Last night, while stripping Linux off my new Eee PC and loading Windows XP from an ISO (as much as it hurt, I love open source but the portable apps I need only run under Windows and don’t like Wine), for some reason my thoughts started straying towards my ex, Arturo - likely because of amusing memories of how completely technologically illiterate he is, and how he’d be horrified that I wiped the OS from a machine right out of the box without even hesitating. He and I were close friends in art school before we ever started dating; we lost everything for a while after he cheated, but after a few years slowly started rebuilding our friendship.
He’s in New York now, trying to finally make good on his graphic design degree, and I admit: I miss him. I don’t miss the man I used to date, but I do miss one of my best friends. It’s a rather odd sentiment for me. I don’t really keep in touch with my exes, though I’m still on friendly terms with some of them. Patrick, my first, is still a good friend that I don’t talk to often enough. I avoid Dave like the plague lest he beat me over the head with his cock ego and overwhelming need to prove himself superior. Cheung is best left alone; that much emo will choke a man, and he was honestly too young for us to have anything in common - plus I’d rather not have many reminders of my one-time adventure with borderline jailbait since I’m not particularly comfortable with feeling like a dirty old man. Takeshii…Takeshii is too complicated. It’s hard to be friends with someone that you at once love, hate, and pity. Then there’s Devon, but…that’s a story best left untold.
I wonder if it should bother me that I can’t even remember the others’ names.
I’m only 28 and I’ve been through enough men to last me a lifetime. Some serious, some not, a couple I’ve even considered tying the knot with, and I wonder if it’s a sign of our times that that’s not even considered particularly abnormal - and no, I don’t just mean the typical gay stereotype of sleeping around and going through men as if they were toilet paper. In this, heterosexuals and homosexuals have more in common than most people think.
The popular stereotype is that homosexuals are serial daters and sluts, while your average heterosexual only has a few relationships in a lifetime before committing to something. Frankly, that’s pure bullshit. Serial dating is common across all of society - in fact, it’s even promoted and made to look like some glamorous lifestyle by television, shows like Sex and the City and…well…anything prime time featuring attractive singles. Not only that, but there are plenty of people among gay and straight demographics demographics that date rarely, get involved in serious long-term relationships, or don’t date at all.
So I don’t know where this idea of gay promiscuity came from, this love ‘em and leave ‘em lifestyle where our partners are just faceless and disposable. We may have been a bit louder about certain sexual freedoms in the 70s, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening in straight society, too - and it’s still happening. Even though I’ve had several serious relationships, all lasting at least six months to a year, and even though I’ve blitzed through several brief flings where I figured out it wasn’t going to work after a few dates, weeks, or months…I’m not promiscuous. I didn’t sleep with every man I dated, I don’t jump in the sack on the first, second, or third date, and while I don’t remember all of their names…I do remember the ones I was serious about, and sometimes miss the friendships that we had before we ever tried for something more.
Have I had a few one night stands? Yes. There are times where you just need to feel someone’s touch, need to feel wanted, whether it’s to sate the itch or soothe an ache that runs deeper than the physical. That’s normal. That’s part of everyone’s life, the daily loves, losses, triumphs and regrets that come with trudging through each year and trying to figure out where we’re going only to end it realizing that half the fun of life is being lost. So I refuse to be vilified for being just like everyone else, save for in the gender of my loves and lovers.
I am just like you in my right to love, and even in my right to fail at love as I try with various people, looking for just the right fit.
So when you’re pointing your finger at me…remember that I’m just a mirror of you, pointing a finger right back.
Sorry for a late-night update, everyone. Still working on this “What? I have to make my own schedule?” thing. That, and I’m still not quite back into the swing of things here. I’d hate to have to think that so soon after my 1-year anniversary with 451, I’d have to give DR up…but it’s starting to look that way. I’ve just got too many other things to do, I’m not really feeling it anymore, and sometimes remembering to update every day is more trouble than it’s worth, because eventually you run out of things to say. I never want to be one of those people who ends up beating the horse into the ground whining on about the same old crap with a slightly different spin. I don’t know. I need to think about it for a long time, and in the meantime, keep updating every day anyway because who knows when something might light a fire under my arse.
While I think about that, I’ve got something for a particular reader (who wishes to remain anonymous) to think about: an answer to an “Ask Adri” question.
Dear Adri,
Ever since my sister came out as a lesbian we have been drifting apart. I am afraid that because she is gay and I am straight we will not be friends anymore. We were always very close but now we have nothing in common. Talking is hard. She says nothing is wrong but we don’t do things together anymore. I don’t want to lose her but she’s leaving for college soon and I’m afraid it will get worse when she’s gone. How do I fix this?
Thank you
Lonely Sista
Really, this sounds more typical of siblings everywhere regardless of sexuality; as you age and discover who you are and where your interests lie, you’re going to end up drifting apart a little and no longer having as much common ground. You won’t always want to do things together; it’s just a matter of making sure that the path of communication is open in case you both should ever want to, and for whenever you want to talk about the directions that your lives are taking.
Do you think I always hated my sisters? I really didn’t. In fact, I still have the stuffed bear that my eldest sister gave me the day I was brought home from the hospital, and despite my feelings towards them now, that bear still holds quite a bit of sentimental value for me. I used to idolize my sisters, and they thought I was a pretty cute little bugger to have toddling around at their heels, too, as long as they didn’t have to change my diapers (and who in hell would want to?). As I grew older, though, and started developing interests of my own and establishing myself as a separate person with his own opinions, they weren’t quite sure what to do with someone who was an actual entity to be dealt with rather than just a physical representation of “oh my god baby brother and the DIMPLES SO CUTE!!!” We started drifting apart long before I knew my sexuality. Confusion over what to do with each other as people instead of childishly limited extensions of ourselves created distance, uncertainty over the cause of the distance caused fights, and those fights led to a widening rift that we never really healed and that turned into a permanent separation once I left my family behind.
The point of that? It’s a cautionary tale because anyone with an iota of common sense could have seen that coming from a mile away - anyone on the outside of the situation with zero emotional investment in it, anyway. As you and your sister establish yourselves as separate and unique (hello, special snowflake), the differences between you are going to seem more acute, and it’s going to seem easy to blame them for a sudden breakdown in communications. Don’t. The only thing stopping the two of you from talking is you and her, a little misunderstanding, and a lot of misguided and idiotic oversensitivity.
So talk to her, and make sure she knows that no matter how either of you changes, she’s always welcome to talk back to you - about anything, including anything that may be on her mind, troubles that might have nothing to do with you or her lesbianism and may be the real root behind her distance. It may be that she’d welcome your input, or a shoulder. It could even be that she’s uncertain of her welcome now that she’s out, and being tentative about exposing too many parts of her life that might make you too uncomfortable. Make sure she knows that you’re fine with it, but don’t start trumpeting a big parade, either. Normalcy is the key.
So forget on focusing on her lesbianism. There’s really no reason to see that when you look at her, other than just accepting it as a part of her as innocuous as the length of her nose. Focus on her, instead, and on being happy for her that her life is branching out, just as yours. When you’re old women with many fat nieces and nephews between you, it’ll just give you more stories to share over hot cocoa (rum spiking optional). As long as her problem isn’t that she wants to make hot incestuous monkey love with you (and I doubt she does, no matter how hard various straight men wish), you should be okay.
With or without marshmallows,
-Adri
Have a question you’d like to see answered on Ask Adri? E-mail your question to adrien-luc.sanders@451press.net with the subject “Ask Adri Question” or use the Contact Form to send your question in.
Hi. This may be disjointed, because I’m tired as hell and ready to crawl off somewhere, curl up, and pass out (and I can’t, too much work to do). But I want to post today anyway, partially because I said I would, and partially because there’s something on my mind that’s been bothering me.
