Everybody Does It...

Why the National Equality March Matters

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 17:58:00 +0000

There are benefits and drawbacks to having lots of friends on Facebook. I know that every few minutes my newsfeed will be refreshed with a variety of statuses, photos, links, quizzes, etc., guaranteeing me near constant procrastination if I want it, though that may also be one of the drawbacks.

Another drawback with having a significant amount of gay friends on Facebook, makes the content of said updates pretty homogenous. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; I probably would have left Facebook long ago if I was only being bombarded with sports updates or something. Nevertheless, this week it seems like the only news was Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize, Kylie Minogue’s multiple concerts in New York, and recaps of the National Equality March.

Cleve Jones knew that the internet would revolutionize the way that the Equality March was organized, and he was right. It takes but moments to make hundreds of thousands of people aware of any event and then allows you to keep them actively updated and engaged with its progression. Social networks like Facebook are particularly useful for events such as this because they act as both informers and influencers. All month, and particularly all of last week I could see which of my friends were going to the march, how they were getting there, not to mention all the additional activities and parties they planned on attending while there. I couldn’t help but feel like maybe I was missing out.

But marching has never been my thing. Raised in a somewhat conservative and reserved family, I’ve never been a fan of public demonstrations. It’s not that I’d be ashamed to be seen among those that marched, since college my name’s Google results indicate my sexuality almost immediately. I have written about sex and relationships for the last four years and since I was 18 have never tried to hide who I am. And it’s not that I don’t think demonstrations are important, or that I think they are a waste of time. On the contrary I applaud all of you who marched last weekend and made a literal stand for some of the injustices we suffer at the hands of the government.

Having gone to school in DC, I’m no stranger to these events. As the epicenter of our government it is the appropriate place for them to occur. But I guess I always wondered whom these large scale publicity events were designed to influence. We know that Congress wasn’t in session for the holiday, and obviously Obama was not on hand to sign any new bills to challenge or repeal DADT or DOMA. So why are they important?

Then I remember why I write. It’s not just to reach a small circle of my friends and family, sharing my thoughts and feelings from the week. The reason we participate in events like marches, and contribute to publications that celebrate our lives, is because for every one of us that is lucky enough to live in a big city, or attend a huge march, there are young gay people across the country and around the world that are isolated. Like the stories from ‘Milk,’ and Imfromdriftwood.com, I can only imagine how many gay teens must have felt when the images of the National Equality March showed up online. I hope they realized not only that they weren’t alone, but that there are people who understand their struggle. I’d like to think they feel the same way when they read Homo-Neurotic. The way I felt when I first read ‘Density of Souls,’ by Christopher Rice.

I may prefer my keyboard and blog to a marker and poster board, but I promise my heart is in the same place. Media and the internet has blessed us by bringing us together and each day I feel privileged to be reminded just how lucky we are to be able to gush over the same ‘gay’ things online. It may be a bit redundant, but then again so are the cries of protest. But until our cries are heard and respected by our oppressors then I don’t mind seeing the same updates repeatedly. We each have our own voice to echo our beliefs and share our stories. Just don’t forget to use yours for something. You never know who may be listening.

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005.

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic on 10/14/09

Gettin' Tufts on Sexiling

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 21:19:00 +0000

I’m sure by now most of you have heard that recently at Tufts University in Boston they added a new rule to the student handbook. ‘Residents may not engage in sexual activity while their roommate is in the room.’ The new rule also banned the act of sexiling, or prohibiting your roommate from entering the room while you are engaging in sexual activity. Though those of us who weren’t Neanderthals or nascent exhibitionists in college wouldn’t have wanted to hook up while our roommate was present (barring certain levels of inebriation), this does routinely pose a significant dilemma for a vast majority of students. The ban is equal parts good natured, to preserve the ‘privacy, study time, and sleep,’ of the residents, and Victorian, limiting the actions one can perform in the privacy of their own bedrooms. I’m sure we can all see both sides.

When I was embarking on my first year of college I, like most freshmen, was given the name and contact information of my roommate. Never one to waste time, I immediately got in touch and we talked for eight hours the first night. Needless to say he was also gay, and the rest of the summer, we chatted online, talked on the phone, and made plans for what we were sure was to be the best year of our lives. Having barely just lost my virginity, and used to not being able to bring boys home, I didn’t anticipate any regret when we agreed that we wouldn’t bring hook-ups back to the room. Though I soon realized the error of my hastiness, I stuck to our promise, at least when he was in town.

During the remainder of college I definitely had my evenings where alcohol imbued me with the confidence that I was as silent and stealth and as a jewel thief, and could sneak a boy into my room and have our activities remain a mystery. It sometimes had the same effect on my roommates. When this delusional behavior occurred we would either ignore it, yell something bitchy to make the other stop, or just crash somewhere else. Of course these conditions were not ideal, but that was part of college. Exploring our sexuality, whether directly or indirectly, is as necessary a part of the collegiate experience as the academics.

Of course for gays there are added dimensions to this problem, and the recent ban. I knew several gay couples who either met as or later became roommates. It’s dangerous to commit to a semester or more together, but like those of us who have moved into a one bedroom with a boyfriend, these guys had the best deal possible. Though I doubt it is Tufts’ intention, who’s to say that this ban couldn’t be used to keep couples from rooming together? And for roommates that are mixed, heteros and homos, what’s to keep one from using this as a way to discriminate against the other. The successful act of sexiling often hinges on peer pressure anyway, now they are asking the victim to become a narc.

Living in New York, especially in this economy when people may be moving to smaller places or bringing in additional roommates to help foot the bill, can feel a bit like college. We may not have RA’s to govern our behavior anymore, but we all still live by a code of our invention. I try to only invite boys over when my roommate is not going to be home, or just confine ourselves to my bedroom; and I wouldn’t think twice about doing whatever we wanted while there. Though we aren’t copulating in the direct sight of our lovers’ roommates (unless invited to do so), more than likely our actions aren’t going unnoticed.

Luckily (or perhaps not) our notions of privacy, voyeurism, and exhibitionism in New York are more easily shrugged off than in college. Last week, a worker descending outside my window came within 10 ft. of my naked body and I didn’t even flinch. The biggest advantage we have now is anonymity and hopefully the maturity of our lovers and their roommates, ensuring the situation will be treated with levity, at least until we make our exit, or close our blinds.

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005.|

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 10/7/09

Friendly Fire/Favor

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 18:34:00 +0000

Whenever you get together with long-time friends, it doesn’t take long to see just how much and how little you’ve changed. This past weekend, I didn’t just see any old friend, but one of my closest friends who happens to live on the other side of the world.
Since I began writing this column she’s inspired a lot of my themes and provided me with plenty of anecdotes, and for that I am eternally grateful, especially because each anecdote usually got her in trouble with her boyfriend at the time. As usual, there was no steady boyfriend to introduce her to during this visit, but I guess in a lot of ways that’s better, because too often we let our friends’ opinions of our lovers color the way we see them.

In the last six years that we’ve known each other, we’ve had a lot of men in our lives and in our beds. Though she spent the majority of college in monogamous relationships, and I spent my time trying to avoid them, we always had plenty of notes to compare and now have found ourselves on the other side of college looking for different things again. While I try to climb the corporate ladder at home and flesh out a long-lasting relationship, she’s trying to figure out how to succeed outside the 9-to-5 world and enjoy her freedom abroad.

To say our friends’ differences complement us is an absurd understatement. Their experiences inform our decisions as much as our own trials and tribulations. There are times when their relationships mirror exactly what we want to avoid or precisely what we hope to find: that whatever the result, we’ve learned something in the process. Of course their individual interactions are not something we can recreate so the lessons are at best generalizations.

Worrying what our friends think about our new paramours also illustrates how highly we regard their opinion. I think about this when I analyze how I introduce a new lover to my friends. Some I’ve kept to myself almost exclusively. Others I brought out on the very first date. I don’t know if I felt that some would fit in more than others, or that some were just not that interesting to begin with. Some lovers seemed to fade in the glare of scrutiny, while others either flourished or floundered if my friends found them favorable. Sometimes when my friends did approve it made the guy seem less desirable.

