Wisconsin Gay News From Quest - Column: The Dating Diet

Quest Columns Updated November 13, 2008 Column by Anthony Paull
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My Life On The B-List Lucky us, we’ve moved so quickly from Generation X to Generation Y that we haven’t realized we’ve returned to the onset of the alphabet with Generation B. Yes, many of us, programmed from birth, are so in tune with the fact that life isn’t fair – passing our days whistling to Rolling Stones’ theory of you can’t always get what you want – that we can’t help but ensure we have something to fall back on should our lives crumble when we least expect it. Hence, we develop a back-up plan. And not just in one miniscule aspect of our tumultuous lives, but in many. For instance, in grade school, we’re taught not one, but two sports or instruments before deciding which one sticks. Then in college, many of us choose to double-major, backing a risk-taking theater degree with education or psychology just in case our dreams never come to fruition. And finally, when settling on a career choice, even one we’re truly passionate about, we’re smart enough to keep a well-diversified resume, balancing our talents should we opt (or be forced) to take an exciting, new direction. Oh, how we have become a Generation of Plan B. And what’s wrong with that? After all, we know that nothing is truly forever in life. We’ve seen families melt and form into new wax statues before our eyes. We’ve suffered the crippling effects of divorce, either firsthand or by association. We hear the pop divas on the radio, the subdued cracks in their sweet candy corn voices, singing to reach out to their estranged fathers. We empathize. Then we cover our bases to make sure the same thing will never happen to us, especially in our romantic relationships. The problem is: all of this calculating, all of this preparation, is great when your partner, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, deems you as plan A, but what happens when you realize you’re Plan B? Meet Marshall: he’s a sweet, sweet friend, who recently told me his secret: the man he thought was his boyfriend, the man who ignites his child-bearing hips, has another boyfriend. But wait! That’s not the bad part…. The bad part is the other boyfriend is Plan A. So what does that entail, you ask? Well, Plan A gets escorted to five-star restaurants and resorts while Plan B is happy at home with a Happy Meal. Plan A is taken on plane trips to exotic islands named after cruise ships in the Caribbean, while Plan B (AKA Marshall) only gets a trip to the club, where sometimes he has to pitch in for gas. And to think, Marshall thought his boyfriend cherished him. “He tended to be so thoughtful,” Marshall explained to me at the same club where he discovered the truth. “He always remembered the type of Happy Meal I like: chicken nuggets with apple dippers on the side.” “Yeah, but sweety, the problem is the apples and you weren’t the only ones being dipped,” I reminded him. “Right,” he said, lost in thought, before slugging his Corona Light. Then he told me how he met Plan A two weeks ago. His boyfriend had been so busy doing community service (or servicing the community) that he wanted to make it up to Marshall by buying him dinner at the club. Unfortunately, Plan A was their server. It seems Plan A had forgotten to inform anyone about his fab new job. SURPRISE! It didn’t take long before eyebrows were raised, tweezed, and the sad truth came out. Luckily, Marshall was civil and bolted out the door, relying on Plan C-U Later rather than crying out his eyes. He saved that for me, mewling something to the effect that he had a mouth like Texas and legs like Gandhi. “So why isn’t that enough?” “For some guy, it will be,” I promised him. Still, I had my doubts. In these fear-ridden times, we’re constantly bombarded by paranoia on the news. Don’t go near your mail; there might be Anthrax in it. Don’t go near your boyfriend; there might be an STD in him. The terrorists have taught their camels how to swim, and they’re on they way! We’ve become a race terrified of being alone. We need to be surrounded by super-sized fries and double-double cheese burgers. Remember: comfort lies in numbers. So why have one boyfriend when you can have two? Do you want to loan your entire heart out to someone who might die or leave you tomorrow? Why can’t you share your heart? You have enough love to go around. The ubiquitous thought of being single leaves the weaker of the human species wary, contemplating the benefits of super-sizing each of their intimate relationships. So how can you tell if you’re Plan B? It’s simple: Ask your boyfriend where all of his time and money goes if none of it’s spent on or with you. And if he hasn’t got an answer, “B” smart enough to inform him that you’ve devised your own new plan: one where you lose his two-timing ass with the knowledge that you deserve a man who puts you first. October 9, 2008 Column Chillin’ At The Straight Bar, Yo! The whole gay bar scene is so last hunting season, so last herpes breakout, and so utterly obvious that I can’t help but find it quite a snore lately. Yes, yes, yes! Been