Fear Factor: First Date Edition.

“It was a pretty lousy episode this week. Nobody died.”

Remember when I said that I met a Jake Ryan-esque dreamboat on OKCupid? Remember how I said that we talked for several hours and that one conversation single-handedly restored my faith in humanity? Well, several hours has turned to several weeks. Last weekend, I was passing through his town on my way to somewhere else, and we agreed to meet for coffee.

 

I texted him at 6:25 PM: “Hey, I’m in your town. At a McDonald’s on 4^th. Point me in the right direction!”

6:30, no text. 6:45, no text. At 7:00, I give it up and start the long drive home. I grow old and die alone, with only the Valentine’s candy I bought for myself to hold me at the end.

I texted him at 6:25 PM: “Hey, I’m in your town. At a McDonald’s on 4^th. Point me in the right direction!”

He takes a few minutes to respond. These minutes are tense; is he going to stand me up? The bitch better not stand me up. Finally I get a response. “I’m sorry, I got caught up on something. Listen, can we meet another time? I’m just super busy avoiding you because you kind of freak me out. No offense. Drive safe!” Alternating between sobbing and cursing, I order a giant thing of ice cream from the McDonalds drive through and allow it to melt on the drive home while listening to Judy’s “By Myself” on repeat and singing very loudly and very off-key.

I texted him at 6:25 PM: “Hey, I’m in your town. At a McDonald’s on 4^th. Point me in the right direction!”

He takes a few minutes to respond. But he does, at 6:32. We work out where I am to discover I’ve missed the Starbucks target by about 5 miles. That’s ok, he responds, just stay where you are. He has moved the meeting from Starbucks to McDonalds, which has effectively moved this from “coffee thing” to “let’s just get this shit over with,” which is the official slogan of McDonalds. He pulls into the parking lot at 7:05 PM, and walks towards me, tall, gorgeous, stylish. I walk towards him. We get under the street lamp, and he stops, aghast. “My God, man! You’re hideous!” He stumbles back into the darkness, and the lights of his blue Chevy Equinox illuminate and are out of the parking lot before you could say, “I just want somebody to love me.” The people inside the McDonalds grab their pitchforks and torches and angry-villager me into the night, never to be heard from again.

I texted him at 6:25 PM: “Hey, I’m in your town. At a McDonald’s on 4^th. Point me in the right direction!”

At 7:05, he pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot.

There is some awkward handshaking. We stumble inside to find it relatively devoid of loud high school kids or angry white ladies clearly taking a dinner break from making meth in their storage shed, which is rare for a McDonald’s. The very unenthusiastic salesperson behind the counter offers an encouraging, “wut.” He offers to pay. I provide the socially appropriate amount of resistance before ordering a double Big Mac and large fry, extra salt. It costs $12.98. “You’re going to kill yourself, man,” he says, “You’re disgusting. And fat. See you never.” He storms out, and I’m left with nothing but 5000 calories and the unenthusiastic salesperson getting very frustrated that I won’t tell her whether I want cheese or not. “Yes,” I say. “Give me all the cheese you have.”

At 7:05, he pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot.

Awkward handshaking and stumbling words turn into polite conversations about work and the weather. Red Pants offers to pay the unenthusiastic salesperson, and after the socially appropriate amount of resistance I order a large sweet tea. He follows suit but adds a soft-serve ice cream cone, claiming he is “addicted to them.” We choose a booth as far as possible from the two men who have clearly either just been rustling cattle or have seen High Noon one too many times. The conversation stays on the weather and work. For an hour and a half, we sit around and name our favorite kinds of weather. “I really like the cold,” I say, “I could live in someplace like Lansing, Michigan.” “I like the hot,” he disagrees. “I’m moving to The People’s Republic of Congo eventually, I love the weather there so much.” After a painful hour and a half, there’s some polite “Well, this was fun” and a half-hearted “yeeeeeaaaahhh..” and we part ways never to see or hear from each other again. I die a few years later, cold and alone, surrounded by my porcelain doll collection and a wall mural of Michael Fassbender made entirely out of smaller pictures of Michael Fassbender.

At 7:05, he pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot.

We order, choose a booth, and spend most of the first 3 minutes assuming we have stepped on the other person’s feet. We are eventually able to assume normal conversation. The conversation moves smoothly from TV (which he has great taste in) to working out (which he is also “addicted to” and which I consider a phrase to mean “all of my coworkers know I’m gay”) to religion (which we share similar views on) to coming out (a process in which we are both in similar places).

We talk for an hour and 45 minutes. It is 8:47.

He says he has to go meet a friend. I ask, not so subtly, if he wants to do this again sometime. “Umm… I don’t think so. Have a nice life. Hey, could you throw this napkin away for me?” He walks out. 20 years later, when the neighbors start to smell something strange, they’ll call the police, who will bust in my apartment to find a raccoon feeding on my corpse desperately clutching a 20 year old McDonalds napkin in my left hand.