When I think about my friends’ boyfriends, I’ve probably only liked about 50% of them. But it was only those friends that allowed their relationships to profoundly change them that damaged our friendship in any way. Relationships are divisive by design. They take up the attention that is often provided by multiple friends, in one easy package. But if dating has shown me anything, it’s that you’re more likely to have the same friends down the line, than the same boyfriend. So it pays to be understanding when your friends go on hiatus and viceversa.

Eventually I assume my friends and I will settle down, or at least most of us will. Whether we like each others’ husbands, boyfriends, partners, or otherwise (or not at all), I hope our shared history and time spent in the dating trenches will keep us close to one another. After all, our friends all add different flavors to our life, but it will be our lover(s) that will make that life a meal.

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005.

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 9/29/09

Keep Your Hands Free: The New Rules for Texting while Dating

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 18:35:00 +0000

This week’s premiere of “Melrose Place” featured one of the male leads hoisting a comely female against the back hallway of a restaurant. As they played tonsil hockey and his hand moved up her thigh, his other hand held a not unfamiliar object: an iPhone.

As a text bubbled up on the screen the female warned, “Don’t you even dare.” What happened next is not really important since the next 57 minutes were pretty much ridiculous, but in that opening scene they not only brought the originally 90’s show up to date, but touched on an all too common occurrence, inappropriate texting.

Sure we’ve touched on this topic before, whether it’s the rules of texting, sexting, booty calls, or regretful messages to exes via Skype, but with all the recent attention given to the dangers of texting and driving, some attention needs to be paid to the etiquette of texting and dating. We all know it’s rude to sit, clutching our phones, thumbs pressed to keys, eyes glued to the screen, and shoulders hunched in the company of others, right? But what are the rules for texting over the course of a relationship?

Let’s say you meet online or in a bar, two likely scenarios for us, you exchange numbers and want to send the perfect follow-up text to your initial chat, make out session, or exchange or genital shots. What’s appropriate?

Don’t strike up conversation, or ask how their week has been, get to the point and schedule a date. You can mention what has already been established, “It was great chatting with you…”, “We met last Friday…”, “Can’t wait to get that huge monster inside of me…”, but don’t reveal too much in case the other person doesn’t recall the entire interaction.

On The Date Texting

While on the date it’s especially important to give little attention to your phone. Don’t check it when they arrive or at any point while you are seated. If you must, excuse yourself to the bathroom, or stealthily steal a glance while leaving the restaurant, after all they have replaced our watches so it’s appropriate to check the time periodically, but resist opening any messages. Now wait two ore more days until texting again, and only when you are ready to set up the next date.

Booty Texting

Depending on the level of commitment you plan to achieve with this individual will probably determine how the two of you proceed with texting. A casual sexual relationship may only require texts late at night or after several drinks, and though may be regretted, are generally excused or ignored if not reciprocated. For the object of your heart’s desire you’ll want to tread more lightly and avoid being too forward or expressing too much emotion via text, as you’ll want to share that in person so nothing is misinterpreted.

Hump Texting

We’ve all seen Paris Hilton answer the phone amidst bobbing on Rick Solomon, but while hooking up or having sex, make sure your phone is on silent or far enough away that no beep or vibration will disrupt the mood. You know how distracting at work it can be when your phone won’t stop buzzing, or when its silence indicates that text from last weekend’s hookup hasn’t come through. If you don’t want to earn the reputation of being bad in bed then you better make sure to keep your head in the game.

Text Message Break-Up

Finally, in only the poorest of form would you breakup via text. Messages from casual encounters can be ignored; eventually they’ll get the idea. But anyone you’ve spent a significant amount of time with should be told ‘get lost’ in person, or over the phone if absolutely necessary. People may call all this playing games, but these are simply the rules that make up the game. You may bend of break the rules, but it just makes the game that much harder to win.

Golden Cock Rule

Just remember the golden rule. Text unto others as you would them like to text unto you. And if a guy with a hot cock sends you a pic of his erect member, forward it to all your friends, ASAP.

–

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 9/10/09

Farewell Summer, Hello Fall

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 20:15:00 +0000

Like waking from a dream, the transition from summer to fall always unsettles me. Though I may be jumping the gun, fall doesn’t officially start for another few weeks, once the calendar turns to September I can’t help but feel that fall has arrived.

On the one hand I love the heat and fun of summer like every other red-blooded American, whatever that means, but fall has always been my favorite. Though it begins inauspiciously with cooling temperatures and rain fall, you can’t deny that the air is charged with energy as it builds towards its crescendo of brilliant leaves and the promise of cozy socks and sweaters.

Though this summer may have been wetter and more tepid than others, the mentality was the same. Short shorts, long nights, and beach trips make it hard to think about the future, as the warm weather demands you spend as much time outdoors as possible. The summer can make you feel invincible, immortal, or at least immobile when lying in a pool of sweat, but it doesn’t often make you feel like being responsible, let alone figuring out where your life is headed. Mostly we ride it out with as many distractions as possible, put in our time at work until the half day whistle blows on Friday and the weekend begins. Then this week arrives and Labor Day stares us in the face like the barrel of a gun.

On the other side of the weekend lurks (gasp!) full work weeks, less relaxed dress codes, less happy hours, and seemingly a lot more accountability. Despite all this, fall always seems to signal the true beginning of a new year for me. I love the thought of renewal, even though it seems as if the world is fading around us. Friends return from vacation, tourists return to their towns, and we get to fall in love again with the city. If you were unsuccessful in turning your summer romance into a fall fling, or find yourself single again this season, the shorter days and cooler nights make it the perfect time to find someone else to cozy up with. The mad dash for holiday and hibernation, honeys, has officially begun.

But this new beginning doesn’t have to signal the start of yet another quest for a new love. Perhaps summer saw the end of your last relationship or you have no interest in settling down; let the energy of the back-to-schoolers renew your co-ed behavior and spend the season reacquainting yourself with friends, throwing yourself back into your career or classes, or for scoring as much fake-ID-carrying undergraduate ass as Chelsea can provide. I always loved the way new semesters felt, like anything was possible, and nothing had to be done quite yet, but opportunities to shine and grow were abundant. Maybe it’s just me, but I grow tired of summer’s malaise and look forward to new challenges of autumn.

So don’t mourn the end of summer, or dread the imminent winter. Enjoy this brief period of equilibrium, when the city is more alive than ever. As New Yorkers we made a conscious decision to remove ourselves from nature, but it’s impossible to ignore the changing leaves of Central Park trees, and the chilly breeze down 5th Avenue.

If you can think of something more exciting, promising, or romantic than that, then I guess you haven’t fallen as hard as I have for New York City fall. It’s time you did.

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005.

Appeared originally on www.Homo-neurotic.com on 9/2/09

Diving Wading Into Relationships

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 18:05:00 +0000

No matter how old we get there are some habits from our childhood that are hard to break. Though I broke myself on the last minute animal crackers or candy bar purchase in the checkout line, and I no longer hold my breath when passing a graveyard, when getting into a pool or the ocean, I still have to go inch by inch. You dip your foot into the pool, and determine, it is quite cooler than the concrete surrounding. So you begin down the steps, foot-by-foot, knee-by-knee, and eventually you’re up to your waist. This is usually when I hop on my tiptoes and hold my arms out perpendicular to my body. Though the water feels refreshing and comforting even, it takes just a minute to adjust.

Though by adolescence we usually could muster the courage to dive in head first and just get over with in one fell swoop, sometimes we become more cautious with age and revert to childhood shyness. The same can be said of the way we approach relationships. When we’re new to sexual activity we grab impulsively for whatever treat we think will easily satisfy our craving, definitely fret over any encounter with lovers that have since passed on, but as adults we learn to tread carefully into any relationship we think may be a success, instead of diving right in like we may have done as teens or in college.