there, done that, got the scars, got the scabs, and now – feeling dangerous – I’m onto this whole new thing the local folk refer to as the hetero bar. Yes, the elusive hetero bar! Spoken of only in only small, hushed circles, such a secret place does exist, I tell you! Yes, and during the season of the falling leaves, local sexy hetero males, they come in droves, in search of beer, babes, and the ball game. Well, wait ‘til they get a load of me, I think. Yes, it’s late Saturday night, and I’m adding some glitter to my usual batter by flattering my straight friends with my presence. Yes, me and one my gay boys, we’re so NOW, so modern, so utterly desperate for a sad cheap thrill, we decide to descend upon the straight bar like sprinkles on spaghetti. True, technically it does sound like a bad mix, but who can turn away a dab of sugar? Sweetener goes with everything! So the plan is simple, mind you. Make a quiet, yet somewhat provocative entrance and then turn the table on them! Yes, you see there is an ulterior motive in mind, but isn’t there always, really? I know. It sounds kind of awful, but it’s not like I’m the only soul here for more than meets the eye. These straight girls, the ones with big hairspray hair, the ones wearing Prada heels and screaming at the big football man on TV, do you actually think they give a rat’s ass who wins? Place these same straight girls in front of the big screen without the boys and the booze, and let me know how long it takes before we have an ADHD moment. So in sum, the girls are here for the boys and the booze. The boys are here for the tits and the TV. And I’m here for the entertainment. Here I am, eyeing the whole crowded bar – smoky with cigarettes and Peter Pan youth – like I’m a few I.Q. points short of understanding out how it’s all really supposed to work. Are those boys kissing girls? What’s with this Jethro Tull song on the old jukebox? Does anyone have the foggiest idea what bathroom I’m supposed to use? Wait! Did you see that? Oh, hells no! There are…GIRLS (breath, breath, pause, pause) in the mother f******* GIRLS room! Now, picture me with that vacuous, yet slightly concerned look on my face, like the kind that most straight guys get when they enter a gay bar. Yes, you know the look! There’s a bead of sweat forming everywhere, and now I’m trying really hard not to make a big deal out of the fact that every girl here is desperate to grab my tight ass. Yes, they want me. I’m convinced they require some Grade A homo meat – a rare, yet quite tasty treat in these parts. Still, I don’t want to give them the wrong impression. So I’m glued to my gay friend like lint. After all, I have a reputation to uphold, thank you. What would my family think? Penis: that is what I like! Oh, what to do? What to do? Wait, I know! Alcohol will make it better, I convince myself. So I start to pour beer down my throat, and then, my gay friend and me, we’re suddenly in this conversation with all these really nice straight guys. It’s all so US Weekly. They ask questions! They shop at boutique stores! They offer to buy beer for you! They have feelings! Instead of fighting us for admiring the male form, they want to know what we like about boys. Is it their butt, brains, or brawn? And when we answer, they form no judgment. In fact, they sort of understand it. Hold on! Wait a minute! I’m at a loss. Here I’m expecting heavy grunting, mass burping, and bra burning (well, maybe not, but it would be fun), but all that comes from these straight guys is kindness. Is this the youth of today? And if so, why aren’t we celebrating? We’re continually bombarded by the media with awful rants regarding how lazy, self-absorbed, and arrogant the poorAmerican youth of today are. And ok, that’s fine. We’ll take that. But as this night has pointed out, we’re also the most questioning bunch you’ll ever meet. We’re different because technology permits us knowledge with just a fast click of a computer key. We’ve come to know how important love is in any form and how the world needs more of it. We’re fed up with prejudice. We’ve learned from our parents mistakes, and we no longer run from the unknown; we seize it. And with some hope, one day the separation of gays and straights at the local bar will be as inconceivable as the segregation of classroom in the 1960s. So go on, laugh at the gay boys hanging at the local straight bar. Just remember: we’re not there for sex; we’re there to make a change. September 10, 2008 Column Rum Is The Answer What Was the Question? There was the most fascinating report of NPR not too long ago that talked about the current climate of dating, and how, across the country, college campus women were fed up with men because instead of going on traditional dates, men would simply opt to meet the lady at the bar, buy her brewski on nickel beer night, and then take her back to the ‘ole frat house to bop her brains out. I know. I know. Lucky girls, right? Well, the problem is, these girls desired more from their beaus than a “buy me a beer and I blow you” night. They longed for the more traditional model of dating, one where being escorted to dinner was involved before taking in