Quest Columns Updated
June 25, 2009 Column by
Anthony Paull
Dude
Looks Kinda, Sorta Like a LadyFire=hot? Food=good? Sex=hot and good?
You see, in the long lost days of the Flintstones, there was simply no time to enter into mind games with your prime-mate and then self-reflect. And Twitter? Why, heavens no! I mean, really. What man had a minute to update the status of a relationship when he was busy figuring out how to be fossilized in a proper rock formation?
Yes, that's the problem with folks nowadays. Due to our advances in health care, it seems, we have too much time. And the longer we live, the longer our life-long partnerships are expected to last. At birth, we're conditioned to seek 'happily ever after' without realizing just how long we have to go with the same person. So what happens when your partner changes? Evolves? Are you supposed to happily go along with it even if you're unhappy? Or should you leave your immortal love behind in favor of a new relationship?
Such a question plagues the life of Terence, my dear friend for many years. You see, Terence has been with his partner Chazz since the advent of online men-4-men chat rooms, and though they had a great relationship ten years ago, their love has taken a turn for the worse since Chazz discovered his love for lingerie in the petites section at Macy's.
Yes, my dear readers, Chazz is a panties man. And I mean that in the most literal sense. He's simply fallen in love with the way the soft cotton tickles the tips of his balls, and since his revelation, he's begun to explore his feminine side. First, it was panties. Then he popped out of the bathroom in fishnet stockings one night. Then he started buying make-up at the drug store and applying like a toddler lost in a bathroom drawer. And now, he's wearing mini-skirts while shopping for kitty litter at Target. But that's fine, because he's wearing a black hoodie so no one can see him. At least, that's what Chazz tells Terence.
“Oh, give me a break. This isn't Harry Potter. A hoodie is not an invisibility cloak,” I inform Terence over the phone. Writing my novel on the second floor of an intimate college library, I'm trying to whisper, careful to avoid interrupting the local students during their studies. “I mean, seriously, Stevie Wonder could spot a guy in fishnets at Target considering all that fluorescent lighting.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Terence agrees. “Get this. Chazz says it's common in Europe. That French guys think panties are all the rage. But skirts? I don't buy it. And I'm sorry, but I don't think it's fucking hot.”
“Maybe not to you,” I mutter. “But he seems to be getting off on it.”
“Hey, why are you whispering?” “I'm at the library.” “Which one?” “The one near the college.”
“Dude, that's another place he goes!” Terence yells. And I kid you not. Call it serendipity, call it blind fate, but I look up from my computer, and there goes Chazz darting by faster than a fever in a black hoodie, board shorts, and a pair of purple pumps. He's headed to the exit like a rhino because he landed eyes on me. And his legs - they're hairier than an unkempt Chia pet.
“You two are setting me up,” I tell Terence. “This has to be a joke.” “No man. He likes to rile up the students. You see him?”
“Um, yeah, I think everyone does,” I reply, as student heads begin popping up from the dirt like Groundhog's Day. Then quickly, the space erupts with stifled laughter and whispers. “But hey, at least he knows how to rock those heels.”
“That's not funny. This is not what I signed up for. What am I supposed to do?”
The truth: thankfully, I never had to answer his question. I told him I had a deadline to finish writing my column, and Terence ended their relationship just a day later. Honestly, I didn’t have a good reply for him.
As a friend, I wasn’t sure if it was my place to tell him to end it. At the onset of a relationship, usually rules are established. Don’t cheat. Don’t lie. But don’t dress like a woman? Well, that’s never come up for me. And if my boyfriend was to dress like a woman, I’d at least hope he’d have the decency to shave his god damn legs. Still, I believe that change is inevitable in all relationships. Everyone has a fetish, and for Chazz that meant getting aroused from the feeling of doing something naughty in public.
Winona Ryder shoplifts. And Chazz, he shape shifts. No harm.
Still, it interfered with Terence’s need for a publicly masculine partner. So he moved on to bachelorhood even though feelings of guilt continue to linger in his heart. Who knows? Maybe one day he’ll look beyond the exterior of Chazz and remember what he loved about him in the first place and return home. And if not, that’s dandy, because living ‘happily’ doesn’t always include ‘ever after’, especially when the person you thought you knew becomes invisible.
April
9, 2009 Column
I guess you can say peering through the 'looking glass' has tainted me, but that's part of the fabulous and screwed-up world of being Carrie Bradshaw with a penis rather than a dick-nose; sometimes, I have little choice but to pry into the private lives of friends and readers and ask questions I might not want answered. Like for example, why does your boyfriend's butt smell like the bottom lip of the queer with the Star Trek Enterprise eyebrows working at the MAC counter? And tell me; when did shit-brown become the new pink?