We talk for an hour and 45 minutes. It is 8:47.

We’re getting up to leave, when I stroll up to him, grab his shirt collar, and say, “Listen up, boy. I see something I want, I take it. And I am done window shopping.” Unable to resist my raw sexual energy and perfectly groomed facial hair, he rips his t-shirt off right there in the middle of the McDonalds and shoves me into the backseat of his car, where even the Good Lord above has to avert his eyes. Within a week we are married, have 2 Himalayan whistle kids named J.Crew and Bookcase, and are making out on top of a moving van, Fear Factor style. We live happily and muscly and environmentally friendly ever after.

I texted him at 6:25 PM: “Hey, I’m in your town. At a McDonald’s on 4^th. Point me in the right direction!”

For the next 7 minutes, those scenarios and others are racing through my head. There was even one where he set the McDonalds on fire to avoid spending one more second with me. None of them came true. I wasn’t fending off angry villagers with ogre-like growls, nor devouring an entire truckload of processed cheese slices, nor making out on top of a moving van (however that works).

No, I freaked out for no reason.

Because the 3 things you want to happen in this kind of scenario happened.

1. Smooth conversation with a combined total of about 3 minutes of awkward silences.
2. A firm hug at the end of the night.
3. A tentative plan to do it again soon, “barring any major natural disasters,” which is a thing he said.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend the next few weeks alternating between planning our wedding and planning my Legally-Blonde style rom-com revenge plot when he dumps me.

Maybe I Don’t Want to Have a Kiki

Confession: This is the only reason I watch this music video.

I have some confessions to make.

I kinda like the Scissor Sister’s new club-track turned homo-anthem single, Let’s Have A Kiki. Sometimes when I’m alone I watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. One time I tried to read The Trials of Oscar Wilde because I thought that’s what “intellectual gays” read. I own several sets of “sexy underwear” because someone once told me that gays don’t wear boxers. I once watched Eating Out on Netflix and was convinced for months that every gay guy was an underwear model who doesn’t own a single shirt with sleeves. Consequently I bought several tank tops and then never once wore them in public.

Then again, I don’t scream “gay.” I don’t wear rainbow bracelets or tank tops (see above). I’ve never been to an event specifically targeted towards GLBT audiences, unless you count a college production of Aida. I’m not some hetero-normative “macho man” either; I can’t stand professional sports, l don’t shoot things with guns, and I’m not that into Scarface. I’m neither a purse nor a billfold. I’m more of a messenger bag.

But the thought occurred to me today, “Am I gay enough?”

I went to Gap today because I have given up hope of ever moving out of my parents’ house and have just decided to stock up for the long cold winter that is the next 15 years of my life. While I was there, wandering among the slim-fit chinos and half-zip sweaters, I was approached by Sales Associate Nic. Sales Associate Nic was cute. Sales Associate Nic was beardy and blue-eyed and friendly and short. He didn’t call me “boss,” “chief,” or “man,” and he wore a tie with little anchors on it. He had a full blond beard. Let’s just say I wanted to move into that beard and hang up my posters and order-in Chinese.  I wanted to make that beard my fourth husband then bitterly divorce it and split half my assets with it. Sensing an opportunity, I applied the my failsafe flirt techniques: prolonged and unnecessary physical contact; brief and furtive eye contact; self-degradation; incorrect sentence construction; incoherent mumbling.  It must have worked a little bit, because I did get a “Stop it. You’re so thin.” out of him. I also got him to bring out a rack of clothes that wasn’t supposed to go on sale until tomorrow and let me sift through them. So for those who were wondering, I do have minuscule amounts of “mad game.”

Flirting skills aside, I was thinking one thing nearly the whole time: “Does he know I’m gay? Am I acting gay enough?” Then I caught myself. What does “gay enough” even mean? Am I talking about conforming to stereotypes of gay guys with high-pitched voices and limp wrists and Louis Vitton murses? I am not that guy. Neither was Sales Associate Nic. We weren’t connecting over our lisps and love of Bette Midler. He wasn’t singing “It’s Liza with a ‘Z’, not Lisa with a ‘S’…” and I wasn’t wearing jean cutoffs. But there was a unspoken physical attraction there. We were talking, shopping, and flirting without a single “Legalize Gay” t-shirt or rainbow wristband to guide us.

I realized then what I meant by “gay enough.” I meant confident. I meant comfortable. I meant that I was able to look this guy in the eye and express (through socially acceptable channels) that I wanted to pin him to a wall. It’s a feeling that has been desperately lacking in my life. So when I slapped myself on the cheek and said, “Be gayer, dumbass!” I was really asking myself to drop the act. Quit pretending like you don’t want to take that beard out behind the middle school and get it pregnant. I didn’t mean drop the wrists and raise the voice an octave or two. I meant stop trying to hide who you are. Then of course I understood the “Legalize Gay” t-shirts and the rainbow wristbands. It wasn’t conforming, it was confidence. It was a way to say, “I’m gay and I don’t give a hoot and a half what you think about it.” I had always understood ‘pride,’ but Pride had finally become personal.