I’m a member of several online writers’ groups, mostly geared towards fantasy and science fiction. The groups discuss techniques, favorite authors, genre standards, and all sorts of other things related to writing, trying to get published, trying to find an agent, the whole hoobalah. They also critique each others’ stories; I say “they” because I don’t really participate. I’m a little shy after a bad experience with a rather tyrannical mod in the first group I ever joined (no, I don’t know anything about being a tyrannical mod, do I, Indikaze and Sihaya?). Sometimes I join in the discussion if I have anything to contribute, but otherwise I stay quiet and just listen. Sometimes I learn things. Sometimes I wonder what the hell they’re smoking. It’s always an interesting experience, despite the occasional inevitable online wank.
Yesterday, though, I stayed quiet on something that I wish I hadn’t kept my mouth shut on, even though it’s a small thing and really wasn’t even related to the topic of the discussion. It was related to how commonly accepted it is to loudly express disgust at any display of homosexual contact, and it came innocently enough; it probably doesn’t help that I don’t like the guy who posted it, since he’s a self-important twit who joins every discussion with a long diatribe about how his way of doing things is better than the established industry standard. He’s unique, he’s a groundbreaker, no one understands his genius, he’s a special twatwaffle of a snowflake who needs to be smacked upside the head with a frozen mackerel. I think, though, that I would have been a little bothered no matter who said it, my dislike of him notwithstanding.
The discussion involved how various writers describe fight scenes in novels, and how some of them have obviously never swung a punch in their lives or even observed combat to try to capture some sense of realism without overdetailing. The discussion moved on to things like wrestling (actual wrestling competitions, not WWF-style sensationalism) and how referees will often break grapple holds that might otherwise go on for hours in a traditional competition while the two competitors struggle to gain even a micron’s advantage. Hour-long grapple holds are boring, apparently, and the audience might leave. The comment made was that he (the poster that I don’t like) probably wouldn’t mind watching two people locked in a pornographic position for an hour at a time, but (caps emphasis his)…TWO GUYS? Ugh.
It made me twitch. I would understand if he just expressed something along the lines of a simplified version of “I’m straight so I’m not interested in watching two guys dry hump each others’ faces”; I’m gay, so I’m not interested in watching two women dry hump each others’ faces and can understand. It was the tone of disgust and rejection that just made me pause and want to say, “Does the idea of two men being that close bother you somehow? Because you know, some of us might take issue with that sentiment.” It’s his right to feel that way. It’s just bothersome that it’s so common to casually express that as if it’s normal to say such things, and no one should mind that he’s publicly displaying disgust towards homosexual preferences.
Why didn’t I say anything? Because again, it’s his right to feel that way, and if it comes down to a matter of free speech and a matter of defending my demographic, I’m almost always going to choose free speech as long as the things said aren’t actively causing harm beyond a slightly worked nerve. That and I never want to be one of those obnoxiously oversensitive people who jumps on everyone for the slightest hint of anti-gay sentiment, no matter how loosely implied (or even inferred, because who knows what the person may have intended to imply). There has to be a line drawn between encouraging acceptance and being a complete and total twat.
At the same time, it stuck with me because it’s a symptom of a larger problem: that it is so common to casually revile all things gay, right down to the dreaded “that’s so gay” derision. It’s ingrained in people as part of normal social speech, and it eats at me until I wish I had said something, anything, just to politely point out that while he may not have intended to be hateful, he could be a little bit more tactful and it would be greatly appreciated. Just one little thing to calmly make one person aware that no, even casual unconscious gay-bashing is not acceptable.
But I didn’t, because it’s such a small battle and so open to interpretation that it’s not worth it; within a day I’ll forget about it like I do every time I catch something like that in conversation. It rarely sticks with me and makes me think for this long. I may notice, but I’m not that sensitive - and these people don’t really affect my life so I care for maybe the few milliseconds it takes to really process what they said. If it’s said as a joke, I even laugh my ass off; I’m the last person to really care about political correctness, and when I know the person’s intent I can take just about anything they might say no matter how offensive. It’s when they’re serious that I have to grit my teeth and bite my tongue.
So I wonder what it will take to make me stop and speak up. How bad will it have to get before I lose either my sense of humor or my sense of perspective and say “Hey, man, that’s not cool”?
How do you decide when you should defend yourself and when you shouldn’t?
Out of necessity caused by the wife’s inability to conceive due to medical issues, the infant was conceived through artificial insemination and will be carried to term inside the husband’s womb.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that many of my fellow 451 Press-ers were shocked, disconcerted, or downright confused; one even said that the child should never know that her father gave birth to her that way, as it might confuse her - a stance I disagree with vehemently, although I respect the writer enough to know that she has valid reasons for that opinion, and respect her right to that opinion.
To me, this didn’t seem so odd - but then again, I’m biased. 60% of my extended circle of acquaintances and a couple of my closer friends are transmen or transwomen, so I’m quite used to the gender-bending oddities that happen when their gender identities clash with their birth anatomy. I’ve had to be the “wing man” escorting a transguy into the men’s bathroom for the first time so he wouldn’t get nervous and run, and to warn him if anyone came in who might notice that the feet associated with the tinkling in the stall were turned in the opposite direction. I even know a gay transman who stopped his hormones so he could conceive a child by his biologically male partner, so they could have a baby that was part of both of them. It didn’t phase me. Hell, I even sent him to a trans-friendly physician; my doctor works at the local GBLTQ clinic and is pretty open to most things, so I figured he wouldn’t have a problem with dealing with a pregnant transman. I was right. And my friend was lucky.
This young man and his wife, however, have had to deal with hell.
Doctors have discriminated against us, turning us away due to their religious beliefs. Health care professionals have refused to call me by a male pronoun or recognize Nancy as my wife. Receptionists have laughed at us. Friends and family have been unsupportive; most of Nancy’s family doesn’t even know I’m transgender.
This whole process, from trying to get pregnant to being pregnant, has been a challenge for us. The first doctor we approached was a reproductive endocrinologist. He was shocked by our situation and told me to shave my facial hair. After a $300 consultation, he reluctantly performed my initial checkups. He then required us to see the clinic’s psychologist to see if we were fit to bring a child into this world and consulted with the ethics board of his hospital. A few months and a couple thousand dollars later, he told us that he would no longer treat us, saying he and his staff felt uncomfortable working with “someone like me.”
“Someone like me.” And yet someone like him was perfectly good enough to take a few thousand dollars from while stringing them along, wasn’t he?
It’s amazing how cruel people can be out of ignorance and misunderstanding. I know it’s a struggle to deal with concepts like this; I was confused by it at first myself, and have only come to really understand through good friendships and years of exposure to the point where it’s quite commonplace. But I can’t believe that anyone would deny this couple the right to have a child that’s at least partly their own through the means they have available. It isn’t Thomas’s fault that he was born with a body unsuited to him, and had to take what measures he could to be comfortable in his skin. And it isn’t his fault that he and his wife took advantage of the resources they had available in order to build a family.
Transpeople, just like gay people, straight people, bisexual people…all have the right to build a family to nurture and love. I don’t know the words to explain how much it upsets me to see doctors letting their personal religious values obstruct their medical ethics and basic human compassion, denying Thomas and his wife that right to a family. They could adopt, yes - but why should they have to, when this alternative is available? If Thomas feels secure enough to do this, why do people scorn and deride him? Are traditional male/female values and perceptions so important to the root functions of society that people can’t put their preconceptions and stereotypes aside long enough to be happy for the couple that they even have the ability to do this?