Oh, I know; I'm going to hell, but I'm demanding a suite right below you so I can get off listening to you do all the same 'yummy in my bum' things you prefer that I not write about.
Yes, we're all such prudish creatures when we're at the height of our game, but give a bitch a hot man and a key to a dingy, hourly-rate hotel on Sunset Strip, and BOOM, watch the fireworks explode! "But no! Wes promised he'd never, ever cheat on me!" my LA actor-friend, Willie Boy cries.
My favorite, beautiful blond drama queen, Willie Boy, has been 'dating' his boyfriend, Wes, for five "yes, I said the greatest man on this green earth" months. However recently, he sadly discovered that he's been getting cheated on all along. Me, I should know better than to ask how he found out. Still, I open my mouth as we walk, rather briskly, under the bamboo fans located at the mall's food court. Willie's dying for cheese fries but says he'll be damned if he gains an ounce and looks like deep-fried dog shit. That's the thing about having boyfriend trouble - it works a body good. "So how do you know he really cheated?" I ask.
"Let's just say I know!" Willie Boy heatedly whispers. Then, searching his black skinny-jean shorts, he pulls out a shiny, silver I-Phone. "Take exhibit A," he says. "His stupid, little slut left him a text to pick him up at the MAC counter, but sadly, Wes never got the message. That's because I got to his I-phone first."
In a mad, speed-walking fit, Willie takes on an eerie resemblance to those husband-caged-women you find doing hamster laps around your friendly, deed-restricted neighborhood. He's all hips, hips, hips.
"That doesn't prove anything," I say, trying my damnedest to keep up with him. "Is that all you have?"
"No, I have Chlamydia, gonorrhea, and a yeast infection that won't quit. Is that enough evidence for you?!!" Huffing and puffing and puffing, he's zigzagging through a pod of concerned parents, who pull away their confused children, when I grab him by the shoulder.
"Ok. You're not that fag, and this is not your next movie!" I kindly inform him. "You said we were here to go dumpster diving for clearance-rack underwear at Express. So why are you racing to the MAC counter?"
"To punch the make-up off that bitch's face!" he declares. And that's when his crying turns to sobbing, and it all leaks on the shiny tile floor. Just in time for the locals to pop their popcorn and take in the festivities.
In sum, Willie Boy says that a friend told him that Wes had been screwing the MAC guy, the one with the tweezed eyebrows, at some nasty hotel for the last five months. Willie Boy failed to believe the torturous tale even though Wes had been waving red flags since their onset. You see, a text-message maniac, Wes was famous for being glued to his I-phone, where he'd receive private messages at the most private of hours. Of course, he'd say they were from his mom or his brother, but deep down, Willie Boy knew the truth. He knew those strange boys on Wes' Facebook page weren't merely strangers. He knew why he wasn't Wes' #1 friend on Myspace. Still, he turned a blind eye 'til last week when he began experiencing anal itchiness and a shot of fire through his penis every time he peed.
After a doctor visit, Willie boy confronted Wes, who denied the allegation, stating diseases like that can remain dormant for years.
"So let me get this straight," I say. "Wes risked your life by lying to you and giving you a rash of STD's, but you're mad at the MAC guy?" And maybe that was my worst question of all, because right then, I knew his silence meant he was still in love, and that leads to no easy answers, especially when the one you're mad at most is yourself.
February
26, 2009 Column
True, I admit, Stacey is fabulous on an international level, but even I know better than to hallucinate in front of celebrities or have delusions that I’m seeing one. For example, at a premiere party dinner serving vodka-laced energy drinks, Stacey downed a few sips and then thought she saw Ethan Hawke, triggering her, for some unknown reason, to pull a Flat Stanley doll out of her handbag to get his picture taken with Ethan and other A-list celebrities.
Now let me remind you, she’s supposed a professional photographer.
The problem is she doesn’t know how to operate the camera, and the “boy” she thought was Ethan Hawke was actually twenty years his junior
and just went
along with the whole Flat Stanley fiasco because he wanted to get down
her pants. Needless to say, most of my photographs are blurrier than
Stacey’s recollection of the event.But who cares about the past? Did I tell you Stacey can see the future? Yes, it’s true. Last year, she met some young unknown actor and predicted that he was going to be star, and her vision came to be. Too bad she failed to enlighten me on the rest of his future.
You see, this new star, he decided to meet us at Sundance gay porn-release party where Stacey was running around in a maddened state because Flat Stanley had been abducted by a fashion designer, who was using the stupid paper doll to perform fellatio on him in the VIP room. So Mr. Star, he was left talking to me.
“Dude, seriously, I’ve never been with a guy, but I think I’m 20% gay,” he states, opening the conversation.
