the Dent

Barely visible, only seen if truly looking
A concave, lowering worth, to most
Proof of love lost, to me
Lingering glance rushes it all back
Each moment, each breath

The feel of my back thrust into steel
Fingers clinched in hair
Arms crushing skin
Breathing caught, the world frozen
Eyes wide, gazes penetrate

Lips clash together
Tongues ravenous in hunger
Teeth collide in a gnash
Kisses of tainted red
Blood answering lusts’ call

Burn as stubble grates stubble
Gasps when earlobes are bit
Sounds drowned, hearts pound
Emotions enflamed
Bodies on fire

No one sees it but me, only me
But I look nearly everyday
Returns me back to loss
To passion
To love

the luncheon

this time, when i see you
i won’t long to hold your hand
my lips won’t remember yours
your eyes won’t call out to mine
pounding won’t overtake my heart

this time, when i see you
i’ll realize you’re not the man i thought
clarity will show that i am better off
your flaws will dim your shine
my tears will cease their flow

this time, when i see you
i’ll wish i were with someone else
you won’t be the man of my dreams
my reminiscence of you will prove faulty
normalcy will be your crest, nothing more

this time, when i saw you
you proved to be the man i knew you to be
my soul once again felt safe, at peace
your eyes looked into mine, didn’t want to leave
you walked away, my heart cracked, again

maybe next time…

Gemini

I wish for the sun
Wait for its warming touch
Long for the clarity it brings
Then it arrives

I fantasize about moon
Of glitter of the stars
The romance it may bring
It shows its pearly face

I miss the sun

I dream of owning a home
Painting the colors that cheer
Creating my own little universe
I sign on the dotted line

I want to see the world
Leave everything behind
See things I never dreamed
Arriving on a foreign land

I ache for the safety of home

I envision his arms enfolding me at night
Feel his lips upon mine
Practice vows and promises
His eyes looking into mine

I am desperate for freedom
To live my life for me
Have my cake and eat it to
I am strong, capable, independent

I beseech for the man with to share my life

Idiotic Perspicacity

I shouldn’t be writing right now. I shouldn’t. I should grab the dogs, get downstairs as fast as I can to the futon, turn on some show and fall asleep. I should. I shouldn’t go on and on about every single damned thought, feeling, fear that floods my mind. I shouldn’t. I should know better by now. I should know that things are better if I just keep my mouth shut and let things play out. I should. Since when do I do what I know I should do? Maybe tonight will be the night where I change my way. Maybe. It won’t be. Plus, when I started this blog, I swore I would be nothing but honest. There, that is it. I have to write to maintain integrity. I am in no miniscule way overanalyzing, setting things up to fail, or being neurotic. I owe it to my blog, to the process, to the credibility of the craft. See, I must, it is my duty. Well, if I must, then I must…
I will be the first to say that I unintentionally sabotaged my last relationship. You may have heard of it. I think I might have mentioned it a time or two over the past eight months. I did, I sabotaged parts of it, still, he said he thought we were soul mates and didn’t survive my sabotaging—either soul-mates doesn’t mean what I think it means or I am even more powerful at my sabotagation that I thought. Through that process, I learned that I truly do want a relationship. One that will lead to marriage and all those white-picket fence ideals (although I would prefer rod-iron and river rock, white-picket, I don’t think so). So, I know what I want now, truly. One would think that would make things easier. It probably would for most people. It would. However, it appears that it does no such thing for me. After all, I make bunny drug deals in the dead of night, why would normalcy and common sense have any affect upon my reality?
Here is something else I want with a relationship. I want it to go at a slow pace. Not crawling, but not on fast-forward. Stages of romance and courtship. I want to be the one pursued. The one asked out. But not pursued to the point of scaring me off (easy to do). I want to be romanced. But not brought flowers. I’m not a girl. Flowers later on when it is officially a relationship? Fuck yeah, I am all kinds of girl then! I want to date several people. Not in that way. Don’t want to sleep around. Don’t want to lead anyone on or hide things. I simply want to go on dates and truly get to know several people and have the romance progress from there. I don’t want to feel like we have to get married after the first date, but I do want to feel there is a potential for marriage after the first date. I want to feel surrounded, protected, safe. I want to feel masculine, powerful, capable. I want to have hours of unending conversation and endless kissing. I want to have hours of comfortable, blissful silence—but still with the endless kissing. I want the butterflies, sweaty palms, shortness of breath. I want the easy peacefulness, contentment. I want him to be sweet, gentle, kind. I want him to have an edge, a bad boy in there somewhere that behaves himself. I obviously want stars, candlelight, and moon glow at lunchtime. I long for the safety of featherbed while skydiving. I want the mother-fucking cheeseburger to make me loose weight and make my six-pack more defined (I am sure there is a six-pack under there somewhere).
I want it to be deep, meaningful, complicated. I want it to be simple, pure, obvious.
I guess it makes sense in someway that all the things I want contradict. After all, the prospect of possibly dating someone or going on dates with a few someones thrills me, excites me, and makes me all a-twitter. It also terrifies the shit out of me. Completely. The saving grace in all of this? There has never been one thing that has been worth doing (My counseling job, grad school, teaching, blogging, my book, being a better friend and brother) that has not terrified me, some still do. I have learned that if I am not terrified, probably ain’t worth my time.