I know, gender is defined by biology. A penis is a penis and a vagina is a vagina, and if you have one or the other then you can’t deny that it exists. It’s part of reproduction and it’s a hard fact that people, whether trans or not, have to live with. Transwomen can change their biology much more easily than transmen, due to modern surgical techniques; they can’t reproduce, but they can at least create functional, cosmetically acceptable sexual organs. Transmen aren’t so lucky. Modern surgery hasn’t caught up to them just yet, so while transwomen can work their way past the “gender defined by biology” thing, most transmen can’t. But they live as best they can, and do the most they can - and they can’t be blamed for that. All they can do is be happy with their efforts and hope for social acceptance, because it’s better than doing nothing at all and living miserably as someone they don’t want to be. For them gender isn’t just biology; it’s chemistry and psychology, part of the mental chemicals that define us, our personalities, as male, female, or other. Most people don’t understand that, and don’t understand that the limitations enforced on them don’t make them any less male.
It’s not just society in general, though. Even Thomas’s brother had something unpleasant to say about his first attempt at pregnancy:
When I finally got pregnant for the first time, I ended up having an ectopic pregnancy with triplets. It was a life-threatening event that required surgical intervention, resulting in the loss of all embryos and my right fallopian tube. When my brother found out about my loss, he said, “It’s a good thing that happened. Who knows what kind of monster it would have been.”
I’m no obstetrician, but I’ve done a little reading on ectopic pregnancies, trying to see if it was possible for a baby to be born deformed from one and thus validate his brother’s comments a little more beyond callous cruelty. Unfortunately…no. An ectopic pregnancy will either resolve itself and result in a healthy birth, or has to be ended via medicinal or surgical means. Either a healthy baby is born, or none at all.
So Thomas’s brother is just an asshole.
If no one else will say “good for you, Thomas and Nancy”, then I will. I think it’s goddamned amazing that the pair can do something like this, and no, I don’t think it invalidates Thomas’s masculinity in the slightest. Hell, he could be seen as being the typical man: Mr. Fix-It, using the tools he has available to fix a problem rather than bringing in outside help. They’re fighting to create a family. I think that’s pretty damned awesome.
I’m not even a family person. I recently just told my family to go to hell yet again because my mother wanted to bring me home and set up viewings for me like I was some kind of sideshow freak, with approved lists of people who were allowed in to see the gay in his cage. I don’t want a family of my own. No children, no husband, though I wouldn’t mind a serious significant other. Traditional family units make me twitch in distaste at the wholesomeness and leave a bit of the taste of old Malt-O-Meal fermenting in the back of my throat. But I’m pushing that aside to hope beyond hope that Thomas and Nancy can build a stable, normal family, raise their daughter happily, and just by achieving that, give the f*cking finger to everyone who laughed at them or held them back.
It’s 11:34a, and I’m sitting in the food court of the Sharpstown Center a few blocks from the library. Today was my first day walking the nearly three miles from my apartment to the library; I thought, carrying the laptop bag, that it would take me about an hour and a half. It took me fifty minutes, and here I am killing time until the library opens at noon. My shoulders ache a little; the laptop’s heavy. My eyes sting from walking on a major street for almost an hour with dirty air blowing into my eyes and irritating my contact lenses. My hair is a mess, but this time I had the sense to use better gel. My nostrils are full of the scent of wild onion flowers, more potent than I’ve smelled since childhood summers playing in my grandmother’s backyard in Ponchatoula, Louisiana.
For some reason those years and that place were on my mind today - likely because as I walked, I passed dozens of children and teenagers. Everyone’s out on break and enjoying the sun paired with the cool spring wind; it’s a lovely day. Arrogant boys with that swagger that owns the world jerked their chins at me in passing on the sidewalk; harried mothers shepherded their children along and smiled in acknowledgment when I stepped onto the grass so they could pass without hindrance. Most of the children looked happy, chattering gaily with their friends. A few isolated themselves, held back from the others and keeping, for the most part, quiet. They didn’t seem miserable; just…separate, as if there was something that set them apart from their friends.
I want to say that I remember that feeling, but in truth, it’s barely a shadow of recollection, faded by time. I’ve said before that I didn’t even know what homosexuality was until my early teens; I had no idea what the word was for why I felt just a little different from my peers - why when one of my closest neighborhood friends started noticing girls, I subtly started noticing him. The thing was, I didn’t care. Although I have a bad history with my family, I didn’t have an unhappy childhood despite being poor. I wasn’t a miserable outcast, isolated at an early age by my sexuality; that didn’t come until my preteen years, and that was more caused by my surly attitude, smart mouth, and budding misanthropy. It wasn’t because of any inner knowledge of difference, isolation. Many people say they knew, from the moment they became self-aware. I didn’t. And I didn’t need to.
What I knew, as a child, was that I could catch dragonflies by the wings, holding them carefully until they got used to my touch and would settle on my finger without coercion, only to start and fly away if I moved too fast. I knew that pine trees were all wrong for tree houses, but for ground-level clubhouses it was always best to layer a thick sheaf of fresh green needles over the outside of the structure and stick it in place with the thick, resinous sap, so that water would sheet off and it would be safe to take shelter from the rain. I knew that if you plucked the stems of wild clover flowers and tied them around each other, you could make a necklace that would leave pollen all over your shirt and fill your nose with its sweet, musty scent all day. I knew the smell of thick swamp mud, the faint bubble that pops to the surface right before a mud turtle comes floating up to stumble into my grip, the wet squish of a crawfish’s mud cone as I kicked it over with my sneakers. I knew skinned knees and Sega on a rainy day at O’Neil’s house, and going home to the soft, homemade sugar cookies that my mother always baked no matter how tired or angry she was.
I knew all I needed to know, as a child. I didn’t know that I was gay, and I wouldn’t have wanted to - not in this world, in this time. I was a child for as long as I could be, blissfully unaware and wearing my heart on my sleeve, unaware of the hurt and the wonder, the struggle and the beauty, that could come from one single word that has, in many ways, shaped my life since then.
And no matter how many people proudly proclaim that they’ve known since they were toddlers…
It’s 8:52a and I’m sitting in a McDonald’s about a mile from my apartment, looking over printouts for today’s work, listening to godawful muzak, and nibbling on something that can’t exactly be called food but that silences the ravening of my belly. I’m waiting for the bookstore/cafe down the street to open so I can stake out a power plug, order coffee, and put in my 7-8 hours taking care of projects due today and tomorrow for my new job. It’s my first day working mobile, packing up the laptop and my Verizon wireless modem and just heading out to find somewhere to settle, people-watch, and enjoy having the entire city as my office. I’ve been dreaming about this for years, for even longer than the three years that I spent tethered within the confines of my home, chained to my home phone line by my old job.
I’ll admit it’s a daunting experience. I’d forgotten how isolated I’d become, how sheltered. I could go days without seeing another living being other than the cat; I left the apartment only to get the mail, run errands, and go to the grocery store at insane hours of the night. I’m not used to being around constant streams of other people in the usual volumes heralding daylight activity. I’m not used to quietly not-reacting to the presences of strangers; I’m not used to the quick, assessing glances in passing. I’m not used to that feeling that comes from instantly being recognized as gay, not by one random person in the grocery store but by someone here, another there, about every fifteen minutes a bored glance that passes, pauses, and lingers, questioning.
That look of recognition, at least, I know. I don’t know what it is about me that instantly identifies me; I’m not particularly flaming, flamboyant, stylish, or even the slightest bit swishy. Maybe it’s the big, waifish eyes that I curse every time I glimpse myself in the mirror. More likely it’s the rose sunglasses I wear to shelter my photosensitive eyes against bright artificial light - pink just because it amuses me. But regardless, as I sit here and type on my laptop and drink my coffee, I’m getting looks. Not from everyone, no. Just that old man with the forming liver spot on his balding head - a quick wrinkle of his nose, a grimace, “damn punks” written silently in every rigid line of his face. That woman with her toddler, moving to a seat two booths down from me, then casting me a wary look and shepherding her son further away. Another glance over her shoulder - disgust. A less hostile look from another man passing through, on his way out the door; I’m not sure what it is about him, but I can glance at him and know, too. He’s just a crisply dressed office worker, blouse and slacks and short, neat hair, but we exchange quick glances of acknowledgment, brief and uninterested, and he’s on his way.