a movie. The trouble is, this was hard to find. Those smart college men, they just wanted to party, telling the girls, “Hey, we’ll be at (fill in the blank) white trash townie bar. Meet us and we promise to save you some boiled peanuts and beer!” The state of affairs saddened the girls. They reluctantly agreed to the men’s requests, but inside they felt like cheap, dirty whores. Still bravely, they bottled up their spiraling emotions by turning to the bottle in order to alleviate their guilt for allowing their bodies to be ravaged by these men for such little reward. Hence, this helped heighten the percentage of ‘binge drinking’ college women nationwide; according to a Harvard study, nearly matching their male counterparts. So all in all, the outlook seemed grim for college women, but where has that left, dare I ask, collegiate gay men? “In rehab,” says my newest, coolest mate, Randy. Recently, we met at the bar, where over a cocktail he boldly confessed that though he loves the attention he receives from college boys, he knows that they’ll offer him no more than cactus butt and a canker sore on his lip in the morning. Still, he refuses to stop opening his mouth for them, even though it upsets him because he’s looking for more than a one-night sham. “Then why do you keep doing it?” I ask. “The drinks,” he confesses. Pointing to his fruit garnished glass of sangria, he whimpers with baby talk. “They talk me into it. They’re always so convincing.” “Well, have you considered not drinking?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I like forgetting what I do….” Yes, you see Randy has done many things that he can’t remember. It’s all a fuzzy, wet dream. Bits and pieces come to him every now and again, but most of it is a blur, kind of like when you struggle to recall what really took place during the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. “For instance, I’ll remember talking to a guy at the bar. I’ll remember the head of his penis. But I won’t remember his face or his name,” Ryan tells me, clearly intoxicated. “Like I could have slept with you last month and I wouldn’t even know unless you pulled out your peter.” “That sounds like a line,” I reply. “Yeah. Maybe. So uh, tell me, was I good?” he flirts.“Veeeerrrry good,” I purr, teasing him. “Look, I even have the canker sore on my lip to prove it!” “You twit!” he laughs, with a wink. Then with barely a goodbye, he floats to the dance floor, having been prompted by a friend he thinks may be a past trick. Randy can’t remember who the guy is, really. Later, he informs me that he thinks he met the guy online, but he can’t remember if he’s the one with acne on his butt or the one who collects Pokemon cards. Still, he’s excited with the thought of having someone in his bed tonight. But aren’t we all? Isn’t that what gets us into these predicaments? The truth is, we’ve all been Ryan and we’ve all been that sad girl who longs for romance, but will settle for a warm body in the bed and cold sore on the lip in the morning. So why do we do it? Is it the alcohol? Nah, the alcohol just gives us permission to do it without having to accept the responsibility for it. So what then? Well, it may be a number of reasons. Maybe we don’t think we’re ready to commit to a real relationship, and bar hook-ups grant us a quick fix when we feel alone. Or maybe we like a little more variety in our dating diet than our puritan hearts would like to admit. The truth is, no one goes to the bar piss-drunk looking for a long-term relationship. You think I’m wrong? Well, take a moment to think about it. Would you get intoxicated before going on a job interview? Then why would you show up drunk to interview the person who you’d like to share your bed, your butt hole, and your life? If you’re looking for more than a hook-up then hook yourself up with a better game plan than drinking ‘til he’s cute at the bar. Until then, quit feeling bad for yourself, and have fun with each drunken’ hump and bump along the way. August 14, 2008 Column What About Bob? You’ll have to forgive my beautiful friend, Jasmine. Tonight, she’s sucked down one too, too many glasses of white wine, and now she’s feeling a tad bad for herself because she hasn’t had a penis inside of her for two months. It’s my fault, she says. The gays and me, we’re the sole reason she has little chance at locating a man these days. After all, the gays started this ridiculous metrosexual movement, she states. Now, she can’t tell who is what and what homo is who. If only the gays - mainly those annoying Queer Eye guys - hadn’t given away all of their precious secrets to straight men, she might have a chance of locating a member of the nearly extinct heterosexual male species. But since none appear to be at this party, she’s headed to find herself another glass of wine. Now, as much as I like to agree with my friends, sometimes I have to refute their beliefs. Actually, it’s fun, notably when they’re drunk. And my dear Jasmine is getting there. So I kindly explain to her that sometimes location is the key. For example, right now we’re surrounded by gay men because we’re at a hairdresser’s birthday party. We’re in an upscale