I thought about this recently as I began to hang out with a boy that had more genuine potential than I’d encountered in the 18 months since my last boyfriend. He possesses nearly every attribute I’d come to consider as negative since my tenure of dating in New York, but yet I can’t deny that being around him seems to comfort and refresh my weary attitude. So much of me wants to be daring and just belly flop my feelings, splashing him with everything I’d kept reserved for so long, but I knew that it would be much safer, and ultimately more satisfying if I let develop one toe, one foot at a time.

It’s strange the way we talk ourselves out of acting impulsively. Though we may want to pig out on the value meal, or eat the rest of the pizza we so carefully stowed in the fridge, we rationalize that we must consider our health, and conserve so as to stretch our resources for as many meals as possible. We may never escape the dread of running into the ghost of a failed relationship, but we learn that the feeling will pass and holding our nose does little to stifle the stench.

I can think of few greater pleasures than coming home after a day at the beach and feeling like the waves are still rocking you to sleep in your bed. When we meet someone that not only makes our heart pound, but allows us to carry that sensation with us, it seems worth it to savor every opportunity to acclimate, and get to know them better, until we finally allow it to all wash over. If the feeling fades and the waves subside, it doesn’t mean we won’t be able to recapture it again with someone new, it just may take awhile. After all, the summer is nearing its end, so there’s never been a better time to go ahead and get your toes wet.

Appeared Originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 8/19/09

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 19:34:00 +0000

Fire Island is a mind f*ck. What do I mean by this? Well, we’re meant believe that this gay getaway helped give rise to the circuit party, the gay orgy, and a whole host of debaucherous combinations of drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll disco. Well I spent a portion of my weekend out there recently and found it to be somewhat more benign than I remember not only from years past, but from what Facebook friends’ statuses and photos had lead me to imagine.

Now, let me begin by disclosing that I was invited out by colleagues that are some years my senior and arguably (well, blatantly) not on the same level when it comes to partying as my friend and I. Nevertheless these are the events as they unfolded which lead me to believe that the articles that have been written about Fire Island no longer being a welcome place for young gays, or solely a party haven for homosexuals, may have some truth to it.

We arrived in the afternoon and, after stopping at our hosts’, made our way to the beach, surprised by kids running between our legs. The calm and serenity elicited by the clusters of middle aged and retirees in beach chairs, was punctuated by lots of passing eye candy, many with dogs, and one group of young queens singing Disney songs and consuming massive amounts of Grey Goose and Crystal Light. Though I agreed their antics were a bit annoying, I couldn’t help but smile at the two boys sharing a towel while singing A Whole New World, or the entire chorus joining in for Part of Their World. After the show ended half the crew scampered off to their house, and not long after their ring leader apparently out for the count, facedown on a towel, began puking repeatedly into the sand. Though not the prettiest sight in the world, it didn’t seem to be quite the cause for alarm the elderly folks nearby deemed it to be.

A few minutes later they had flagged down three beach policemen whose advice was to get water and get him inside, much to the old fogies distress who were hoping for a full blown medical transport. Finally one middle aged man begrudgingly offered his assistance at the shrill insistence that they keep it down that night since he noted his house was near theirs. The whole scene made me feel sad to think how far the generations had drifted and how discouraging the older generation was of the younger enjoying the beach the way they no doubt did decades ago.

After a wonderful dinner and conversation that seemed to be bring my friend and me closer to the older generation of guys we were staying with, we decided to venture out to see the nightlife. In the city you always know what kind of crowd to expect when you go out, but out on Fire Island it seemed like a strange mix of seasoned vacationers and only a handful of fresh faces to keep it interesting. Everywhere I looked couples held hands, sipped cocktails demurely, and yawned through the drag queens’ performances. The young guys that were out seemed to be employed by The Pines and at this stage in the summer were over the scene.

So we took off for the Grove through the storied Meat Rack and met with only the subtlest of glances and absolutely none of the sex scenes I recall from only two summers prior. Had the fun really been washed away from this summer’s voluminous rain showers, or was the island shifting towards a retirement colony?

Nevertheless I did enjoy the escape and beauty of the island, and though we may have been in the minority, the ability to be our young, gay selves and appreciated by other inhabitants was a welcome feeling. But on an island where faces are hidden by sunglasses, glorifying the parade of naked torsos up and down the beach, and are only partially illuminated at night by the moon, I couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t me that was being seen at all, but just another young body who’d come to play.

At gay bars in the city, youth is so visible you immediately spot any geezer lurking in the corner. Perhaps we shun them, ignore them, make them feel like they are no longer welcome, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that some of those who are old enough to afford a summer share on FI don’t want to have to sacrifice their peace and quiet to accommodate the whims and disregard of the young who appear in stark contrast to the majority of its visitors. We have to learn how to play together at home and away if we want to share the spaces we all lay claim to. To society we want to appear as something more than ‘gay,’ and yet to each other we appear as nothing more than our age. Privilege is not exclusive to age, young or old, but respect and understanding can always be applied.

Something to keep that in mind for all of you attending Ascension this weekend.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 8/14/09

Gaycation, All I Ever Wanted

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 18:48:00 +0000

When I agreed to go to Ft. Lauderdale with my old college roommate, his boyfriend, and a cadre of other gays I thought it would be a mix between a bachelor party and my senior year spring break in Palm Springs. I learned on that spring break that gaycations and Gays Gone Wild type adventures don’t end in college, but rather, as evidenced by the nude and rowdy middle-aged guests at our all men’s resort, extended as long as you wished it to. Though I knew no genitals would be exposed poolside at the W in FTL (probably) I thought the same air of abandon and sexual proclivity would ensue. In reality I discovered that vacationing with mostly couples leaves little chance that you’ll hook-up within your party, or that you’ll have a committed group to go out and procure strange ass from the locals.

In the past, perhaps not so distantly, random hook-ups and one night stands were not that foreign to me, but lately with a renewed commitment to my body for this trip and in general, in addition to joining a site purported to be solely for dating and not a source for meaningless sex, I’ve begun to feel that even if encounters turn out to be meaningless, they should at least have the potential for more. Though I arrived in FL with the intention of feasting on whatever I could get my hands on, I soon realized that perhaps that’s not the sort of fulfillment I needed from this trip at all. I needed an escape from trying to impress and undress potential suitors, and spent the weekend primarily giving my attention to my friends, and perhaps some shot boys.

In New York there are nights when we hit the town with our boys ostensibly to spend time together, dance, and party, but with the ulterior motive of getting laid. I’d have to confess that the times I have ended those nights with a stranger it came as a pretty big surprise to me, as I always liked to keep my expectations low. Though I do often fall prey to flirting and chatting online, or sexting with casual liaisons, none of whom I have the intention of making an honest man, which is no more high brow than picking up a random at a bar. I guess in either case, many of us fill the gaps between relationships, some of which may stretch months or years, with no strings affairs until we meet someone that makes our heart pound AND our stomach flip.

So why go on vacation to do what we already are doing in New York? At home at least we can pretend these random hook-ups may lead to something more substantial, or at least more frequent. On vacation we know that chance is slim. It’s wonderful to get away, but if we spend that time only looking for cheap thrills, it only cheapens the money we spent to be there in the first place. Gaycations may be fun, fabulous, and often frought with drama, but they need not all be orgies. Sometimes all you really need is some rest, relaxation, and time to reflect on how to tackle the challenges that await you at home, whether those be in the office or the bedroom.

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005.

Appeared originally on 7/31/09 on Homo-neurotic.com

Long Distance Lovin'

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 15:28:00 +0000

In New York every relationship feels like long distance. Potential dates are spread among the boroughs and hectic schedules keep you from seeing each other more than a couple times a week, if you’re lucky. In the interim you’re relegated to chatting online, texting, or maybe late night phone calls so it’s easy to feel like you’re dating remotely. Those familiar with online dating websites know that there are constantly new prospects to consider not to mention that any event or evening out with friends could bring another potential mate to your attention, creating an endless cycle of fits and starts. And with new people constantly coming in and out of the city it’s not unreasonable to assume your next crush may even hail from somewhere far beyond the city’s seemingly endless boundaries.