It is quiet right now, and I can hear Dunkyn dreaming

I’m in one of those moods right now. Contented melancholy. I think that is a beautiful word, just the way it looks. Melancholy. It just flows. Can’t you just see it in old English lettering, tattooed down a tricep? Yum. Either way, that is the mood I am in right now. The kind of mood that if I was with the man I love right now, we would be curled up in bed, maybe with a candle burning, maybe not. His arms would be around me and I would be stroking the hair on his forearm. One of those nights where we would simply talk quietly, about nothing, about our plans for the summer, our dreams, the next fifty years, what kind of mix-in’s we would try the next time we went to Cold Stone. It wouldn’t get all hot and steamy, although there would be kisses. There should always be kisses. He would drift off to sleep first, and I would soon follow, serenaded by the lullaby of his gently snoring.
Tim McGraw is singing to me now about being angry all the time as I write these words. Wouldn’t really mind falling asleep in his arms either, now that you bring it up. I feel fragile at the moment. Not mentally, just in general. There are so many things I want to do with my life still, to accomplish, experience, give. Yet, there are, of course, no guarantees. How many hundreds of people’s lives ending were reported on the news this evening? I could easily have been one of those today, or any day for that matter. I think about my gorgeous, amazing cousin Gabe who died over three or four years ago now at the age of 26. I have often wondered over his death. We were very similar in many ways, but between the two of us, he had so much more to readily give. So much more natural grace and confidence. He would walk into a room and people would fall in love with him. The kind of man that was beautiful on the outside and twice as attractive on the inside. Why him? Why is he gone and I am still here? There are many experiences that I have had over the past couple years that I think of Gabe when I am going through them. Even attempting to write this new book, it is partially inspired by Gabe. From my point of view, Gabe lived every moment with passion and gusto, all the while never ceasing to sacrifice of himself for those around him. I have often wondered what he would have said, how he would have looked if I could have told him about me being gay. I wasn’t out when he died. However, if I only have an hour to spend with him, that would be one of the last things of importance to speak of to him. I really believe, though, he would have looked shocked and then simply smiled at me in his way and assured me of my worth.
People drive me absolutely fucking crazy with all their drama, pettiness, and selfish cruelty. Even more so, I am astounded at the vast number of truly beautiful phenomenal people we walk this journey with everyday. I know I should probably look at humanity and be overwhelmed with all the disgusting vileness of our species, and at times I am, but most of the time, I really think I can see people the way God must. They are wonderful, their depth, their complexity, their ability to give everything for what they are most passionate about. Even in the simple ability to create music, compose art, weave written words to form universes, astounding. I am sure God weeps for us daily with our questionable choices and daft hard-headedness, but He also weeps out of pure pleasure of His creations.
I am still wanting to say words. Not sure which ones, but there is some solace for me as I write tonight, whatever that means. However, the thoughts and feelings that are coming are not flowing in such a way that my fingers are able to capture them. Therefore, it is time for them to concede to their limited ability. Thanks for allowing me to use you as a stand-in for the arms that are not here to hold me as I fall asleep, for the ears that are not here to be carried to dreams by my rambling, for the heart that as of yet does not beat in synchronization with mine. For continuing to journey this path with me. Take a moment to be melancholy today, close your eyes, hear rain on the window, feel a fleece blanket around you, smell spiced tea at your side, smile quietly, and sigh.

fuzzy drug deals and lots of these [...]

