Bitter-sweet. But, as stated before, I would not trade a moment of our time together. I would do it all again. I never believed I would experience a love so great.
In what was hopefully a good omen, I had one of the most sensual (non-sexual) dreams I have ever had. Hopefully, that bodes well…
I feel stronger today. Love him no less, miss him no less, but know that I will survive in a way that I have not really felt sure of. I am sure this will come and go, but it is a feeling I have missed. No, life is not how I want it right now, the man I love will not crawl into bed with me tonight. I will not get lost in his kiss. I will not wake up to his face. However, I will wake up. I will go see my glorious dogs. I will see my new wonderful roommate, AV. I will work out, scrapbook, sing, and see friends. I will know, that though not with me, he is still out in the world, he exists, and I will be happier than I was a year ago just on that fact alone. I pray that he will be happy, even if it is not me that helps provide that. I pray that he will know how truly amazing and what a phenomenal man he is. I pray that he knows that he is completely and unconditionally loved—and not just by me.
While I may or may not cry at some point in the morrow, I will be alive, I will be purposeful, and I will rejoice in the love that I had and lost, and in the life that I have before me.

moments

I am not sure if I should be proud of myself or disappointed. Actually, who cares? What is, is what is. Why label it good or bad. It just is. I cleaned my bedroom about an hour ago. I took all the crap I had piled on top of my bed. I took off the sheets, while crying, of course. They are in the wash machine now. Although I doubt I will use them again. I had not taken them off since the break-up. That would be more gross had I slept in it. There was something about leaving them the way there were, as if by some strange logic they would be there waiting when he came back. You know, because that is what he would want, dirty sheets…
I wish I could say that I had did this because I have completely moved on and healed. That would be lying. What start now? The futon has begun to hurt my back. Don’t know why it has waited six months to start this, but it has. The pain is nearly becoming constant. Therefore, I have to do something. I thought about moving my mattress downstairs, but I have to snap out of it. I have to face the fact that my bed is empty, that it is no longer ‘our’ bed, and that he doesn’t want it to be ever again. I thought maybe I would get on here and talk about getting ready to sleep in it tonight, but I can’t. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not. It has to be soon, or I am going to end up doing permanent damage to my back. The other part is that I have been sleeping with Dunkyn the past six months, and Dolan by the futon for the past month. Dunkyn can’t sleep with me in my bed. He is too clumsy and if he fell, he would break something or die. I have fallen asleep and woken up every day for the past six months with him, now, I have to go back to the bedroom where I spent so much time with the man I ultimately wanted to spend my life with, alone. With my dogs back in the garage; the other side of the bed as empty as my arms. TB offered to come sleep with me for a couple nights so that I wouldn’t have to face it alone (my friends amaze me, how they put up with my patheticness, and love me in spite of my brokenness). For some reason, though, it would hurt more to have someone there, even someone I love dearly, simply as a replacement for who I long to be there. So, not tonight. The bed is ready for some new sheets, and then ready for me… Sometime this week. It has to be. I am afraid of being in there. I have not spent more than five minutes in there, and only then to pick out clothes. I don’t want to have to face his absence there. My mind has warped it into some strange time/space continuum, and in there, we are still together. He is still whispering soul-mates to me, and holding me close. His lips still meet mine in there. That reality will be burst when I lie there when he is not. It is the moment I have dreaded for months. Well, for awhile looked forward to, because he would reenter it with me. How can one room hold so much power, so many memories, so many hopes, and safety? The safest I have ever felt on this Earth was in that room, in his arms, his gentle snoring in my ear, the feel of his breathing on my neck, and the tang of morning breath on my nose. I have spent so much time analyzing this and trying to tear it apart, and I still can’t comprehend it entirely, but there it is.
I was so angry the last time I wrote. Angrier than I have been in months. Not at him, just life. I am not angry now, just sad. However, I am more resigned and accepting of the fact that he will never be in my life in the same way again. I have to put the pieces of my life back together, keep the treasures he gave me close to my heart, and truly live again, and I have to do it soon. Both for my back and so that there may be some hope of at least a friendship with him.
Therapy ended yesterday, btw. Can we feel the mountains tremble?

common lies/uncommon truth

Crying over nothing. Hurting for no good reason. Mourning a loss when I should be rejoicing. Things happen for a reason. Things turn out the way they were meant to. One day, I will look back and see how miserable I would be if things turned out as I dreamed. Sometimes the worst thing for us is what we want the most. Take a deep breath, clear my head, smile/laugh, get out there and do it again. This is supposed to make me feel better? This is supposed to make me realize that I am not really in love and that I am wishing for something that will hurt me worse in the end?
Maybe that is all true. Maybe every word of it is exactly how life works. But, maybe, just maybe, that is only what we tell ourselves, or others tell us and we choose to believe. Maybe my cousin Gabe died in the car crash because God wanted to be with him sooner, or maybe because life sucks and is unfair and heinously cruel. Maybe your wife left you so that you could find the real love of your life, or maybe it is because she is just a bitch or that your dick is too small. Maybe you lost your round on American Idol because you weren’t skinny enough, or maybe because you sound like Kevin Federline and Rosanne Barr. Maybe my relationship ended because he would have broken my heart worse years from now, or maybe it is because I fucked things up or that is just the way the song was played, homie.
We tell ourselves a millions things to make life more bearable, to blame it on fate, God, or the other person. Sometimes, though, the blame is with us, and sometimes on no one, but life itself. Sure, there are things that I used to want that I am so glad never came to be. I am glad I am gay. I don’t want to be straight any longer, and am so thankful that those prayers were never answered. So, sure, those times truly do exist, and I am glad for them. Still, why do we struggle so much with just shrugging and saying, ‘Yep, life sucks, fucker. Sorry, Mr. Fucker, I mean.’ As I rediscovered during the Bible study on I Peter, life just does that a lot. I learned other things too, but I am choosing to focus only on that aspect at the moment. Go ahead judge, condemn, pity, scorn. Come back and re-read these words at a less peachy time in your existence.
So, there it is. Many hurtful things happen for no reason, for no greater good. Simply because they can, and they do. However, growth still happens, as does happiness and love. Beauty still exists in the pain, in the devastation, the crumbling existence, and in the tears. I love freer, deeper, and with more utter devotion than I could have previously thought possible. Yes, I wish he were here to benefit from the lessons I have learned and the life that is blooming. But, I know, that’s life. I had thought I was on my way out of this ‘self-made’ prison. I thought a new chapter was dawning. I guess it was, just a different chapter than I anticipated. The hurt is more dull now, but even more to the core of me. No longer does the scalpel slice into me, but the sandpaper is now inserted and wrapped around. Maybe more love and more maturity will come from this. Maybe this is lie too. I choose not to believe so.

cheerful

Love Lingering

Tired of the ache
Tired of the pain
Tired of the tears, drowning me in rain

Suffocating in anticipation
Suffocating in desire
Suffocating in limbo, heart constantly on fire

Reliving the kisses
Reliving the touch
Reliving the happiness, he bestowed so much

Waiting upon the promises
Waiting upon arms to hold
Waiting upon words, their fulfillment to unfold

Still I yearn
Still I remain
Still I love him, in unending refrain

No more can I want
No more should I ask why
No more doth love find me, yet still I try

Never say never
Never though I could
Never knew love before, despair: termites through wood

Happiness Revisited

I have written over forty pages in final projects for grad school this weekend. So, what do I choose to do with my time at the moment? Well, write some more, of course. What the fuck else is there to do? Oh, did I drop the F-Bomb too early in this entry? Well then, F you! :)
I must have sabotaged myself with my last blog. Imagine that! No sooner did I hit submit than I went to bed and woke up in a state of depression, that increased as the week went on and cumulated this weekend to have a caporal state of its own, along with its own personality, bad habits, and irritating mannerisms. Hopefully, it will have made plans to visit another of its favorite people over the upcoming week, so that the following days will not be a sob fest, as was this perfectly painful frozen Sunday.
I suppose the happiness that I described is still intact. At least enough for me to realize that I shall survive. God, I sound like a singing diva. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Fuck that. I will settle for less tears and promises kept. Oh, and the moon on a lasso that I can pull behind me so that my face is always backlit.
At least the dogs are still in my world. As I sat in my bathroom floor, crying and gagging, Dunkyn sidled up by my leg and Dolan (having yet to see his daddy in such a state—a true testament on how things have improved) crawled onto my lap, whimpering and licking my face. My normally fiercely independent little pup let me wrap my arms around him and weep into his fur. If only I had a wand to transform those perfect little angels into a real live men. Of course, that man would shed, pee on my carpet, and have an abundance of diarrhea. Not to mention having a little fetish of eat rabbit poop. You know, that sounds completely acceptable. Real love entails accepting flaws and drawbacks. They only increase the love.
Just in time, my therapy sessions end on Wednesday. My therapist is ending the semester and moving on to bigger and better things. Sure sounds like I am ready to move on and face life anew, doesn’t it? I am considering alternative forms of therapy that may have quicker results. Sex therapy, Sonic gorging therapy, and shopping therapy. Should be helpful. In all honesty, the sessions have been very helpful. All but one thing. I was fully expecting to go into the sessions and have her tell me that grieving for six months over the death of a two month relationship was unhealthy, unnatural, and an indicator of other issues. I feared that, but I wanted that. Something to work on. Something to face. Something to fight. Something to change. She didn’t. She said I was feeling things that are completely normal, especially for someone with my emotional make up and sensitivity, and capability for love. Maybe that was her way of saying I was psychotic and I took it as a complement. She never judged or belittled my feelings and emotions. She only tried to confront the negative things I feel about myself and my worth as a result. I miss the churches’ answers. At least guilt and accusations allow you give names to the reasons you are miserable and hurting, not simply state the fact that I am grieving a loss of the like I have never before experienced, and that it is good to celebrate the wonderful things I experienced in my time with him and cherish the ‘gifts’ he gave me.
Really, it all just makes me feel weak, rather pathetic, and lost. If that is what I am putting out to the universe, no wonder he has kept his distance. Geesh.