Our generation came of age with the Internet readily available as the easiest resource to find someone to daydream about, to meet to satisfy our hormonal urges, or to possibly become our first or next great love. Though our identities or pictures are rarely if ever hidden from our online paramours, it was still easy to feel that while we are chatting with someone not too far from home they were still as mysterious to us in real life as the characters exchanging emails in You’ve Got Mail.

Adding to the long distance relationships we form with someone close by, in the early days and even now it is common to develop connections with guys who not only live on the other side of the country or world with the hopes we may someday meet. In high school I regularly kept up with boys in Chicago, Canada, and Lord knows where else in North America. In college, a wealth of gay and girlfriends from all over the place who wanted to set me up with their BFF got me involved with an even greater number of long distance lovers, some of whom I met briefly or continued sporadic and convenient affairs, others whom faded into obscurity without us ever crossing paths.

But throughout my young adulthood there have been some guys I’ve met from afar that made me feel like no matter the physical distance our connection and intimate conversations could surmount the distance. Some fizzled upon on eventual meeting, others linger and have cycled back over the years, even as we both have hopped from college to career in different locales. Nevertheless the idea or actualization of a genuine and exclusive long distance relationship has never quite come to pass.

Falling for a guy that may never play an immediate role in your life in the foreseeable future is a trap we fall into when our own prospects at home seem to be less than inviting. The distance makes it easier to make leaps and bounds in our feelings for them since they are not around to notice flaws, insecurities, or fall victim to realistic priorities. We talk to them when it’s convenient or carry on romantic conversations while actually out with friends or even other dates. We give them remote access to our hearts, and they come to feel like a security blanket for the disappointments of real life dating.

What we have to keep in mind is no matter what they divulge, we are never getting the whole picture. We may see countless photos of them online, learn all their favorite movies and music, but still not witness their emotions at actually experiencing them. We think we are falling in love with our Romeo cruelly separated not by the will of our parents, but by geography. Nevertheless we do it time and time again usually resulting in a gradual decline of communication or an abrupt dismissal of what we thought was blossoming.

So though we may pass the time putting an emotional down payment on something we think will be worth the investment, we are often left with nothing but phantom memories of how a stranger briefly made us feel special. Though dating in New York can be a fool’s errand most of the time, at least we share the environment where a relationship may grow. It’s not unheard of for lives to be changed by relocating or extreme circumstances, but our faraway Romeos are more likely meet a tragic end than a Sleepless in Seattle happy ending. It may we wiser to wait until we’ve actually felt their kiss before we let their xoxo’s count as affection. Love may come from the heart, but it begins with the head, and well, the loins.

Appeared Originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 7/16/09

Training for Love

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 19:11:00 +0000

A couple weeks ago I decided I’d be attending my friend’s birthday pool party in Ft. Lauderdale. The problem was the party was exactly a month away and my half naked body had not seen the light of day in more than a year. Those of you that know me know that skin tone was not my concern, my flabby torso on the other hand was very much so. At the perfect juncture of approaching Pride and Mother Nature’s decision to begin easing up on the rain (kinda) I began a new diet and exercise regimen that I hoped would take me from saggy to svelte in the few weeks I had.

I should probably mention that being in a bathing suit was not my only motivation for weight loss and toning. Since I’m going to FL with my best friend and his boyfriend, they also invited one of their friends to come along as well. (Un)fortunately for me said friend has nothing to be ashamed of when he takes off his shirt, and I didn’t want to spend probably my most significant getaway this summer feeling like the fat kid at camp. It may sound superficial, but then again what isn’t when we’re talking about gays and the W in Ft. Lauderdale?

They say it’s good to have a goal in mind when you begin a new diet and/or and work out plan. I didn’t have any specific goals beyond looking hotter, so I try to focus on just following the online programs I’m using and making a conscious effort to improve the health of my diet and shape of my body. Since this is quite vague, it helps that I at least have a deadline to meet. In the mean time all this exercise in the last couple weeks has given me a lot of time to think. Athletes prepare for competitions, actors rehearse for plays, and our education helps prepare us for life and careers. So what is supposed to prepare us for relationships?

I suppose that dates are like try outs, if we make the team or cast we may be asked to rehearse or practice again and again until the final whistle blows or the curtain falls, but in my experience the game is usually over before it begins. Though going on many dates can make each subsequent one easier, it in no way guarantees a higher rate of success. Like in acting, if the role of significant other is not right for us, no amount of rehearsing will make the show a success. So how are we supposed to train?

Well in my superficial mind I decided years ago that every New Years I wouldn’t make a resolution (a practice I’ve since broken) but I’d merely resolve to be a better version of myself. The superficial part was that I thought by working from the outside in, improving my appearance, which would lead to improved confidence, was the way to do so. Somewhere along the way I forgot about this theory and decided that my body was static and if someone was going to love me they would have to except me as is. And though that seemed fine for a while, I think there comes a time when we all hit a wall with ourselves when we realize that it’s not that we aren’t meeting the right guys, or that all the good ones are taken; sometimes a little effort needs to be taken on our part.

So we put ourselves out there. We create a profile online, check out the options and see what’s available. After almost two years and a carousel of first and sometimes second dates I realized the answer: not much. So what do we do? I believe the key is honestly appraising our assets and then deciding the areas that need improvement. Join a gym, take up a new hobby, or commit to reading more, so that you have even more to offer a potential mate.

This may sound like an instructional video for women only going to college to get their MRS. degree, but since we’re dealing with the same sex, we don’t have gender inequality to hide behind. It may sound cynical to diagnose singleness or even unhappiness as a result of our lack of or willingness to improve ourselves, but what I thought years ago is still true. The better we feel about ourselves, in any aspect of our life, the more our confidence grows, which is undeniably more attractive to potential suitors. And if you’re only doing it for yourself, that’s great, you may still find love or at least a hot roll in the hay, even if only for a long weekend.

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 7/11/09

Queen of Pop?

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 16:16:00 +0000

In the wake of Michael Jackson’s death there’s been an abundance of specials, marathons, and shows devoted to his musical career. In watching these it is clear that though his immense talent is undeniable it is absurd that anyone ever believed he was straight. With a voice that rivals Minnie Mouse and dance moves more astonishingly fluid than a Cirque de Soleil performance on acid, how he ever elicited hordes, nay entire populations, of screaming female fans seems almost unfathomable. Riddled with accusations of child molestation, absurd marriages to rock n’ roll royalty, and surrogate children of suspicious background, his personal life made little case for heterosexuality. But yet to the bitter end the King of Pop never came out as a queen.

It’s not uncommon for popular musicians and actors of dubious sexuality to be adored by female fans. Of just the ones to be confirmed you need to only look at Clay Aiken, Lance Bass, Ricky Martin (well soon to be confirmed), Jordan Knight, Rock Hudson, and Neal Patrick Harris, just to name a few. Though they range from the ridiculously obvious to the bit more surprising, they all at least at one time had a legion of followers that would vehemently defend their sexuality. As I once argued with my best friend during a heated debate over Anderson Cooper, does this insistence that they are straight reinforce homophobia and the heteronormative assumptions it fosters, or are we merely reluctant to label someone’s private preference?

As gay men we get a lot of flack for telling our straight (girl)friends that certain celebrities are gay. They assume we want all of the hot guys to be on our team, leaving them with the chubby sidekicks. Though I find this reaction to be understandable, I think it plays perfectly into the homophobia perpetuated by the mainstream media. Though it kills me to say it, if blogs like Perez Hilton or Gawker hadn’t come along, the media would still be so frightened by litigation they would continue to avoid raising the question of someone’s sexuality, a task that had only been left to the disreputable tabloids.