salon with white walls, white leather furniture, and a fancy TV glued to the wall with Cher singing like a robot in the background. Oh, and did I fail to mention the Boston terrier running around with lime-colored nail polish? I mean, come on…. What type of man did she expect to meet here? Clearly, this is not the place to be for any upstanding member of the heterosexual male society. Of course, you might find one, clutching his girlfriend’s Coach purse and holding his nutsack in the corner. In other words, there are heterosexual men to be found, but generally, most know better than to frequent such a party location. Or so I thought…. “There’s one,” Jasmine says, locking her eyes on some guy in the very same manner as a fat kid would to the last Twinkie in the box. “How do you know he’s straight?” I inquire. “A woman just knows,” she insists. Now remember, this is coming from the same surly woman who just told me that she can’t tell who is what anymore. But now that she’s drunk, she can tell. Of course! It makes perfect sense. It’s all so perfect in fact that Jasmine decides she’s going in for the kill. Her tired technique: the disgustingly obvious “Why are you hiding?” line. Of course, he’s not really hiding; he’s just one foot in an open broom closet, hiding from her. I swear, she’s so tipsy, so cutesy, so “I’m going to this and this and this party later tonight”, I’m about to run away too. “Do you want to join me for an ‘after hours’?” she asks him. “We’re all going for shots at this trendy little rum bar.” Mr. Straight, here’s where he becomes Mr. Straight with a big old question mark. You see, even though he’s sucking down a beer and talking manlier than Michael Keaton in Batman, he’s here with (drum roll please and say it in a Mandy Moore voice) Bob. The problem is no one can tell who, what, or where Bob is. But still, he’s all “Bob this” and “Bob that” and “I can’t go anywhere without Bob”…. Jasmine isn’t about to let “Bob” distract her though. “Oh, come on. It will be fun,” she pleads, bouncing her banana tits like bait. I’m thrilled, because we all love Jasmine’s tits, even if we are gay. What can I say? We gays admire beautiful things. However Mr. Straight, he’s much more concerned about Bob. And further in the conversation, just as he announces that he’d be nailing one of the gay boys at the party if he were gay, that’s when I tell Jasmine she might have hit a dead-end. “What? You think he’s gay?” she asks. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that most straight men don’t talk about nailing other men when they have your tits staring them in the face.” With a final laugh, Jasmine drunkenly agrees and scurries away from the party in hope to find another love that night. As for me, I’m left with that pressing question in my head: Can you truly tell if someone is gay? It’s tricky, because gay comes in all shapes and sizes, and not all of us are wearing glitter and raising a rainbow flag. Do I think Mr. Straight is gay? I don’t know. He might not know either, which leads me to a bigger question. Does gay, straight or bi really exist? Or is sexuality more fluid - an uncontrollable desire for someone, anyone, regardless of their gender - like the pansexual theory suggests. Can there be a period of multiple periods of “gayness” during our lives? Surely, our taste buds change. Why not our love buds? These days, dating and relationships in general have become so mind-boggling because people have been granted more breathing room in order to take risks with their sexuality, and that’s an awesome progression for mankind. But like all new paths, we’re just learning where it will lead. Who knows? Someday, maybe labels like gay and straight won’t be necessary. You won’t need Prada on your sunglasses to prove your life is rich, and you won’t need to raise a rainbow flag to prove you’re proud to be in a relationship with a member of the same sex. In sum, you’ll just be sexual. True. For some, such ambiguity may be too scary of a thought. For the remainder of us, a path worth exploring. Top Of Page Quest Home QNU Home

My Life On The B-List

Lucky us, we’ve moved so quickly from Generation X to Generation Y that we haven’t realized we’ve returned to the onset of the alphabet with Generation B. Yes, many of us, programmed from birth, are so in tune with the fact that life isn’t fair – passing our days whistling to Rolling Stones’ theory of you can’t always get what you want – that we can’t help but ensure we have something to fall back on should our lives crumble when we least expect it. Hence, we develop a back-up plan. And not just in one miniscule aspect of our tumultuous lives, but in many. For instance, in grade school, we’re taught not one, but two sports or instruments before deciding which one sticks. Then in college, many of us choose to double-major, backing a risk-taking theater degree with education or psychology just in case our dreams never come to fruition. And finally, when settling on a career choice, even one we’re truly passionate about, we’re smart enough to keep a well-diversified resume, balancing our talents should we opt (or be forced) to take an exciting, new direction.
