…yes, that’s pretty much the extent of my acknowledgment that it’s Christmas eve. Oh woe, etc., blah blah. Shut it.
Bonus points to anyone who can name the film that line came from.
The haircut is quickly becoming less and less of an option. The longer it gets, the more I start to look like a drag queen (…though that shirt probably isn’t helping…) or a sad little twee attempt to copy the purple-prose travesty that is Wraeththu. No bloody effin’ thank you.
I think everyone out there has that one friend who’s had a crush on you since time immemorial - or at least since you’ve known them - and who doesn’t give up hope no matter how many times you gently, carefully say no so as not to hurt their feelings so badly that it destroys a valuable friendship. One of those friends, for me, is R. R’s the big guy who’s embarrassed to admit that he cried during Waiting to Exhale; he’s a big teddy bear with a great sense of sardonic humor tempered by a sweet streak that’ll give you cavities, a gorgeous body, handsome face, and hair I could play with for hours. If he didn’t have a pot habit, I might consider dating him…but that’s a big, fat no in my book. I’ll look the other way when my friends do it as long as they don’t do it in my presence or bring it into my home (you’ll find yourself on the welcome mat staring at the closed front door so fast you won’t know what hit you), but I refuse to date anyone who routinely tokes up.
Not even if he offers to quit for me.
Especially when I don’t exactly trust that he’d stop that when he won’t even stop his at-times-amusing efforts to get a foot in the dating doorway. I still can’t believe he whipped out the mistletoe while we were curled up on the couch watching Vongo downloads on the laptop Saturday night. (By the way, if you ever get the chance to see The Quiet, take it. It’s not exactly profound cinema, but it will startle you with its depth and the direction it takes. I was expecting it to be awful, but was pleasantly surprised.)
I’ve even told him why we wouldn’t work out, beyond dating briefly; he’s too nice, and I’m too mean. I’ve been down that route, dating nice guys who have an outwardly thick skin but who secretly get their feelings hurt by the tiniest teasing comment, even if it’s said out of caustic affection by someone who isn’t comfortable openly expressing affection, feelings, etc. (what? I’m a guy; don’t give me that look just for being typical of the species). I’d break the poor boy just by being myself, and the worst part is that he’d keep forgiving me over and over again. Not only that, but he’d spoil me.
No, wait, wait - that’s a bad thing. Trust me.
See, when someone spoils me, I rise to the occasion. I can be a bit of a brat on a normal basis, but the more I’m spoiled, the more of a brat I become, until eventually I’d be able to score a 100% on the Diva Quiz with my eyes closed. Not good. Not good at all. It’s nice to be treated well, little thoughtful gestures and such, but taking it beyond a certain level will just bring out the diva in me and make me impossible to deal with.
I’m impossible enough already, thank you. As my friend Kate loves to point out: we are monsters, we are unrepentant, and we are glorious.
R, I know you’re reading this. I know you’ve heard all this before, too; it’s not news to you. I’ve told you why not a thousand times before, and I know you’re over there shaking your head and smiling, because you’re a persistent bastard. I’ve just about given up on getting you to quit; I guess it’s my turn to start smiling, shaking my head, and shoving a palm in your face every time you move in for a kiss. Guess I’m stuck with you. I could think of worse friends to be stuck with. Call me; we’ll go see Sweeney Todd next weekend.
And if you try to grope me in the theatre, I’ll break every last one of your knuckles, one at a time.
The rest of you: Merry Christmas, if you celebrate it. I’m out of here. There’s some brandy-laced egg nog calling my name.
Addendum: I don’t know why, but the Akismet spam filter recently started eating everything, and I can’t turn it off. Sorry if your comments don’t seem to show up on first try; I’m checking the filter periodically and fishing out the legit comments from the spam.
This morning in Wal-Mart, I got my a** pinched by some random little Hispanic rent-a-tart.
I swear to gods, every time I go into that store is an utterly surreal experience. The stories I could tell…
This time I was quite calmly perusing the men’s grooming section, trying to pick out a decent rotary shaver for under $100 and completely lost in my own world, when I heard a simpering murmur of “aiy, Papi” and suddenly felt the sharp sting of two fingers doing a quick topographical survey of my nether regions and possibly trying to snatch a sample of topsoil for further study (he pinched hard; that hurt!). I nearly jumped out of my skin, whirled around, and there was this tarted-up little culo, smiling at me like I’d just told him he’d won Diana Ross’s part in a Broadway adaptation of Lady Sings the Blues.
I admit that at first, I had no idea what to say. No witty retorts tripped off my tongue; no scathing remarks cut him down to size. I was too flabbergasted that I’d just been groped by a total stranger in the supermarket, all while minding my own business.
“Did you think that was cute?” I managed, amazed irritation dripping from every word. He actually batted his eyelashes at me.
I sh*t you not. I felt like I was dealing with a cross between RuPaul and Scarlett O’Hara.
“I think you’re cute, Papi.”
I suppose I should have been flattered. Instead I was just aggravated by the most crass, trashy, tasteless pickup attempt I’ve experienced in years, even if you have to give the boy credit for having the balls to pull something like that with a completely unknown entity. I guess he saw what he wanted, and he went for it. That takes courage. It’s also annoying as hell.
When I’m annoyed, I get a little caustic. Especially with uninvited physical contact.
“Mmkay.” I crooked my finger at him, beckoning him closer. “C’mere. I need to know you’re listening to me. You listening?”
He wiggled - yes, wiggled, I swear he made me look as straight as Chuck Norris - closer and smiled up at me, admittedly rather sweetly, and lisped, “Si, Papi, I’m listening.”
“Good.” I mustered the best smile I could, which probably looked more like a pained grimace. “Because I want to make sure you understand: if you ever touch me again, I will break your sh*t off. Mmkay, pumpkin?” Now granted, I stole that line from Alex Hitchins, but it was extraordinarily useful in that situation.
He pouted. I grabbed the Norelco I’d been eyeing and fled to the cash register.
I’m just…left in awe, honestly, that anyone of any orientation would think that was an acceptable way to approach someone. I suppose he thought since he was tiny and cute, I wouldn’t hurt him. If so, he was right, in a way; I wouldn’t hurt him, because despite my consistent snarling and threats I’m a primarily non-violent person. Basically I’m a harmless, crotchety old bastard. My friends know this and take delight in baiting me.
He didn’t know that, though. I could have turned around to plow a fist into his face. He was half my size, and I could have done some serious damage to him all because he decided to provoke me. Not smart. Not smart at all. I hope he doesn’t try pulling that on a meaner guy (or a straight guy angry that the little rent-a-tart’s gaydar missed the mark that time); he could get seriously hurt, and that’s a hard lesson to learn where a little common sense would suffice.
Besides, I really prefer a “hello, what’s your name” before anyone tries to cop a feel.
Honestly, what happened to a little tact and subtlety?
Most gays and lesbians rarely know our sexual orientation right off the bat, and it’s not so strange that the majority of us fumbled around with opposite-sex partners - whether briefly or in prolonged relationships - before slowly finding our way. Most of us have one or more opposite-sex exes in our histories…but sometimes they won’t stay comfortably in the past.
When I was eighteen, I had my first long-term girlfriend. By that time I’d pretty much figured out that I was gay, maybe with a few of those fluid overtones to make me occasionally bisexual - but sometimes attraction doesn’t limit itself to physical attributes. I made friends with a girl with whom I had a great deal in common, back then: similar interests, similar activities, similar hobbies, and the bonding factor of being able to gripe about the difficulty of university studies. We had a great deal of fun together. Not only that, but I was uncertain enough in my confidence about my sexuality that I was willing to be swayed towards women - perhaps hoping to alleviate a secret shame that I’ve since discarded utterly. Somehow common ground progressed to flirting, flirting progressed to more…and suddenly I had a girlfriend.