Many will argue that stars are entitled to their privacy and should not be coerced to come out, and I agree. But I also think that their silence only serves to hold us back, rather than move us forward. Online we can speculate about stars, anonymous commenters indiscreetly share their stories, and as a community we at least confirm amongst ourselves whom is one of us. The power of the Internet to answer these questions is largely responsible for the strides we have made in the last decade.

So do we give certain stars an out for coming out? Is the level of their talent and celebrity inversely related to our desire for them to acknowledge their homosexuality? I grew up in Catholic school thinking there was no way that certain fathers of my friends were straight. My friend recently started work for a faith based company and was sure one of her coworkers was a friend of Dorothy before she discovered he was married and quite devout. These are the generations who grew up maybe recognizing themselves in their favorite stars on TV, only to see them auspiciously paired in magazines with their most recent leading lady. A professor of mine was married with children until Billy Crystal’s portrayal on Soap opened his eyes to his true self, and he subsequently came out.

The celebrity culture of silence about sexuality continues to be detrimental to those they should seek to inspire. As generations only now begin to realize the enormous strides our previous brethren have made, it is imperative we provide them with contemporary role models that are both successful and popular so they understand that they are capable of inhabiting any part of society, not only the alternative. Jackson’s talent and contributions to the recording industry will never be diminished, but his personal legacy can only be tarnished by his inability to ever truly express his identity. It may be too late for him, but not for countless others who may need to confront the ‘man in the mirror.’

Appeared originally at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2009/07/02/the-queen-of-pop/#more-9164 on 5/2/09

Pride is for Love(rs)

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 18:16:00 +0000

The one time we all want to be single is summer time, when beach visits, interns, and general debauchery abounds. But the one thing we neglect to remember is how lonely Pride can be when we’re single.

On one hand we’re glad the gay population of our city and half the Eastern seaboard turns out to celebrate. On the other hand we wish we had a man on our arm to show off.

I never thought this particularly applied to me, having spent, pretty much every Pride alone (most notably the year I marched with my parents in Indianapolis for PFLAG). But returning to my college town this year for Pride made me feel like I was missing a plus one. Maybe it was because most of my friends had boyfriends, and I was still single and sassy in the Big Apple. I couldn’t help feel that although I hadn’t always been a visitor I was a bit of an outcast.

Luckily it is a relatively small town and it didn’t take me long to reingratiate myself with the locals. By the end of the second night I had connected with a long lost crush of the past. What I thought was going to be an innocuous evening of catching up with friends and forsaking my liver ended up with an unlikely find: a boyfriend for Pride. It is beyond an exaggeration to call him “my boyfriend,” but it felt like he was mine for the duration of the weekend — all 16 hours of it.

It’s funny how much stress we put on ourselves to have a boyfriend on special occasions that we forget Pride is one of those times we feel that our relationships or lack there of are most on display. With so many homos around we so desperately want to fit into the successful relationship category that we are willing to forget that relationships are only a fraction of what we have to be proud about.

As a culture we have set new standards for what love and relationships can be. We have redefined sex, gender, identity, marriage, and countless other binary and biological ideas that have served to limit the expression of our truth in the past. Our Pride is not only about mass entertainment, circuit parties, and rooftop Bloody Marys. It’s about the freedom to be as different or as similar as what society expects.

Maybe it would be nice to have a cute boy for the whole Pride festivities, but if one isn’t available it doesn’t mean we have nothing to be proud about. After all, a temporary love can be gone in a moment, but Pride is something we carry with us all year long.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 6/23/09

Nostalgia Romance

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 17:58:00 +0000

It’s to hard imagine what dating was like before the Internet. Since You’ve Got Mail, I’ve pretty much assumed that was the only place in New York one finally found true love. Countless candidates are dismissed immediately and the ones that meet your criteria for appearance and pique your interest, often languish after only a few dates. The entire process seems so clinical, more like looking for a job than a boyfriend, and with the way the job market is nowadays I don’t think any of us want to be reminded of that undertaking. It may not be an original sentiment, but my recent foray into the 60’s world of Revolutionary Road and Mad Men have definitely got me wondering: Whatever happened to romance?

I don’t necessarily mean romance in the vein of flowers and chocolate, horse drawn carriage rides, or long walks on the beach, but the more chivalrous times of tipped hats, honest smiles, held doors, and polite inquiry. We’re so eager to consume every new club, technology, restaurant, YouTube clip, blog, and everything else that comes across our News Feed we don’t take time to really familiarize ourselves with anything anymore. A potential can be dismissed by age, profession, or height in a matter of seconds, so why should we bother delving deeper?

I suppose what I find discouraging about the acceleration of our love lives is that unlike dispensing with a new viral video by closing out the window, much more emotional disappointment goes along with dispensing a potential mate, though we may have put little more thought or effort into bringing them into our lives. Nevertheless, in New York we know there are always more options, another bachelor to review, or another party to cast our net at. We seldom want for entertainment, merely yearn for longer lasting satisfaction.

Gone are the days when it was cool to light up a cigarette in bed after a particularly amazing orgasm. Now it would be considered uncouth, insulting, and unhygienic to do so. Isn’t there something so glamorous about the careless abandon previous generations had for the health and their appetite for pleasure? It may seem wholesome, because they met their dates after exchanging glances at the malt shop, and waited until several dates had passed before they even considered climbing into the backseat of a car. But our dating isn’t sexier or more efficient because it’s faster; it’s less exciting because it’s routine.

We rely on mass transit to get around and tend to date people from all over the city, but why does that preclude the courtesy of being picked up from one’s home? How can the allure of being invited upstairs be properly stoked if we aren’t teased with the possibility? Instead we choose neutral locations in popular neighborhoods so neither party is inconvenienced and we’re left to dart our eyes wildly around the room until our date arrives. Then it is obvious to everyone that you had met online and are now going to probably rehash what you already know about each other.

At the end of the date a gentle kiss, or even touch of the hand was once enough to sustain one’s interest until subsequent dates. The promise of more made the excitement more palpable. Now, if you don’t have sex within the first couple weeks you’re likely to never hear from the person again and if you do you’ve maybe got a 50/50 shot things will continue. Again, I know this may not be original, but the commodification of sex has reduced us to nothing but round-the-clock consumers, ultimately dissatisfied shoppers looking for the best bang for our buck. Figuratively speaking of course.

I know that the Internet opened up a wealth of opportunity for me in all aspects of my life, especially to meet guys as a teenager when bars and other venues were not available. But sometimes I wish that in this particular area of our lives we could slow it down a bit. Get to know someone before deciding they aren’t right for you, or at least as long as the sparks flicker. No harm no foul if it doesn’t work out, but it’s better than constantly second-guessing why so many first dates have remained only that. If that book and show have taught me anything it’s that you can learn a lot about yourself from the one you love, and you owe it to yourself to take time finding the one that’s right. The definition of romantic may be unrealistic, but then again what ideal isn’t?

Appeared Originally on homo-neurotic.com on 6/10/09

Mama's Boy

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 27 May 2009 18:28:00 +0000

All gay men have complicated relationships with their mothers. Though all parent-child relationships can stray towards the disordered, that of a mother and her gay son is particularly special. Some of us count our mothers as one of our closest friends and confidantes, others despise their moms as a cruel and intolerant Joan Crawford type and the very thought of family gatherings makes their blood run cold. Growing up we may identify more closely with our mothers than we care to admit, or like wayward and resentful daughters, we do our best to eschew any semblance of relation or attachment. In either case, this central relationship in our lives figures prominently in shaping the men we become, for better or worse.

Growing up I was driven only by an intense desire to please and impress. Overachieving at everything except sports, I wanted to prove my worth and importance to not only the world, but to my parents. Subconsciously, I felt that my sexuality would be such a profound disappointment that I wanted to make up for it in some way. Good grades, extra-curriculars, and a college scholarship seemed to be my only means of doing so. It was only after I had come out, which completely failed to surprise any member of my family or society at large, that I even began to engage in any behavior that they may disapprove of.