Oh, how we have become a Generation of Plan B. And what’s wrong with that? After all, we know that nothing is truly forever in life. We’ve seen families melt and form into new wax statues before our eyes. We’ve suffered the crippling effects of divorce, either firsthand or by association. We hear the pop divas on the radio, the subdued cracks in their sweet candy corn voices, singing to reach out to their estranged fathers. We empathize.
Then we cover our bases to make sure the same thing will never happen to us, especially in our romantic relationships. The problem is: all of this calculating, all of this preparation, is great when your partner, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, deems you as plan A, but what happens when you realize you’re Plan B?
Meet Marshall: he’s a sweet, sweet friend, who recently told me his secret: the man he thought was his boyfriend, the man who ignites his child-bearing hips, has another boyfriend. But wait! That’s not the bad part….
The bad part is the other boyfriend is Plan A. So what does that entail, you ask? Well, Plan A gets escorted to five-star restaurants and resorts while Plan B is happy at home with a Happy Meal. Plan A is taken on plane trips to exotic islands named after cruise ships in the Caribbean, while Plan B (AKA Marshall) only gets a trip to the club, where sometimes he has to pitch in for gas.
And to think, Marshall thought his boyfriend cherished him. “He tended to be so thoughtful,” Marshall explained to me at the same club where he discovered the truth. “He always remembered the type of Happy Meal I like: chicken nuggets with apple dippers on the side.”
“Yeah, but sweety, the problem is the apples and you weren’t the only ones being dipped,” I reminded him.
“Right,” he said, lost in thought, before slugging his Corona Light. Then he told me how he met Plan A two weeks ago. His boyfriend had been so busy doing community service (or servicing the community) that he wanted to make it up to Marshall by buying him dinner at the club. Unfortunately, Plan A was their server. It seems Plan A had forgotten to inform anyone about his fab new job.
SURPRISE!
It didn’t take long before eyebrows were raised, tweezed, and the sad truth came out. Luckily, Marshall was civil and bolted out the door, relying on Plan C-U Later rather than crying out his eyes. He saved that for me, mewling something to the effect that he had a mouth like Texas and legs like Gandhi. “So why isn’t that enough?”
“For some guy, it will be,” I promised him.
Still, I had my doubts. In these fear-ridden times, we’re constantly bombarded by paranoia on the news. Don’t go near your mail; there might be Anthrax in it. Don’t go near your boyfriend; there might be an STD in him. The terrorists have taught their camels how to swim, and they’re on they way! We’ve become a race terrified of being alone. We need to be surrounded by super-sized fries and double-double cheese burgers. Remember: comfort lies in numbers. So why have one boyfriend when you can have two? Do you want to loan your entire heart out to someone who might die or leave you tomorrow? Why can’t you share your heart? You have enough love to go around. The ubiquitous thought of being single leaves the weaker of the human species wary, contemplating the benefits of super-sizing each of their intimate relationships.
So how can you tell if you’re Plan B? It’s simple: Ask your boyfriend where all of his time and money goes if none of it’s spent on or with you. And if he hasn’t got an answer, “B” smart enough to inform him that you’ve devised your own new plan: one where you lose his two-timing ass with the knowledge that you deserve a man who puts you first.

October 9, 2008 Column

Chillin’ At The Straight Bar, Yo!