Glitter, Wizards, and Poop

I am discovering a new form of happiness. Well, new to me. I am sure it has been on the market and purchased by others for quiet some time now, but until recently, I had yet to jump on the bandwagon. What is a bandwagon? Why would a band need a wagon? I was in marching band, we marched, nobody rode in a wagon. Well, except for the gay boys in the band, but they were just sissies. Stupid fags. Wow, that was off subject, even for me. I beg your forgiveness. No, actually, I don’t. It’s my blog and I can cry if I want to. Or, in this case, be pointlessly offensive. Yay!
Anyway, happiness. I set up my Christmas tree nearly a month ago now (can’t believe how fast that went). True, I did not have the man I love by my side, rolling his eyes as I twitter with glee over my “Little Mermaid” decorations. Truth be told, I contemplated not putting up a tree this year. I am glad I did. It’s pretty. And sparkles. Thus entrancing. My little brother and I spent all day yesterday Christmas shopping; I spent today Christmas shopping too! It makes me so happy. I love it. Seeing things that remind you of someone you love and then paying it off sometime in July! And then, Wrapping!!!!!!!! I love it!!! Even more sparkles. Ribbon. Color themes. Last year was Earth tones (my best yet). This year is silver and teal tones (pretty, but nothing beats Earth tones). No, I am not buying presents for the boy I love. It was going to be a dog, puppy actually. I guess it worked out for the best though. While I may be the best present wrapper I know, at least on my block, I have no idea how to wrap a puppy. Pee stains on the paper kinda ruin the festive, sparkly feel. Unless you’re into that kind of thing. If you are, Christmas is probably not your favorite holiday anyway. Oh, speaking of, it is official. This year, it is Christmas time with Christmas trees. Not holiday time or winter season time. Way to go Wal-Mart. Gay friendly and not afraid to call stupid politically correct shit ‘stupid political correct shit!’ How very progressive. My white trash roots are proud!
Oh, yes, happiness. So, while I was Christmas shopping, buying myself some wine goblets for my table at Z Gallaries, I got a text from TB asking if I would like to come over and help he and JS decorate for the winter holiday season and have dinner. I texted back a swift reply of, ‘fuck off, I have better things to do than decorate trees and eat.’ Actually, no, I didn’t. I squealed, wet my pants, the clerk kindly gave me a paper towel to clean up the mess (she didn’t do it herself. I know, rude right? Should’ve gone to Wal-Mart.), and I texted back a quick reply of “Yes!!!!” By the way, I know texted isn’t a word, but I don’t care. Texted, texted, texted. If said three times, it becomes a word (I do believe in fairies!). There you go, my gift to you: a new word for the holiday season and the New Year. Texted: Feel free to use with abandon, free of guilt!
So, I picked up a fruit tart (not a word, I will hurt you) from Whole Foods, and went home to see my babies, do an online class assignment, and change clothes. Here is where the happiness comes in. As I was getting dressed (looking good tonight, I must say, despite the fifteen pounds I have gained the past week [oh, were that I spoke in jest]), I entered my bathroom from my bedroom closet to be met with the glorious sight of Dunkyn and Dolan laying side by side, both looking up at me in expectant adoration. I had a moment. Shocking. The holidays have heightened my sense of loneliness and loss as of late, but there in my bathroom were two beautiful lives that are a constant expression of love, going in both directions. I bent down, the fifteen pounds hanging joyfully over my belt, and buried my face into their fur and we wallowed in our mutual love of each other. Truth be told, they did much more licking than I, but still…
Then this new happiness enveloped me while I was at my friends’ house, eating (Homemade spaghetti, my tummy is still happy), decorating, and watching the second Lord of the Rings (could that be any longer?). These two men have been in my life for five plus years and have been key factors in my sense of joy, self, and maturity. We no longer have to focus on our common pains and hurts (although that is still a part, as it is an any real relationship), we can simply live our lives with each other, intentionally. Happiness. It would have been happier had I not arrived at TB’s street only to realize I had left the fruit tart (shut up!) in my refrigerator back home (20 minutes away). I dare not show up absent a fruit tart (really, you’re pushing it), so I drove back and picked it up and then traversed back again. On the good side, I got to listen to nearly an hour of ‘Wizard’s First Rule’ (very good, btw) on CD, so it was not completely a loss.
What greeted me when I got back home after the festivities? Well, yes, pee on the floor of my garage, but more than that, my little boys’ excitement to see their fruit tart of an owner (you know, at some point, you just gotta own it…).
While listening to my book on tape I realized something. While the book is very good, I have known what was going to happen from the first chapter. There were many twists and surprises, but I knew them, all. Not a bit of that lessened my enjoyment of this wonderful tale. Yeah, part of the point is to get to the end, to the conclusion, the climax, the purpose. But, if that was all there was, I would have missed out on thirty-three hours of the journey, the details, the pain, the beauty. I guess, for this moment, at least, I am happy that my life’s story is not at its ultimate purpose or result or fulfillment. Life is nothing if not details, the small ones. The ones that make a life deep, colorful, sparkly. Pain is a huge part of the details, as is loneliness, and doubt of the purpose and result. However, those details also include true friends, loving family, dog kisses, wrapping paper, maturity, deepening, and pee on the garage floor. My new happiness is not giddy, rose-colored, or undiluted. It is a happiness full of loss, pain, even desperation at times. It is a happiness that is strong, endures (even though it may take a hiatus from time to time), and soaks up the details.
Sigh…
Well, I must stop the vomiting of words and interrupt my loving dogs from their feast of rabbit poop. It is time for me to crawl into the futon and drift to sleep as I am covered by doggy kisses. Glorious poopy doggy kisses. Has there ever been a better or truer description of love?

Serriously?

As many of you may know, I don’t watch the news. I hate it. Life is hard enough, both personally, and with the kids that I work with, that I don’t need to turn on the TV and see a plethora of calamities of which I can do nothing to remedy. The bits of news I do become privy to, I ascertain from gossip or headlines on MSN.com or other ridiculous sources—namely, US magazine. Well, there have been two huge stories to be uncovered over the past few months. One I knew of immediately, and the other I only discovered yesterday. Here they are: 1. Lance Bass is gay. 2. Neil Patrick Harris is a ferret. Oh, wait, no. He is gay too.
This is news? This is worthy to be reported on? I didn’t even get these stories from US, it was real news! Why are these stories news? I am all in favor of all the gay boys coming out when they are good and ready. Oh, alright, all you lesbians can come out too, but take off the flannel. Just kidding. I love flannel. Sexy. Especially when it is worn, tattered and unbuttoned. Take me lumberjack. Take me! Oh, sorry. Got a little off course there. . .
Also, isn’t news supposed to be surprising? Or unexpected? Maybe not, as crooked politicians and priest still make headlines. But, come on! Lance Bass and Neil Patrick Harris? Paul Revere has been in rotting in his grave for like, what, six hundred years or something? Even he knew they were the biggest fags in the lollypop gang! The moment Lance cut his strings, it was obvious the boy was flaming! And Neil? Serriously! Everyone knew who he was playing doctor with! I respect both men and applaud their courage to be honest and real, but they were about as in the closet as Boy George and Aquaman! To top it off, people were surprised, shocked, and even offended. What is shocking and offensive is how completely unobservant and clueless the general public can be.
What next? Shock when Ricky Martin comes out? You really think he was singing to Shakira tell her to shake her Bon Bon? Don’t think so. If he was, then my marriage preparations are all for naught. . .
People make me smile. Shake my head in exasperation and disgust, but still make me smile. :) See?