So maybe I’m not gay enough. Maybe I’m not proud enough or confident enough or comfortable enough. Because being gay rocks. I don’t know why I don’t act like it sometimes.

So I don’t really want to have a Kiki. I’m no good at “Lip-Syncing for my Life.” I wear shirts with sleeves and I didn’t major in Queer Studies in college. But I am gay, dammit! It’s time I started acting like it.

Race Bannon Made Me Gay

Every Saturday morning of my childhood I would wake up early to catch Saturday morning cartoons on Channel 12 and eat 4 bowls of Fruit Loops (the official cereal of homosexuals) before my parents woke up. And since local Channel 12 couldn’t really afford syndication fees for the hip new cartoons like Aaahh!! Real Monsters, they showed the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons. You know the ones; groups of teenagers get into unrealistic adventures with their animal mascot where some combination of their smarts, athletic ability, and scienctific gadgets come in super handy for defeating some dastardly villian with vague underhanded motives. There was Scooby-Doo, and it’s spin-off Scrappy-Doo which had younger me convinced Scooby had died in a freak firework-and-toy-train accident, Josie and the Pussycats (I didn’t watch this one, for obvious reasons), Speed Buggy, who’s premise and characters were suspiciously similar to Scooby-Doo if Scooby was a dune buggy instead of a Great Dane, and my personal favorite: Johnny Quest.

(Then of course there were the series of shows where a couple of teenagers discover a bit of jewelry which gives them the power to summon or command some set of supernatural powers. There were a bunch of these. Shazam!, Young Samson, The Mighty Hercules, Captain Planet, Hong Kong Phooey. These all featured attractive young boys (and one anthropomorphic dog) who with a simple word could call upon or transform into muscly flying superheroes. I only mention these shows because they often involved a toga or spandex, and I was totally into that.)

Johnny Quest was America’s first TV show about a family with two dads. The story follows the adventures of Johnny Quest, son of Dr. Benton Quest, a governmental scientist who had an impressively vast knowledge in a wide range of subjects. Apparently, he just has a doctorate in “Science.” Johnny is a 12-year-old with a surprisingly well-developed vocabulary, vast martial arts and scuba training, and wide experience with laser guns. He is joined in his adventures by his dog Bandit and his brother Hadji, an adopted streetwise Calcutta orphan who, lest we forgot was Indian, always wears a turban to remind us (these cartoons were known for their progressive family values, not their racial sensitivity). And while Dr. Quest is away doing all the science, the boys are protected by bodyguard/special agent/pilot/dreamboat Roger “Race” Bannon. People try to convince me that Dr. Quest and Race were not sleeping together, but just watch the title sequence. Look at those sideways glances and tell me there’s no homoerotic subtext.

Race Bannon was my first crush. He always wore these tight red shirts and flew around in jets looking smug and manly. He was often shirtless, teaching Johnny and Hadji how to snorkel or wrestling with an alien octopus. He shot guns and fought dinosaurs and blew up spaceships. I didn’t know at the time that I wanted Race Bannon, but I did know wanted to be Race Bannon. I’m still not entirely against naming my future son Race. I guess it’s no wonder I grew up identifying with Race and the Quests. They were superheroes without masks. They were the Quests, a family made up of unrealistically talented individuals; and they were nothing more. They weren’t hiding identities or living double lives as accountants and news reporters. And they were living the dream; if “the dream” was travelling the world looking for ancient treasures and being kidnapped by criminal masterminds with disappointingly ineffective death traps.

I know the topic of superheroes as allegory for homosexuality has often been explored. I’ve read things on how the Amazing X-Men is really just a metaphor for the gay community and how Superman was America’s first gay icon, and I’ve also seen fan fiction about Batman and Fred from Scooby-Doo. But this isn’t why identified with superheroes. I was fascinated with superheroes because I was jealous of them. I was jealous of the fact that they got to be superheroes, even if they had to wear a mask to do it. They got to fly around and save damsels and beat swamp monsters all they wanted. And me? I was all Clark and no Superman. Forever Shoe-Shine Boy, never Underdog. I was jealous that they got to be who they wanted and never had parents who told them to clean their rooms. I was destined to live as Straighty McGee, and never reveal my secret identity, Captain Fabulous: purveyor of good taste, distributor of rainbows, enforcer of equal rights for all.

That, in a very roundabout way, brings me to my point. A few days ago, my college roommate and his fiancee were made aware of the existence of this blog (hi guys!). They of course took all of “3.5 seconds to realize” it was me and my particular brand of humor, and messaged me. We talked it out and they were super cool and supportive and I’m still going to be in their wedding. But the turn of events also made me realize something important.