Everyone else is content to ignore me. I ignore them. We all have our own business, our own lives, our own schedules to maintain. One fag sitting at a corner booth in McDonald’s isn’t important, or interesting. They’ll forget me with the first bite of their food; I’ll forget them by the time I finish this post. Some might not even be giving me those distasteful looks because I’m a little obviously gay; some might be because I’m young, dark-skinned, casually dressed, wild-haired, and sitting here tapping away on my laptop with my headphones in my ears and the little green light of my USB wireless modem blinking. Any one of those can be offensive to some. Sometimes it’s just enough that I’m a solitary male of unknown intentions. You never know what will set people off.
But it doesn’t change that now, suddenly, I’m aware of people looking at me in a way that I haven’t been for a long time. I’m aware of people taking me in, assessing me, judging me based on my clothing, my genetics, the way that I carry myself, the things I have with me. They’re forming a picture in their heads of who I am and what I do without ever meeting me. And some of them, statistically, are thinking “f*&!ing fag”.
Would anyone do anything about it? No. People with prejudices rarely make scenes in public places. They throw dirty looks, they keep their distance, sometimes they murmur to each other. But it’s not a pleasant experience to be the subject of such scrutiny, and I’d forgotten what it was like to deal with it every day. I’ll get used to it; I used to be completely impervious to it, although it’s natural that renewed exposure would bother me now that my skin’s thinned out a little. But there’s a reason that openly gay people often feel unwelcome in society in certain places, whether alone, in pairs, or in groups. That mute resentment, those hard glances…all are part of that. That knowledge that some day, somewhere, someone with a grudge might do something, and yet another of us will be making the headlines documenting another “tragic hate crime”.
Does that mean I’m afraid when I go out, now? No. I wasn’t afraid before, walking down the streets of Houston at 3a, arms laden with groceries and too encumbered to even defend myself should someone decide they want my wallet. There’s no reason to be afraid; even if I don’t live or travel in the best neighborhoods, there’s little likelihood of anything happening to me for whatever reason. Someone is attacked, injured, or killed in Houston almost every day, every night - but in a city this large, the odds are that it won’t be me.
But it has to be someone. And now that that awareness is awake again, that knowledge that people aren’t as oblivious and dismissive of me as I’d like them to be…I can’t help but wonder if one evening I’ll be walking home with my laptop on my back, only to stop at the sound of an angry voice.
What do you get when you toss sixteen people into a house, cut them off from the outside world - no TV, no internet, no radio, no movies, no books (other then the Bible or a single other religious text), put cameras and microphones on them 24-7, show the footage both on the Television networks and online via internet feeds? You get Big Brother, USA, and all of the drama that goes along with it, of course.
I am a HUGE Big Brother Fan. I have been for the past 3 or 4 seasons or so, and in Season 8 last summer, I began covering the show for 451 Press over at Big Brother Craze. Due to that, I’ve gotten the live internet feeds, and for three months I live and breathe the antics of the ‘Hamsters’ in their cage, while trying to remember to feed my kids and what ‘outside’ looks like. It’s like the real world, only intensified as they’re forced to deal with one another on a daily basis, plus compete against each other for the big $500k prize.
I know, I’m a total nerd. I’m ok with that.
Also - stick with me here, this post relevant to DSR, I swear!
Anyway, we currently have a special first Winter Season of Big Brother, and they threw another twist in there to juice things up - the House Guests play in couples, that they have been told are their “Soul-mate” due to personality questionnaires they completed as part of the application process.
I know, right?!? The possibility for drama just increased 100fold! Happy Lessa!
The fans, like myself, were THRILLED to discover that, though they’ve had gay and lesbian houseguests before, they actually paired two gay men together as soul-mates in the house, among the 20-somethings, and one 45 year old Penthouse Pet (1984) and self proclaimed ‘Cougar’. We were excited to see a different dynamic play out in the house, and how these hamsters would work with their partners, and who would hookup. Showmances (romance done primarily for game-play, on a reality show) were BOUND to happen in that situation, and the Feeders were BRIMMING with excitement!
Then one of the gay men, Neil, had a family emergency and left the show, leaving our poor Joshuah playing straight man with his new female partner. They formed a solid friendship, and their game-play is strategic while they work incredibly well together. After all, they no longer have to deal with sexual tension! The fans were notably disappointed, and bemoaned the chance for a gay showmance had gone down the tubes. Then, these very same people, turned on one of the other men in the house, showing their true colors, and double standards.
James, sporting his pink Mohawk and crazy tattoos, who’s taking a break from biking around the world on just $100 dollars and a belief that we are too materialistic, promoting peace and good will, seeking the elusive ‘good’ in the world, paired with the lovely rocker chick Chelsia with her bi-tendencies - James was discovered to have starred in porn.
Gay porn.
The internet went WILD with this information. I’ve not broached it at BBC, because it makes me so angry the way people have turned on a man they didn’t think they would like, discovered they kinda did like, but now OMG HE DID PORN AND IT WAS GAY! (That sound you just heard? My eyes rolling.)
James and his partner Chelsia have hit it off, as well. He’s said often how much he likes her, how he wishes he had more to offer her outside of the house. It goes both ways, and they have a solid friendship building, and some make-out sessions, too, as they get to know each other better. You’d think this would make Feeders happy - but Feeders, they are a fickle bunch. Now all they can think of is what she’ll say when she discovers he’s been in GAY porn, when she finds out she’s being played by a man who is either gay, or just gay for pay, and what must her parent’s be thinking OMG!
It irritates me to NO END. These are the SAME Feeders who liked him before, who appreciated how comfortable he was with himself, how open he was to this experience, and how smart he’s playing the game. Now, because the GAY Porn, he’s nothing but dirt to them. I’m saddened, and angered, and outright disgusted at times by it all.
People have asked me how I can like James, especially since he’s done GAY porn. It’s as simple as this: I think he’s extremely comfortable with himself, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders (…I’ll not make any jokes of how he gives or receives the same, of course. Or how he’s hung. Though — DAMN. He proves the Black Man Myth is a lie - it’s all about the skinny white boys. Trust me. I know. I married one.) He understands people, he’s friendly and outgoing, he genuinely cares for folks and their stories, he wants to know YOU, and not the you that you feel safe showing. He listens, he understands the dynamics of the game, and of relationships and how to work both to his advantage. I find his sexuality (which I think is best defined as ‘fluid’ then gay, straight, bi) to be completely beside the point. He’s REAL, and he’s true to himself, always.
Case in point - one of the houseguests collapsed and had a seizure. He was first to her aid, he held her, he was calm, he was prepared to do CPR, he aided the nurse in bringing her back. Afterwards, he was shaken, and upset, and took a lot of what happened to heart. This houseguest that collapsed is someone he could not stand - he didn’t like her at all, but when she needed him, he was there.
That, my friends - not who he fucks and when, where, how and for how much cash - that is what defines a good man. He’s the epitome of why we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Would that all the Feeders could see him as I do.
I’ve never cared much for Valentine’s Day. It’s a day of obligations and expectations; a day that destroys more relationships than it heals. It’s pretentious, it’s pointless, it’s capitalist, and the only time it’s ever held any charm was during childhood, when it was a novel day of sweethearts and construction paper cutouts that only resembled hearts in the furthest stretch of the innocent imagination. Valentine’s Day is a morass of stereotypes, one made even more uncomfortable by the fact that many gay people don’t know where we fit in the typical heterosexual stereotype of romance promoted on this day of Romeos and Juliets and sprays of already-wilting roses.