ponderings of a single mother

There is a new addition to my little family, as of November 7, 2006. Dolan entered the lives of Dunkyn and myself. He is a Corgi puppy, same breed as Dunkyn, but with the normal short hair. A puppy is something I had been considering/planning for a long, long time now, and one I almost followed through on directly after the break-up. However, it seemed unwise to make such a decision then. No one wants a rebound dog. Plus, I still hoped we would get back together, and I knew he wanted a bigger dog, not a Corgi. Anyhow, I am now the proud mother/father of two; how life has changed. I am sure things will calm down after Dolan is potty trained, but for now, the old woman who lived in a shoe had an easier time than I do. My neighbors came over the other day as I was getting ready to go to GG’s house warming party. They came to just say hi. They were roped into baby sitting as I used the precious fifteen minutes to get all prettied up. Completing homework, scrapbooking, housekeeping, blogging, even TV watching have become like the search for the Holy Grail while trying to erase all the water damage from Atlantis. In the midst of all this malarkey, I traveled to Missouri to see my best friend AA, his wonderful wife, JA, and his five month old son, CA—who is hands down the cutest baby I have seen in nigh a decade! I felt it unwise to leave Dolan in the midst of potty training. While I hated to leave Dunkyn, as he is and always will be my favorite, Dolan accompanied me on the long journey through Kansas back to the little town of El Dorado Springs, where I grew up. He did splendidly. We have officially bonded. He is no longer just an adorable puppy who poops and pees everywhere, he is one of my boys.
Being back in Missouri was strange, wonderful, and surreal. First off, not only is that little boy who has been my best friend from seventh grade (well the last half of seventh grade anyway) a husband, he also has a baby that he insists he helped create. I remember in eighth grade when we stayed the night at my cousin’s house (the first time I ever stayed over a friend’s house), we wandered off to a separate room to pledge to each other our undying friendship and our faithful support of our individual walks’ with Christ (that is Jesus, for all you uninformed). Believe it or not, both of those pledges have been followed and are still in effect. I held that little boy’s child in my arms, stayed in the house that belongs to he and his wife, was blown away by the beauty of who he continues to be, and marveled at our processes of life and the so extremely different paths our lives have taken from one another, and yet how we remain who we have always been and hold the same place as ever in the other’s life. There is such power in this world, there is such good, there are things that are true, pure, and real.
I attended the church where I grew up (they had recently completely remodeled, so it was unfamiliar), where I devoted my existence to Christ and prayed He would remove the sin of Homosexuality from me (thank God for unanswered prayers—Garth really knew what he was talking about). At church, I saw a man there who I had gone to high school with (AR) who had always been a troublemaker and some of the most self-righteous thought would not amount to much. Just being in his presence for a few minutes told me all I needed to know about the man he has become—honorable, proud (in the good way), caring, honest, strong (not to mention good looking; pretty wife too!)—thank God we are not shaped only be other’s expectations of us. I had lunch after, with family I rarely get to see, yet love immensely (three of the most beautiful, perfect little girls). Well, they aren’t so little anymore; we are all getting older. I also saw my Great-Aunt, whom is dear to me and other cousins. To them, I am still the boy I was in high school. Many don’t know of the ‘gayness’ (I have no idea how that is not obvious at this point in my life, I guess we see what we want to see) or of the multitude of ways my beliefs and outlook have changed. I am not ashamed of how I turned out in the slightest, but I know it would cause them (at least the older generation) pain and worry, so what’s the point?
I visited my grandparents’ graves, and cried by the grave of my gorgeous/wonderful cousin Gabe, who died at 26 three years ago in a horrific accident. I saw my childhood home and many of the places that were so dear to me. They are still are, but it was someone else who lived and loved there. There are traces of that person still in this man that I am now, but are only traces.
I saw my little ‘sister’ on my final way out of town. She was always attractive, but has seriously grown up to be one of the beautiful, sophisticated, powerful women I have seen in my entire life. Our lives too have gone very different paths, and in many ways we don’t know what the other has gone through, but seemingly we have shared the most as far as certain hurts, questions, and journeys (no she’s not gay). While the boy that lived/grew up there is gone and so very different than the man that types this, there are those few select people who I grew up with who I don’t feel have to know every detail of what I have gone through to know who I am. We simply are and have always will be.
I am glad to be home, but I am glad I went. Now to try to lose the fifty pounds I gained back in the few days I was there. My boys are at my feet, getting on each others’ nerves. Papers, scrapbooks, chores are waiting to be seen to and completed. Friends and loved ones back home may have had me cross their minds as Dolan and I drove back to Denver today. Friends and loved one here at Home may have had me cross their mind and look forward to seeing me again soon. There is more changing to do. There are more people to know and love. There are more questions to ask. There are more hurts to endure. There are old loves that still remain. There is life to be lived, experienced, shared, and treasured. The mix of old and new, traditions and progression, loves and hurts make up the man I am now. Contradictions that seems to conflict makeup this person that I have become; I value every last one of them.

the savage homosexual hyena

When will we get it? Really? When? Why must we make the same mistakes and the same self-righteous proclamations as those who oppose us? I expect a lot out of the people I align myself with and consider part of my group of people. Once again, I am let down and embarrassed by our group mentality and behavior. In this instance, I am referring to the situation around Rev. Ted Haggard.
First off, let me admit that I am not immune to the lesser reactions that are the most pervasive. Part of me does get a sick thrill out of seeing those (I am not referring to Haggard in this instance, as I knew nothing of him before yesterday) who slander the gay community caught up in their hypocrisy, lies, and less than idealized actions. And, I always believe (almost always) that truth should be told, no matter who the truth is.
In that instance, I don’t mind, if the accusations are indeed true, for the truth should be spoken. When you are in the public eye and in a leadership role, such is the risk that is taken knowingly. People in such position must be more careful than the average man with their words, behaviors, and actions. However, they are just that: Man. They are fallible, wounded, imperfect, and beautiful.
What disgusts me is how we fall upon these fellow humans with all the tact, care, and humanity of rabid hyenas. And for what? To be vindictive? To get revenge? Oh, I know, we say we are doing it to show the true lives of those who would condemn us and bring to light their implied similarity to us (indeed their darker nature than ours [I am not calling homosexuality a darker nature—I am referring to the aspects of humans that are harmful]). I feel our excuse is a lie, or a way to deceive ourselves. Who are we convincing that gays and lesbians should have equal rights by going on a witch hunt? A pastor or politian who lives a secret, double life, often in direct opposition of what they proclaim the most is not news. It is common place. Especially in our generation. We grew up with pastor after pastor and politian after politian having to resign their position in shame and controversy. And guess what, most conservatives (of which I am one—to a point) still believe gay people do not deserve equal rights, and most church going people believe that gays, by definition, will go to Hell. Outing someone and reveling in their shattered lives only excites those who were against them to begin with. Their followers and supports only have more ammunition against the ‘evilness’ that is us, how strongly we ‘corrupt’ others.
When we will learn? MLK spoke of honor, integrity, compassion, righteousness, strength, power, and peace and love over forty years ago. We still have no idea how to live up to those expectations! Do we truly believe that we will gain our rights and convince others of our equality by attacks, hate, and screaming?
Someone compared my attitude to Pollyanna today, in a belittling, negative way. Well, maybe they should watch the movie again. That annoying little brat changed an entire town—Disney style. What could be gayer than that! Hallelujah!
Instead of reveling in the destruction of a man and his family (regardless of how he may or may not have treated us or our cause), let us focus on having the best among us attain leadership positions and rally for our community to live lives that shout to the world that that we are not only equal, but that we are an asset to humanity and a truly amazing group of people. After all, the truth should be shown at all times!

three steps forward, thirty steps back

I realized something about blogging today. Or at least about my blogging. I have begun to censor myself. I had become aware that more people have been reading my words than I thought they would, which is great. I am glad people are interested. However, I have become aware of how many of my blogs revolve around the break-up, broken-heartedness, and bitterness. Reading my blog can be a real downer. So, over the past couple weeks, I vowed to no longer write about such things, to quit going on and on and on about my own petty hurts and feelings. I realized today that this may been even more pretentious than actually doing what I was doing. The entire reason I started blogging (shallowness alert) was to talk about me and what I am going through, as a medium to help me process whatever I may be going through at the time. If it so happens that I go through the same fucking thing for the next fifty years, well, then that’s what I should write about. Why pretend to be anything other than what I am? Doing this may mean that no one reads this blog. I am sure I wouldn’t. Life is full of enough hurt without hearing some self-absorbed prick ramble on and on about his own. Well, in an act of pure, unadulterated selfishness, I trudge onward.
The depression that I expected to show up Sunday after such a great Halloween weekend came to visit on Monday night, and has yet to take its leave. Wonderful experiences are (get ready for it, this is deep) wonderful. That state of wonderfulness would be heightened to a greater level of wonderfulishishness if it were to be shared with someone—ideally, the one you want to actually share it with. My lack in that department has hit home once again. Knowing the scorn that would have crossed his face when he saw the whorishness of my outfit, the rolling of the eyes at our ridiculous gayishness, at the silliness of it all—I didn’t get to experience those things. I know it sounds silly, but I loved those things. They defined who he is and who I am and how we complemented each other. My arms, my bed, my hands—still empty.
Somehow in the discussion of my class last night in grad school, we got off onto the subject of relationships. The professor (she is my favorite) talked about one of the theories of relationships: the make it or break it points. In this theory they occur at the following stages: Six months, Year and a half, Seven years, Sixteen years. In other words, just when you think you are safe and can truly rely on your spouse/lover, then it is time for a crisis and to reevaluate your relationship and question if you should stay together. Really?
Another theory, albeit similar, was that we are meant to have three lovers throughout our lifetime. One for our twenties and thirties, one for our forties and fifties, and the last one for the fianl years of our life. After all, how can we expect the person we fall in love with in our twenties to still meet our needs in forty years? Well, I guess I am still naive. Isn’t that the whole point? To grow and change together. To create a stable, loving life together. To not simply be focused on our own needs. Sure there will be times where our needs do not get met, maybe for years at a time. There will be times where we don’t met theirs, maybe for years at a time. Still, to walk hand in hand, side by side with the person you CHOSE! Love, real love, is a choice. You stay with it; you fall in love again and again and again.
The wonderful thing about love is that it take two people. The horrifically terrifying thing about love? It takes two people. At any moment, one of them can throw up their hand and say, ‘I’m done! I’m bored! I don’t feel me needs are met! Thanks for the first fifteen years—see ya around!’ Maybe love wouldn’t be as wonderful and life-altering if it did not come with the challenge and the risk. But maybe, it would. . .
By, hey, what the fuck do I know about it? Just because I want it doesn’t mean that is reality or what will happen.