“Good for you, have another drink and you’ll hit 25,” I reply, searching for Stacey, who I find not working, mind you, but twirling around a horde of sweaty, dancing gay boys on the third floor of the party lounge, where the porn star of the year is having trouble autographing a picture of his erect penis because he doesn’t know how to spell. Really, I can’t make this shit up. “Tee hee hee, where’s THEE Star?” Stacey laughs, with green strobe lights racing across her face. Overhead, a million silver balloons dancing to an ear-busting techno beat.
“I think I lost him,” I tell her.
“Oh, I see him!” she shouts, pointing to him before covering her mouth in a gasp. “Oh my God, he’s kissing a guy!”
“Yeah, so?”
“He’s not gay,” she states.
“Yeah, and he’s not a smoker or drinker either, but he’s been double fisting bourbon and sucking down menthols all night.”
“Ooh, so what should we do? We’re kind of responsible for him,” she says.
Me, I’m thinking I could snap his picture and make some quick cash, but I know I’m not that person. Still, I guess that I could have Stacey do it for me, but I remember she can’t operate the camera. “Let’s let him be free,” I say.
“Ok,” Stacey nods, floating away in a drunken cloud.
Over Texas, on the plane ride home, Stacey and I make a firm agreement not to mention any names in regard to what happened. I’m wondering how THEE Star is feeling, and I’m hoping he knows what happened in Utah will stay there.
“Did you like it? The kiss?” I asked him before we left.
“Nah, it wasn’t that good,” he hastily replied. But even if it wasn’t, I could sense a quiet fulfillment in his face due to knowing he was in a safe enough space to find out. Wouldn’t we all be in a better state if we could act without the camera, the judgment, and the weary eyes of those who know better than us?
It’s confusing to me. We have psychological geniuses like Sigmund Freud and Wilhelm Stekel telling us since the early twentieth century that bisexuality is innate and normal, but still, we have a hard time kissing without seeing gender or sexual orientation. The world, more than ever, is ready for change, for love in any form to be applauded. We shouldn’t need alcohol to release our latent inhibitions or slowly kill ourselves off with cigarettes because we’re ashamed of what they are.
Personally, I don’t think THEE Star is gay or straight or whatever label is current these days. I just think he’s looking for love. And it fills my heart with warmth to see he’s willing to be exposed for being human to find it.
“Yes, really mix your energy
I’m placing the blame on my photographer, Stacey, of course. But I’m certain I didn’t help the whole situation, insisting, no, mixing energy drinks really won’t cause you to black out.
January
23, 2009 Column
Yes Big-Mac Maniacs, stay with me! I’m talking about three dates at once! Supersizing your super fat chance at love, love, love! What’s wrong with that? My friend Brandon is testing it out tonight. That’s why I can’t help but love him. He’s always thinking, thinking, thinking. Triple-scoop thinking, that’s Brandon. He’s throwing the biggest ice-sculpture party, the fanciest-dandiest affair on this sweet side of the planet, and tonight, he’s invited three potential love-making matches.
Now allow me to set up the scene. Think holiday party. Picture fifty of the most fabulous people drinking expensive champagne you can’t name and feasting on fragile candy-canes while speaking of significant matters like the philosophical stance of Plato. That’s before they get shit-face drunk. When drunk happens, they pee down ice-sculptures and steal the Grey Goose from under the silver-glittered Christmas tree in the hair salon where the party is being held. That’s between you and me, though. Brandon doesn’t know that. He’s busy entertaining guests while his matches show up one by one.
The first guy is a wallflower with a buzzed-head and blue bumble-bee eyes who is staring so hard at the wall that he doesn’t notice the second guy, Mr. Look-At-Me, I’m a Lawyer, has just arrived. Everyone else notices though. Mr. Lawyer, he makes sure of that, informing us that he’s an important lawyer over and over like we couldn’t smell that stink on him from a mile away. That’s when the third guy shows up. Now, remember our talk of vanilla? Well, he’s kind of strawberry vanilla. He’s white, white, white with red hair and a white-collar job that affords him his heavily-starched white-collared shirt. My guess is Brandon won’t like him. He prefers his boys a tad dirtier. My conclusion: he’ll want the lawyer.
The problem is Mr. Vanilla wants Mr. Lawyer too. And soon, he begins to follow him around while Brandon is busily hosting the event. Now, the wallflower, he’s leaves in a maddened state when Mr. Lawyer informs him that he’s here on a date with Brandon too. (That’s the great thing about lawyers, they’re so honest.) But who will miss the wallflower now that the nutcracker has arrived?
Who is the nutcracker, you ask?
Well, he’s a totally random guy who shows up on a drug-induced cloud and begins twisting everyone’s balls without permission.
“How cute. He’s in the holiday spirit,” someone remarks.
November
13, 2008 Column
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.
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.
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
What Was the Question?
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
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.