The problems, surprisingly, didn’t begin with a lack of attraction to her naughty bits. The problems came with discovering other things we had in common: nasty tempers and vituperative mean streaks that made every small argument turn into a vicious catfight that didn’t end until we were both bleeding heavily from a number of proverbial mortal wounds. The fact that my (admittedly somewhat forced) physical interest in her waned the more we fought only made the fights worse, and finally I had to cut it off. I had to tell her that I couldn’t do this; we were too incompatible personally, beyond the point that the relationship pretty much confirmed that yes, I’m 99% gay and unfortunately she didn’t fit into that rare 1%.
She lost it like Mariah Carey finding out she didn’t get top billing.
I wish we could have ended it cleanly, with no prolonged hard feelings. That was rather naive of me, in truth. The next several months after the breakup consisted of constant attacks over what I’d “done to her”, pleas, accusations that I had used her, even threats. You can imagine that promises to show up at my front door with a dozen roses and a butcher knife didn’t make me feel particularly inclined to make amends. I’d always known she was a little mental, but until then it was just cute quirks; I had no idea she had mental malfunctions severe enough to make Hannibal Lecter look like Rainbow Brite. The entire fiasco divided our friends, with most of them taking her side because she’d managed to demonize me utterly.
Since I was to be demonized anyway, I went ahead and let myself be the biggest bastard I know how to be (and trust me, that’s one big pile of bastardry); might as well live up to their expectations, right? Anything to get her off my back; anything to make her hate me enough to just…leave me alone. It worked, after another month or so in which I inflicted every verbal cruelty on her that I could to discourage contact. I’m not proud of my behavior or even of who I was back then, but it was a matter of desperation.
So why, now, is she still a part of my life?
I wish I had an easy answer to that.
I suppose part of it is guilt. We didn’t talk for years. Wounds healed; we both matured a great deal, and I at least learned to keep more of a leash on my temper and my acid tongue. She turned to lesbianism; I was the last man she ever tried anything with. When we ran into each other again, we approached each other on guarded terms, wary of each other (with me halfway wondering if she was going to pull a butcher knife out of her purse). Eventually we were able to talk, apologize for our reprehensible behavior in the past, and come to terms with how our relationship ended. I was relieved that she seemed calmer, less unstable; she was relieved that I’d put the venom away, sheathed the claws, and wasn’t such an a**. Over time we even began to develop a tentative friendship.
And I found out that she really hadn’t changed at all.
Every aspect of our friendship revolved around compensating for “what I’d done to her”, and she had a set list of expectations that her friends all had to adhere to in order to be considered “good” friends. Not surprisingly, that list and her subsequent drama fits over meeting the minimum requirements have lost her more than one friend. Pointing out to her that part of friendship is wanting to do things for your friends without expectations or demands…well, that was a near-suicidal mistake. It didn’t help that she threw everything I’d said years ago back in my face. I didn’t even remember saying those things; I’m a guy, for hell’s sake. I don’t remember what I had for dinner last week, let alone something I said years ago. When a fight’s over, it’s over. I forget about it. She, obviously, didn’t. Attempts to nudge her towards seeking help in coping with her issues met with furious responses followed by more guilt trips.
So eventually I started to distance myself again - only this time, the guilt went deeper and I still couldn’t let go entirely. I’ve made her like this, I thought to myself, likely with a bit too much hubris. It’s my fault she’s this insecure and insane, because I dug her insecurities deeper when I broke up with her. I limited contact to brief conversations here and there every few months and let her friend me on LiveJournal, but filtered her out of most of my entries. I still read her entries now and then, and it’s the same old song: nobody loves me enough to dance to my tune, I hate everyone, people suck, my life is awful and it’s all someone else’s fault. Sometimes, honestly, she disgusts me - but mostly, I feel sorry for her. Beyond certain family members of mine she’s the most emotionally abusive person I’ve ever known, but there’s a certain lonely desperation to it that makes me rather sad.
And yet slowly, I’m starting to break away more and more. Sometimes your opposite-sex ex can turn into one of the best friends you’ve ever had; sometimes you just need to cut loose, both for your sake and for theirs. Eventually I’ll be able to walk away from her completely. A recent fiasco is helping me make the separation and get over my guilt; she was staying here in Houston for a while as part of a short-term job, and for some reason she didn’t bother making plans to go home when the job was over…and was somehow surprised when she suddenly had no more job-sponsored housing and was left wondering where to go. She contacted me, acting like she was desperate for somewhere to stay and if I didn’t let her live with me she’d be on the street, penniless and living out of her car (why she didn’t drive said car home, I don’t know).
I…panicked. I really did. No matter how much anyone changes, you never forget threats of a butcher knife; I’d rather share my space with a few thousand angry scorpions than live with her. I told her that I couldn’t, because if anyone who isn’t on my lease stays here for more than three days I’ll be evicted (that’s the truth, actually), and frantically started making phone calls looking to see if I could find her an affordable hostel or a friend who wouldn’t mind a couch-guest for a few days until she got herself sorted enough to go back home. I even offered to give her some money to help make sure she’d be all right, even though I was mostly broke at the time. The whole time she guilt-tripped me over saying no, reminding me of how bad her situation was and making me feel like a total jerk for not wanting her in my home. The offers of money were conveniently ignored even though she could have used it for food, hotel or hostel fare, gas money, etc.
It turned out she was already in a rather nice hostel, and had other people who were perfectly willing to let her stay with them. She also had money, and more due in a few days. She was just manipulating me, pretty much. Exaggerating, most likely to gain sympathy.
I haven’t spoken to her since.
If I’m lucky, I may never have to speak to her again - though that would be the coward’s way out. Eventually I will have to take the last steps to sever ties, and make it concretely clear that she’s not welcome in my life. Part of me doesn’t want to face that; that’s why I’ve avoided it for so long, as visits from the Drama Llama tend to leave me with headaches that last for weeks (and raggedly chewed boxer-briefs, for it’s well-known that the Drama Llama has an appetite for underwear). There’s also that lingering guilt, but it’s finally starting to fade enough that I can end what was an unhealthy relationship to start with…for both of us.
Despite being wary of her, I don’t hate her. She’s got a number of issues, and I hope she manages to work them out and finally find a way to be happy without depending on others to make that happiness for her (or else). But I can’t continue to let her stress me out and make her misery into my misery. People in my family already grey prematurely; I don’t need her accelerating the process.
So in the end, what was the point of this meandering story? I suppose to share an experience that I know others out there have been through, in the uncertain, blind fumble to find their way. Many gays and lesbians end up forming toxic, guilt-centered relationships of this sort, that do nothing but drain them and foster unhealthy and even obsessive behavior patterns. It’s happened to me, and I’m at fault for letting the situation get even worse than it had to be.
If you’re in a relationship like this, you’re not alone - and I suppose you should take my tale as a precaution. Learn to walk away, and learn that you can’t take blame for someone else’s issues. They will tell you that those issues are your fault, but really, you’re just a target. It’s okay to sever ties with that person, and to not take responsibility for the harm that they would have caused themselves and others with or without you.
“When was the last time you were decently kissed? I mean truly, truly good and kissed?”
That, my friends, is a line from my favorite scene in That Thing You Do, one of my top ten most beloved films of all time. It’s the story of The Wonders, a (no pun intended) one-hit wonder band from the 60s; the film is titled after their hit album.
In this story Guy, the band’s drummer, has been in love with the lead singer’s leading lady for some time; towards the end of the film Faye (played by the full-lipped lady Liv Tyler) and Jimmy call it quits, leaving the way open for Guy to move in and ask that ever-so-crucial question, breathless, his heart in his eyes and on his lips. You’d think her answer would be rather recent, considering her years-long relationship with Jimmy. Instead, after a moment of thought, Faye takes a deep breath and says, “Dave Gammelgard, New Year’s Eve, ‘61.”
“Okay,” Guy says.
And then he kisses her.
It’s the kind of kiss that movie magic is made of; the kind of kiss that everyone hopes to experience at least once in their lifetime - and once they’ve experienced it, there are times when they’d give anything to feel it again.