It’s a day of loneliness, too, a reminder to singles that we are alone, and should somehow feel inadequate for it no matter how content we are with our single state on every other day of the year. It’s no different for gay singles; perhaps even sharper, for it’s that much harder for us to find a match in such a limited and secretive dating pool, that much harder to find another wooden man or woman to stand in the right spot and take up space just to say there’s someone on our arms. Our love lives are rarely simple, and I for one have never appreciated a reminder of that.
Nor have I ever enjoyed a Valentine’s Day, even when in a committed relationship.
Perhaps it was just bad luck, perhaps it was bad men. Perhaps it was my own fault, for so cynically and openly denouncing the day while secretly wishing that for once, someone would lighten my jaded bitterness with just a touch of romance, a touch of sweetness. A reason to think that perhaps the day wasn’t such a waste, a little flutter to the heart and hitch to the breath to remind me that I still know how to fall in love, still know how to feel that rush of warmth that only that special someone can inspire.
I never thought I’d get that feeling not from a lover, but from a friend.
I’ve never met him, although I’ve promised him a coffee date when I finally make the move to Chicago. I recognize his face only from photographs, and yet I know his voice better than I know my own. I can tell when he’s smiling just from a change in inflection, tell when he’s sad from a moment’s hesitant pause; he follows the shifts in my moods and often knows what I’m thinking before I can even find words to articulate it. I finish his sentences, and he finishes mine. He makes me laugh until I lose my voice and can’t choke out a single sound more, then turns around and engages my intellect in hours of debate. I tell him I hate him. He knows I don’t mean it.
And he knows, somehow, all the right things to do to make me smile and forget just how much I hate Valentine’s Day.
My cameraphone can’t really do them justice; I’m likely lucky the camera wasn’t trained on me and capturing my blushing, embarrassingly excited reaction when I answered the door to a man with a delivery box full of flowers. I think my heart skipped a few beats when I opened the box, and I spent long minutes carefully unwrapping them, settling them in the vase, and arranging them with the most idiotic grin on my face. Even now, looking up and seeing them standing alone atop my newly-cleared dresser, I can’t stop smiling. It’s not the sort of thing I’d have expected from a friend I’ve never met and never would have met if not for this blog, when men that I’ve had intimate physical and emotional relationships with would never bother.
It’s made even sweeter by the fact that he wants nothing more in exchange save for my company and conversation. He did it just because he could, just because he wanted to, and just because underneath that bastardly veneer, he’s terribly, tooth-rottingly sweet.
Thank you, Hikaru, for reminding me that there are still normal, decent guys out there, even if you pretend to be otherwise. Thank you for reminding me that Valentine’s Day isn’t all so bad…
…and thank you for being my friend.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Now let’s just hope you don’t turn out to be a creepy axe murderer.
It’s been a while since newsmongers have knocked on the Matos-McGreevey doorstep, but it looks like Dinah’s at it again; she’s now demanding that the gay partner of former husband (and former New Jersey governor) disclose his assets as well, as part of their divorce settlement. I suppose now she expects a man who’s wholly unrelated to her to help her “live a lifestyle closer to that of New Jersey’s first lady”. (…I still can’t believe the pretentious snit said that.) Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed. It seems she’s determined to drag down everyone she can in connection to this, and make sure that both men pay for one man’s mistake.
The last time I caught them in the news, I actually ended up in a rather long phone conversation with my mother about this; I was still outraged that Matos-McGreevey was more interested in attaining revenge through a smear campaign while using the judicial system to take McGreevey for all he was worth than she was in safeguarding the health and well-being of their daughter, Josephine. What McGreevey did was hurtful, yes, and if he knew he was gay he never should have married her. There’s no question that he was in the wrong there, but it was an unfortunate situation for both of them (and I can’t blame McGreevey for the fact that social stigma made him feel as if he couldn’t be openly gay while running for office) and in the end she could have handled the situation with more class, kept their private business private , and done her best to look after their daughter rather than vindicate herself.
My mother surprised me after that spiel by saying that in that situation, she would do the exact same thing.
She then went on a scornful tirade about men in general before starting on gay men in specific; I’m not going to detail it, as my mother is of the erroneous camp who think “feminist” equates with “ball-crusher” and the only thing more offensive to her than a chauvinistic straight man is a gay man who dares not to validate her through attraction to her overwhelming aura of femininity. Suffice to say apparently McGreevey threatened Matos-McGreevey’s womanhood, and that is a crime deserving of any punishment that woman, the state, and the gods may mete out.
Am I just not getting this? I don’t think I’m particularly more civilized than either Matos-McGreevey or my mother; in fact, I’m a rude, caustic, shameless, utterly Bohemian savage, and yet I’m still better-behaved in such situations than they seem to be.
If I had a long-term partner or husband who suddenly announced that he was straight and was leaving me for a woman, I’d be upset, yes. I’d be angry. I’d likely throw things at his head. But I’d do it all in private, and if there was a divorce, I’d just want to make sure that our individual assets were properly separated before letting him go on his merry way while I focused not on destroying his life, but on putting mine back together and making sure it continued smoothly in his absence. No man should ever be so crucial to your life that his departure shatters it to the point where you have to gouge him mercilessly to try to fill in the gaps.
Had we adopted a child (me? As a father? I’d scar the poor thing for life) and the judge granted me custody, you can be damned sure I’d make sure that my former partner had at least partial custody; he signed the adoption papers, too, and would have just as much of a right to see our child. Yes, I would want child support - but only equal to half the amount required to look after the child, and not the amount required to look after me. That would mean half the child’s food, clothing, medical expenses, crucial necessities, college tuition - and only a quarter the monthly rent/mortgage/whatever. Half the living space would be for me, and therefore my responsibility. Half would be for the child, and split between the two parents.
To me that’s just a sensible approach. Relationships combust all the time, whether there’s a wedding ring involved or not. One partner’s confessed sexuality is just another of a long list of reasons that cause explosive separations: infidelity, drug abuse, spousal abuse, alcoholism, the list goes on. Whatever damage was done in that time, whether emotional or physical…money won’t heal it; revenge will only leave the wounds to fester without closing. All of the ugliness that goes into that does more harm to the bitter party than to their target, and when it’s over, will leave them distinctly unsatisfied.
I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: have a little class, Dinah. Choose to be the better person and behave that way, rather than loudly proclaiming why your ex-husband is worse.
3am. I have a horrible habit of being awake at this hour; it’s the magic hour for me, that hovering moment of breathless pause teetering just on the cusp between morning and night, that time when the sky is darkest and that deep, soft blanket of blue threatens to turn so black that you feel as if you can reach right beyond that seething envelope of atmosphere to touch the cold and endless reaches of space. The stars are always brightest at 3am, those nebulous balls of burning gas reaching thousands upon millions of light years through the void so that we, mere mortals, can see their churning and awesome vastness as nothing more than bright, merry dots against a yawning sky, eternal yet ephemeral.
Perhaps such a moment was a little too momentous for something as mundane as a craving for Dilettante’s chocolate-covered espresso beans, but then irreverence is one of my hallmarks - so I suppose it’s not so surprising that when faced with such a tableau of inspiring tranquility, I was hunched inside my jacket and swearing in six different languages about the wind crawling down the collar of my coat to where even the heavy layers of my hair couldn’t protect me, lapping its cold and stinging tongue against my neck and making me shiver for the entire walk across the street to the 24/hour Wal-Mart. It wasn’t an uncommon trip, and among the regular night employees there I’m not an uncommon sight. They know I’m a night owl, an insomniac, and a bit of a kook. They smile when they see me, ask how I’ve been, how the book’s going, man is my hair getting long - while I laugh and ask how are the kids, how is school, tease the night stockers stuck working the register when they’d rather be in the back doing their regular work.