Satyr revisted

Most often, when a goal comes to fruition, or an anticipated event has passed, I am overtaken by a sense of melancholy depression. Who would have thought? Well, the exception has taken place. Halloween was wonderful. No, my body did not look like I fantasized that it would, and my back hurt from how much I sucked in my stomach, but I fulfilled what I promised myself a year ago: I was daring and half naked for Halloween! JS and TB’s Fairytale themed party was a complete blast. I had so much fun, even if I was a nervous wreck over my costume! It was a near perfect day. End scene.
This is where depression usually has its reservations, however, not so this year. The following day was just as great as the actual holiday. For two good reasons. One, friends. Second, Food!!!!!! I ate and ate and ate and ate!!! It was reward day for fulfilling my goal. I ate enough to last a week. The diet is back on today, but wow, the hedonistic values of yesterday will sustain me for quite awhile!
Nothing huge or life moving to say today, but I had to draw the Satyr extravaganza to a close.

Juxtaposition

Those of you who read these self-absorbed words on a regular basis and those of you who love me or know me at all are aware of my self-proclaimed favorite food: Sonic. Double cheeseburger, with mayo, without the pickles; side of tatter tots with cheese, and a cherry-vanilla coke. Here is a well kept secret. Very, very few people know this: My favorite food is not actually Sonic. Gasp! Heart-palpitations! Deceit! Shock! Planets colliding! My real favorite food: My dad’s homemade fried chicken, with mashed potatoes and gravy. True, it is partly that reminiscent aspect of feeling like a safe little kid again when I eat it. It is also true, though, that it is partly due to the fact that my folks are the best cooks anywhere.
Being raised in Missouri (Missoura, for you natives) ensured that my main food group was grease. Fried okra, fried zucchini, fried catfish, fried steak, fried spinach, food, food, food, fried, fried, fried. While I never want to live in Missouri again, never ever ever, I am still very proud of my white trash, Ozarkian, hillbilly roots (truly, I am). Part of those roots is the love of grease—to the point where part of my blood is grease cells, it helps the blood flow more smoothly.
Last night, I came face to face that I have shed the last vestige of my upbringing, all very unintentionally. I had already lost most of my accent (most), I quit wearing the fourteen pound belt buckles, I traded my Wranglers in for Luckies, I even eat Sushi at times. The only thing holding me onto my roots, my sense of where I come from, and where I am going was my love, adoration, and worship of grease.
In the goal of creating the body I have always wanted and getting ready for Halloween, I have been eating healthier than I ever dreamed possible. Compared to most truly health conscious people, I am sure that what I consider healthy is laughable, but still. . . As I was saying, last night, I went out with my beautiful friend MD. We got salads and then went to coffee at Diedrich. While there, we decided to go see the movie “Capote” (an absolutely wonderful film, by the way—if it does not win some awards then someone very evil and corrupt is in charge of the movie voting process thingy). While there, she and I split a huge bag of popcorn. Coved in butter. It was delicious.
The movie was nearly a fourth over as I tilted the bag in the air and let the remainder of the carton empty into my ever ravenous mouth. As the last kernels slide down my esophagus and into my awaiting belly, a rumble coursed through me. My stomach cramped and I let out an uncomfortable groan. About half-way through this perfectly crafted film, I embarked on my first of three trips to the bathroom. Vomit galore.
I managed to finish the film. MD kindly brought up the fact that we had just eaten salads. With the rash of nasty sickness imparted by such deceitful vegetation lately, fear shot through my body. I was going to die. All for trying to be thinner. Serves my vain and conceited self right, I supposed. I was able to make it home before the final (and much more painful) throws of bile overtook my being. My neighbor enquired of me when he saw me today because of all the retching sounds coming from my house last night. (That is embarrassing on so many levels.)
Shakily and weakly, I crawled into bed with Dunkyn and fell asleep. I woke up feeling perfectly fine and dandy this morning. No Ecoli. No death by greens. No drama. It was the popcorn. Grease overload. Grease has transformed from being manna from Heaven to being poisonous Kryptonite. It is a sad, sad day. It wasn’t enough of a slam to my upbringing that I am a gay, mostly liberal man. I am now a tree-hugging, health conscious vegetarian. I could just shoot myself from the shame!

In search for the gay Jean

I was in the mood to blog, but I had no idea what I wanted to blog about. Most of the time, when I feel like that, something normally pops into my mind while I am on a walk with Dunkyn, or something flies down my shirt, or something sparks the tears and loneliness. I had decided that I was not going to blog today, but I still had to get out of the house. So, I came down to my favorite coffee shop, Diedrich, so that I could kill an hour before class starts. I have done homework all morning, so nice break is in order. Of course, after I get my drink and biscotti, I discover that the internet connection is down here, as per normal. What to do, what to do. . .
Well, I read some of the voting recommendations from OutFront and decided that I should probably leave and try to accomplish something. That is when I saw it. Inspiration. Muse. Juxtaposition. Today is October 23rd. It snowed last week. I had to turn up the heat in my home today because I was shaking as I was working on my group project. I have had to get out the heated water bowls for the bunnies, as they were trying to lick ice cubes for a day or two before I noticed—I am such a bad dad. I am planning on putting my Christmas tree up this coming Sunday (No, it is not too soon. Keep your opinions to yourself—who asked you?). Oh, yes, inspiration, sorry got distracted. Anyhoo, I looked out the window of Diedrich and saw a skinny, yet muscular, boy at one of the out door tables with his shirt off, displaying his body for those at his table. I almost burst out laughing. It is nearly November, time for sweaters, scarves, woolen jackets—not time to be dressing like we are laying out by the pool.
Now, to be fair, it is warm right here. Somehow much warmer here than at my house, only a few short miles away. The sun is bright and cheerful, pleasantly warm. Still, who else would be shirtless, outside of some gay twinktified man-cub? No wonder people laugh at ‘the gays’ and call us shallow. Just because you have no fat on your body does not mean you have to show it off at the beginning of winter. In fact, it would make more sense to go shirtless if you had fat on your body—more insulation. Disgraceful!
Who am I kidding? We all know I am just jealous!
Speak of jealousy. . . I attended JS’s housewarming brunch party yesterday. Ok, let’s sit with that for a bit: HOUSEWARMING BRUNCH PARTY. Really, could we be any gayer? I love it!!! As I was saying before you interrupted with your stereotying of my Sunday recreational activities. . . JS’s home is beautiful, perfect for him. A perfect blending of the modern, industrial, cutting-edge chic, and downplayed elaborate. Speaking of downplayed elaborate: have you seen my friends lately? I really do forget how gorgeous they are until they are all crowded into one small space. Each body perfectly quaffed, each stomach washboard flat, each bicep containing enough muscle to make a Cornish hen jealous, each hair laborishly windblown, each eye brow perfectly arched and shaped. Every pair of designer jeans snug and appropriately distressed looking. Every shirt with just enough tightness to cut off circulation at the bicep and to show the faintest hint of constantly aroused nipples. Each person perfection in their individual outfits designed to look as if they had just rolled out of bed and thrown something on. The interesting thing is that if you do actually roll out of bed and throw something on, as I did, it does not give the sexy mussed up look (that takes hours to create) and simply looks unkempt. I had one of my moments (lasting two hours) of extreme insecurity, where it is nearly impossible for me to converse with those around me. Instead, I focused on the food (yeah, that helps the situation) and then became consumed by cleaning up and drying the dishes. You see, the dishes don’t give a shit if you look like a male model or if your triceps flex and tremble as you pass the dish towel over their surface.
Gay boys. How shallow. All they care about is how they look. Lost in the self-absorption that is their existence. If they saw a baby drowning in a mud puddle, they would screech in abject horror at the audacity of the baby to get its clothes dirty and step over the pathetic thing for fear of getting their new loafers scuffed, but not before scooping up some of the wet earth. Why waste an opportunity to be there recipient of a luxury mud mask?
I am so thankful that I, the gay anomaly, am immune to such ridiculous endeavors and focus more upon the development of my mind and morality.
Speaking of morality, the count down is on. Five days to get my body in as good of shape as possible to dress in my whorish satyr costume. I bought enough canned tuna and yogurt to feed a small Somalian village. If that doesn’t make the fat pour off, I don’t know what will. Now only the largest of pressing questions remains? Do I trim the chest hair for the costume or not? Satyrs are hairy, but smooth is sexy. My life is so hard! Why must I be faced with such dilemma and confliction? I could just weep!

Side note: One of the most wonderful blessings of my life is that my extremely gorgeous friends are even more beautiful on the inside than they are on the outside. It is such a inspiring situation to be surrounded by men and women who push each other to be better human beings, put each other before themselves, and are full of integrity and passion.