When was the last time you were truly, truly good and kissed? [laughs] My answer would have to be “too damned long ago.” It wasn’t The Ex, I’ll tell you that…but that’s dirty laundry best not aired here. The last time I felt a kiss like that was years ago with a man who could set my skin on fire with a look, a man who promised devotion and then after a year cheated on me, a man with eyes as black as the Devil’s and a smile to match. His name was Arturo, and he kissed me as if I was the only thing in the world to him. When he kissed me everything narrowed down to that moment: his mouth on mine, and the mingling of our breaths.
I don’t know how to describe that kiss. Some automatically assume that for a kiss to be passionate, it must involve locked lips, twisting tongues, and a few bucketfuls of exchanged saliva. No, thank you. I’ve enough bodily fluids of my own that I don’t need to quaff a quart of anyone else’s. Others assume that a kiss is just foreplay, a mere checkpoint on the way to sex rather than something to be experienced for itself. It’s more than that. That kiss…that kiss is the kind of kiss you swore you stopped believing in when you grew too old and too cynical for the cliches of storybook romance, and yet that you still long for secretly in your inner heart of hearts.
It’s not just physical contact; it’s a moment, trembling fragile and taut between two people drawn towards one another by something ineffable that can hardly be defined. It’s the buildup - the look in his eyes, the scent of him, the heat and closeness that make you weak with longing, fear, pulse-pounding anticipation. It’s that hovering second when he pauses and meets your eyes, as if asking for permission to cross that last boundary and press his mouth to yours. It’s the breaths caught and held in your throat, waiting, feeling as if you’ll come apart at the seams if he doesn’t fulfill that promise held so close and yet too, too painfully far away.
Parted lips, firm flesh, hot skin…all it takes is a little tilt of the head, a light brush of nose to nose, and your mouths fit together so perfectly. Stillness, then - just to savor, just to feel. The barest hint of the taste of him; the faint texture of stubble under brushing fingertips. So many seemingly innocuous things rise to envelop you; the scent of him curls over your skin, and the sounds of his breaths fill your ears like the slow rush of the sea at night. Neither lewd nor chaste, but promising. It’s nothing more than a few seconds, and yet for as long as you can hold on to it…it feels like forever.
A few lingering breaths, and then it’s gone - melting away into the warmth between the breath that he exhales and the next that you inhale, leaving its flavor and its heat upon your lips. One moment, but it tingles through you until it feels like your first kiss all over again, until your knees feel like water and your skin feels too tight and you’re left at once languid and yet breathlessly on edge.
Some people call it chemistry. Some call it romance; some even label it as lust, even though it’s something more than that. I just call it “that kiss”, because that’s all that I need to define it. It’s that kiss - the kiss. The one kiss that reaches down inside you and peels you open to touch places you’d thought you were too jaded to possess, bringing that sweet, tight ache to your chest that’s part pain and yet even more parts bittersweet pleasure.
It’s been years since I’ve experienced that, and it may well be years more before I do again. I’m not ready for another serious relationship and may never be, yet I’m not the type to indiscriminately fool around with others for the sake of pleasure alone. I’m rather stuck in limbo, with a “No entry zone” sign plastered over every accessible part of me, both physical and emotional. I doubt there’ll be any men other than platonic friends in my life for a long time. That’s fine; that’s my choice, and that’s what makes me content.
But nonetheless, I’d give anything to feel that again.
I’d give anything for just that one intoxicating kiss.
I’ve got to say, one advantage that lesbians have over gay men is a lower level of obsessive body-consciousness in their quadrant of the LGBT community. That’s not to say that lesbians don’t take care of themselves, or care how they look. What that means is that lesbians tend to be more accepting of people as they are, by their own personal standards - rather than judging them by who they think they should be, according to some impossible ideal.
Gay men aren’t so forgiving. We’re obsessed with this culture of eternal youth and beauty; as always, this stereotype doesn’t apply to all gay men - just as the above statement doesn’t apply to all lesbians - but it’s still an annoyingly prevalent state that popular gay-themed media only reinforces. We have to be fashionable, we have to be beautiful, we have to be flawless. Perfect body, perfect teeth, perfect skin, perfect hair.
And you know, we’re real a**holes about it.
Nobody’s perfect, and the unrealistically high demands fostered by dating in the gay community can give a guy a serious complex. No doubt they’re a contributing factor to the startlingly high rate of eating disorders among gay men. Hell, I’ve even caught myself succumbing to the stereotype; I’ve been hit on by older guys, chubby guys, guys with less than optimally attractive facial features, and for a moment thought “Ugh, what does he think he’s doing trying to score with me?” [eyeroll] Like I’m some prize. Trust me, I’m not. Yes, I’m pretty; that’s not vanity, especially when “pretty” doesn’t necessarily translate into “attractive” in a man. It’s just the way things are. In fact, it’s a touch annoying and it’s not exactly something that brings me pride. I’m not perfect and I have no right to look down on someone who’s probably a great guy just because I happen to be a little prettier than the average male population.
Especially not when it’s been done to me, and I know exactly how it feels.
I’m flawed, both inside and out. I won’t pretend that I’m not. In some ways, I’m proud of some of my flaws, even if others - like the fact that being part Native and part black overrides Asian and Scottish genetics to leave me with dry, ripply hair that requires chemical straightening - drive me insane. One of my flaws is that my skin isn’t perfect. Thanks to climate and heritage, my skin gets oily and breaks out easily. I do the best I can to keep it from happening, and it’s rare now - and it never leaves scars. That wasn’t always true, though, and my upper arms are testament to that. Back when it was at its worst, my arms were left with a mottling of little brown scars on tanned skin that look almost like animal markings or the spots of a Trill (hello, inner geek coming out). They’re still there, although they fade more and more every year. I jokingly refer to them as my feral markings, and forget them otherwise. They don’t affect who I am. They don’t matter; they’re entirely superficial.
So, apparently, was this boy that I dated for a short time. We met in winter and I have a penchant for long sleeves anyway, so it was a few dates before he saw my naked arms. When he did…gods, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face. He recoiled in utter disgust, all over a few spots on my arms. He made excuses, left…and we broke it off a few days later. It could have hurt more; I could have been seriously attached to him, which would have made it even more painful. Even so, his reaction struck me pretty deeply. I felt disgusting, as if I were somehow unclean, not worth touching. I even considered listening to my sisters and their nasty comments about dermabrasion - a useless expense considering that the body tends to repair itself and will fade its own surface blemishes over the years.
All because of one shallow guy, a dirty look, and a few scars.
So I try to remember that guy when the older guy, the chubby guy, and the not-quite-perfect guy hit on me. No, they may not be my image of an ideal man (it’s so hard to find a tall, rangy geek-boy with hazel eyes and long, shaggy hair and cutely dorky glasses), but they’re worthwhile people who no doubt have far more to offer than just superficial appearances, and they don’t deserve to feel as if they don’t meet some standard. They’re no more flawed than I am, and no doubt they’re better people under the skin than those who proudly display their beauty.
In fact…if one stops to actually look at people originally discounted as unattractive, you may find them quite attractive after all. That geezer may have gorgeous eyes and a way of looking at you with sly confidence that can make you melt. The guy with the spare tire around the middle? Make him smile; I’ll bet the sweetness in that smile will capture your heart. The “ugly” guy? Not so ugly after all. Look at the strength in him, apparent in every line of his features, the way he moves. Look at the character reflected in their physical features, rather than focusing solely on the features themselves.
And remember that your idea of what’s attractive doesn’t necessarily match everyone else’s, so what may be trash to you is gold to someone else…and you have no right to treat them otherwise.
Since Doug over at Current Events Watch snitched the topic I’d intended to froth at the mouth over today (we apparently rank below animals, so I suppose there’s nothing wrong with acting like a rabid dog, now is there?), I thought perhaps we here at DR might wind down with a little humor.