I live a strange life. Not overtly exciting, daring, or captivating, just strange. Strange enough that people probably look at me at times and think, ‘who the fuck are you?’ Less than thirty minutes ago, after many phone calls, arranging different meeting places, and trying to find matching times, I meet a man off of I-25, in the dark of a closed gas station, transported a couple crates out of my car and into his thirty-foot trailer, got in my car and drove home, a little relieved and a little melancholy. I have had them for nearly three years. I feel like I abandoned them, but I think they are going to a better life. I gave Pumpkin and Nutmeg, my two sister, Holland Lop Bunnies, away. The husband picked them up for his wife on his way across half the country. She is so excited. They will get more attention there than they do with me, as Dunkyn and Dolan occupy all the love space in my heart. Now I just need to find a good home for my three birds…
I went to TC’s housewarming tonight, and everyone was going to Tracks afterwards. I got a call around 10:30 from the Bunnyman telling me he was on his way, so I had to leave. When people asked where I was going, I told them I had to go drop my bunnies off to a guy off the highway. A couple of them thought I was making a sexual reference. When they realized I actually meant bunnies, they then asked if I was going to Tracks after the delivery. I had to say no to this as well. I had three of my toenails removed this past week, so dancing and the possibility of getting stepped on sounds less than appealing. However, this reason was nearly as obscure as dropping off rabbits. Those that didn’t know me very well didn’t quite know what to do with me. My friends simply hugged me and told me they loved me. All the while shaking their inner heads and muttering about ‘that Brandon…’
While at this party, I was talking to my friend AC, who is in from Washington. I was standing with my arms folded over my chest. She looked at me and mentioned that I had been standing like that all night and wanted to know what was wrong, that I wasn’t the normal Brandon. (Is there a normal Brandon?) Part of the deal was that I was sweaty (as per normal) and my t-shirt was not being forgiving of that fact, so the folding of arms was serving that purpose as well as making my biceps and chest look in better shape than they are in reality (there was a cute [way out of my league cute] boy there tonight). However, the main reason was that I was just more comfortable like that. However, her question made me do a few seconds of introspection. In some ways, the past year has given me more courage and determination that I have ever had before. In others, it has made me less giddy, quieter, and less likely to meet others outside of my little circle of beloved boys and select girls (who are also beloved)…
Part of that, I think, is that the rejection has truly made me feel fairly undesirable, at least to those that I might desire in return. Why set myself up to get told I’m not what they want? Yet again. Also, the past year has made me more introspective than before, which shouldn’t have been possible, and for some reason has created the need to not say more than absolutely necessary to anyone (unless my fingers are moving on this keyboard). It’s not that I don’t love being around people, I do. I would just rather listen and observe and bask in the presence of others, and only occasionally have the attention or story time turned to me. Does this mean I am still as sad as I was? I don’t think I am. Is this something that is going to stay, part of who I am now? Will it change when I am in a relationship again? If so what the fuck does that say about me? Even this post sounds very depressing. I’m not depressed right now. In fact, it has been weeks since I cried. There are so many wonderful things happening, or at least potential wonderful things happening. Will I continue to get quieter and more reserved as I get older? I’ll be invisible by forty! Oh, that could be good. Then I could eat all the Sonic and Fried Chicken I want and it wouldn’t matter…

Is this really 2007?