But I know my story is not shared by all of us. There are plenty of gays who feel and felt that they had nothing to prove to their parents and relentlessly pursued their dreams and desires regardless of how their family may think or feel. And they are not wrong for doing so. Our parents gave us the gift of life and hopefully provide us with love and support through our childhood and adolescence but that doesn’t mean we owe them our unending gratitude. Having children was also their fulfillment of adolescent dreams or marriage vows, and the resulting lives they produced are given the freedom to use it however they please.

So why do gays have such polarized feelings about their mothers? Do we emulate them and hope to follow in their footsteps? Do we pity them and wish they could have been elevated above the role of doting housewife and mother, no matter what career success they may also have achieved? Or do we resent their biological ability to create life with their partner and thus recognize they created a flawed human being that is faced with more challenges then they themselves knew?

I’d like to think there was an easy answer to all these questions and that countless hours and dollars hadn’t been wasted on the couches of therapists’ offices in that pursuit, but that’d be a lie. The truth is that our feelings range so widely from love and gratitude to resentment and pity, it’s impossible to define just how significant this relationship has played in our lives. Like our fathers we are men capable of producing life, providing for ourselves and a family, and remaining sexually virile well into retirement. But we can’t perform all the same functions of our mothers, though we may adopt many of them in our relationships. Fundamentally, we will never measure up to what they contributed to our families.

So perhaps that’s where the complications begin. Unable to see ourselves as the same man our father is or was, and unable to ever to fill the role of our mother completely, we are stuck somewhere in the middle. Whether our parents express their disappointment or don’t feel it at all about our sexuality, we can’t help but feel like we somehow burdened them with our biological difference.

My mother turned 60 yesterday and me and my three siblings and their spouses and kids all spent the holiday weekend together to celebrate. Politics aside they all love and support me and will someday be thrilled to be guests at my destination wedding, but they also acknowledge that I enjoy a special privilege. I can stay up late drinking with the boys and go out shopping with the girls when it’s the other group’s turn to watch the kids. I am privy to conversations that wouldn’t occur if a member of the opposite sex was around, and charged with making peace among upset parties.

We gathered to celebrate our mother, a woman who I came out to six years ago in a Ruby Tuesday’s parking lot, and has loved and supported me every day of my life, and now serves on the PFLAG executive committee in Indianapolis, IN. But in a lot of ways I felt like it was a celebration for me as well. After a brief anxiety attack on Monday over the work that awaited me in New York, I sat in my mom’s car by myself. Fingering her keys I noticed she still carried the key chain with a guitar pick attached I’d given her when her purse had been stolen a few years ago. Bright orange and flimsy plastic, it doesn’t go well with her silver cross and multitude of frequent shopper cards. I knew then that though I was far away from her, I was never out of mind. I may not have been the son she expected to have, but I wasn’t for a second, one she didn’t want.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 5/27/09

Open Relationships

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Mon, 18 May 2009 13:40:00 +0000

It wasn’t so long ago that we knew how to define our relationship status as something other than single, in a relationship, in an open relationship, engaged, married, or “it’s complicated.” We used to, and still do before we come to one of the aforementioned ‘definitive’ conclusions, use all manner of descriptions to label what we are so hesitant to label. In college, when these statuses emerged as the common denominator for defining our love lives, some interesting trends emerged. Many of us were proudly single, a few were in relationships, with or without the other party named, no one was married (even if their status stated otherwise). Complicated relationships were rarely labeled as such, and “it’s complicated” was used for comedic effect. The rarest status of all was the open relationship.

So imagine my surprise recently when the boy I invited over for wine and conversation confessed that his lack of an online relationship status was that he was in a true blue open relationship. It didn’t take me long to empathize that this would be an awkward situation to publicize.

At a time when gay marriage is now legal in five states and New York is teetering on the edge of becoming the sixth, it seems that gay monogamy and commitment is more in our face than ever. Many would say, THANK GOD. For decades the rest of society assumed that we were promiscuous whores who spent our evenings in bathhouses and public parks exchanging sex, drugs, and makeup tips. Of course we have the ongoing AIDS crisis to remind us that promiscuity doesn’t pay, but it is also our fervent desire to assimilate and be viewed as a normal part of society that has us rushing to the altar and subsequently, the opposite sides of our Queen-sized beds.

Homosexuals have a proud tradition of blurring relationship lines and negotiating sexual boundaries. With divorce rates steady at 50% there have been numerous articles published recently chronicling heterosexual couples who have experimented with straying spouses for the sake of their union. In these studies, gay couples are cited as trendsetters for these types of open relationships. In the absence of state or church-defined unions, we created our own rules of acceptablity in the context of our partnerships and have benefited by reaping the fruits of these understandings. Gay relationships that allowed for partners to indulge with others from time to time were more likely to stand the test of time.

Though it’s incredible that I know gay couples who will be able to truthfully change their status to married in the coming months, I question whether these traditional models are a step forward. We should have the right to marry, but must we exercise it? And if we do enter into these state-sanctioned unions will we continue to blur the lines, or will the legal ramifications be a deterrent?

I feel privileged to live at a time when all the Facebook relationship statuses will become reality, but I feel nervous that perhaps we are losing part of our identity in the process. The fag– hag-marriages and open relationships seem fewer and fewer and boys are even changing their last names online (not in jest, but for real).

It’s refreshing to think that there are still gay men who think that an open relationship, with every bit of adoration and commitment of a partnership, is the most honest way to express the way the feel about each other. It’s not just about sex, but allowing each other the freedom to explore. Then again, many don’t care to list this online, and that absence speaks louder than words. Maybe it’s time I add single to my profile again, lest anyone think I’m taken. But in New York especially, would it be more accurate if we all admitted “it’s complicated?” Because it certainly is.

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 5/18/09

Sexting

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 07 May 2009 18:03:00 +0000

I don’t know which I hate checking worse some mornings: my inbox or my outbox. Like many actions performed under duress, desperation, or inebriation, ‘sexting’ is often regrettable. Reviewing the sample of five or six boys in my phone I deemed most likely to fulfill my carnal desires feels like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded revolver. Some I haven’t talked to in months, one or two I’ve probably never even met, just chatted with online and exchanged numbers, and the others would probably do the same to me if conditions were similar. My inbox reveals that only 50% even bothered to respond and then only to figure out if I was in their immediate vicinity. Upon finding otherwise, I assume they resumed their lives, severing our already thin electronic connection for the night.

I’m not sure why ‘sexting’ is such a hot phenomenon right now. Sure, no one wants teens to think it’s ok to rush into anything they aren’t mentally, physically, or emotionally prepared for, but why are we even remotely surprised? Once upon a time people wrote dirty letters, then they took racy 3×5’s and Polaroids, eventually home videos strayed into amateur pornography, and celebrity sex tapes became all the rage. With the advent of the Internet the trench coat flasher, streaker, and peeping tom no longer had to lurk outside in the bushes or ambush someone at a bus stop. We all became voyeurs and even more of us, exhibitionists.

The first time I ever saw gay porn, interacted with another gay guy, or shared any sort of gay sexual experience was online. I thought little if not nothing of swapping cock shots in high school with the hot college kid in Chicago, or the minor league hockey player in Canada. What did I care, they were just for them, right? This was before politicians, celebrities, and even our friends had their lives ruined by a vengeful ex, or opportunistic nobodies, when their private pics were made public. It wasn’t until I graduated college did I realize just how damaging sharing these pics could be. Since then my bedroom (for the most part) has been a camera-free zone.