Crimes Against Nature

Today has been a day of realizations. Some old. Some new. Some borrowed. Some blue. Wait a minute. . . sorry, none are blue, and I don’t think any are borrowed, but who knows. . . In my attempts to be whorish material by Halloween, I have been at the gym a lot more lately. I have also been eating more, that is not helping. While at the gym there was something extremely horrific going on today. I don’t know if it is something that has been a constant fact that has only now made its way into my consciousness or if there is some highly contagious virus that is spreading through our beloved city. About a third of the men that I saw in the locker room (and it was around noon, so there were many to see) had their shirts tucked INTO their underwear! I know, at this point, you may be feeling that if I can make up something so heinous and preposterous that I have probably made up most of the other details of my life. Well, one may hope, but, sadly, it is true. Shirts tucked ceremoniously into unsuspecting underwear. I was shocked and morally outraged! I am going to attempt to get a proposal on the November ballot to ban such outrageous and unsightly behavior. If you are one of the guilty, for shame!!! In penance, place your face in your toilet and flush.
I have also had to come face to face that I have been lying to my students for over six years. Anytime a bee, hornet, or any other winged stinging thing entered our presence, my students (most often those of male persuasion) would scream in abject terror, flail their arms about haphazardly, and either run for the door or attempt to kill the poor creature for no greater offense than being what it was born to be. Perhaps I project too many of my own issues upon said insect, but still. . . I would roll my eyes, and calmly tell the children to sit and leave the poor, frightened being alone. If they would not bother it, it would not bother them.
Tonight, as fate would have it, within the same twenty-four hours of being a victim of fashion pornography, the insectile world plotted against me. I was in my grad class (the one that is the largest waste of time, btw), and we were all circled around in the front of the classroom, discussing the merit of our readings. Many of my classmates were deeply affected and invested by what was read and discussed—one day they will learn it is all a game, and all bullshit, and that teaching has nothing to do with what we are being taught at present. As I sat there observing the so called educational process trudging ahead full steam, a yellow-jacket (or wasp) began to introduce itself to many of my fellow academics. They, much like the younger academics that I have had so much exposure to, yelped, jumped, and squealed in that strange combination of fear and giddiness. I simply sat with my arms crossed and let my misunderstood friend buzz around my head. I gently swiped my hand across my face so that he could not inspect my eyes intimately. He flew away for a second and then, missing me, returned to my presence. Apparently, the diets and workouts are having an effect and have increased my robust attractiveness. Wanting a better look at the slowly changing physique, my little friend glanced once more at my face, tucked his wings to his side, and plunged down my shirt. I stood up, books falling to the floor and asked for clarification of the situation. The other prospective teachers assured me that my torso indeed had an uninvited guest. I excused myself (manners always of up-most importance) and left the classroom. Outside of the class is a hallway, and one of the walls is completely formed of windows looking out upon the campus. I unbuttoned my shirt, in practice for Halloween, and stood half naked in my grad school. Having finished his inspection of my body, Mr. Hornet flew to the window, perched, and gazed down at me, buzzing his wings in contentment. I think I should be insulted that he chose to not plunge his dagger into me—I knew having Sonic last night was a mistake! Shaking my head, I buttoned up my brown flannel shirt and returned to class and sat down. Everyone smiled at me and inquired upon my health. After being reassured that my skin was still in virgin form, they informed me that I had buttoned my shirt incorrectly. Indeed, I had done less than a sufficient job to cover my ‘nakedness.’ I returned to the glass hallway to strip once more. My friend was still in his voyeuristic position and watched as I made myself presentable once again. Thankfully, as I did not tuck my shirt into my underwear, and I actually was wearing underwear today, I was able to survive this encounter without having to drop trou and readjust, much to my little friend’s disillusionment.

tatters of closure

I am sitting at Diedrich’s Coffee (the gay one), having just finished my decaffeinated, non-fat Mayan Mocha. My new army green hoodie from the GAP (that I look adorable in) having just had some of my Mayan poured down its front. The question I have now is which is more appropriate—forcing others to view my now stained clothing or take it off and make them endure my sleeveless Xena shirt beneath? Outside the picturesque windows, the first snow of the season is falling. Fall will soon be over, and winter will be upon us. I am not ready for fall to be done, however, it does mean that I will get to put up the Christmas tree soon, so that is joyful! As ever, the workings of our world cause me to be ponderous. Will my life take a hint from nature and enter a new season of its own? Will I wake one quickly approaching morning, look in the mirror and see that I have finished the transformation and am ready to emerge as the new creation that will inhabit this body for the next segment of my existence?
I am trying to bring that occurrence about. In addition to counseling, wrapping up my larger writing projects, I have also decided to catch up with my scrapbooking. I was up until three on Sunday morning working on my ‘closure’ relationship page. There were certain items that I have had within arm’s reach at all times whenever I am at home for the past four months. They are now safely enshrined in their protective temple within my scrapbook. Through tears, tape, ribbon, and paper, I enclosed all the hopes, promises, and dreams that I shared. I laid them to rest. They are there as witness that it wasn’t all a dream and as proof that someone really loved me, if only for awhile. My life as a scrapbook—why is it so many of us find such a variety of ways to document our existence, chronicle our loves and loses, immortalize our journeys through this life?



love, the passage

the breath of love, lips upon my brow
the promise, whisper of soul-mate in my ear
the safety found, powerful arms around my chest
the grasp of hope, fingers interlocking mine
the hint of eternity, walking side by side

Questions of intention linger now
Questions of heart crushing fear
Questions of worth and significance stealing all rest
Questions making every moment spent looking for a sign
Questions only brought on by love that has died

now all that is left, reverberating vow
now love’s most tender expression, unending tear
now soul-mate/companion/lover, mythical quest
now empty arms/empty eyes, insatiable pine
now sun and moon still rise and set, hearts lied

--bjw

More self-aborbed bitching ahead. . .

I have been doing so completely wonderful on my diet to be shirtless by Halloween! Yes, yes, keep up the applause. Standing ovation? Well, if you must. . .
Ok, truthfully, I have been doing fairly well on the diet. However, yesterday: lunch with my folks (never good for the waistline) and then a home cooked dinner from KE’s parents for GG and I. Parmesan Chicken, tortellini, garlic bread, salad, pumpkin cake (Heaven)—I had two or three helpings of each. Outside of the food that will force me to wear a parka outside of my satyr costume, the amazing thing at dinner was the atmosphere. I am out to my parents, and they love me completely, but it is not a topic discussed in a casual manner. Yet, here we were with KE’s parents randomly discussing each others’ love lives (or lack thereof) and it was NORMAL. Oh dear Lord! Normal? I know, crazy, right? It was wonderful. It was an experience I had yet had the pleasure of being privy. It made me fantasize of one day being with my husband and our families, laughing, joking, planning the future and it not being tense, forced, or fake. I am not sure if any of those things will come to pass for my life, but it is wonderful to think about.
In the aftermath glow, as I was driving home, I turned on the radio. I was listening to the country station, and an ad came on discussing the November election. It spoke about how ‘no-fault’ divorce was voted upon a couple decades ago and how our children have suffered ever since. Then, with such a paralleled segue, it brought up how we have an opportunity to protect our children from more horrific attacks upon their wellbeing. Vote No on Ref. i.
How silly of me, for a moment, in the bliss of being treated like I was an equal member of a family that only just met me, I must have forgotten what a heinous, vile, dangerous monstrosity I really am. Whew, that was close. Another half an hour and I would have made up my mind to try to sit at the front of the bus next journey into town.
I hope news doesn’t get out that I am gay, the authorities would probably come and take Dunkyn away, as being under my care and influence will harm his emotional and spiritual maturity. I should hand in my teacher’s badge (it is star shaped, like sheriff’s, only with an apple in the center) before my students transform from law-abiding, moral straight beings of light into murderous, perverted faggots. I hope the school’s receptionist office has abnormally strong disinfectant to cleanse the badge. Maybe I should purchase an incinerator, just to be ethically and socially responsible.
And here I thought the name calling on the playground was over. . .

Fears and Supplications

Last night was the second installment of TB’s ‘Life sucks and then you. . .’ Bible study. For the better half of our time together, I was in tears (may wonders never cease). We are working our way through IPeter, but also spent a few seconds on James 1:2-6. We were talking about suffering. A subject (regardless of anyone else’s views of the genuineness of suffering based on a break-up [fuck off]) that I feel more than adequate to address. Some of the messages I took away from last night (not even new messages, but ones I had forgotten or something) were that suffering leads to maturity (Yeah! Let’s get old faster) and completeness. Completeness. I think the tears began to flow with the utterance of that word. Completeness through suffering. Hasn’t my suffering made me incomplete? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I really will become more of who I truly am through the darkness of the past four months. I hope so. I long to be complete again. Maybe more complete than ever before. It was also spoken last night that the suffering will lead to us not lacking anything. How wonderful does that sound? Not lacking ANYTHING! I wish I were fool enough to simply fall under the assumption that this is in regards to my life here on Earth. I know better, but still I can hope. To not lack my companion—whether that be a someone who has yet to enter my life or the man for which I yearn currently. That sounds dandy!
I have had a new fear, which went right along with the whole suffering extravaganza of yesterday. The night before last, I had trouble even sleeping due to it. It feels (I know, overdramatic, self-involved, all-about-me attitude) like most of the things I love and depend on to be stable and whole get ripped away—boyfriend, family members dying, temporary loss of pictures, etc. I am terrified I am going to lose Dunkyn. Irrational. Stupid. Finding new reasons to be afraid. Still, I am afraid. What if he runs out in front of car? He is scared to death of other people, but seems to think it is fun to run directly at oncoming moving vans (I wish I were kidding). What if he gets sick? What if, what if, what if. . . There have been so many moments, hours, days, that I truly don’t think I could have gotten through without him in my life, without him asleep by me on the futon, without his adoration every moment he is in my presence. I know we are to be the examples of God’s love to each other, but really, I think He just tells us that to make us feel important. He really gave that task to dogs. I thought I loved my little guy before all of this—nothing compared to the love I have for him now. There is no question but that I would take a bullet for him, or run in front of the moving van. Thankfully, I don’t think my faithfulness factor is up as high in importance as dear old Job’s was, or Satan would be requesting the life of my furry little bundle of devoted sanity. Tempting fate with these words? I doubt it. I refuse to give into superstition. (Knock on wood)
I have had several people ask me about how therapy went the other day—once again, blown away by the number of you that read these words, much less care to remember and inquire. Thank you. Well, the session was fairly uneventful. My therapist is an older woman (50-60ish). I think we are going to get along just fine. It feels so decadent, even more so than my endless blogging, writing projects, etc., to take her time to ponder over the shambles left in the wake of the breakup. I need to get over that, though, and just dive in and allow more wallowing to transpire in the hopes of maturity, completeness, and the state of not lacking anything. Wow, I really was in the mood to be sarcastic and droll. I would like to smirk at my own cleverness or at least make a pounding social commentary. But, as ever, life is what you get and what you do, not what you want or what you plan. Probably a good thing. . .