I am sick. Completely. I spent the day with my sixth grade class watching a movie about Martin Luther King, Jr. and how he changed the world. Growing up, I knew his name, I knew roughly what he did, probably even read his speech, but it wasn’t until I began teaching about him a year or so ago, that I really began to understand what an amazing man he was, how Christ-like his teachings were, and how one man can motivate, inspire, and propel a nation towards movement, towards betterment. Every time I read about him, I learn more, am humbled more by the greatness of this imperfect human. I realize how soft I am and how soft we are as a gay community. Not that one of us needs to be a martyr like him, hopefully, but we have no such voice for our equality. I long to be that voice or help that voice. I don’t feel worthy to be that or have any idea how to even have my voice be heard outside of my own narcissistic blogging. But if not me, who? If not each of us, who?
I was reading a commentary over Tim Hardaway’s anti-gay comments over the past couple days. It was written by Kevin Hench on FoxSports.com. I was expecting some lame pc drivel. His writing reminded me of me, which of course appealed to me, being the narcissist I am. I was so impressed and my heart was lifted, making me feel that progress toward equality is really being made. In a sports article, no less. I was excited to read some of the more than 2,000 comments posted by people having read his article. Stupid me.
The first couple were statements that I agreed with in most aspects, then the majority showed up. Literally, around 80% of the sixty some comments I read (in the midst of tears, true, I cry easy, but not these type of tears normally) were applauding Hardaways comments and views. So many people even made reference to gays needing to be gotten rid of, going gay bashing, killing gays, telling of our sickness, perversion, unnaturalness, how we are freaks, disease-infested, not worthy of living—because of our ‘choice.’ They went off about absurdity of gays being compared to African-American causes.
What about when Black men were hung for kissing white women? When they couldn’t get married? When people were taught Blacks didn’t have souls? That they came from evil? There were people I grew up with still believing that. Not many, mind you, but some. Some being too many.
No, I have no idea the terror that the African-American community suffered under slavery and the time before MLK, and after. I can go to any school I want, drink from any fountain I want, sit on any bus, marry anyone I want (well, not that one). But I do understand to some degree. To see in black and white spelled out proudly for the entire world to see that people want to kill me, want to bash me until I am dead, calling upon the fires of Hell to give my reward, for me to not exist. Me and many that I love. Yeah, I get the fear, the hurt, the shame (though not at who and what I am, just shame of being reviled).
As I sat and watched video of African-American’s being shot, hung, beat in the streets, sprayed with water-hoses, carted off to jail, I had to ask myself, ‘could I do this for our equal right?’ ‘Could I do it out of love and peace and not fight back, as MLK said?’ ‘Am I willing to leave my comfortable, though unequal life, so that other lives now and in the future will be better?’ ‘Would I march?’ ‘Would I protest?’ ‘Would I look my attacker in the face, and still demand equality while showing him/her love?’
I want to say that I would.
I hope I would.
I don’t know though.
Maybe that scares me the most.
My picture and profile take up an entire page in this month’s Metromode magazine (local Denver fag rag). It was fun, but seeing it also brought back home that there is no going back. Not that I want to. But, it can never be denied. If someone is looking for a gay-bashing target, I gave them one. Of course, they would have to be reading a gay magazine, but hey, what better place to find beatable faggots?
To be honest, there were a few comments stating how God loves everyone. Hate the sin, love the sinner, etc. Nice, but I am sick of those as well. I was taught, with Bible verses, how it is a sin for different nationalities to marry. You can find whatever you want to support in the Bible. You can twist it however you need to. Yeah, it’s better than saying they want to see my blood flow, but it is still one more way to say I am a lesser human then they are.
Should gays be proud that they are gay? No.
Should blacks be proud they are black? No.
Should Latinos be proud of being Latino? No.
Should straights be proud of being straight? No.
Should tall people be proud of being tall? No.
Should short people be proud of being short? No.
Of all stupid things to be proud of. Why should be we proud of things we did nothing to become? I am not proud I have ten fingers and ten toes. All that came natural and I did nothing to earn or not earn it.
Let’s be proud of our humanity, of our love, of our passion, of our hard work, our kindness, our talents, our craftsmanship, our accomplishment, our determination, our overcoming adversity, even of our bravery to simply be who we are: gay, black, Latino, straight, tall, short, whatever—regardless of consequences. Let us (not just gays, everyone) be judged by our characters, our actions, acts of love and integrity, not applauded or condemned for something that took no effort or choice on our behalf.
I am gay. I am only proud of the fact that I do not hide, not proud of part of my make-up. I am gay. I am a man. I am short. I have red hair. I am white. I have blue eyes. None of which I earned.
I am teacher. I am a good friend. I am funny (at least I think so). I am artistic. I am compassionate. I am a giver. I can be selfish. I can be obsessive. I can be small-minded and judgmental. I can be irresponsible. I can be hurtful. I can be wrong. I am all those things, and more. These things I have worked on and chosen, even the bad.
There’s the list. Take your pick, one or all. Whichever you love the most or hate the greatest. You can choose what to do with me.
Love me…
Bash away…