So in a nation of X-Tube and all of its iterations, where teens lead the technology wave and the Internet has been made mobile, did we think that our desire to titillate through text would not emerge? I personally think anyone is entitled to share themselves if the receiver is willing, but I’ve also had a couple friends wake up to some unwelcome photos on their phone, and that must fall somewhere in the sexual harassment spectrum. No touching may have been involved, but the images are still hard to erase from the mind, so perhaps like with any sexual act, one should ask permission first.

As far as the rules of ‘sexting,’ the only one I’m interested in enforcing is: Don’t be a text tease! Though understandable if your ‘sexts’ were sent when you were so mentally incapacitated that you might not be able to follow through with your request, one should do their best not to offer something they don’t intend to give. Invitations to come over or meet up may not be taken as lightly from the other party and will only further damage your reputation as you become undesirable even as a lay of convenience, and that’s pretty pathetic.*

Nevertheless, sometimes we’ll face these mornings, when you just have to take a deep breath and delete all messages. We live in age when an email or text is forgotten as soon as the next one comes in, so chances are these will often be overlooked. Who knows, maybe next time you’ll luck out. So if you’re going to ‘sext,’ please do so safely. Partners you’ve previously been with and trust are fine, but perhaps you should avoid the trick you just met on Manhunt. Be careful what you commit to, you don’t want to let someone down or put yourself in an unsafe situation. And if you’re going to send a pic, do yourself a favor and just find a passable fake online to forward. I don’t think anyone is going to check their phone to compare. If it’s ever released you can honestly say they have the wrong wang.

*Who could forget Pete Wentz’s infamous ’sexts’?

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 5/7/09

Beautiful Bullies

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 17:29:00 +0000

They say we have no memory for pain. I’ve heard this as an explanation as to why women continue to deliver children naturally, although I’m inclined to believe this is more due to the pleasurable memories of making babies rather than amnesia of their birth. Though it’s true that our bodies won’t allow us to re-experience a broken bone or torn muscle through sheer will, our state of mind in the wake of pain is something we don’t soon forget. Losing your virginity can be so painful for people it puts them off sex for a period. The pain of losing a friend, lover, or family member causes grief and emotional damage that we may carry with us our entire lives. In the same vein, reliving the ignorance and intolerance of our youth and early education can recall a very particular pain, that we’d hope had been forgotten.

I think enough proverbial ink has been spilled on Miss California, and her decision to not only share her ‘ideals’ at the Miss USA pageant, but also to steadfastly claim she has no regrets, and I’d like to say it doesn’t bother me. Another pretty, stupid, girl from a conservative family who thinks that everything Ma, Pa, and her minister have told her is the gospel truth. Hell, Britney Spears, who owes her entire comeback and career to the gays, was a Bush supporter to the bitter end, and if she’d be conscious for any of the previous election would probably have supported McCain. We know that sometimes the pretty Barbie dolls we put up on pedestals don’t always think we deserve to play with Ken the same way.

What bothered me is not that it’s 2009 and people outside of politics and religion still find venues and opportunities to espouse ‘traditional values,’ but that so much attention is given to someone on this topic whose only claim to fame is her ability to not look ridiculous in heels and a bikini, sit still for 90 minutes while her teeth are whitened and her hair is bleached, and pretend that a shiny tiara gives her license to be a spokesperson for the American family. Like the popular girl in high school, who drove the nicest car, and whose daddy owned a lot of guns, we look to these people because we can’t take our eyes off them, but when they open their mouths we find them to be just as disappointing and vapid as all the tragic beauties we’d seen before.

We may not have a memory for pain, but you can never forget how it feels when your Catholic school teacher, priest, friend, coach, director, or whomever talks about homosexuality as a sin, and for the first time in middle school you realize that means you. We grow, we accept, and we surround ourselves with like-minded people who accept us for who we are, but it only takes one empty-headed blonde to make you feel like you’re on the playground again, wondering why Erin doesn’t think you should play with the girls anymore, and should go play football with the boys. As if!

Though a busted hymen or a sore anus may keep us out of the saddle for a time, you know you’ll be back for more. If my friends’ can endure a dislocated hip and pelvis, a scalded foot, neck pain, and a variety of other sex-related injuries, and continue fucking, it seems there are some pleasures that are definitely worth the pain. Losing someone you love, as Adam Lambert so eloquently sang, “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody baby,” can take much longer to overcome, but the courage to do so is what will eventually allow us to triumph over ignorance and intolerance.

So, I’m happy for Miss California’s 15 minutes to run out, because they will, and soon. If anything I hope she bolstered our cause here in NY and all over the country, because when we do achieve equal rights, it will be an unparalleled pleasure that we won’t ever forget.

*Pictured above: Anita Bryant & Miss California 2009, Carrie Prejean

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 4/22/09

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 16:04:00 +0000

It’s happened to all of us. You wake up in the morning and are completely surprised by whom you see lying next to you. For our generation this idea may have been illustrated by ‘coyote ugly,’ or waking up in bed with someone you find so repulsive you would rather gnaw your own arm off than stay in bed with them another moment. This idea is predicated on the idea that you would only be disappointed to find yourself in bed with someone if they are a stranger, a very unattractive stranger at that. But the gays are not unfamiliar with finding themselves in bed with a random, and whether we want to admit it or not sometimes that stranger is well outside what we’d consider to be attractive.

I’m sure there are plenty of hetero guys and gals that awake one morning to find themselves next to a friend they’ve known for years, or their best friend’s ex-boyfriend, I’d venture to say that for us this is much more prevalent. There are boys in our circles that may appear randomly at parties or bars whose sexual history or connection to our friends, well known to us, precludes them from being a viable option for dating or even a one-night stand. Nevertheless occasionally under a full moon, when the planets align one night, we imbibe too much, or simply make the rash decision to invite one of these ‘untouchables,’ into our bed, or we follow them into theirs.

Though we know it may be wrong to sleep with a guy our friend had his eye on, and taboo to bed the friend or roommate of an ex, it needn’t always result in drama. As humans we are fallible beings, and gays are especially vulnerable to thinking that our options are already frustratingly limited. In a city like New York, where everyone knows and has seemingly slept with everyone, it seems excusable if we slip up here and there. Whether we decide to disclose our indiscretion to the interested parties is a personal matter, generally I’d agree that one roll in a hay doesn’t warrant an invitation to a daytime talk show for a full-blown confession.

I think the problem arises when, like a married or partnered man caught up in an affair, we allow these trysts to continue, unbeknownst to our friends. As guardians of our secrets and occasional moral compasses, it is easy to understand why we would choose to keep them in the dark; but nothing stays hidden for long. And when our shady doings are finally shown the light of day, the true extent of the damage caused is revealed. We face not only the pang of a now absent convenient fuck, or excitement of an illicit affair, but also the destruction of the trust we’d fostered with our crew.

Writing a sex column makes the issue of privacy difficult for me. I never presume for another to tacitly accept my desire for non-disclosure. I have certainly prayed, wished on a shooting star, and been willing to offer my first born to Rumplestiltskin, if a regretted lover would keep the fact that we fucked a secret, but I would be a hypocrite to ask for them to do so. Those that demand their lover hide their transgressions attempts to purloin power in a situation they have little legitimacy to do so. It cheapens their connection, rather than sanctifying it as Holy, their ostensible reason for keeping it secret initially.

I do agree that we are all entitled to our privacy, but not at the whim or wish of another. If our lovers disapprove of our sharing with our friends, then it is his prerogative to find another partner more willing to be discrete. But to forge a connection with someone we know will undermine theirs and our relationship with others is not only foolish and manipulative, but also wrought with immaturity and insecurity.

We all make mistakes and go home with someone we wouldn’t have normally chosen, some more than others, and we are entitled to keeping these a secret if we want, but we have no business asking them to do the same. If the one you’re sleeping with causes momentarily pleasure followed by periods of guilt, then maybe it’s not worth it in the first place. I would keep my arm to exit a one-nighter gracefully, hoping the misguided coyote won’t come back to howl at my window, but I’d rather lose a fuck buddy, than a friend.