Preparations and the back-up plans that love them. . .

It is time. Time. Time. Time. Time to stop the tears, moaning, the bitching, the self-pity, the heartbroken forlorn sense of existence. Sure, the only man I have ever been in love with doesn’t love me. I’m not the only one who has gone through this. While I hope I never have to go through this again, there is a good chance I will. So, it is time. Time to live, really live, again. At least as much as I can make myself. To do this I have to prepare.
As proof that I am serious, I have my first therapy session in about an hour and twenty-one minutes—ok, exactly in an hour and twenty-one minutes. Four months of desperate angst and weeping is sufficient, so professional help is a must! To think that I began this with the notion that it is time to stop the tears. . . yeah, ‘cus therapy never leads to more tears. I hear tears heal though. Shit, I should be near invincible by now! So, therapy, becoming whole, healthy, and optimistic once again. Be able to look at the past with tender reminiscence and fondness instead of overwhelming regret. Yeah. Of course, should this not work out, the tears and heart shatteredness makes for great writing material and a great excuse to indulge in Cold Stone and Sonic. So, either way. . . I win!
That fat little boy (let’s call him Wilbur) that still resides inside this short body of mine is busy making preparations of his own. Last year, at TB and JS’s Halloween party, Wilbur saw, through mine eyes, my friends SM and TH in their costumes which left little to the imagination. They were GORGEOUS. Well, Wilbur, being the superficial, insecure little shit that he is told the body in which he resides that it needed to be in equal form by this Halloween. I was well on my way this past March, then love happened, then life-altering pain and damage occurred and that goal went to inhabit some other gym bunny. Wilbur has little patience and has decided that he doesn’t care about the events of the past several months—for being such an obese little fuck, he is very militant—kinda scary; kinda hot. Yesterday, he forced me to purchase (or rent—tomato, tomauto) a rather sluttish costume. JS and TB’s party is Fairy Tale themed this year (rather appropriate, don’t ya think?). I will be in attendance as a Satyr (think Mr. Tumnus or Puck). So, while my legs and hooves will be covered with hair, from navel up, all that will be seen other than my skin will be a pair of goatish horns. Rutting season, anyone? Back up plan? Over-sized vest and mammoth scarf. I suppose I could just tell people I am a jiggly stuffed pig. Cheers to no Cold Stone or Sonic over the next few weeks. Therapy had better work, or Halloween could be an embarrassment of colossal proportions! God, I hate Wilbur!
Preparation to the third degree: Finish the Master’s degree, write and paint full time (on my off time from underwear modeling), and never work again. Why get a degree if you are actually going to use it?—how unoriginal and lame. I will find a way to turn the inevitable sense of joy, purpose, love-fulfilled state that I will undoubtedly be living in into a muse to further the destiny of my writing/art/modeling career and become the next Emily Dickenson (just with a thicker cock and less suicidal ideation). I suppose, by the slightest inference, that this may not come to pass. “What then?” you ask. . . then I will be back at Diedrich, sipping my blended drink, blabbering on about my life, as if someone could find something redeeming in my words, covering my pain with sarcasm and self-proclaimed wit, returning home to my furry, four-legged romeo, and making ever-unending preparations and plans. Huh. . . I wonder what it would be like to be living a life like that. . . intriguing. . . I should give that a shot sometime. . .

Candlelight, Lovers, and Me

The candle glow from the walls highlight their faces. Their eyes twinkle. Their lips curl in soft private smiles. Their arms drape casually, almost absent mindedly over each others’ chairs or shoulders. As they turn to speak to someone else, their fingers reach behind them and trace the seam going down the other’s thigh. A haphazard glance, a private laugh, unspoken messages through their eyes communicated across the crowed restaurant filled with their friends. The loud conversations, the distracting music in the background, the clatter of forks on china all impede my ears’ attempts to intercept the words spoken from pairs of lips into lovers’ ears. Still, my eyes rise to the occasion and absorb it all. Their beautiful faces, their unintentional glow, their contented happiness just behind the windows to their souls.
The candle glow from the walls color the hairs on my arms golden. My eyes do their best to look others in face and not stare at the table. My lips twist into the most convincing carefree grin I can conjure. My arms rest on the table; my fingers trace the edge of the corn chips before passing my lips. I do what I can to make my eyes turn up at the edges and emit a semblance of a glow so that the walls built up behind them are not as easily observed. I laugh, I hug, I say, “I love you,” and, “Happy Birthday,” and I mean them. I sit, I listen, I watch, I see all that I am not, all that I have lost, and maybe what I shall have again.
I wish I could hate the beauty of the commingled pairs on display. I wish I could. I can’t. There is love for the pairs, both as single bodies and united entities. There is rejoicing for them and pleasure taken from their happiness—there can be no hate.
There can be no hate, but there can be hurt. There can be the constant reminder of love lost and promises destroyed. There isn’t a hand on my shoulder. There isn’t a whisper in my ear. There isn’t a kiss upon my lips. There isn’t a companion by my side. He is elsewhere. He is not thinking of me. Nor will he.
There are chips, though, and taquitos masquerading as enchiladas. There is a dog waiting for me at home, who will cuddle up against my back as we sleep on the futon and try to convince me he is other than dog. There is ‘Will & Grace,’ ‘King of Queens,’ ‘Frasier,’ and ‘Friends’ to fill my ears with voices and laughter as I drift to sleep. There is ice cream to be eaten, papers to write, songs to hear, and emotions to feel. There are candles to light so that they may illuminate the truths of my life yet again.

A story of two days. . .

[Disclaimer: this is not a witty, sarcastic diatribe—sorry—more like journal entry. Hate to disappoint, but what are you gonna do? Sue me?]
Let’s start out with yesterday, which was Wednesday. It was the quintessential fall day. Gorgeous. Perfect weather, perfect breeze, perfect colors. Fall. Fall. Fall. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Nearly. I have been sick all week, and yesterday I woke up after five hours of sleep and could not go back to bed. So, I stayed under the covers on the futon with Dunkyn and watched a few episodes of King of Queens. It was the most relaxed and as close to feeling really sane again as I have felt in months. Then, I got on my computer (still in bed on the futon, mind you) and decided I would send all my pictures that I had been taking the past year and a half to get processed so I could put them in scrapbooks. Yes, I scrapbook. Yes, I am a fag. Yes, people do throw sharp objects at me as I walk down the street—who asked you! Anywho, please quit interrupting, I hit the button to go to ‘My Pictures.’ It opened, as per normal; however, there were no pictures to be found—anywhere. Literally thousands of pictures simply gone. All my pictures of Dunkyn, all the family holidays, the parties with friends, and every picture I have of the man I fell in love with—gone. I searched everywhere for about ten minutes to no avail. Lost it. Completely. Well, you know, Heaven forbid I actually go a whole three days this week without crying!
Needless to say, hours were spent on the computer, on the phone to the expensive help line, with my nose in a paper towel and the bags under my eyes growing ever more obscene—still, no pictures appearing. Just when I think I really don’t have more of my heart to hurt or lose, life just bitch slapped me across the face. There is a certain pleasant tingling sensation as the salt first hits the open wound, but that exotic thrill soon wears off and all that is left is excruciating pain.
While I could go on for several paragraphs dwelling on my angst, anger, and annihilation, I will spare you the torment. I will delete all the tears and mortal wailing and pleading with God. See how much I love you? So, cut already, you are saying. Fine: Mid-Afternoon: my wonderful neighbor KK (wonder what his middle initial is? Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser. . .) came over looked at my computer, hit one and a half keys and bam, there my pictures flooded before my very eyes. True, I can not yet manage to get them printed off, but they are there and at some point will be made flesh. All praise to the Lord Most High. Not even being facetious. So, a wonderful day turned horrible day, turned miraculous.
Onto today. . . I have been depressed all day. There I paused in the typing for several seconds. Have you recovered from the shock? Ok, good then. I did teach today, though, and that was enjoyable. I brought in cookies for the kids. If you can’t teach ‘em, bribe ‘em!
Tonight, despite my everlasting gobstoper of melancholy, I was privy to a miracle of another sort. There is something about seeing someone in the state for which they were created. It is transcendent. Really. I had the honor of being one of the chosen to attend the beginning session of a six (tmi alert, every time I type six, I accidentally type sex, then have to go back and change it—can we all say ‘sexual frustration’ together?) week stint of TB’s Bible study. Now, I consider TB to be one of the most fine, wonderful, honorable, genuine, real men that I know. He has changed my life and in many, many ways saved it—and I am not even being my normal dramatic self. In addition to being a friend of mine, he borders on being a hero as well. So, with that said, the boy could talk about asparagus fungus, and I would be enraptured and enlightened. Still, though, it was awesome to hear him teach tonight. I know of the pain he has been through and some of the curves life has sent his way. To see him and hear him speak of his faith in God and be able to journey down this road with him is miraculous. In spite of hurt, in spite of our brokenness, grief, doubt, and anger, God uses us. God loves us. God allows himself to be seen through the eyes of those like TB and heard through the voice and felt through the arms of those like TB. I was humbled and induced with hope to see God use His people in a real and purposeful way.
I sit now with my ever faithful companion asleep beside me on the front porch swing, as he drools on his paws. I sit now, just as hurt and broken and sad, and growing ever more lonely by the day, to be honest, but still, I sit here now. I am alive. The fight is not over. The end is not present. The truth (not life’s secrets, but the truth) as plain as the tears. Life is good, even when it is not—I still choose to live. I still choose to hope. I still choose to love.
I looked in the mirror today and noticed that my cheeks are starting to sag, just like my fathers. I am already debating the pros and cons of plastic surgery. While I may loose in the art of boyfriends, I will be damned if I am going to let gravity beat me! How’s that for a final thought of the day! Can’t accuse me of being deep!