Murder without Result

The wind chilled him and snow melted in his ever-less red hair as he drew his black corduroy jacket around him. His shoulders felt heavy with the workout they had just endured. It was his favorite workout. No matter how overweight he might be at the moment, whenever he had his shoulder day at the gym he felt more masculine, even sexier, than at any other time. The feeling quickly shifted as he neared the outdoor elevator that went to the parking garage. Standing in the doorway stood a tall, model-perfect specimen of the male species. At the moment, his ever-pouty lips were pressed passionately over the mouth of an adorably petite blond. Whirls of snow streamed around them as his hands made their way down her back and found their home cupping her tight ass.
Giving a tug on his jacket yet again, he changed directions. He had no desire to see some beautiful couple make out in his elevator; he doubted they would have been too thrilled over the intrusions either. He made his way to the stairs, walked down the two flights, got into his car, paid the parking fee, and left the two nearly procreating beauties far behind.
He was heading to his favorite coffee shop. He knew he should head home, the snow was starting to stick, his car could barely make it in a stiff breeze, let alone in this mess. Still, there was not a chance in Hell he was willing to go home and turn in for the evening. It was only four! Fates be damned!
As he rounded the corner of his coffee shop, his eyes narrowed as he spotted something in the street. A low growl escaped his gritted teeth as he recognized the figure. He shoved his foot on the gas and the car charged forward. The car only jumped slightly at the impact; still the thud sent a thrill of satisfaction through him. After parking, he experienced a moment hesitation. What if it had been someone’s little toddler out lost in the snow? Couldn’t have been. He was certain he had caught the shimmering glimpse of wings and a little bow and arrow set hung from the diapers. Well, pretty certain. Either way, if there was even a chance, that little fucker deserved to die.
His reservations over his choice continued to grow as he sat down with his Mayan Mocha and his laptop and realized it was still Valentine’s Day. If the Grinch couldn’t stop Christmas, it may have been a bit of a stretch to think he would have the power to end this holiday, lame as it may be.
As he began to write, his mind floated to unwanted places. To be honest, this day wasn’t as hard as he had expected it to be. Teaching all day had been a welcome distraction. He hadn’t even cried, didn’t even feel like he was going to. Still, he wondered. Sure, they had been broken up for eight months, but did the boy think about him today? Had he wondered what it might have been like if they had stayed together? Did he send any good thoughts towards him? Did he smile at a fond memory? Did he at least know he was loved and take some peace in that? Did he even cross his mind?
He was nearly done writing and began to ponder what to do that evening. He quickly checked the horoscope: “Someone is only thinking about you tonight. Be with them, enjoy your Valentine’s Day.” Great! Yeah, that was helpful, thanks! Ok, need to plan so that chipperness remains… Leave the coffee shop. Ok, brainiac, that was difficult! Try harder…. Go by the dirty bakery on the way home and order a homoerotic cake for his friend’s birthday. Shit, maybe even pick up a little dirty cake of his own. He may not be making love with the man he adored, but he could still eat the symbol of all masculinity—covered in chocolate icing at that, might even be better than the real thing.
Then, go home, order in Chinese, Pizza Hut, or Sonic. Snuggle on the couch with his Corgis, and watch five or six hours of Charmed.
As Faith Hill’s song ‘Paris’ came on his Ipod as he typed the word Charmed, pain shot through him. This was the song he had planned to play when he and the boy went to Paris one day. He was going to rent out a rooftop café, have diner there, and then dance to this song with the Eifel Tower lit up through the misty night.
His eyes misty, he smiled. No, he would not spend the night with the man he wished he could, but he had the memory of a love that he not experienced the year before. He had two warm fuzzy bodies waiting to lavish love all over him when he walked through the door.
He smiled once more, prayed a quick prayer of happiness for the boy. As Faith sang the last few lines, he spell checked, and posted his latest blog.