Being gay does not make me Superman, it makes me Race Bannon. It is time for me to quit hiding behind a mask. It’s time to raise my large gaudy ring in the air and shout the magic words, after which I will gain the confident stride of a much more muscular man (and hopefully the body of a much more muscular man, but I’m not holding my breath). I’ve spent enough time changing in and out of some costume in the proverbial “phone booth”, a word I’ve chosen to substitute for “closet” as per my earlier discussion of the term. It’s time for me to quit pretending to be ashamed about this part of me. And if it bothers any of my friends, then just like my hero/love interest Race Bannon punching a giant mechanical spider until it explodes, my scrawny little fist will punch the “Unfollow” button. So take that, haters and racially stereotypical Cold War-era villains bent on world destruction!

And Happy Saturday, readers! May your Loops be ever Fruity!

This Date is Dolphin Safe.

This is the story of how my first date with a boy was ruined by cancer.

I’ve only been on one gay date. Just like any good first date, it was awkward and horrible and also the last date. But I feel that, having been on one gay date, I have gained the title of “Gay Dating Expert.” I will now offer, unsolicited, 8 simple rules for gay dating, gleaned from my vast knowledge of the subject. Here they are, in order of most important to least, or maybe least to most. I can’t remember now.

Rule 1) Never go for Mexican food. I’m from the South. Mexican food is law. We have ridiculous amounts of rice and beans in our diets, and this has earned us the right to say things like, “They do huevos rancheros all wrong!” or “Have you tried their carne asada? It’s soooooo inauthentic!”  Unfortunately, this has also earned us the privilege of being the gassiest region in the continental U.S., and you can see how this doesn’t bode well in a dating scenario.

Rule 2) Always go for alcohol. The one benefit of Mexican food is the suspiciously cheap, conspicuously large excuses to get drunk. I’m talking about margaritas. Worried as my date and myself were about the success of the evening, we both ordered the largest margaritas on the menu. If the sight of two boys on a date wasn’t drawing us enough attention from the other diners in that tiny conservative town, we certainly drew a few glances when the waiter arrived at the table with two swimming pool sized glasses of tequila, complete with an entire bottle of Corona turned upside down in the glass. We might as well have run up little rainbow flags on the two flagpoles the waiter had just delivered. But I didn’t care about the staring. All I cared about was getting drunk.

Rule 3) When selecting a movie, avoid the heavy topics. Like cancer, or dolphin deaths. Dinner and a movie. That sounds like a reasonable date agenda, right? The movie theatre means that we can sit next to each other without being forced to make conversation. But when arriving at the box office, you are faced with a choice. Rom-com or action/adventure? Drama or comedy? Dramedy? Is that a thing? Oscar-winning sports drama or summer blockbuster starring someone who used to be attractive? The choices are nearly endless. Here’s a list of the movies also playing that we could have chosen:

-A lighthearted tale based on the true story of a boy who befriends a dolphin, then they get married and have kids (or something.)
-A not-too-serious superhero film starring a very attractive actor.
-Not one, but TWO films starring Ryan Gosling.
-A popular animated film from our childhood that had been re-released in 3D. Because nothing recalls the good ol’ days like a scantily clad princess and a misogynistic hero.

Here’s what we chose instead:

-A young man is diagnosed with cancer then dumped by his girlfriend. He is given a 50% chance of survival.

Solid choice.

Rule 4) Do not schedule a date on the same day you have attended a funeral. I probably should have led with this. But it’s still an excellent rule of thumb. Especially if the funeral is one of a close family friend who has just passed away due to cancer. I don’t mean to make light of such a tragedy, but I am sure that had I told her this story she would have laughed, told me not to worry, and handed me a homemade scone. She was just that way.

Rule 5) If you must sob uncontrollably during your film, make sure your date and the entire theatre knows it. You saw where this was headed. Movie about cancer, friend died of cancer, funeral in the morning and date in the evening… It could only end in one thing: Me, curled up in a tiny ball, rocking back and forth, heaving and sniffling. Not wanting my date to have to witness what I’m sure he thought was me having an asthma attack, I left the theatre. Which meant walking down to the exit row, all the way across in front of God and country, and out into the hallway, where a showing of the friendly little dolphin movie had just let out. Standing in a hallway surrounded by people who had just seen a movie about a disabled dolphin while sobbing like a little girl can send mixed signals concerning your masculinity. Regaining my composure and what was left of my dignity, I returned to my seat, playing it off like I just had to use the restroom. Which I’m sure was also attractive.

Rule 6) Be sure to run into friends who know you both. Who else will spread rumors about you? Make sure they are also friends from circles where this information would be particularly interesting, such as your church.