Ladies and Gents, I’m going to clue you in to the most beautiful thing about men: the second that you begin to agonize and worry over whether you should or should not be flirting/dallying/doing whatever with us, we will choose that opportune moment to say just the right thing to ensure that you’ll never want to again. Gay, straight, young, old, we are a self-resolving problem. It’s convenient, it’s efficient, and as prevalent as it is, it’s a miracle that any of us manage to maintain viable social interaction. Give us enough verbal rope, and we will eventually hang ourselves.
The simultaneously best and worst example of this?
The dreaded pickup line.
To paraphrase Alex Hitchins, it takes a great deal of courage for a man to spot an attractive member of his preferred gender and take on the burden of approaching them, knowing that the first words that come out of his mouth with most likely determine whether or not this person will smile at him or throw their drink in his face. With that in mind, you’d think we’d take better care with the things we say. You’d think we’d try our best to be straightforward and engaging, rather than making sad attempts to be clever and witty even though we know we’ll fumble and fail at every turn.
We hardly ever learn, though. I’ve been victim to a number of cringe-worthy pickup lines myself, from the Harry Potter guy and his magic wand to the admittedly attractive woman (yes, women do it sometimes, too, just not as often - don’t think you’re off the hook, ladies) who approached me in the line at the movie theatre and, without so much as a hello, told me to meet her by the side of the building by the blue Camaro and she’d take me back to her place and we could…well. You get the picture. She walked off before I could say a word, leaving me gaping. I can’t help but wonder if she actually waited there, and if so, for how long.
You can’t even escape it online. I still have my membership on OutinHouston.com, created during the experiment that led to The Steve Incident, and now and then I check my e-mail on the site. Just yesterday I ran across this lovely gem, dated 11.16.07:
“ha baby wanted to know would you like to hook up an mess around alittle an if so when because I would like to taste that juice **** 4 its milk but i dont swallow but like to taste it all so let me know baby mike..”
Censoring asterisks mine, typos his. Not…that censoring really does much to lower the ESRB rating of that little gem, nor would proper grammar and punctuation make it any more appealing.
But Mike, you see, is a persistent one. Since I never answered his first e-mail, yesterday he sent me another, this time with a picture attached:
“ha guy lov the photo of you an wanted to know would you like to hook up an mess around at my place if thats ok with you are i can cum to you as well baby me lives on the southwest 59/hillcroft an love to suck on a sweet **** today if thats ok with you baby mmm ..mike”
Oh, Mike. You and your homonyms! So witty. I truly admire your dogged determination. It takes quite a bit of courage to view a total stranger’s profile online, read their commentary, and gather the balls it takes to honestly think that anyone would be impressed by that approach, let alone by getting it twice. Mike, you and I need to have a little talk about subtlety. Really. And while we’re at it, here, let me lend you my little pocket edition of Webster’s handbook of grammar and style…
Can’t fault the man for knowing what he wants, though.
I have to say that my most memorable experience with a bad pick-up, though, happened in a gay bar where another ex, Arturo, used to bartend. We were dating at the time, naturally, and I dropped by the bar just to see Arturo and say hi to the owner, as he was an old friend as well. It was a busy night, so I found a spot on the bar and stayed out of the way, amusing myself by watching the typical drunken non-complexity of the night life. I wasn’t particularly projecting an air of availability, but I suppose this fellow was just drunk enough to give it a shot. He was actually rather handsome; dark hair, eyes in a particular color that I have a weakness for, and just a trace of a sexy English accent. I might have entertained the idea of flirting with him to pass the time if he hadn’t stumbled over, grinned at me with a touch of inebriated charm, and said,
“Is that a cucumber in yer pocket, luv, or are ye jes’ ‘appy to see me?”
Cue the expected raised eyebrow and flat look. “Neither.”
He just grinned wider, though, and at this point I could tell he was building up to something. “Got a nice big cucumber in me pocket for ya.” He patted his hip, and against my better judgment I glanced down. Sure enough there was a long, large, clearly-outlined bulge in his rather tight pants. At that point my brain broke; I didn’t even know how to process that, but he wasn’t done yet. He snickered and said, “No, really, it’s a cucumber.”
He wasn’t lying. He stuffed a hand into his pocket, rooted around a little, and dragged out a genuine lean and green cucumber, already starting to wilt from being shoved in there for so long. He waved it under my nose, nearly giggling.
I cracked up laughing.
It turned out his name was Rick, he actually wasn’t so bad, and yet I still made him promise to never use that line on anyone again. He gets points for ingeniousness, but dear gods…how drunk do you have to be to think that stuffing a cucumber down your pants is a good idea?
I could probably deluge you with stories both hilarious and horrifying all day, but I think you get the idea. I’m sure you’ve all got plenty of stories of your own. Bad pick-up lines, funny come-ons that ended up as epic failures…we’ve all experienced them. I suppose it’s universal, and honestly with such a legacy I’m surprised that gay men and straight men don’t get along better. We all suffer from the same foot-in-mouth syndrome, after all.
We’re just lucky that there are a few people out there who find that struggling awkwardness cute.
I’ve officially been single for over a month now. It’s been slow, adjusting to thinking of The Ex as just a friend, adjusting to not having him in my life anymore, figuring out what to do with the time that used to be ours. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes not, but my life has settled comfortably and I’ve continued walking on; yet in that time, I’ve noticed something that I’ve rarely had occasion to before.
Since I was eighteen I’ve been in and out of relationships, never single for more than a few weeks. I’ve always had a boyfriend, most often someone who worked out for anywhere from six to sixteen months before we went our separate ways - sometimes as friends, sometimes as bitter enemies, sometimes as if we’d never met. There was always a queue of anywhere from one to seven men waiting to fill the spot. I was never without a date, no matter where I went.
Only now, I am. Some of the “shelf boys” are still there, hoping I’ll pick one of them next and yet knowing I won’t because I hate the odds of losing a friend should he become an ex-boyfriend. Some have moved on to other happy relationships. And here I am, drifting in limbo, smiling and shaking my head when I’m asked out on a date, turning down offers for one-night stands because I’m just not into that, enjoying a little flirtation here and there before curtailing it before it goes beyond a certain point. I have no problem going out to a film or dinner alone, or with a few friends. Why?
Because I’m happy being single.
And in the past month, I’ve noticed that no one really believes that.
There’s a certain stigma associated with maintaining a doggedly single state, especially in the gay community - and showing up somewhere without a date is only the first mark of your stigmata. When all your friends have dates, you’re the odd man out. They restrain public affection in front of you because they don’t want to make you feel left out, uncomfortable, or lonely. When talking about couples’ activities they’ll often break off in the middle, give you apologetic looks, and change the subject. They ask if you’re all right, and don’t believe when you smile and say it’s not necessary, you’re fine. If they find out that you and the ex had a chat, just keeping up with each other and remaining friends, they worry that you’ve left the encounter traumatized and achingly aware of your single state.
If you say you’re happy being single, you must be in denial. Are you bitter now? Are you too hurt to deal with another relationship? Or is there something wrong with you, and you’re afraid it’ll ruin the deal if you try with another man? Maybe you’re damaged goods. Maybe there’s some dirty secret. Maybe you don’t even realize there’s something wrong with you that kills relationships, and you’re to be pitied and avoided. Maybe it’s not that you choose to be single, but that you just can’t snag another man. It all contributes to this palpable air of pity when you’re around your predominantly non-single friends; they treat you as if you’re made of fine china and may snap at any moment.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. It’s just the first time I’ve experienced it first-hand. I’ve seen friends receive the same pitying treatment, that same careful sidestepping and, in some cases, eventual ostracizing. The couples would stop asking them to go places because they were the awkward extra and, even though the discomfort was all in their heads, made people uncomfortable. The singles were so desperate to avoid being left out of the loop that they’d hook up as quickly as they could and dive right back into the social circles, leaving the other unlucky singles behind. If you remain single for too long, the unspoken message is clear: We think there’s something wrong with you, and we pity you. Sometimes it’s not even unspoken. Sometimes the sardonic remarks are all-too-loudly heard, condescending and snide.