A trip to Wal-Mart is nothing special, so I don’t feel as if I have to get particularly dressed up for it. I wouldn’t be caught dead in public in sweats and a stained t-shirt, but I didn’t think there was anything out of the ordinary about what I wore that night: faded and frayed boot-cut jeans, a black System of a Down t-shirt, my heavy black arse-whomping boots, and my new leather jacket (…which I apparently could have gotten on sale if I’d waited a little bit). Hair loose around my shoulders, reading glasses on, no jewelry save for a watch, the two tiny silver hoops piercing my right ear, and my usual black leather cord necklace. I didn’t look strange. I didn’t look bad, or good. I just looked absolutely, perfectly ordinary.
Ordinary is never good enough for Miss Priss.
Who is Miss Priss? Miss Priss is this young man of particularly diva-ish persuasion who works the night shift at Wal-Mart. Miss Priss and I have been circling each other like feral wolves vying for territory since day one, as apparently we set each others’ gaydar pinging and neither of us is particularly fond of the genus of Homosexualus Bitchinus that the other represents. I’m a scruffy, laid-back writer with a sharp tongue and oft-used deadpan look; he’s a fashion whore with a pissily-twisted mouth and a superiority complex (or an inferiority complex that he’s trying desperately to mask).
We don’t speak to each other, save for the frigid-but-required “Thank you, and have a nice day” when he’s stuck on the register and ringing up my groceries. We avoid eye contact. If I pass a group of people on the night crew that I’m familiar with and either stop to chat or just wave in passing, he gives me an evil look and will actually stalk off until I’m gone. In the same vein, if he’s working to stock an aisle that has something I need, I will detour around that aisle and come back later when he’s no longer in it. The virulent loathing seething in the air between us is so apparent that one of the greeters at the front door actually asked if Miss Priss and I had gotten into a fight at some point.
We don’t even know each others’ names.
It’s ridiculous, honestly. We have no reason to be so hostile towards one another beyond assumptions made about each other based on appearances, demeanor, and interpretation of the intent behind those quick, veiled little glances we keep shooting each other. We have no reason to dislike each other.
Or, should I say…we didn’t.
That night I snagged my espresso beans and a few other things I’d just remembered I was running low on (because foaming hand soap by the bathroom sink is such a necessity), and headed up to the only register open so late at night. #19 - all night, every night, never changes. Usually it’s covered by the sweet-faced girl who just gave birth to an adorable daughter and really should be on maternity leave, or the slender old woman with the eyeglasses too large for her face who would keep me there telling her about my novels all night, if she could. Sometimes it’s the girl with the unnaturally red hair who pegged me as an atheist on first glance and has made it her personal mission to convert me, down to humming gospel music when she sees me coming and just smiling the brightest, most engaging smile when I catch on to her and crack up laughing before asking how her day was. Miss Priss only works the register if all of them are off, or on break, or my luck is just particularly bad.
My luck was particularly bad that night.
I took my place in line behind a few others, glanced up to see who was working the register, and caught his eye just as he caught mine. Our expressions were likely identical: oh, no, not him. We both looked away sharply; he went back to ringing up the people in front of me, and I affixed a stony look on the rack of tabloids and ignored him. Even when my turn came, we cold-shouldered each other - not even the ritual greeting mandated by Wal-Mart customer service standards. He rang up my purchases, I swiped my debit card, and almost walked out without mishap. Almost.
As I snagged my bag from the little turntable (he’ll never take it off and hand it to me, and practically throws my receipt at me) and turned to leave, I heard, “…what are you supposed to be, some throwback to the eighties?”
Pause.
Blink.
Wait, what?
Excuse the @#!$ out of me?
That’s right, he went there. That silent hostility had just taken a lovely leap into the vocal, and I turned around and just looked at him, one brow practically vanishing into my hairline. I’m not normally particularly vituperative with strangers; it’s friends that I save the barbs for, as that’s my odd way of showing affection. I told myself not to say anything; I told myself to turn the other cheek and walk away. Instead I threw back flatly, “Mn. And how’s that blue vest working for you? Let me know when that look hits the runway.”
He snarled at me.
Feral wolves, indeed. I bared my teeth in a hiss, growl building in my throat; we might have gone at it right there in the store if the woman next in line hadn’t snapped her fingers impatiently and barked at him, “If you’re done flirting, a little help over here?” He glared at me, then turned back to work. I flicked my fingers at him dismissively and turned to walk out, absolutely seething.
I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t worth it, and now any time we see each other there’ll likely be another verbal altercation - but I wasn’t about to take shit for wearing casual attire to Wal-Mart, especially not from an uptight little bitch sporting a cheap blue vest whose yellow smiley face constantly exhorted me to check out their Rollback prices. The fact that he came perfectly groomed to work every night, with a $100 fade in his hair and jeans and T-shirts that rather obviously came from The GAP and Banana Republic, probably contributed to the reasons why I loathed him on sight - but they sure as hell didn’t give him just cause to judge me on my fashion choices because I didn’t feel like digging my sexy International Male European suit out of the closet just to go pick up some frickin’ chocolate espresso beans.
I will never understand this fashion-obsessed culture we’ve fostered among the gay community, in which your clothing and the body you wear them on is more important than the person inside that clothing and underneath flawlessly waxed and tanned skin sheathing tight-packed muscles. There’s more to a person than that. There’s more to me than that. I am scruffy, I am scarred, I am flawed, I am utterly and unrepentantly wild and Bohemian - both inside and out. I dream in slowtime, speak in molasses and brown sugar, destroy worlds with the click of a key and rebuild them again in a myriad tumble of words like glissandos of falling glass. I love the feel of sandpaper and wood varnish under my fingers, I long to be a revolutionary, I crochet, I breathe to the deep-throbbing pulse of music, I sing atrociously, I love the sound of a V8 engine and can spend hours telling you how they work, I’m a stellar cook who still manages to nearly set the kitchen on fire any time he tries to bake something, and I melt like a purring kitten when someone touches my hair.
You can’t look at my clothing and tell that. You can’t judge the cut of my hair and know the breathless, obsessive-compulsive high that drives me to go days without sleeping while wrestling with a knotty bit of code on a new web design; you can’t look for ironed-in creases in my jeans to know that sometimes, even at age twenty-seven, I still wake up in the middle of the night terrified and sweating from the horrors that my sleeping imagination concocts. You can’t know that I love theoretical astrophysics and I’m frightened to death of spiders. You can’t know me, just because I don’t wear the brands you approve.
And you can’t define yourself by them, either.
I don’t give a damn what brand of clothing you wear. I don’t give a damn if you dare to have three hairs on your chest; I don’t give a damn if you have perfect teeth, if you drive a hot car, how often you work out, what trendy upscale restaurants you eat at. I don’t give a damn about your fashion sense. I don’t give a damn about you, if you can’t show me who you are without using your clothing and accouterments of a materialistic life to define yourself.
And I sure as hell don’t give a damn what you think of me.
Shut it. It’s a slow news day and I’m feeling too tired and pissy to troll Google News.
Dear Adrien,
Help! I caught my husband cheating! He doesn’t know I know. My best friend saw him at a gay bar kissing a guy. I didn’t know he liked men! I was crushed! I went there the next night and he was kissing the same guy! I thought he was just tired. He’s been so distant for a while. I thought I was doing something wrong but he wouldn’t talk to me. I didn’t think he’d cheat! Not with a man!
Please don’t get mad, I’m not homophobic. I’m upset! I don’t know what to do! I love him so much. It hurts that he’d do this. I found out months ago, he’s still doing it. People have seen them in public together. I’ve seen them in public together! He didn’t know I was there. We live in a big city and he goes places he thinks he won’t see people we know! So sneaky, it’s like he’s been practicing! I wonder if there have been others.
Help! What do I do?!