The Realization of Me

Question:
Who am I?

Answer:
Polygamist.
Lover of Bestiality. “Oh, baby! Baaaaa!”
Pedophile.
Conspiracy Leader.
Terrorist of Families.

Janet Rowland - Republican Candidate for Colorado Lieutenant Governor
"Homosexuality is an alternative lifestyle. That doesn't make it a marriage. Some people have group sex. Should we allow two men and three women to marry? Should we allow polygamy with one man and five wives? For some, bestiality is an alternative lifestyle. Do we allow a man to marry a sheep? At some point, we have to draw a line."
March 17 Colorado State of Mind Rocky Mountain PBS public affairs show about the gay-marriage issue

Rick Santorum
“In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. That's not to pick on homosexuality. It's not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be. It is one thing. And when you destroy that you have a dramatic impact on the quality.”
AP interview

James Dobson
"Dear Friends, I write to you today with a profound sense of concern...Barring a miracle, the family as it has been known for more than five millennia will crumble, presaging the fall of Western civilization itself....
For more than 40 years, the homosexual activist movement has sought to implement a master plan that has had as its centerpiece the utter destruction of the family."
in a July 2004 letter to supporters

(I stole the above three quotes from a news article on Connexion.org.)

It is one thing to hear people debate with passion and vehemence whether I should be allowed to one day marry the man I love. It hurts. It causes anger. It causes a feeling of helplessness. It causes me pity, yet understanding. I understand how and why some people have questions of the correctness of gay marriage. I may not agree with them in the slightest, but I can step into their shoes and see either their concern or their fear.

It is quite a different issue to know that, to SOME people, the very essence of my being defines me as vile, corrupt, evil, dangerous, demented, sick, perverted, abomination, malicious, parasitic and infectious.

Most of the time, I can shrug it off and roll my eyes and tell myself they don’t know me, they are not really talking about me, it’s nothing really personal. But it hit me tonight, reading these quotes, they don’t know me, but they are talking about me. They are saying these things about ME! Seriously? Me? And about many of the people that I love? Me loving a man is equal to fucking a dog or sheep? Me always knowing that I have been attracted to men is equal to molesting a child? Me wanting to have a wedding (not a damned civil ceremony) is equal to me plotting the demise and annihilation of straight families? Did I not come from a straight family? Are not some of my dearest friends straight—along with their wives and children? Well, tonight, it is personal. Tonight, they are talking about me and others that I love. Tonight, they are talking about people you know, people you love, people in your family, maybe they are even talking about you! It is fucking personal! And as childish and pathetically weak as this sounds, it hurts me. It hurts my feelings. It makes me cry. It attempts to strip away the good aspects of who I am (and the good of others) and turn me into a monster, something less than human, something evil.

Question:
Who is the monster?

Question:
Who are you?

Gay Morailty? It's funny, 'cuz it's true. . .

Confession time:
In order to live life as a gay man, I have had to reject the values I grew up with and that were instilled into my very fiber. I have had to come to believe that the Bible is not 100% accurate or factual (or simply that sections are not what is the core of who God is, but simply a reflection of the culture it in which it was written). I was taught to never lie, cheat, covet, steal, kill, act impure, or write down or tell others all the secrets of my life (they will always come back to ruin you). Obviously, I have rejected that teaching as well. If anyone is the king of over-sharing, it is me. Some would say that I have simply used justification and twisted fact and truth to suit my own needs and desires. Easier than actually staying in therapy and having faith for God to change me, right? I’m not so sure. Walking this path is not easy either, although I will admit, I have much more peace and contentment in this state of being than in my previous.
The problem with rejecting values and beliefs you were raised with is, ‘where do you stop?’ If one thing was inaccurate or untrue, then it goes to follow that other things are too. For instance, we were taught to never lie, under any circumstances. Looking back, I remember conversations where we discussed if we had been alive in the Holocaust. What would we do if we were sheltering people in our home so they would not be murdered? What if a Nazi knocked on our door (you see, I come by my overly dramatic self naturally) and asked if we were hiding people? If you tell the truth, you and the hidden are sure to be killed. If you lie, then, well, you are lying. Wrong! Sinful! Always tell the truth and trust God to do His will. Well, if I am ever transported back to the Holocaust and a Nazi knocks on my door when I have people hiding under my trap door (not a sexual reference!) I am gonna lie to the fucker.
So, where do you stop? When are some things simply black and white? It would be easy to reject everything and live a purely hedonistic and self-absorbed life. I started down that path myself for a few years. I found it empty, dark, and joyless. Maybe sex really is best kept in a loving, trusting, real relationship. Go figure!
I was faced with what many would consider less than a bleep on the morality scale yesterday. I had jerked around and messed up a homework schedule. I needed to perform an assessment on some students and have another of my classmates observe me and give feedback. It was due at midnight last night, and I don’t even have an opportunity to be with my kids until Thursday. I talked to a couple of my classmates. A few of them didn’t do the assignment either. They simply made it up and typed a fictional report. Honestly, I am so disillusioned with grad-school and the pointlessness of playing the game for a piece of paper, that I don’t have much of a problem doing that. (The idealistic fifteen year old in me just flipped me off and died.) However, this professor is one that that has gone out of her way for me on several occasions, helped me have courage to quit my job, and genuinely cares and believes in the process we are undertaking. It is not a game to her, as it is to so many of the other professors. She doesn’t expect us to play the game. She expects realness. Making up a paper for her would not be playing the game. Making up a paper for her would be lying. If I did not make up the paper, I would get a bad grade in the class or have to withdrawal and take the course again next semester, causing me to stay in grad school longer. What is a recovering fundamental fag to do?
Well, I wrote a paper discussing an assessment and observation that I had overseen while I was teaching in the Spring. I turned that in. I also turned in a page telling her that I had procrastinated and messed up the assignment, and that I will take what she recommends—the bad grade or the withdrawal.
I value that I will be able to look her in the eye with honor, and that I give her the same consideration and respect she gives to me. No grade or easy shortcut is worth sacrificing that. Plus, as far as I know, no minority will die if the truth was told in this instance. Unless someone reads this and kills me. (I still find it fascinating that I am technically a minority. I should start a club! Oh, yeah, we already have one, the gay bars. I forgot.)
Still, the question remains and other moral dilemmas and hazy situations are on their way. What is truth and goodness? Do those concepts apply for those of us whose very existence and way of life contradicts those values of so many? Of course they do. Still, though, where is the gray appropriate, and where should we use more definitive shades to color our lives?
Regardless, I think God smiled on His little red-headed gay boy last night.