Rule 7) Never go with a gay to a second location. You will undoubtably end up with your pants around your ankles. Now, I have mentioned that this was the first date I had been on where both parties actually wanted to get into the other’s pants. So when we went back to his place for beer and conversation, it wasn’t long before there were hands, and legs, and plenty of “Not so much tongue!”’s. I’ll spare you the gritty details, but suffice it to say it was awkward. Thankfully I rolled off the couch and hit my head before any real shenanigans could happen, and after the appropriate niceties and an aspirin or two, I said goodnight and left.

Rule 8) Always schedule an appointment with your therapist for the next day.It was purely coincidence (though perhaps, fate) that I had an appointment with my shrink the next morning. That poor woman had to listen to me go into far too much detail about my social and sexual escapades of the night before. But she helped me realize that I was happy this way. That despite the awkward sobbing, the awkward conversations, and the awkward making out, I really was happy dating guys openly. So I suppose that leads me to the golden rule of gay dating:

The Golden Rule of Gay Dating: Be you. You’ll have a good time, you’ll be proud of who you are, and hopefully you’ll meet someone who will like you for you. Being yourself is the most important thing.

But maybe the second most important thing is: Never tell a “your mom” joke during a make out session. That kills the mood like nothing else.

Share your awful first-date stories in the comment section, my fellow Flipper enthusiasts!

Numismatics is for Lovers, Part II: 2 Trashed 2 Curious

“The Bea stands for bitch.”

For those uneducated folks out there, numismatics is the collection of coins. A numismatist collects coins, a phillumenist collects matchboxes, and a deltiologist collects postcards. To catch you up from the prequel (which you should really just go read), I will tell you that I am none of those things. Rather I consider myself somewhat of a collector of first kisses.

If you’re a fan of the NIFL series, you’ll know that in Part I our hero (me) did not achieve any actual physical contact with another person, but rather attempted to convince the reader (you) that a poorly-planned “trick kiss” and a poorly-executed “stage kiss” were in fact actual first kisses. This is because our hero would like to portray himself as a bit of a “player” (as the kids say), thereby resulting in increased amounts of moxy. Not so in Part II. In the long awaited sequel, 2 Trashed 2 Curious, we explore the consequences that alcohol and curiosity can produce in a person’s romantic life.

My first excuse-me-while-I-pretend-that-didn’t-happen kiss

Let me warn you about something. If you should find yourself one very late night alone on the couch with a particularly attractive girl who happens to be interested in you and have actual lips with which to kiss you and has expressed a desire to do so, don’t think about it.

Just run. Clear the hell out. Tell her you that your dog is calling you and leave. Because it can’t end well.

(We pause now to insert a fact that is of some significance. Yes, dear Reader, I was in fact 20 years old before I shared my first real live kiss with another human being. You may think this is really late, and that my adolescence was sexually stunted or some such rot. But I can assure you, I was just saving it for the perfect moment, one I could look back on and think, “Gosh. That was literally the worst 10 seconds of my life.”)

It was your classic love story. Boy and Girl are friends, Girl develops feelings for Boy, Boy is completely oblivious to Girl’s advances, Girl finally has to just come right out and say it, confused Boy mumbles something nice in return. Then Boy ends up on couch alone with Girl, Boy grabs Girl’s hand, and Boy avoids eye contact with Girl for the duration of the hand-holding. Mind you, all of this happened within a span of about 6 hours.

Nicholas Sparks used this next part as inspiration for his next novel. This was the actual conversation, sans editing from me. (You can’t make this shit up, people.)

Girl: “What are you thinking about?”
Boy: “I was just thinking, ‘What would happen if I leaned over and kissed you right now?’”
Girl: “Well, why don’t you just try and find out?”

What followed was most unpleasant. Our hero would later come to describe the event as “probably what it feels like to make out with a baby walrus.” Her hair was long and stringy and rubbing against my cheek, which would have simply unpleasant had it not been also in our now-locked lips. Her breath was hot and smelled like Cheetos, which, I can say without hesitation, is my least favorite food on the planet. And, until they bring back that Dr. Pepper Lip Gloss, the taste of a woman’s lipstick will never be in high demand. It went on for what seemed an eternity and which was probably actually less than ten seconds.

Then, with hardly a word, I excused myself, went into the bathroom, and with God as my witness, WASHED MY MOUTH OUT. Still in shock and somewhat bewildered that someone so attractive could be such a terrible kisser, I said goodnight.

She graduated and left town the very next day. I haven’t spoken to her since. But I owe her a great debt. For if she had not made that kiss everything that it was, I probably would still be making out with girls and making grimacing faces at their Cheetos breath, which I am now convinced every girl possesses.

My first boys-make-much-better-kissers kiss

Remember Bill? We met via the blogosphere and after rendezvousing over a cup of coffee and some unfortunately large pit stains, became somewhat steady friends. Most of our time was spent in his living room watching inordinate amounts of TV, often late into the night until there was nothing to watch but paid advertising. Bill, being a lover of television and also men, was educating me in the ways of the small screen. This required a laptop, which required us to share a screen, which in turn required some  actual physical contact in the knee region. Like some sort of sick cosmic joke (The Universe is so funny sometimes) I watched the exact events of my previous first kiss experience unfold, only this time in reverse.