For some reason, we’ve developed this idea that having a boyfriend, a mate, is a sign of social status and one of the primary goals of one’s existence. It’s not something limited to the gay subculture; we’re just a bit cattier about it, but it’s prevalent through most of society. Without a mate you aren’t complete; without a mate you haven’t proven that you’re somehow worthwhile because someone else thinks you’re worth dating, loving, marrying, or just having wild, hot, indiscriminate sex with. You need a boyfriend or girlfriend to be a real man or woman. You need someone else at your side to be considered a viable member of society, and you can’t possibly be happy without.
And if you think otherwise, there’s obviously something wrong with you. You’re marked. You’re stigmatized. You are somehow unclean, and black-marked in your social circles.
The beauty of this is that once you reach the stage where you’re comfortable being single, you no longer care.
I admit, for the longest time I bought into the social stereotype. I needed to have a boyfriend, or people would think I was pathetic and undateable. I needed someone to give me love and attention before I could feel good about myself. I needed someone to want me before I felt attractive. I worried about what my friends thought if the man of the hour wasn’t demonstrative, affectionate, whatever. I was afraid that I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I was alone.
Then I made the hardest decision I’ve made in many years. I voluntarily stepped away from the man I’ve loved for the past four years, from the man with whom two attempts at a relationship just didn’t work. I walked away for my own good, and for his.
And I realized that alone, I’ll be just fine. Alone, I’m still the same talented writer that I was when I was dating someone. I’m still that cynical a**hole that makes people laugh even while they roll their eyes. I’m still that guy who can turn a head now and then, and who enjoys the occasion to make someone blush. I’m still that dork who can turn from brazen and confident to geeky and shy in a matter of seconds. I was all of those things before I was dating someone, and I will continue to be those things now that I’m single again and walking tall.
Accepting that has started to show in my demeanor. I’m no longer embarrassed by others’ attitudes towards “the single guy”; I no longer allow myself to be stigmatized. I respond with amusement, with confidence, and now when I turn down a date or a proposition people don’t look at me as if wondering what’s wrong me. They look at me with curiosity, and wonder just what it is I know that they don’t, that makes me able to smile and say “no, thank you” to men that others would kill to say “yes, god yes” to.
What I know is this, and it’s been a long time in coming: I don’t need a relationship to validate myself.
And no matter what the prevalent mindset of society says…neither do you.
Every day we hear stories of the pain caused by discrimination and prejudice against the gay and lesbian community. The news is filled with them: stories of families broken, friendships abandoned, jobs lost, public and private humiliation, personal injury…sometimes even lives lost. We’ve all read the stories. We’ve all been those stories, at one point or another. Some of us live them every day; some of us have managed to insulate ourselves until it’s a far-distant thing that we look upon with pity and sorrow. And sometimes…sometimes, those stories come knocking on our doorsteps.
A close friend of mine - we’ll call her Mirela for the sake of privacy - is dealing with her own story right now, and dreading its outcome. Mirela is a lesbian, and her family has always had trouble coping with that. Her father is openly derisive, while her mother has struggled to accept her and reconcile the fact that her daughter is a lesbian with her own personal beliefs. Mirela’s mother is also a teacher at the Catholic school where Mirela endured a miserable nine years as an outcast - the unpopular girl; the girl who was snickered about because she didn’t have the right hair or jeans or shoes; the girl who always hid her nose in a book so she wouldn’t have to hear about the things the other girls were doing without her, and the activities she was excluded from. I know how she felt; I was that boy, Catholic school and all.
Now, though, Mirela is a college student ready to start her career; over the years I’ve watched her fight through so many insecurities and difficulties and always come out strong and fighting on the other side of every battle. She’s got a wonderful girlfriend now, and Mirela isn’t at all ashamed to be open about her sexuality. She even has a LGBT support banner on her formerly public MySpace page.
I say formerly, because now she’s had to set it on private to try to avoid embarrassing her mother - but the damage has already been done.
Sometimes all it takes is one little thing to utterly change the flavor of your life. In this case that one little thing was Mirela’s mother bringing up Mirela’s MySpace page in a class of 13-year-old girls, to demonstrate just how public personal information can be so the girls understand the dangers they pose to themselves by posting their pictures and information on the site. Mirela’s mother ended up becoming the lesson as the girls burst into giggles at the sight of the LGBT banner - and now the woman has become the laughingstock of the entire class. Even worse, Mirela has become the laughingstock of the school for the second time in her life, when she’d thought she’d be able to leave that place behind forever. All of this just because she’s the teacher’s daughter, and she’s a lesbian.
Mirela’s mother has to deal with that every day, now. The whispers; the snickers; the looks. The loss of respect from her class. Even worse, there may be more severe repercussions, as word spreads to the parents. Mirela has had first-hand experience with how intolerant the parents who send their children to this school can be, and worries that her mother will face reprimand or may even lose her job if they decide that she might be a corrupting influence on her child. The hardest part for her to deal with, though, is that her mother might be ashamed of her - or if not ashamed of her, at the very least publicly shamed because of her. As hard as her mother has struggled to accept her, Mirela never wanted to bring public humiliation upon her, never wanted to do anything that might in any way embarrass her, but now it’s too late.
And all because of a group of small-minded children.
I don’t wholly blame the children. Mostly I blame the parents for not teaching them that another person’s sexuality isn’t something to be mocked or derided - but really, this is more indicative of a problem within society in general. Children will always be cruel towards those who are different; that’s just the way children are. But it wouldn’t have been such a big deal - and they wouldn’t be openly disrespecting an adult - if society hadn’t made it quite clear that hey, it’s perfectly all right to make fun of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the transgendered…anyone who isn’t 100% hetero and fitting the norm. Derisive gay jokes are more common than derisive straight jokes and are among the first “taboo” things that children learn to snigger about behind their hands in the bathrooms and lunchrooms, as they try out words like “fag” and “fudgepacker” and, if they’re feeling really daring and dirty, “cocksucker” and “rugmuncher”. They’ll fling these words at each other as insults with no real idea of what they mean beyond the fact that they’re related to being gay, and being gay is both funny and worthy of ridicule.
Laying blame, though, doesn’t change what’s already happened - and doesn’t change that now Mirela’s relationship with her mother is once more strained as she carries what she feels is her burden for embarrassing her mother.
No one should ever have to be embarrassed by their sexuality, for any reason. No one should ever have to fear that their sexuality will create an uncomfortable situation for a relative or a friend, or that it might somehow reflect negatively on those in their personal circle. In an ideal world, this situation wouldn’t have even been an issue and those girls wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at the banner.
But this isn’t an ideal world. This is reality, and reality is an ugly thing that will only change if we work at it - if we educate one another, and practice the tolerance that we preach. One day we may reconcile social perceptions of homosexuality with the reality, and gain acceptance to the point where we’ll become nearly commonplace. That day is not today.
But with hope and hard work, it may be one day soon.
I probably shouldn’t be doing an “Ask Adri” column in my current mood. You can’t see me right now, but I’m making my pain face. Why? Because I’m in pain. I don’t know what I did to my right arm yesterday, but I woke up this morning feeling as if a few members of the WWE had been using it as an illegal blunt object in the ring. With it still attached to my body. So I’m kind of cranky. But the news is alternately boring me or pissing me off with arseheaded reports that now the LGBT community is pushing for a non-trans-inclusive ENDA (what the hell happened to solidarity, people? I bet we wouldn’t be so willing to ditch them if it was the G or L getting left out), and this letter’s been sitting in my inbox for a couple of weeks now, so I really shouldn’t neglect it any longer. (Also, to two people who e-mailed me asking for private responses: I’m not ignoring you. You’ll hear from me some time tomorrow.)
Hello Adrien.