Lydia in MI
Well, first, darlin’, let me say what an honor it is to get a letter written with proper grammar, punctuation, and spelling, even if you do like your exclamation points. It seems the linguistic skills of those who write me tend to be inversely proportional to their age, with a few startling exceptions (…like that last creepazoid…).
Now to address the main issue. Sweetie, you do the same thing you’d do if he was cheating on you with a woman: you gather all the evidence you can, get a good lawyer, then take the adulterous bastard to court for all he’s worth and walk away from the divorce with a smile, a new lease on life, and hopefully the house and half his pension fund. You deserve better than that.
Don’t “stick with it for the kids”, either, not if he’s going to continue his liaisons on the side. It’ll just make for a tense, unhappy home situation for the children, and a father who may come to resent them or even dismiss them. (Hey, if he’d cheat on you consistently, I don’t have much hope for his character where his kids and long-term commitment are involved, either.) Forget the love, too; love don’t live here no more. You’ll be better off with a nice martini to drown your woes in and a nice poolboy to kiss it better - or in absence of a poolboy, several battery-operated accessories that I can promise you do it better than any man.
This reminds me of the jerk who wanted my help finding a way to discreetly cheat on his wife with another man. That just made me livid; gay or straight, if you’re unhappy in a relationship, bloody well own up to it rather than trying to have your damned cake and screw it, too. You can’t keep the husband/wife for the marital perks and comforts, but still have your bimbo/f*ckpet/one twoo wuv on the side for your own strings-free pleasure. It just doesn’t work that way. It’s not fair to your spouse; hell, it’s not even fair to your little weekend sex buddy, because as long as you want to keep burning both ends of the candle they’ll never get the commitment or whatever they want out of you. All they get is a few stolen moments here and there and whatever privileges you buy them off with. It’s selfish, shallow, and even cruel. If you want to pursue relationships with someone else, just heft your effin’ balls in hand (whether you have any or not) and say so.
That includes the “honey, I’m gay” confession, too. I know that’s not easy. In fact, it’s damned scarier than the “honey, I’ve been sleeping with someone else” discussion. There’s a lot more confusion, more feelings of betrayal, more “But if you’re gay, why did you marry me?” Your spouse is going to be bitter as hell, but not nearly as bitter as long as you tell him/her up front without finding yourself a replacement first. Contingency plans of that sort aren’t a good idea. Honesty is painful, but in the end leads to better results. Readers like Jen prove that, even if her struggle - while admirable - hasn’t been easy.
So in case you can’t tell, Lydia, I’m on your side here and not particularly fond of genus Dishonestus Testicularae. (Me? Cheated on in a serious relationship before? Never!) The kind of callousness displayed by anyone who would cheat on their wife is beneath you, and I’m sorry you had to endure not only his treatment, but that discovery. Walk away, before the hurt digs any deeper. Walk away rather than giving him that kind of power over you.
I sincerely hope you have a strong network of family and friends to help you through this difficult time, and give you the love and support you need. And if not, well…my shoulder’s only an e-mail away.
Head-shakingly yours,
~Adri
Have a question you’d like to see answered on Ask Adri? E-mail your question to adrien-luc.sanders@451press.net with the subject “Ask Adri Question” or use the Contact Form to send your question in.
One of the things that piques me most strongly about the disparity in perceptions between the heterosexual and homosexual communities is the assumption that heterosexuals are clean, wholesome people who never sleep around, never do drugs, always practice safe sex, and would never engage in intercourse with someone they weren’t wholly committed to - while homosexuals are considered promiscuous, reckless, and profligate, ridden with disease and addled by drug habits marked upon the community as clearly as heroin tracks down a junkie’s arms.
Stereotypes ignore the high rates of teenage birth among the heterosexual population, the divorce rates (often due to infidelity), the unemployment rates, the education statistics, the drug use statistics…while at the same time ignoring the high percentage of the homosexual population who believe in commitment, who practice safe sex, who are self-sufficient, drug free and responsible citizens who seek to educate themselves and contribute to society.
Neither stereotype is correct; neither positive or negative view can wholly represent either demographic, but instead only highlight extremes used as ammunition against the opposition when attempting to claim equality or even superiority. We are all greater than the sum of our parts; so, too, are the many demographics that we all represent greater than the sum of their parts. The creature that we create known as the “community” is larger than we, a giant and representative beast, faceless and almost autonomous from its many minuscule and independent cells - and like healthy skin stretched smooth over cancer cells, like tarnished scars over a strong and beating heart, that monolith of the community often lies about the very parts that comprise it.
Is the face of your community lie, or truth? Do you exemplify it or defy it? Among your demographic, where do you fit?
2.) What is your sexuality? (If you’re transgender, choose the sexuality you define yourself as with your chosen gender.)
(a) Heterosexual.
(b) Homosexual.
(c) Bisexual.
(d) Asexual.
(e) Confused as hell.
(f) Cannot define because genderqueer/intersexed.
3.) Are you currently in a relationship?
(a) Yes, and I’m happy with it.
(b) Yes, but I’m looking to end it.
(c) No, and I’m not looking for one.
(d) No, but I’d like to be in one.
(e) I’m dating, but not really committed.
(f) I’m in multiple relationships/open relationships.
(g) I’m not sure.
4.) Are you now or have you ever been sexually active?
(a) I have been in the past and I am now.
(b) I have been in the past, but I’m not right now.
(c) I’ve never been sexually active/I’m a virgin.
5.) How many sexual partners have you had in the past?
(a) None.
(b) None, but I have fooled around a lot beyond first base.
(c) One to five.
(d) Six to ten.
(e) Eleven to twenty-five.
(f) Twenty-six or more.
(g) So many that I’ve lost count.
(h) I’m not sure/I’ve never counted.
(i) That’s private/I don’t want to discuss it publicly.
6.) Do you practice safe sex/exchange of bodily fluids?
(a) Yes; always.
(b) Some of the time, when I remember to.
(c) I mean to, but I rarely remember.
(d) It depends on my partner and if I trust them or know they’ve
been tested.
(e) No; never. I don’t even think about it.
(f) I’m a virgin/I don’t fool around.
7.) Were you ever educated about the dangers of unprotected sex?
(a) No. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.
(b) I was never educated, but I learned on my own.
(c) Yes; I was given educational material/instruction about
unprotected sex.
8.) Do you or have you ever used drugs?
(a) Yes, and I still do.
(b) Yes, but I don’t anymore.
(c) Yes, but I’m trying to quit.
(d) Yes, but only lighter things; nothing hard/heavy.
(e) No, and I never have.
(f) No, but I would be open to trying it.
9.) How do you feel about drug use in others?
(a) It’s their life; I don’t care.
(b) I’m strictly against it; no one should do drugs.
(c) I’m strictly against it, but won’t stop them as long as they don’t
associate with me.
(d) I’m all for it.
(e) I’m all right with it as long as it’s regulated and done in
moderation.
10.) Are you currently employed?
(a) Yes, but I’m looking for other work.
(b) Yes, but I’m not looking for other work.
(c) No, but I’m looking for work.
(d) No, but I’m not looking for work.
(e) No; I’m too young to work/still in school/live with my parents.
11.) What is your highest level of education?
(a) Some high school.
(b) High school.
(c) Some college.
(d) Associate’s degree.
(e) Bachelor’s degree.
(f) Master’s or higher.
12.) If you have not completed your field of study, are you still studying or did you drop out?
(a) I’ve completed my field of study.
(b) I’m still studying.
(c) I dropped out, but I plan to go back.
(d) I dropped out, but I have no plans to go back.
Remember, you can answer all of these anonymously if you don’t want to vouchsafe these details with your name. I can’t even tell who you are if you choose to do so; you can just type in “Anonymous” for the name and put in a fake e-mail such as none@none.com. Everything passes through a proxy IP on a squid server, so you all look like the same IP address to me when you post anonymously - so there’s no fear that I’ll discuss your answers as associated to you.