You could have cut the sexual tension in the room with a handsaw and a team of flannel-clad lumberjacks. I watched the “put our hands down by our sides and rub the back of our hands together until someone takes it” move that I had used on the girl in the previous case. I watched the avoidance of eye contact as we pretended not to notice that we were holding hands. And just as before, the conversation started with:

Me: “What?”
Boy: “So….”
Me: “What?”
Boy: “You’ve never kissed a boy?”
Me: “No.”
Boy: “Would you like to?”

Those were our words. Dear Lord.

It was the perfect first gay kiss. What made it perfect was not the fact that this boy’s breath smelled decidedly less like Cheetos, nor that the only hair in our way grew from our chins; not even the lack of titanium dioxide on his lips made for the perfect first gay kiss. What made this moment incredibly apropos was the high-pitched voices and canned laughter from the television behind us, where Golden Girls was playing.

So God bless Bea Arthur, because that bitch got me my first gay kiss.

And I think I’ll stick with boys. Boys make much better kissers.

Numismatics is for Lovers, Part I

Some people collect stamps, or bugs, or quotes. Some people collect old maps, while still others collect yo-yo’s or vintage clock radios or posters of kittens dressed like people. Collecting things is what separates man from beast. It can define us (“There goes Rudyard, the ceramic hedgehog collector.”), give us something to live for (“Don’t jump! Think of all the bottlecaps you haven’t seen yet!”), and give us something to talk about at all those garden parties we go to. Me, I collect first kisses.

Now you may be thinking, “But, bro! (gay guys LOVE it when you call them this). “Bro!” you think to yourself, “How can you have more than one first kiss?” Well, I will tell you, since I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur of first kisses; an awkward osculation sommelier, if you will.

My first being-for-the-shock-and-entertainment-of-my-friends kiss:

My advice to parents: Don’t leave confused, chemically-changing preteens alone together. See, when left alone, preteens are apt to talk about how funny it would be if their friends were to walk in on them canoodling behind closed doors. But these particular preteens, still unsure whether the opposite sex could give one cooties and not willing to take any chances, hatched a particularly unscrupulous plan in which they could give the illusion of some serious smooching without the risk of any dubious physical contact. The conversation went something like this:

Boy (without any ulterior motive and completely innocently): “You know what would be funny? If they came in and we were kissing!”
Girl: “I guess that would be funny. But I’m not gonna kiss you.”
Boy: “Oh.”
Girl: “I know! Let’s take this piece of paper and put it between our faces and kiss the paper! Then we’ll turn so the paper is perpendicular to the door, and when they walk in they won’t see the paper at all!”
Boy: “OK! Gee, you’re smart!”

Boy, did we fool them. There was screaming and rolling on the ground and laughter. Oh how we laughed! Unfortunately, the bliss of this first kiss didn’t last long. For our siblings, as siblings are apt to do, commenced with the grade-A tattling. Faster than you could say “Then comes the baby in a baby carriage!” our respective parents had pulled us aside and given us a sound talking-to. I don’t remember what they said, but I’m sure I heard none of it, for all 4 and 1/2 hormonal feet of me was focused on the first almost-kiss I had just shared with an actual, living, breathing, card-carrying girl.

I dated this girl exactly 9 years later. We were together for eight months, and, ironically, never kissed once.

My first even-Shakespeare-couldn’t-make-that-work kiss. 

I can’t blame maladjusted hormones for my next specimen, which is, to this day, referred to by those who witnessed it as The Great Stage Kiss Debacle of 2007.

Readers, would it surprise you if I told you that I, Not Important, was at the head of the billing in several high school plays? Oh yes. I knocked ‘em dead with my renditions of Shakespeare and Austen. My portrayal of Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream is the stuff of legend. My confident swagger as leading man Mr. Bingley in Pride and Prejudice resulted in the fainting of not one, but three different audience members. And there was not a single dry eye during my “Thus with a kiss I die!” speech as the lovelorn Romeo. But as they say in the business: Never work with children, animals, or home-schoolers. We home-schoolers, despite popular belief, are fairly normal, well-adjusted, socially adept people. The far-right, bible-totin’, scripture-quotin’, socially awkward home schooler is really the exception, not the rule. However, they do exist. And when you get a Rule to play Romeo, and an Exception to play Juliet, things are bound to get awkward.

If you remember from AP English class, Romeo sneaks into a party at Juliet’s house wearing a mask. They meet, and dance, and flirt-text on their iPhones (or something). Then, cool as a cucumber, Romeo says “My lips, two blushing pilgrims” and kisses her. Then Juliet says something, then Romeo is all “Give me my sin again!” and kisses her again. Simple, tender, elegant. Shakespeare knew his shit. But in Shakespeare’s time he worked with all men (which, in hindsight, would have worked out nicely for me…) and not men and one particularly conservative girl. So a real kiss was out of the question. Our director’s solution? Keep the mask in front of your face while you kiss! Then just put your faces together and pretend to kiss! Brilliant!