I am 37/gwm/FL. [Note from Adri for those who don't do netspeak: He's a 37-year-old gay white male who lives in Florida.] My wife and I have three lovely children. I am gay. I knew I was gay when I married her but I thought I could live a normal married straight life. I have been happy with my children and I love my wife, but I am very unhappy with myself. I can no longer pretend attraction to my wife and would like to explore my homosexual side. I do not want her to find out. I would like to have a relationship on the side with another man. How can I meet men without coming out publicly? We live in a small town and if I go to the gay bars nearby I will be recognized. Someone will tell my wife. I need to meet a man who can be discreet. Can you tell me how I can do this?
Sincerely,
Frustrated Florida Fag
Wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute. Hold up and slow your roll, Holmes. Are you asking me to help you figure out the best way to cheat on your wife with other men?
Oh, I don’t think so.
Let me tell you something, son. You are going to do this right, rather than in the way that’s the most comfortable for you. You are going to inform your wife, properly and politely, of this particular turn of events in your life. You are going to take responsibility for the years of your marriage, and you are going to make this as easy for her as possible, because none of this is her fault and she’s going to feel hurt and betrayed, almost as much as she would if she caught you cheating. I know this isn’t easy for you, either, and I feel for you, I really do - as while some of this situation is your fault, not all of it is. But you are not going to make it worse by being a reprehensible human being and sneaking around behind your wife’s back like a dog, do you hear me?
You and your wife are going to talk about this. She may leave you, but for the sake of your children, she may not. If she stays with your sorry behind, she may even be willing to come to an agreement. You stay married as parents, but not as sexual partners, and then with her permission you can slip around on the sly all you want as long as you don’t bring your sexual partners home and trip the kids off as to what’s going on. It’s not an ideal situation, and later when the children are older and not as likely to be affected emotionally by their parents breaking up (for whatever reason, sexuality has little to do with how kids are affected by divorce), they will need to be told the truth. Frankly I don’t like the idea of hiding your sexuality from your kids, but it would just be too confusing for them to understand, in their formative years, why Mommy and Daddy have separate bedrooms and Daddy brings men home to spend the night.
And you know what? Your wife may take the kids and leave you. There’ll be a custody hearing; it may be ugly, it may not, but as long as you’re not declared unfit then you’ll get to spend plenty of equal time with your kids. You can even come out publicly and explain a few things to your kids, about how Daddy is gay but Daddy’s still Daddy and still loves them, supports them, etc. - and yes Daddy still loves Mommy, just not in certain ways.
Or you can stomp down your urges, stay miserably in the closet, and keep your family exactly the way it is. It’s an unfortunate situation, and there is no easy answer, no right answer, and no answer that’s going to make everyone happy.
Except you screwing around behind your wife’s back, and that you will not do. Not with my help, anyway. When you get caught, I want no part of this.
And you will get caught. Men always do; I know this from experience, not from cheating myself, but from dealing with cheating men from ex-boyfriends to my own father. You always get caught.
And when you get caught, those hot messes that I described above will be ten times worse.
So just don’t do it.
I know I was a little stern there. You needed it. You need a hard look at the reality of what your decision entails, from an outside perspective. This entire time you’ve probably been focusing on your own misery, and your own potential happiness. When you create a family, you can’t just think of yourself alone anymore. Your decisions deeply affect other people, and you have to consider that before every choice you make. I know you feel trapped by a decision you made years ago, and wish you could go back and undo it. You can’t. Unfortunately, part of adult life is living with the consequences of your past actions, and sometimes there just isn’t a way to wipe the slate clean and start over blameless.
Unless you’re Catholic, but don’t even get me started on that.
Despite my harsh words, I do wish you the best, and I hope that the difficulties along the road ahead are eased by mutual understanding between you and your family. You have a lot of tough choices to make. Good luck with them all.
See this? This is my problem with the whole “sanctity of marriage” crap. Heterosexual marriages break up all the time, for just about any reason; it’s not uncommon for someone to go through two or three spouses on average in their lifetime. How sacred were those marriage vows again?
But this situation in particular, oh, this one gets under my skin. If homosexual marriages were acceptable and legal, this man might not have felt the need to get into a heterosexual relationship and later marriage, in order to conform to the pressures to live the picture of the societal norm. He might have married a man and lived happily ever after, while the woman who - in this alternate future - is not his wife would have married a different man and moved on to have several fat, shiny babies. Instead we’ve got a tangled mess in which the husband is miserable, the wife is oblivious and just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and the children could very possibly have a previously happy home torn apart.
Oh, but that marriage is between a man and a woman, so hey, it’s just fine.
George W. Bush, you can suck my middle finger.
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.
Sorry I’m so late updating today, kids. In a little personal (and yet at least topical to this site) TMI, I spent my early morning sending the boyfriend the dreaded Breakup Letter, making him the ex again for the second time in four years, even if I’m not quite sure he’s aware of it yet. I? I am going to happily enjoy being single for a long time. I go through about a man a year (better than a man a month), and I’m tired of it; besides, all I want is a normal guy, and it’s practically impossible to find one of those in the gay community. Trust me. I’ve tried. Anyway, I rather fancy the artful image of myself as the solitary, cynical writer, clove in one hand, drink in the other, and a stack of dog-eared manuscript pages on the desk in front of me while my glasses try to fall off my nose.
See? No such thing as a normal gay guy. [snrk]
Anyway. So I’m sure you’re not the slightest bit surprised to find out that hey, I wasn’t much in the mood for updating this morning. And I’m still not in the mood to go digging through the news for something to sermonize about. Instead, I feel like snarking on something a little.
Lately I’m noticing a growing trend in my site metrics: search strings that show that users are looking for a “gay quiz”. Not my Diva Quiz, but a quiz that will somehow analyze their personal habits, personality traits, and dress styles to tell them if they’re gay or lesbian. As if we somehow all share some uniform in style, habit, and personality. Really, a gay quiz should be horribly easy. And so now, without further ado, I present to you:
The Gay Quiz
1. Are you turned on by/attracted to members of the same sex, but not particularly affected by members of the opposite sex?
(a) No
(b) Yes
(c) I like both.
Answers Explained
If you answered (a): You’re straight. If you answered (b): You’re gay/lesbian. Wow, that was easy, wasn’t it? If you answered (c): You’re either bi or gifted with a strong libido that doesn’t care whose leg you hump as long as you find satisfaction.
Now was that really so bloody hard? No? Then why does anyone need a multi-question quiz for that? Hell, it even works if you’re transgendered, as I know the gender questions can get confusing because some people don’t quite get that you define your sexuality after you define your gender identity. If you’re FtM and you’re attracted to guys, you’re gay; attracted to girls, you’re straight (and woe on the person who calls you a lesbian). If you’re MtF and you’re attracted to women, you’re a lesbian; attracted to guys, you’re straight (and hell will befall the person who calls you a gay man). Still easy.
Now if you’re androgynous/genderqueer/asexual…um…you just are what you are. Have fun.
I’m gone. I’m thinking this is a weekend to curl up with a martini, the cat, and a good book. Enjoy your weekend, kiddos.
While we, the homosexual community, may be the self-proclaimed queens of fashion, a gay fashion statement by an unwitting teenager turned out to be a faux paus as disastrous as the latest (hideous) handbag offerings from Juicy.
A Spencer, N.Y., student was sent home from school last week for wearing a T-shirt that denounces homophobia.
Heathyre Farnham, 16, said she was not trying to be inflammatory by wearing the shirt that says, “Gay? Fine By Me.”
“I had worn it two or three times before, and all of a sudden it’s inappropriate,” Heathyre said in a statement Wednesday.
Principal Ann Sincock declined to comment on particulars of the incident at Spencer-Van Etten High School, where Heathyre is in 10th grade, the Ithaca Journal reported.
[...]“She said I was advertising my sexual preference and that was offensive, which makes no sense because I’m straight. Maybe she herself was offended by it,” Heathyre said.