Sex, Chocolate, and Apparent Lobotomies

I often suffer from extreme insecurity, self-doubt, inadequacy. It’s a disease. I am on medication for it: Sonic double cheeseburgers. God, I love being sick!!! In spite of this affliction, it is rare that someone can make me feel insignificant. I can do it to myself in record time, but it takes quite a bit for it to come from another entity. Tonight such an event occurred. I was on my way home from teaching, and my tape player ate tape number four of Dean Koontz’s Taken. An event worthy of a great deal of depression and tears all on its own merit. Forlorn, I turned my radio on to talk radio to hear the new political commentary. I really am growing up. It is truly impressive. Apparently, there were no murders, slutty politicians, or global warming issues to discuss as the topic was the Snicker’s commercial from the Superbowl (previously mentioned in my last blog, you know, the one with the two guys kissing—see how cutting edge I am…). According to these hosts (who I often very much agree with and respect) some leaders of the gay community are urging homosexuals to unite and boycott Snickers (see, told you a lot of Southern Baptists are gay). This may or may not be factual. The electronic messager/identifier that was imbedded in my forehead when I took my gay vows did not alert me to this new stance of my people. Maybe there is a short somewhere. I should go be to the factory and get that checked out, before I miss any bulletins alerting me to new gay porn. If this piece of random information is true, I truly hope the leader of this insanity chokes on the bullshit as it falls from his or her queer lips. I thought the commercial was brilliant, hysterical, and progressive. Sure, the guys reacted in complete mortification after the kiss and had to do something ‘manly’ by ripping out chest hair (or getting hit with a wrench, or drinking motor oil) to prove their virility. How many of us can say after our first gay kiss we didn’t freak out for a bit? Two big, hairy, masculine men accidentally sucked face on national TV during football fest. Talk about huge steps forward. All my faggotty-ass friends thought it was great too. Now, I realize there are those who have opposing opinions to my own, and they have a right to those. They have to right to be wrong, who am I to stop them? They should just shut their mouth and fantasize about their first kiss, which judging form the ginormous sticks up their assses, was probably pretty boring and lame. Bad, gay leaders. Bad!!!! No bone for you! (sigh, no bone. Bone. They’re gay, and they don’t get their bone…. Priceless! I love me!)
As disgustingly narrow minded at this view was, it was how the host and their callers responded to it that was sickening. Even if part of me felt their frustration at the ridiculous politically correct bullshit being shoved down their throat. They went off about the ‘Gay Agenda,’ and how they keep giving the gays what they want and we just keep pushing for more. How our views are corrupting kids and making them gay, and how they used the commercial to tell their kids they should only kiss girls. How they don’t want their kids to be gay because it is harder. Fuck yeah, its harder! Because of assholes like them! I’m sure it makes it a lot easier for their gay little kid to have their daddy use a commercial about chocolate and peanuts to tell them they are corrupted. And easier means the only right? Isn’t it easier to be white? Isn’t it easier to be male? Isn’t it easier to be born independently wealthy? Wouldn’t it have been easier for Martin Luther King Jr. to keep his big mouth shut, deal with being a sub-class citizen, paint his face white, and not get shot to death? Sorry Mr. King, you and your views were wrong, because they weren’t easy? Seriously? Wouldn’t it have been easier for the Puritans to stay in religious oppression in England instead of bringing it here? Well, it would have for the Native Americans, I am sure. But then we wouldn’t have a holiday about turkey, and that would be sad. And AGENDA? And giving us what we want? Oh, that’s right! I can’t be fired from being a teacher because I am a fag. Oh, wait, yes I can. That’s right, I can get married and have EQUAL FUCKING RIGHTS to the all the beautiful straight, rich, white men out there. Oh, wait, no I can’t!
I can handle people telling me they think I suck, they think I am ugly, they don’t love me. Hurts, but I can deal. What I can’t deal with? People treating me like a mindless, spoiled, self-deceived little boy.
Thank God I am white and male. Two out of four ain’t bad. Maybe they will still let me play golf at their country club. Oh shit! I forgot, I’m gay. Can’t play sports. Maybe I can just bleach and starch their white hoods for them so they will be crisply pointy and bright by the time they finish the 18th hole.