The whole gay bar scene is so last hunting season, so last herpes breakout, and so utterly obvious that I can’t help but find it quite a snore lately. Yes, yes, yes! Been there, done that, got the scars, got the scabs, and now – feeling dangerous – I’m onto this whole new thing the local folk refer to as the hetero bar.
Yes, the elusive hetero bar! Spoken of only in only small, hushed circles, such a secret place does exist, I tell you! Yes, and during the season of the falling leaves, local sexy hetero males, they come in droves, in search of beer, babes, and the ball game.
Well, wait ‘til they get a load of me, I think.
Yes, it’s late Saturday night, and I’m adding some glitter to my usual batter by flattering my straight friends with my presence. Yes, me and one my gay boys, we’re so NOW, so modern, so utterly desperate for a sad cheap thrill, we decide to descend upon the straight bar like sprinkles on spaghetti. True, technically it does sound like a bad mix, but who can turn away a dab of sugar? Sweetener goes with everything!
So the plan is simple, mind you. Make a quiet, yet somewhat provocative entrance and then turn the table on them! Yes, you see there is an ulterior motive in mind, but isn’t there always, really? I know. It sounds kind of awful, but it’s not like I’m the only soul here for more than meets the eye. These straight girls, the ones with big hairspray hair, the ones wearing Prada heels and screaming at the big football man on TV, do you actually think they give a rat’s ass who wins? Place these same straight girls in front of the big screen without the boys and the booze, and let me know how long it takes before we have an ADHD moment.
So in sum, the girls are here for the boys and the booze. The boys are here for the tits and the TV. And I’m here for the entertainment.
Here I am, eyeing the whole crowded bar – smoky with cigarettes and Peter Pan youth – like I’m a few I.Q. points short of understanding out how it’s all really supposed to work. Are those boys kissing girls? What’s with this Jethro Tull song on the old jukebox? Does anyone have the foggiest idea what bathroom I’m supposed to use? Wait! Did you see that? Oh, hells no! There are…GIRLS (breath, breath, pause, pause) in the mother f******* GIRLS room!
Now, picture me with that vacuous, yet slightly concerned look on my face, like the kind that most straight guys get when they enter a gay bar. Yes, you know the look! There’s a bead of sweat forming everywhere, and now I’m trying really hard not to make a big deal out of the fact that every girl here is desperate to grab my tight ass. Yes, they want me. I’m convinced they require some Grade A homo meat – a rare, yet quite tasty treat in these parts. Still, I don’t want to give them the wrong impression. So I’m glued to my gay friend like lint. After all, I have a reputation to uphold, thank you. What would my family think? Penis: that is what I like! Oh, what to do? What to do?
Wait, I know!
Alcohol will make it better, I convince myself. So I start to pour beer down my throat, and then, my gay friend and me, we’re suddenly in this conversation with all these really nice straight guys. It’s all so US Weekly. They ask questions! They shop at boutique stores! They offer to buy beer for you! They have feelings!
Instead of fighting us for admiring the male form, they want to know what we like about boys. Is it their butt, brains, or brawn? And when we answer, they form no judgment. In fact, they sort of understand it.
Hold on! Wait a minute! I’m at a loss. Here I’m expecting heavy grunting, mass burping, and bra burning (well, maybe not, but it would be fun), but all that comes from these straight guys is kindness. Is this the youth of today? And if so, why aren’t we celebrating? We’re continually bombarded by the media with awful rants regarding how lazy, self-absorbed, and arrogant the poorAmerican youth of today are. And ok, that’s fine. We’ll take that.
But as this night has pointed out, we’re also the most questioning bunch you’ll ever meet. We’re different because technology permits us knowledge with just a fast click of a computer key. We’ve come to know how important love is in any form and how the world needs more of it. We’re fed up with prejudice. We’ve learned from our parents mistakes, and we no longer run from the unknown; we seize it. And with some hope, one day the separation of gays and straights at the local bar will be as inconceivable as the segregation of classroom in the 1960s. So go on, laugh at the gay boys hanging at the local straight bar. Just remember: we’re not there for sex; we’re there to make a change.

September 10, 2008 Column

Rum Is The Answer
What Was the Question?