You know, I’m rather inclined to agree with Heathyre. That seems a bit of a knee-jerk reaction; since when does saying “I’m okay with homosexuality” equate with “I’m gay”? Not to mention that saying she was “advertising” makes it sound like she’s characterizing Heathyre as a young miss of questionable intentions, loitering on a street corner and advertising for something else…
Anyway. I can sympathize with her, though. Dress codes in schools have always been restrictive, even if they’re growing tighter now; when I was in high school (back in the 20th century, oh my), several of my friends were sent home just for wearing band t-shirts with ambiguous logos. I was asked to remove a rainbow bracelet that I wore one day, because other students “might think I’m gay”. (No, really?)
Schools have turned into little whitewash factories. I know that a lot of the regulations, such as the regulation about not wearing anything disruptive or inflammatory, are to keep from causing problems with bullies, interruptions of lessons, etc…but they jump a little too fast and a little too far on some things, and at this rate they might as well put everyone in uniforms if they’re going to regulate so strictly. (Hell, some schools do, and it works.) In this case, the school’s actions were entirely self-defeating; no one really seemed to care about the girl’s shirt one way or another until she was sent home because of it - at which point even students who are against homosexuality said that they thought she shouldn’t have been sent home over it. The school’s actions themselves caused a disruption, while the girl did not.
Sounds to me like the principal had a personal problem there. Even if Heathyre was a lesbian…don’t you think it’s a bit insulting to tell the girl that being honest about it is “offensive”?
Even though I’m not particularly flamboyant, people usually pick up on the fact that I’m gay. I don’t really know what my tell-tale markers are, honestly; my mannerisms and body language are pretty gender-neutral. Maybe it’s the hair, or something about my style of dress; maybe it’s the rose sunglasses (which, believe it or not, I wear to cope with painful photosensitivity and not for style), or the piercings - though the latter I doubt as plenty of straight men wear earrings now, too.
Maybe it’s that I can occasionally be caught giving a second glance to a guy whose aesthetic catches my eye. Maybe it’s that I generally don’t even give a first glance to the classic magnets to the male eye: the nearest T&A. Hell, maybe it’s just pheromones and chemistry.
Either way, there’s some signal that I give off well before I even let a “my boyfriend” slip in conversation that sets off people’s gaydar with that distinctive little blip. I suppose I’m so comfortable with myself that it’s wholly subconscious, but some people are a bit more deliberate - and a bit more wary. Some people have their own personal code of body language and carefully-chosen words, subtle ways of letting people know that they’re gay, carefully feeling out the territory around them…while others may be out and loud, proclaiming themselves proudly to anyone who’ll listen and making sure that everyone who even glances their way can tell in an instant that they’re fabulously queer. The hanky code isn’t so popular anymore…but we’ve all got our own ways about us, and different signs that work in different situations. We’ve all got our way of waving our little gay flag.
So if you’re gay…how do you out yourself? Do you let it all hang out, or maybe feel your way tentatively along, throwing out careful phrases like “my partner” to test the waters in your social environment before edging slowly out of the closet? Do you not out yourself at all, carefully covering your tracks to make sure that no one can figure it out? Or do you, like me, not even think about it unless it somehow accidentally comes up as part of regular interaction?
And what signs do you watch for in others? Say you’re wondering if that hottie is gay and maybe just keeping things on the down low; what signs do you watch for to try to tell even in the most “straight-acting” of girls or guys?
Hell…what is “straight-acting”, anyway? I’ve known straight guys who could flame me right out of the water.
This has been your daily interrogation, coming from a very sleep-deprived and coffee-deficient Adri. Let me know if you make any sense out of it, because I sure can’t.
You may recall the suit against eHarmony claiming discrimination against gays, whose rejection from the site was implicit in the inability to choose “male seeking male” or “female seeking female” or specify an orientation and whose pleas to customer service were denied. Chemistry.com has capitalized on that with a clever series of “Rejected” ads, claiming that they welcome those rejected by eHarmony with open arms:
Chemistry.com’s tagline is “come as you are”, implying open acceptance not only of gays, but of anyone not suitable for eHarmony’s strict guidelines of what makes a good match. I first ran across the ads while glancing at No Style’s listing on OnlineComics.net, but on browsing Chemistry.com’s website found a full series of the simple but effective ads, appealing to all walks of life. It’s a fairly bold stab at eHarmony, to openly criticize their practices through advertising - and one that I’m sure other competitors wish they had thought of first. Chemistry.com looks to gain a significant market share from the gay dating community and others unsuited to sites like eHarmony, if the ad campaign succeeds. It certainly caught my attention, so they’ve done at least one thing right.
Gay? Lesbian? Rejected by others? Unhappy with yourself? Chemistry.com’s ad campaign proposes to offer safe haven to people who don’t fit the safe definition of happy, shiny singles looking for romance, and its home page touts novel views of marriage and dating in a modern culture. I do notice that the profile options on their site don’t allow one to choose TS/TV/TG as a gender option, but it does give you the option to choose “Male seeking Male” or “Female seeking Female”. No option for both, though. No love for the bisexuals or the trans community. Isn’t that always the case?
It’s a step in the right direction, and gets a few brownie points from my particular corner of gay life even if it’s about what I’ve come to expect from a dating site not specifically targeted towards the gay community. With the exception of fetish sites like Alt.com that cater to anyone’s desire for anything, Chemistry.com’s options are typical of mainstream dating sites that don’t specifically exclude same-sex pairings. The only difference I’ve seen is that other communities leave the option there and then seem to look the other way if users choose to exercise it, while Chemistry.com openly flaunts their availability to the gay and lesbian community.
So is Chemistry.com really doing something new? Not in the area of services offered, no - but they have taken advantage of an opportune situation to contrive an ad campaign perfectly suited for the moment.
Sometimes it’s not what you do, but when and how you do it that makes the difference.
Are you gay or lesbian with experience with Chemistry.com’s services? Contact me and tell me your opinions and your story at adrien-luc.sanders@451press.net.
One of my friends gave me a good laugh last night; she and I were talking on AIM, and I asked if she and her wife were going to register for domestic partner benefits since they live in Seattle. Her response?
“We didn’t even know about that… O.o Shows just how much we pay attention to things.”
Sometimes I forget that not everyone keeps up with these things as avidly as I do, since it’s my job. Ah, well, that’s why I love her. Adorable thing.
Today I’m going to go out on a limb and get a little bit personal, and I’m going to have to ask in advance that my Darling BoyfriendTM (formerly known as The ExTM) doesn’t kill me for it. Darling Boyfriend and I both have a couple of bad habits in relationships, ones that drive each other crazy but that thankfully aren’t prevalent enough to affect our relationship on a day-to-day basis or create enormously insurmountable issues that make us wholly incompatible. They’re the kind of little twitch-point that everyone has with their partner or spouse, and learning to deal with those things and love your partner despite them is the basis for just about any long-term relationship. You can bet that no marriage would survive if people constantly divorced because he keeps forgetting anniversaries or she has an addiction to designer handbags (or vice-versa, in some cases).
The other night, however, we got into a rip-roaring fight that I freely admit was my fault, because here’s my major bad habit: I get a little upset and accusatory over things rather than just talking them out. This might not seem like such a big deal, but when I say ‘upset and accusatory’, I’m talking diva style, and you can bet that’s part of the reason I scored a 60% on the Diva Test. Sometimes he calls me Scarlett, and unfortunately I’ve earned the name. I’ve grown up a bit and I’m not nearly as bad as I used to be, and I’m working on getting better. My catty little tantrums usually last for a minute or two, and then I calm down and act like a rational human being.
This time, though, one of his bad habits tripped me off and I, feeling wounded and aggrieved, went to bed not speaking to him and sulking quite thoroughly about it. The next day he came to me wanting to talk things out; he’s the peacemaker in our relationship, and I love him for it and for how he can make me smile no matter how angry I am. Over the course of me explaining (in adult fashion, this time, though we can all be a bit childish when we’re upset) just what it was that upset me, the following exchange ensued:
“I’ll try to change that, Adri.”