My answers:
1.) a. 2.) b. 3.) g. 4.) b. 5.) i. 6.) a. 7.) c. 8.) e. 9.) c. 10.) a. 11.) d with a bit of e, as I have an associate’s but I’ve studied towards a bachelor’s. 12.) kind of b, kind of c, since I’ve completed one degree but want to return to finish another.
Since today is the first day of the new year, you’d think I’d have resolved not to sleep past noon. Ah, well. One less resolution to break. Since I’m not even technically supposed to be working today (day off and all, natch) and I’m not feeling particularly talkative, you won’t be getting a rant/dissertation/sudden and prolonged case of diarrhea of the mouth today. Here’s a few points of interest in the news, instead:
This isn’t quite that bad, but it does raise the question: if Huckabee indeed believes that we’re born gay, does that mean that in his eyes we’re born into sin and there’s no hope for salvation? Or are we born into sin but can be saved as long as we don’t engage in any homosexual activity, thus denying who we are and accepting a hateful belief that to love others according to our nature is wrong?
See that? That crap is one of the many reasons I’m an atheist. We ask the easy questions.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, that wipes out 99% of the ‘Life Guidelines’ questionnaire. Let’s just cover the key basics, then. Are you a viable, self-supporting member of society who contributes to the economy?”
“Yep.”
“Do you hate anyone just because an invisible man in the sky tells you to?”
“Uh…no.”
“Are your actions in any way causing harm to yourself or others?”
“Nope.”
“Are you engaging in mass destruction of property or any other criminal activity possibly involving napalm?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Okay, you’re good to go, then.”
“Nifty.”
See? Problem solved. (Of course, you could also argue that atheists are lazy and take the easy way out, while people of faith follow a more difficult path, which brings up the subject of why despite my sarcasm I actually respect many people of faith for choosing the more difficult road, but…that’s not a topic for this column. Moving on…)
New Year, New Unions for Gay Couples: When the ball dropped at the start of the new year today, it didn’t just signify the beginning of a new year; it signified the beginning of new rights for gay partners who wish to engage in legalized unions. New Hampshire’s legislature on gay partnerships went into effect at midnight, and dozens of couples lined up to tie the knot. While the cynic in me says half of them were just doing it for the novelty and will be divorced by 2009 (hell, I was tempted to grab R and drag him up there just to make a statement, but I think within a month I’d have been on my knees begging him to sign the divorce papers)…the rest of me hopes that those couples find the happiness they deserve.
Remind me to never visit Spain: The Pope is at it again, this time with a Dec. 31st broadcast that apparently went over quite swimmingly in Madrid. In it he said the family was “based on the unbreakable union of man and woman and represents the privileged environment where human life is welcomed and protected from the beginning to its natural end.”
Privileged environment.
Jay-sus, I feel like it’s the segregation days all over again. Or at least my college years in Alabama. Elitist b*****d.
The sad thing is, repeating something over and over again doesn’t show faith in one’s convictions. It demonstrates an inability to adapt, an inability to discuss one’s stance from a logical standpoint with valid reasoning to back it, and an inability to accept that the world might not actually operate according to one’s hidebound beliefs. It’s another example of not wanting to own up to the fact that one’s prejudices are wholly one’s own responsibility, rather than hiding behind dogma as a shield.
That’s it from me. Just that little bit and I’m burnt, spent, and done - longer than I intended, but still not quite one of my usual sermons on a single topic. I need some verbal Viagra or something, as long as it doesn’t make me go deaf.
Screw it, I’m goin’ back to bed. See you tomorrow, hopefully before noon.
I hope you all had a lovely holiday/government-sanctioned day off of work yesterday; for the most part, I did. Christmas dinner yesterday went swimmingly, even if my mother just had to call before bed last night and make sure she said just the right things to ensure that the grand tradition of tears on Christmas continued for a 27th year. She still didn’t spoil dinner; nor did she entirely spoil my night, as an absolutely lovely man did a stunning job of cheering me up. Thank you.
Dinner began as just R, one of the Reds, and I. When it got around that I was cooking (and what I was cooking), suddenly it became R, Red, girl!R, girl!R’s girlfriend, C, and C’s girlfriend (and J stopped in later to get a nibble of what was left). I made rainbow trout stuffed with watercress and chestnuts, then wrapped in more watercress and baked in a white wine, lemon, and butter sauce, a spinach and cheese bake with pecans, lightly sweetened beer bread, baklava, and cinnamon and nutmeg cupcakes with whipped almond icing and little almond slivers on top. I was expecting to have leftovers. I wasn’t expecting to feed so many hungry mouths.
We had a generally good time; some of us got mildly tipsy, while R! and Red had enough sherry to end up lip-locked on my couch before passing out (and this morning, waking up with shrieks of “oh my god, I made out with a man!” “oh my god, I made out with a WOMAN!” Who needs to mess with glutamate when they have alcohol?). We watched Deja Vu (horrible film), chatted, and everyone except C’s girlfriend enjoyed themselves immensely.
C’s girlfriend sat in the corner, sulked, threw in nasty comments whenever she could, and demanded to leave over and over until C was forced to excuse himself before the film was even over lest she stab him with a fork. She’d been happy to come before, but wasn’t so pleased once she arrived. Why?
She was the only straight person there, and it made her uncomfortable.
Even C is bi; he just happened to fall for a woman this time. His girlfriend has always been nervous about his bisexuality, wondering if it meant he needed to fool around with men on the side and couldn’t be happy with just her, but for the most part she’s not homophobic - just a little sheltered and somewhat ignorant. She’s the kind who’ll ask an offensive question not out of a desire to be malicious, but because she really doesn’t understand and wants to learn.
Okay, she’s also a raging b*tch and I can’t stand her, but I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt here. She was being nasty, yes, but we did make her feel ostracized without meaning to. We talked about old same-sex partners, there were a few raunchy gay-themed in-jokes, we even talked GBLTQ politics over dinner, and those inclined to (read: everyone but me) talked gay gossip in TV and films as well as in our local community’s little circle. We didn’t mean for it to become a “gay old time”, pun intended, but since it was a common thread between us, it did dominate perhaps 30% of the conversation with other topics liberally sprinkled in - topics she could have joined in on, but that she was sulking too much to participate in.
When people started to notice that she was pouting and withdrawing, we asked if she was all right, made efforts to draw her out and cheer her up, but by then it was too late. Once we finished dinner and took dessert with us to watch TV, she’d retreated to a corner of the couch to hide behind C and refused to talk save for to lean over to whisper to him until, 20 minutes into the film, he abruptly stood up, apologized, and escorted her out. She spoke only to thank me for the lovely meal and then threw on a rather snottily-toned “and the hospitality” as an afterthought, glared at everyone, and then left.
We just sat there and stared at each other.
While it was her choice to behave brattily and I have zero tolerance for that, I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. How many times have I found myself in an uncomfortable situation as the only gay person there, in which many aspects of the conversation went beyond my realm of experience and I wasn’t comfortable joining in to add my own experiences? Hell, that’s one reason I avoid my family. Only one other person in the family (that we know of) is gay, and so at family reunions we inevitably find ourselves dealing with uncomfortable heterocentric questions about when we’re going to bring home an opposite-sex partner, or becoming the circus sideshow of the gathering with people interrogating us about our “lifestyle”. Gays everywhere deal every day with being the odd man out in a predominantly heterosexual society, and we all know how it is to feel utterly isolated even in a group of our peers.
So even if I can’t stand the girl, I felt horrible for turning around and doing the same to her.
This is why I shouldn’t post when sleep-deprived. Although learning to type on the Eee is quite fun; this thing is smaller than the span of my freakishly large hand. He’s tiny, cute, slick, and black, and I have named him Roman.