There was the most fascinating report of NPR not too long ago that talked about the current climate of dating, and how, across the country, college campus women were fed up with men because instead of going on traditional dates, men would simply opt to meet the lady at the bar, buy her brewski on nickel beer night, and then take her back to the ‘ole frat house to bop her brains out.
I know. I know. Lucky girls, right?
Well, the problem is, these girls desired more from their beaus than a “buy me a beer and I blow you” night. They longed for the more traditional model of dating, one where being escorted to dinner was involved before taking in a movie. The trouble is, this was hard to find. Those smart college men, they just wanted to party, telling the girls, “Hey, we’ll be at (fill in the blank) white trash townie bar. Meet us and we promise to save you some boiled peanuts and beer!”
The state of affairs saddened the girls. They reluctantly agreed to the men’s requests, but inside they felt like cheap, dirty whores. Still bravely, they bottled up their spiraling emotions by turning to the bottle in order to alleviate their guilt for allowing their bodies to be ravaged by these men for such little reward. Hence, this helped heighten the percentage of ‘binge drinking’ college women nationwide; according to a Harvard study, nearly matching their male counterparts.
So all in all, the outlook seemed grim for college women, but where has that left, dare I ask, collegiate gay men?
“In rehab,” says my newest, coolest mate, Randy. Recently, we met at the bar, where over a cocktail he boldly confessed that though he loves the attention he receives from college boys, he knows that they’ll offer him no more than cactus butt and a canker sore on his lip in the morning. Still, he refuses to stop opening his mouth for them, even though it upsets him because he’s looking for more than a one-night sham.
“Then why do you keep doing it?” I ask.
“The drinks,” he confesses. Pointing to his fruit garnished glass of sangria, he whimpers with baby talk. “They talk me into it. They’re always so convincing.”
“Well, have you considered not drinking?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like forgetting what I do….”
Yes, you see Randy has done many things that he can’t remember. It’s all a fuzzy, wet dream. Bits and pieces come to him every now and again, but most of it is a blur, kind of like when you struggle to recall what really took place during the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
“For instance, I’ll remember talking to a guy at the bar. I’ll remember the head of his penis. But I won’t remember his face or his name,” Ryan tells me, clearly intoxicated. “Like I could have slept with you last month and I wouldn’t even know unless you pulled out your peter.”
“That sounds like a line,” I reply.
“Yeah. Maybe. So uh, tell me, was I good?” he flirts.“Veeeerrrry good,” I purr, teasing him. “Look, I even have the canker sore on my lip to prove it!”
“You twit!” he laughs, with a wink. Then with barely a goodbye, he floats to the dance floor, having been prompted by a friend he thinks may be a past trick. Randy can’t remember who the guy is, really. Later, he informs me that he thinks he met the guy online, but he can’t remember if he’s the one with acne on his butt or the one who collects Pokemon cards. Still, he’s excited with the thought of having someone in his bed tonight. But aren’t we all? Isn’t that what gets us into these predicaments?
The truth is, we’ve all been Ryan and we’ve all been that sad girl who longs for romance, but will settle for a warm body in the bed and cold sore on the lip in the morning. So why do we do it? Is it the alcohol? Nah, the alcohol just gives us permission to do it without having to accept the responsibility for it.
So what then? Well, it may be a number of reasons. Maybe we don’t think we’re ready to commit to a real relationship, and bar hook-ups grant us a quick fix when we feel alone. Or maybe we like a little more variety in our dating diet than our puritan hearts would like to admit. The truth is, no one goes to the bar piss-drunk looking for a long-term relationship. You think I’m wrong? Well, take a moment to think about it. Would you get intoxicated before going on a job interview? Then why would you show up drunk to interview the person who you’d like to share your bed, your butt hole, and your life? If you’re looking for more than a hook-up then hook yourself up with a better game plan than drinking ‘til he’s cute at the bar. Until then, quit feeling bad for yourself, and have fun with each drunken’ hump and bump along the way.

August 14, 2008 Column

What About Bob?