“Men don’t change. If you need to change a man, then you shouldn’t be with him.”
Some of that was my guilt over being a brat talking, but that really got me thinking, you know? Because sometimes that’s true, sometimes it isn’t. I’m trying to change my bad habits for him, he’s trying to change his bad habits for me, and on both sides the things we’re trying to change would be bad in any relationship - not just with each other. We aren’t trying to change each other as people; we’re willingly acknowledging our own flaws and saying “I know this bothers you, so I’ll work on it if you’ll be patient with me.”
But it got me wondering: how much change is too much? You hear stories of people in relationships where their partner basically took them on as a project, making over not only their look and style but their entire personality and daily routine. Sometimes you hear of these people being grateful for it. More often, however, the beleaguered significant other feels trapped, caged, as if he or she cannot even be themselves and must be on performance always in front of their partner, only relaxing when their taskmaster/mistress is not around. That sort of situation, whether it’s a total makeover or just the reformation of a single trait, can lead to resentment and one miserable partner.
Where do you draw the line between healthy change and forced-march reformation? How do you know if the changes you’re discussing are compromises for the sake of yourselves, each other, and the relationship…or if you and your partner are forcing each other into unnatural behavior in order to make each other happy, while making yourselves miserable? I’d like to think that my boyfriend and I make each other happy, and that these little habitual changes that we’re both working on are safe, comfortable compromises. But how can one tell?
I can only tell you the criteria by which I judge. First, if the behavior is harmful to your partner, harmful to you, or harmful to your relationship, it most likely needs to be evaluated and discussed with your partner. No matter what you do, you can’t force change on your partner; they have to assess the situation themselves, decide if they agree or not, and be willing to change on their own. Ultimatums are not the way to go; “fix this or I’ll leave” is just another way of forcing something unwanted down your partner’s throat. If the two of you can have a mutual exchange about the issue and your other half willingly says, “I know this bothers you and understand that it’s harmful, and I want to change this habit for the sake of our relationship” (or something similar) then you’re in the clear.
Keep in mind that it’s going to be slow going, and they can’t ditch a habit overnight. Keep in mind, also, that they may have a habit or two they’ll want to talk to you about, as well. Be open and willing to consider. Hell, working on your bad habits together can even help to bring you closer. It works for me and for Darling Boyfriend. At this point we even have inside jokes about it, although obviously we still get in the expected kerfluffle now and then.
Also keep in mind that changing that habit can’t be the central focus of your relationship, and you can’t watch them like a hawk and make them feel as if they’re being judged every moment on whether or not they’re really trying to ditch the little behavioral trait. If all you can focus on is that one bad habit without appreciating the good things, then there are bigger issues in your relationship that you need to pay attention to. The issue of the bad habit should only be an issue when they do it again. Otherwise, forget about it.
You’ll notice the key word I’m using here, over and over again, is habit. I’m talking about changing something your partner does, not changing who your partner is. You can’t really change one person into another person, and you’re just going to make them unhappy if you try. If you need to change your partner into another person, then really, you just need to be with another person. Asking them to do something like show a little more affection now and then shouldn’t be a big deal. Asking them to completely change their life goals to suit your idea of what they should be?
Big deal.
Those are just examples, but they illustrate the basic idea. The main factors here are scale and impact. How big of an issue is this, and what impact does it have on you and your partner? How much change will this issue require, and what impact will the attempted change have on your other half? In the end you have to take each situation one at a time, pick your battles, and always - always - be willing to talk these things out with your partner before turning a minor twitch into a fatal and criminal flaw for which you constantly berate them. Remember that you aren’t perfect, either, so before you start judging your partner…as the saying goes, “physician, know thyself”.
I’ve been phrasing this in the contexts of gay and lesbian relationships, but in the end that applies to all relationships. Some change can be healthy, and compromise is required in all relationships. Are you willing to compromise? Is your partner willing to compromise for you? Do you try to change your partner?
Do you think you can - and do you think you should?
WORLD’S FIRST BLUETOOTH BASED “GAY PERSONALS” FOR MOBILE PHONES ENABLES REAL-TIME AND IMMEDIATE CONNECTIVITY
AJ Entrepreneurs announced today the availability of its revolutionary mobile phone social networking software, emale mobile(TM), enabling immediate connectivity between today’s highly mobile individuals. This “personals” platform uses Bluetooth technology to instantly connect gays and lesbians within a 10-meter (33 feet) radius range, acting as a second sense of gaydar - the intuitive ability to ascertain whether another person is gay.
[...]emale mobile(TM) scans for others nearby while the user goes about his or her daily routine. When emale mobile(TM) detects another user, and if a match is found, both users’ profiles are exchanged automatically and saved to the mobile phone’s memory.
I admit, this seems like a pretty cool idea, at first. I love techno-widgets and I’m tempted to go download this to my little Bluetooth-enabled Motorola just to poke it and play with it. But I’ve seen services like this before, targeted to heterosexuals or to the dating pool in general, and every time I’m faced with a general sense of unease and the concept of feeling like an animal who’s been voluntarily tagged for tracking in the wild.
Maybe it’s just me. I’m not exactly paranoid, but I am rather protective of my privacy, and I don’t want every gay man within a 10-meter radius (or straight man or anything female masquerading as a gay man to play with the software) flagged with a “Homo on the port bow!” alert just because I happen to have my cellphone in my pocket when I head out to Wal-Mart to sate a craving for a bag of Dilettante chocolate-covered espresso beans.
There’s also the stalker factor, and how easy it would make it for some creep out there to use this service to hunt down people to assault, molest, or just be really, really weird around. Or the idea of some homophobic jackholes playing pretend and using it to hunt down someone to harass…how does emalemobile.com intend to make sure that only the target demographic uses the service?
The easy solution, of course, is to turn the software off and uninstall it, if those concerns bother you - or just don’t download it in the first place. But I suppose I do wonder about safety and privacy issues for those who intend to use the service in earnest, and how emalemobile.com intends to guarantee user security. It’s a little different from a personals site, where the decision to meet up with someone is your choice and even if you do end up with someone potentially dangerous, in the end you made a conscious decision to place yourself in the physical vicinity of a person who’s expressed interest with you in a digital format.
With emalemobile.com…some of that choice is removed by alerting others to your presence in their immediate vicinity, without giving you much of a chance to screen those people before they find out where you are on top of who you are. Supposedly the profile exchanges are automated, so if your profile contains a photo (not wise), you could be in the checkout line at Target only to suddenly find some big bruiser bearing down on you to ask you out for a date just because they recognized you from your profile photo and spotted you from two queues over.
Mm…maybe I’m just being an old fuddy and imagining worst-case scenarios, imagining Homeland Security officials using the service secretly to create databases of known homosexuals. (I don’t seriously think this would happen, I’m just being dramatic. Although HS has been known to classify gay advocate groups as possible terrorist threats who bear observation…)
What about you? Would you use the service, and feel comfortable with that kind of alerting and profile exchange system without established safeguards?
I think everyone out there has that one friend who’s had a crush on you since time immemorial - or at least since you’ve known them - and who doesn’t give up hope no matter how many times you gently, carefully say no so as not to hurt their feelings so badly that it destroys a valuable friendship. One of those friends, for me, is R. R’s the big guy who’s embarrassed to admit that he cried during Waiting to Exhale; he’s a big teddy bear with a great sense of sardonic humor tempered by a sweet streak that’ll give you cavities, a gorgeous body, handsome face, and hair I could play with for hours. If he didn’t have a pot habit, I might consider dating him…but that’s a big, fat no in my book. I’ll look the other way when my friends do it as long as they don’t do it in my presence or bring it into my home (you’ll find yourself on the welcome mat staring at the closed front door so fast you won’t know what hit you), but I refuse to date anyone who routinely tokes up.
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