We would have needed one of those Incan matrimonial head masks that are the size of a small person to hide the actual distance between us. Instead we were left with a tiny sequined thing that covered nothing, and enough distance between our faces for Mercutio to fit in and make it a threesome. It was not convincing, unless the purpose was to convince the audience that Juliet and I needed a second to rehearse the next scene or pick our noses. After the play was over, I received many varieties of the absolute worst compliment an actor can get: “You memorized so many lines!” Juliet’s parents came up to me afterward and told me how respectful I’d been of their “daughter’s honor.”

If I didn’t want to switch to boys before that, I certainly did after.

The Discreet Charms of the Bourgeoisie

You’ll pardon the heavy boots. I don’t like to make people sad. I like to make people laugh. In fact, I don’t think I know how to write anything that isn’t a desperate attempt at humor. But when nights get particularly long, and I’ve gotten tired of Googling pictures of Chris Evans (or his equally attractive and more GAY brother Scott!) then the trouble starts. Ideas and thoughts start bouncing around in my mind like super-balls from those vending machines, and it’s all I can do to try to put them back into those little clear plastic eggs.
I feel as though I’ve been pretending to be someone else for so long, that I’ve forgotten who I really was to begin with. Now, I know that sounds like something a Lifetime movie Meredith Baxter character would say. Which is why I feel a bit ridiculous saying it. But I think it captures the thought and puts it in a little clear plastic egg for you. Oi. I got balls on the mind. Oh dear… let me rephrase…
Pretending to be straight has become my modus operandi. I know all the moves. I’ve been on a few dates with girls. Hell, I even made out with one (I’ll have to tell you that story sometime. It’s… tragically hilarious.) I don’t mind doing those things once in a while to… appease the mother who thinks that I’m not a whole man without being wrapped around a girl’s finger. But recently it has made me lose sight of who I am, and who I want to be. I think it hit me thinking about my most recent (heterosexual) relationship. Eight months I spent fooling myself and everyone else that I was straight. I ignored the fact that I thought our waiter was cuter than my girlfriend and tried to hide that I watched Just Friends with her solely for Ryan Reynolds (there’s a man I would love to make brazen overtures to!). She ended up breaking it off, but the relief I felt when it happened terrified me. I was beat up, to be sure, but I couldn’t understand why there was no need for chick flicks and pints of Ben and Jerry’s afterwards. The more I thought about it, and the more I shamelessly flirted with the French boy who lived next door, the clearer it became. Me and my ex had the same taste in movies, sodas, and men.
It’s not just about being gay. I’m a people-pleaser. I love to make people happy. I just sometimes feel that that has really cost me. I owe my choices of college, major, sexual preference, clothing, relationships, and future in part to the wisdom and experience of those around me, and in part to the fact that I feel that’s what everyone would want me to choose. I’ve done this for so long, that I can’t decide what I want to do anymore. I’m waiting for people to plan out my life for me. And now that my mother is not doing that for me, I don’t know where to turn. Grad school, career plans, coming out, moving out. It’s a lot to handle on your own. I’ll still rely on those I love for advice. But I’ve also begun to take matters into my own smooth, white, girly, inexperienced hands.
I’m making strides, small as they may be. Despite the throngs of loved ones saying “It’s the best thing for you right now!” I turned down an internship that to me sounded painfully boring. It probably would have been a good move for my career, (and the interviewer was convinced it was the only move) but I just couldn’t stand it. I sought council from some very qualified people, listened to what they had to say, and then did what I wanted. It felt great. Of course it meant a summer spent living with my parents and wearing the same shorts for 4 days straight.
Does this mean I do know where I’m headed? AS IF! (Clueless is on right now. I’m channeling my inner Brittany Murphy). But the realization that you just spent the last 2 minutes skimming over has helped me to start to seriously think about it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to run out and tell everyone that my life goal is to open a jazz club (which at the moment it is) but it does mean some serious introspection over a few beers and an empty house. We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted.

Ok, enough serious shit. I feel like being super gay right now. So here are the things that turn me on. Please feel free to set me up with your single friends who match the following description.
A man’s eyes are the most important part of his face. Most of the crushes I’ve had have particularly stunning eyes. Jeepers Creepers! Would you look at those peepers? Man candy example: Chris Hemsworth.

Glasses also make me swoon. But only the type that he only wears when he forgets contact solution or is reading at night. Man candy example: I’m not gonna lie. Jude Law kinda makes me want to jump off a bridge, because I’ve a sneaking suspicion that in Heaven everyone looks like Jude Law.

You already know how I feel about short guys. Man candy example: Chris Masterson.