Fuzzy Romance

I have had the most romantic morning I have had had in eight months. As I have mentioned before, ever since I was young, I dreamed of someday a man being moved enough to spontaneously dance with me in the kitchen. I never spoke of it to anyone. Well, my last relationship saw the fruition of that dream. It was every bit as wonderful as I imagined. More so, actually. Well, this morning, there was part two of that. Though never fantasized over, still, it was sweet. I have recently got back in touch with my love of country music and obsessively uploaded all my favorite country stuff on my Ipod. Well, one of those choice romantic songs came on today while I was in the kitchen. Wistfulness and touch of melancholy took hold for the man I lost. Instead of becoming a mess of tears, I took advantage of the two men that are still in my life. I bent down and scooped Dunkyn into my arms and we waltzed for a bit. Dolan then had his turn. It was a little more graceful with Dolan as he does not weigh forty pounds. While there was significantly less French kissing, it was nevertheless sweet and nice to be loved.
My two boys could not be more different from each other. I love them both, but am partial to Dunkyn, of course. He was my first, and slept with me faithfully for the worst six months of my life. We also have similar temperaments. I too, often feel the need to run in abject terror when in a room full of people, even those I know and love, I just hide it better. There are also times when he will look in my eyes and I can tell he is depressed or having a sad day, and others when he is purely content. You might say projection. You might. However, if you did, you would be wrong. My little one is constantly happy; abundantly full of joy and charisma. Dolan is the projection of who I would like to be, Dunkyn is my reality.
Sunday saw my favorite day of the year pass, the Superbowl. Oh, wait, that’s not true. I detest that day. However, this year was great. With only a few absent, my house was full of all the people I love the most in my life. It was wonderful. One more of those moments when I am reminded how amazing my life is and how immensely full of love. To watch JS and TB snuggle on my couch, completely at ease with the other and so obviously in love. To watch SM and TH flirt and tease and share cigarettes. Thank God for my pups. :) One of the best moments in TV history happened during this year’s Superbowl. The snickers kiss between the two male auto shop workers. I watched in shock. Complete. Gay marriage and equal rights can’t be too far away if two men can kiss during the most masculine day of the year. Although, be real, football is gay foreplay with cleats and spandex. Always has been.
While I was at the fish store today, I realized that it is the one area of my life that I willing let all my morals and integrity disappear. I openly, blatantly lied to the clerk. I was buying fish that you are not supposed to put together in a fish tank. He asked how many tanks I had, fishing to find out if I knew what I was doing. I looked him in the eye and said four. I really do have four, but only two that actually have water and fish in them. I know my freshwater fish and I know how to take care of them. I have been doing so all my life and know which ones they tell you can not cohabitate, but really can. I know I should feel ashamed and remorseful, but I don’t. I know such lies will send me to the pit, but I must be true to what I know. After all, they say two men can’t really love each other, but they wrong. They same is true for certain species of fish. In reality, I guess I am running my own underwater railroad. Glad to know that I have the courage that would have been required to hide those persecuted during Hitler’s reign.

update (xs)

I have been writing a lot on my book. It is going slow, only on page thirty (that would be a little over fifty in book size), but I truly am in love with my characters. I hope that it shows through. That is always why I love a book, you can always tell if the author cared about the characters, or if they were just a way to tell a story. In fact, I worry that I rely too much on my characters and not enough on the story itself. Either way, I am enjoying, although it is hard for me to spend time writing papers for school. I have a lot of fear around it as well. Every time I start to sit down to write, I nearly put the computer away and do something else. It seems overwhelming, impossible. Then, I get a line or two out and it starts to flow. Like molasses, but still.
The tattoos are on hold. I check out the glow-in-the dark ones, and they suck. So much for technical advances. However, I did get the designs I want for my other tattoos. I even had an appointment to get the one on my right arm/chest started, and then chickened out. I know I want the tattoo, but I am afraid of what a future potential mate might think. I have seen perfectly good people who I would never date, just because of a tattoo. I don’t want to spend my life making love with someone with a skull, claws, or demon staring at me from his skin. No thanks. So, I am doing the thing I am the worst at: exercising my patience.
I have had a thought over the past two days. I know, it is shameful how long it take me to form a single thought at times. I used to pray about everything. EVERYTHING. I actually think it was a little excessive. However, I realized I have not been praying for one of the aspects of my life that I long for the most. A husband. (Wow, I sound desperate. Quack like a duck, look like a duck, waddle like a. . .) Despite my self-proclaimed: I’m Gay, and God still loves me and considers me one of His own, I am afraid to pray for this. I have fear that God will sabotage it and mess things up. You know, because I have done oh so well so far. I never even prayed for my last boyfriend to come back. Afraid he might end up struck by lightning or something. Anyway, I am going to start. Not today, but soon. Surely, God will have better success than I have had…