You’ll have to forgive my beautiful friend, Jasmine. Tonight, she’s sucked down one too, too many glasses of white wine, and now she’s feeling a tad bad for herself because she hasn’t had a penis inside of her for two months. It’s my fault, she says. The gays and me, we’re the sole reason she has little chance at locating a man these days. After all, the gays started this ridiculous metrosexual movement, she states. Now, she can’t tell who is what and what homo is who. If only the gays - mainly those annoying Queer Eye guys - hadn’t given away all of their precious secrets to straight men, she might have a chance of locating a member of the nearly extinct heterosexual male species. But since none appear to be at this party, she’s headed to find herself another glass of wine.
Now, as much as I like to agree with my friends, sometimes I have to refute their beliefs. Actually, it’s fun, notably when they’re drunk. And my dear Jasmine is getting there. So I kindly explain to her that sometimes location is the key. For example, right now we’re surrounded by gay men because we’re at a hairdresser’s birthday party. We’re in an upscale salon with white walls, white leather furniture, and a fancy TV glued to the wall with Cher singing like a robot in the background. Oh, and did I fail to mention the Boston terrier running around with lime-colored nail polish?
I mean, come on….
What type of man did she expect to meet here? Clearly, this is not the place to be for any upstanding member of the heterosexual male society. Of course, you might find one, clutching his girlfriend’s Coach purse and holding his nutsack in the corner. In other words, there are heterosexual men to be found, but generally, most know better than to frequent such a party location.
Or so I thought….
“There’s one,” Jasmine says, locking her eyes on some guy in the very same manner as a fat kid would to the last Twinkie in the box.
“How do you know he’s straight?” I inquire.
“A woman just knows,” she insists.
Now remember, this is coming from the same surly woman who just told me that she can’t tell who is what anymore. But now that she’s drunk, she can tell. Of course! It makes perfect sense.
It’s all so perfect in fact that Jasmine decides she’s going in for the kill. Her tired technique: the disgustingly obvious “Why are you hiding?” line. Of course, he’s not really hiding; he’s just one foot in an open broom closet, hiding from her. I swear, she’s so tipsy, so cutesy, so “I’m going to this and this and this party later tonight”, I’m about to run away too. “Do you want to join me for an ‘after hours’?” she asks him. “We’re all going for shots at this trendy little rum bar.”
Mr. Straight, here’s where he becomes Mr. Straight with a big old question mark. You see, even though he’s sucking down a beer and talking manlier than Michael Keaton in Batman, he’s here with (drum roll please and say it in a Mandy Moore voice) Bob. The problem is no one can tell who, what, or where Bob is. But still, he’s all “Bob this” and “Bob that” and “I can’t go anywhere without Bob”….
Jasmine isn’t about to let “Bob” distract her though. “Oh, come on. It will be fun,” she pleads, bouncing her banana tits like bait. I’m thrilled, because we all love Jasmine’s tits, even if we are gay. What can I say? We gays admire beautiful things. However Mr. Straight, he’s much more concerned about Bob. And further in the conversation, just as he announces that he’d be nailing one of the gay boys at the party if he were gay, that’s when I tell Jasmine she might have hit a dead-end.
“What? You think he’s gay?” she asks.
“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that most straight men don’t talk about nailing other men when they have your tits staring them in the face.”
With a final laugh, Jasmine drunkenly agrees and scurries away from the party in hope to find another love that night. As for me, I’m left with that pressing question in my head: Can you truly tell if someone is gay?
It’s tricky, because gay comes in all shapes and sizes, and not all of us are wearing glitter and raising a rainbow flag. Do I think Mr. Straight is gay? I don’t know. He might not know either, which leads me to a bigger question. Does gay, straight or bi really exist? Or is sexuality more fluid - an uncontrollable desire for someone, anyone, regardless of their gender - like the pansexual theory suggests. Can there be a period of multiple periods of “gayness” during our lives? Surely, our taste buds change. Why not our love buds?
These days, dating and relationships in general have become so mind-boggling because people have been granted more breathing room in order to take risks with their sexuality, and that’s an awesome progression for mankind. But like all new paths, we’re just learning where it will lead. Who knows? Someday, maybe labels like gay and straight won’t be necessary. You won’t need Prada on your sunglasses to prove your life is rich, and you won’t need to raise a rainbow flag to prove you’re proud to be in a relationship with a member of the same sex.
In sum, you’ll just be sexual. True. For some, such ambiguity may be too scary of a thought. For the remainder of us, a path worth exploring.

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