There’s a guy in my class with the most gorgeous calves I’ve ever seen. Legs. Who knew? I can see why straight guys dig them so much. I just like mine… hairier. Man candy example: I’m sure his calves are gorgeous. The rest of him is, so I’m just assuming. Paul Rudd, everybody, pre-Anchorman era.

And finally, I was trying to find an excuse to include him. But I can’t. All is I can say is I would boff, marry, then boff again Eric Bana. Why must people like him exist? It isn’t fair, I tell you. Isn’t fair!

The Letter “G” and the Fickle Finger of Fate.

God bless broken keyboards and the people who fix them. God bless the letter “G”. God bless the Apple Store. God bless America!

I saw him from across the store. He was short. Short guys are little gifts from heaven. He was scruffy. Not the “I want to look like I’m too lazy to shave so you know I don’t give a rat’s yahoo” kind of scruff, but a scruff that says, “Hi, welcome to the Apple Store, please make out with me.” His eyes were… Oh God, those eyes. Deep, violent blue. That color should be illegal. His smile was honest, sincere in the subtlest of ways. His hair was dark, and styled just so, so that he neither appeared apathetic nor fastidious. He wore that electric blue store employee shirt like he was born in it. As I waited in line for my appointment, I made an audible wish that I would get him as my Genius.

The universe was on my side. I looked up and there he was, standing in front of me. To say my heart skipped a beat might not quite cover it; I literally do not remember what he said to me, or how I ended up at the desk with him standing (dangerously close, too) next to me. But there we were. I’ll never forget the first thing he said to me:

“Hey man, I’m Jason. What seems to be the problem?”

His name was Jason. Of course it was. I mean, why wouldn’t it be Jason?

“YOU!” I wanted to scream, “YOU’RE MY PROBLEM. HOW ARE GORGEOUS PEOPLE LIKE YOU ALLOWED TO EXIST?! PLEASE MARRY ME!”

Instead what came out was something like: “ Um… I… Um.. Well….” Meanwhile, in my head, I was running through our entire life together. Flirting, dating, making out on the top of a moving van, love, marriage, kids, little house with white picket fence.

I finally got the problem out. My keyboard was spewing out random symbols and letters. It might be water damage. But this morning it started working again. All except the “g” key. Then it occurred to me: God bless that frickin’ “g” key. I almost didn’t come today. He flipped it open, looked at it, walked away (I would be lying if I told you I didn’t love watching him walk towards me again) and brought back a keyboard. He went about his business, and it was all I could do not to stare. He told me that it was an issue with my keyboard, and they’d have to replace the entire thing. That’d mean leaving my laptop with him overnight. Here is a list of things I could have said:
1. “I guess that’s ok. You look trustworthy! I’ll leave it if you promise to look after it!”

2. “That’s not the only thing I’d like to leave with you overnight!”

3. “Sure, can I get your number in case I need to get it back?”

Here is what I said instead: “Ok.”

Ah, well. As a wise friend once said, life is full of missed connections. I walked out of the store knowing full well and accepting the fact that I’d probably never see this guy again, and that my dream of pinning him to a wall was one without fruit, fruitless.

Until about 5 minutes later. I got a phone call. From JASON. I missed it (Damn) but that’s ok, because he left a voicemail (which is still on my phone. I listen to it once a day or so. I know, I’m a creeper.) They got my part in. It might be as soon as the end of the day. I didn’t really care about that part. What made my heart pound and my eyes water (besides the taco I was wolfing down like a savage) was the slight possibility that I might see him again. I might even get to speak to him again! Sentences were forming in my mind. I knew I’d never say them out loud, but who cares. My fantasy lived on.

I never saw him again.

At 9:00PM, I answered the phone casually, only to hear “Hey Not Important, this is Jason from the Apple Store.” I died. Again. I kept my cool, but I was utterly convinced that he had stayed late to work on MY computer. He was asking for my password. He said he forgot it. What I like to think is he forgot it on purpose, to give him a reason for calling. So I gave it to him. Then he hung up. And 5 minutes later, the phone rang again. “Hey, it’s Jason.” I wanted to hear that sentence over and over again. So familiar, so casual, so “I call you every day, no big deal.” There was some information relayed, some slightly witty joke about closing time, and then it was over. I was out of his life forever.

The return trips to the Apple Store had me frantically searching the mass of ugly people for him. I was helped by Carlos and Mike. The disdain I felt for Carlos and Mike was immense. Meanwhile, my heart did what pine trees do. Which is pine. My heart was pining. To no avail. I would replay our short conversations over and over in my head for hours to come.

I’ll never forget that moment I fell head over heels for a total stranger. Who was also a guy. It’s a bold step for me, admitting that. I’ve never felt that way about a woman. But beginning to accept my own sexuality has allowed me, if only for a short while, to be blown about by the winds of fate; tossing and tumbling, to pass another ship in the night, only to watch it disappear on the horizon. Or whatever metaphor you want to use there.