Falling in Love Again

You have no idea how truly fortunate you are currently. You are in a situation that very few find themselves honored enough to be in. You are on a date with me. That’s right, you! At this very moment! Try not to pee your pants from the excitement—there are few ways to ruin a date more expediently. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch though. If you expect me to, huh, well, get giggy with it later tonight, you need to pick up the tab. I may be easy, but I ain’t free!
Right now, I am at the Cheesecake factory. I decided to take myself on a date (along with my computer). Hell, if no one else is gonna ask, I will take myself out on the town. At least I know I won’t break up with myself later! There is nothing quite like being in a fairly romantic setting—lights low, candles flickering, couples dinning, music wafting gently over the senses—with only your bitter, sarcastic wit to keep you company. Wow, I am turning myself on, I should be careful, people may start to stare.
Speaking of being desperately in love with myself, I got an email from a friend the other day, praising my blog. Now, he, admittedly, doesn’t give out blog complements easily. He feels that most people’s blogs are just tools to stroke their own narcissistic adoration. He heaped his accolades upon me for doing something more and maybe a little deeper with mine. I was greatly flattered, and, in truth, felt a little guilty. Surely if there has ever been a blog centered around obsessive contemplation and self-superiority, it is Ramblings. However, I have learned to take a compliment wherever I can get one. And, yes, I did look in the mirror to tonight and comment on how hot I look for this tender date with myself. I really do look unusually attractive this evening. It only happens about once every seven and a quarter months. It is a pity it is wasted on my straight waiter. Hell, he is bringing me mashed potatoes, cheesy chicken, and maybe cheesecake later. I think I am in love.
Pause for a little bit, please, my glorious dinner has arrived.
Dear Lord, that was sinfully good, and I am perfectly full right now—a little too full, I should stop before I order the Carrot Cake Cheesecake or the Cookie Dough Cheesecake (it is still too early for the Pumpkin Cheesecake [Heaven]). Remember just a few short moments ago, when I was pledging my unending devotion to myself and all my stunning beauty? Well, the honeymoon is over, and I am breaking up with myself. God, I hate me! I was in the middle of my scrumptiously delectable dinner when piece of chicken fell off my fork and splattered mushroom sauce everywhere. I quickly looked down to observe the damage—there was none, somehow my shirt was spared. I could not believe my good fortune. I never have such luck! Blessed be! Shortly thereafter, some of my euphorically creamy mashed potatoes felt athletic and jumped off my fork and dove into the mushroom sauce, again, splattering everywhere—including my shirt. It is one thing to be an attractive, single man of mystery out on a date with himself. It is quite another to be a short, pathetically lonely excuse for a man with food dribbling pitiably down his shirt.
Oh, I have to leave you now, I hope you have enjoyed the rest of our date. My Carrot Cake Cheesecake is here!!!!!

emerging

“Who is the man I see
Where I’m supposed to be
I lost my heart and buried it too deep
Under the Iron Sea

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Lines ever more unclear
Not sure I’m even here
The more I look
The more I think that I’m
Starting to disappear

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Oh crystal ball,
Hear my song, fading out
Everything I know is wrong
So put me where I belong

I don’t where I am
And I don’t really care
I look myself in the eye
There’s no one there

I fall upon the earth
I call upon the air
All I get is the same old vacant stare

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Oh, crystal ball, hear my song
Fading out
Everything I know is wrong
So put me where I belong”

Song: “Crystal Ball”
Artist: Keane
Album: Under the Iron Sea, 2006

Today is milestone for me. One week exactly. One week since I broke down and wept. I didn’t think I would get here. Maybe it should have come sooner. Do most people grieve for a solid three months? Do they shrug their shoulders and simply say, “We’ll that didn’t work out, what next?” I hope not. I hope not everyone grieves for three months either. It ain’t fun. Even if some say that I have chosen to grieve and hurt to an extreme. Maybe that is true, maybe it is not. Neither negates the truth of the matter.
It is funny, maybe not funny Ha-Ha, but still funny. I was so afraid that I would lose myself in my last relationship (in an all-consuming way—like in my first) that I messed it up, not able to really show and give the love I felt. Even with all my walls up to protect myself, I lost myself—just in a different way. Not to another man like I had feared, but to pain. I would look in the mirror and not see Brandon anymore. I used to be happy in the very core of me; now, all I saw in my eyes was dull ache and desperation. I thought I had already worked through the things I didn’t understand and yet I was thrust under the waves of compounding unanswerable questions. Life was, once again, shaken to the very foundations of my stability. It scared me, thoroughly. More than ever before in my life, actually. I was not sure I was going to get to the other side and regain a semblance of sanity again.
I disappeared for awhile there. That Brandon is not back yet. He never will be. That is ok. A new Brandon is emerging. Breaking out of the chrysalis that has enclosed me for the past ninety days. I am new. Some good, some bad. I have a whole new set of baggage attached and some hurt that will rest in my being for the duration of my life. I also am stronger, a little wiser, and while I have a whole new set of guards up, I also am more willing to risk those being breached and let myself be open to the possibility of being truly loved and even truly hurt again. You see, I learned that if you protect yourself so much that you can not risk real love, you won’t get to experience love fully, but you will still get to experience the pain, fully. Pain comes if we choose it or not. Protect ourselves or not. Love is always a choice, always a risk.
Are the tears over? I doubt it. Is the constant state of desperate insanity over? I think so. Am I going to choose to risk love and being loved? Although it will undoubtedly be clumsy and awkward, yes, I am. There is a man I am familiar with, a man who has new aspects to him, a man who is scared and excited about who he is becoming that looks back into my eyes from the mirror now. Yes, there is still pain in those eyes. The sickeningly beautiful thing about pain. . . it is where joy, love, and hope blossom from.
“Tell me life is beautiful!”

Lube: The Quest for Equality

I thought I would switch things up a bit tonight as I blog. You know, try something new—something different. I hope you can handle the shock to your system. I am not going to talk about how simple, easy, and fair life is. No, no. I am going to bitch. Maybe even be a bitch. Maybe both! Gasp! The audacity! Yes, that is what I am going to do: Bitch and Be a Bitch! I may also invent a cereal and name it that. That would sweet.
Today, as it should every crisp, partially overcast, yet oddly muggy Sunday morning, my mind turned not to tulips, daffodils, and chrysanthemums, but to AIDS. Hard to make a bouquet out of, but still deserving of attention. Today was the AIDS walk (for which I raised a big whopping $0—thank you so much, all you faithful who gave so generously! I did put in $20 for myself to walk—maybe everyone was already giving to the Help Pass Ref I & Default Amendment 43 fund—yeah, that’s it). Anywhoooo, the AIDS walk. . . (remember, I said I liked to use these [. . . ], you were forewarned).
I saw something there, while I was helping to defeat the virus by shuffling my feet on asphalt, that I see at every ‘gay’ event that always makes my hackles rise. I could choose to go off about how the AIDS walk is a ‘gay’ thing, but I will save that delectable treasure for later consumptional delight. I am upset, offended, astonished and ashamed of the trash cans! The Trash Cans!!! Burn them all! No, they are not made of dented, tacky aluminum, or as boring as black bouncy-back Rubbermaid receptacles, of such I can only wish. They were made of cardboard. I have no particular problem with cardboard. It is fairly multifunctional and is very equal-opportunistic. I do, however, take issue with the design gracing the ever humble surface of this miracle named cardboard. It was plastered with ads for ID Pleasure. For those of you innocent types (as I laugh, like you would be reading this!) that is a [use your whisper voice] personal lubricant. I actually have no problem with ID Pleasure. It is the one I have chosen to spend my money on, and would recommend it to others if so asked—and obviously, even if not asked. However, could we be more tacky and socially offensive?
Why is it, that every single gay event I attend I am accosted by free condoms, lube, or cock rings, porn, dildos. . . (ok, not all those are free, but still)? Why is my identity as a gay man synonymous with all of that? Yes, yes, I know that ‘gay’ is SEXUAL identity, but come on, really?!?!? Can we grow up and have some class yet? If we wanna do lube wrestling later on at Tracks or something, great! But maybe we can save some of our so-called ‘liberation’ for when it is a little more appropriate. It greatly disturbs me to see children, families, and helpless puppies walk by all of the propaganda and smut. My family has greatly struggled with me being gay. They are wonderful, truly, to me. They love and adore me, but they have fear of what it all means and what the consequences may be for me. Why wouldn’t they? I will never ask my family to lower themselves and deface their sense of decency (based not at all on gay or not) by shoving their faces in the blatant lack of moral sensitivity. I wish they could join me in an AIDS walk or a PRIDE celebration one day. No sooner would I ask or expect them to take a field trip of a bath house.
Most of what we show the world is simply for shock value, to get a reaction, to say ‘fuck you! I am who I am, and you will never tell me who I can love!’ Well, I echo that sentient, fully! But, I would like to say ‘fuck you!’ in ways that show who I am and who I love, show them that is what they are judging and condemning! They are judging love and passion and something real and genuine and pure. Instead our ‘fuck you’ comes out confirming everything they are trying to condemn. In that endeavor, I join them. I condemn a culture that has no problem shoving every form of sexuality in the face of children--that has lost its morality and decency compass. It is no different than all those preachers who scream about how great God’s abundant love is and, without so much as a breath, bellow of His hate of faggots and dykes!
None of this is said in shame of who I am or in devaluing my gay brothers and sisters. I am proud that I am gay man. I have no shame in kissing the man I love. Kisses and hand holding, etc. should be done in public, if done for love’s sake and not to make a statement. I have no shame that I am sexual. I am not going to go to hell for having sex with men. However, I will loose who I am if I am not true to the belief that we are more than just animals, that I have more to offer as a gay man than just my cock, that we have an obligation to each other to show the true beauty, goodness, and brilliance that exists within our Gay kingdom (or queendom, whichever you prefer). Let’s promote safe sex, and NEVER be ashamed of who we are or even of what we do in the bedroom (and other places [on really good days]), but let us present ourselves with pride, honor, responsibility, class, and sensitivity! One of our stereotypes is that we, as gays, have the patent on style and taste. Let’s live up to that stereotype, shall we?