Posted originally on homo-neurotic.com on 4/15/09

Domestic Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 13:52:00 +0000

With the passage of Gay Marriage laws in Iowa and Vermont in the space of a week, bringing the grand total of states to four, it seems like the spirit of ‘Yes We Can,’ has been carried into a couple of the state courts and congresses. This recent burst of activity is certainly encouraging as we continue to wage the war of equal rights across the nation. With all the news of death (shooting after shooting, earthquakes, and wars), and the flaccid (at best) economy, this bit of politics is a welcome ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak forecast. Needless to say, we have a long way to go, 46 states to be exact, but for the sake of careless optimism feel free to take a moment to imagine just how your dream wedding may play out in the great cornfields of Iowa or the bear-friendly backwoods of Vermont.

Like any ‘normal’ boy growing up, I didn’t give much thought to my wedding, though I was interested in what came after. I spent a vast majority of my childhood playtime building forts in the basement or down by the creek, and playing house with my neighbors. Sometimes we’d be married to each other (me and a girl, naturally), sometimes we’d have kids, but more importantly we always had our roles, which were decidedly contrary to usual gender roles. When I wasn’t gathering leaves and sticks to prepare rustic meals at our creek abode, I was stocking up on plastic foods and kitchen accoutrements for our basement palace. I pretended these supplies were important for passing the cold winter cooped up while wolves circled outside. Betsy, our imaginary neighbor, had the misfortune of living alone and often fell prey to said wolves. I may have played a homemaker, but I was smart enough to at least make myself a resourceful one.

As I grew older we stopped playing such childish games, the wacky cast of imaginary characters faded into distant memory, and the blankets and chairs that formed our ceiling and walls were gradually folded and put away. I don’t recall at what age the discovery or admission of my sexuality made me realize that I’d been precluded from being able to ascend to the role of homemaker, but I must have taken it with a grain of salt. It was only when I was forced to play the leading man in my high school’s musical did I realize just how ill-equipped I was by nature for that role. Though my desire for independence and career ambitions, as well as my preference in the bedroom make me anything but submissive, I still find myself drawn towards making a home of my own.

Attribute it to my Midwest roots and my family’s stunning example of long and loving marriages, but I still hold that model as my ideal goal, though the road is much more narrow than it was for my siblings. I performed in The Music Man twice in elementary school, and even though I was from Illinois, I couldn’t help but snicker at the lyrics about the great state of Iowa. No one I knew wanted to ‘give it a try.’ Who knew that their progress would eventually eclipse The Empire State? The only trouble Iowa now has, ‘with a capital T that rhymes with P,’ stands for Pride. Its citizens, diminished and dismissed as backwards, as a mere ‘flyover’ state, can now show both coasts how it’s done.

Vermont on the other hand is less surprising, Republican governor aside; I thought they always had a reputation for being liberal, and that the woods were filled with gay chubby hubbys. Nevertheless, my kudos also goes out to those maple syrup sucking, Canada touching commies; thank you for exercising your legislative power.

Growing up, I never worried about opportunities not being available to me. I was blessed with a loving and supportive family, a private education, and the confidence and encouragement to follow my dreams. Though this news about Iowa and Vermont is exciting, it serves as a reminder of the rights not yet enjoyed by all of us, in New York and 45 other states nationwide. The games are different now, but one thing I have learned is that it’s not enough to just prepare for winter and hope to not be victimized by the wolves of oppression and ignorance. Our generation has the opportunity of winning this historic battle and ensuring our rights for wherever we choose to make our home, even if LiLo won’t be Mrs. Ronson. For all the gays who’ve come before, for all the gays who will come after, for my dear friend Betsy, and every childhood dream that we’ve let die.

Posted originally on homo-neurotic.com 4/8/09

The Parent Trap

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 03:52:00 +0000

We leave home at 18, go to college, and four years later we’re true blue adults. In between, every trip home we try to exhibit more and more how much we’ve grown and changed, and how we have become so much more evolved then the family we left behind. Simultaneously, we may grow closer to our family, finally realizing the sacrifices they made for us while growing up, and recognizing they are more than just our mom and dad, our sister and brother, but are humans themselves. Nevertheless, being around our family at times can bring us back to that state we so desperately wanted to leave behind: the angst-ridden, petulant, dissatisfied, and naïve teenager just dying to emerge as a fabulous, and self-assured adult.

We all know the joys and pains of having our parents come to visit us in New York. We think it will be the opportunity for us to show them just how strong we are and how well we’ve adapted to surviving in the most expensive and biggest city in the nation. They will surely be impressed with our ability to cope with ever changing train routes, crowds, and overpriced, well everything. More often than not though, our desire to impress them with just how much we deal with on daily basis is met with nothing more than vague acknowledgment of our accomplishments. In turn they envy us for our youth and ability to keep up with the fast-paced environment that is so incongruous with the quiet life they’ve retired into.

Their indifference to our struggle, instead of bolstering our resolve to further prove to them just how much we’ve matured, can sometimes send us sliding right back to that state of dependency we thought we’d left behind. These visits are also marred by our desire to rehash the grievances we harbor against them when they are far away. I consider my parents to be two of my closest friends, my biggest cheerleaders, and allies, but while in cose proximity they become the enemy, the ones most at odds at understanding the real me. Every discussion of my job or personal life becomes combative because I assume they truly can’t understand just how hard I’ve struggled.

While enjoying a delightful dinner with my mom and her friend, the conversation eventually filtered down into my personal life. They wanted to know the kinds of guys I met, what ones met with success and why so many ended up as failures. Every attempt at explaining the fierce competition for attention and time that each new romantic prospect posed seemed to be met with bewilderment, as if I hadn’t been truly open to sharing my life with another. I tried to explain that social commitments, work, obligatory birthdays, housewarmings, and other ‘extra-curricular’ pursuits made it all the more challenging to meet and get to know someone in a significant way. But in my explanation I found myself realizing that perhaps I was the one who was offering all the excuses, and absolutely none of the solutions.

They wondered why I tried so hard to date and get to know these guys, when there were so many other demands on my time. I was young, why was I so desperate to find someone special? I argued that I knew it was what my parents wanted, for me to find the right guy, that would make me happy, make me settle down, thinking perhaps they didn’t realize that their expectations for my eventual monogamous partnership was one of the driving factors in my quest for a boyfriend. Only then did I realize that perhaps I was going about it in all the wrong ways. Though they came from a different generation they never had to try so hard to find the one they were meant to be with, it merely happened when it was right, and that lasted them a lifetime.

It was refreshing and eye-opening to learn that though their desire for my happiness was unending, they also understood that perhaps it wasn’t going to happen overnight, something I had forgotten myself. Though they wanted to see me settled, they knew it wasn’t as easy as it looked. They knew I was no longer the teen whose problems they had to try to solve, as much as their parental instincts told them they had to. I will always be their baby, but if I could make it in the city that never sleeps, then eventually I wouldn’t be sleeping alone, or at least not just sleeping around.

Posted Originally on homo-neurotic.com on 4/1/09

Feelin' Good In the Hood

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 21:23:00 +0000

Raise your hand if you can name every gay bar in the Hells Kitchen. Ok, that was an easy one. How about Chelsea? Yeah, a little bit harder. What about the West Village? I didn’t think so. Well you probably know a few in the East Village, maybe one or two in midtown, upper east side, or Harlem. Do you know the gay bars in Brooklyn? Yeah, you probably do. What about Queens? The Bronx and Staten Island? Ok those last two were kind of a trick question. I’m not even sure gay bars exist seven days a week in those two boroughs. Nevertheless, the point is that we all know the various gayborhoods in New York City. And those who are blessed with high paying jobs, patient enough to deal with multiple roommates and confined spaces, or lucky enough to find a steal in one of them, enjoy a special proximity to those bars we all frequent.

The rest of us are just visitors. I live in Astoria, and though I know the Albatross has been around for quite some time, I knew from the start that it probably wasn’t my scene. So for the last year and a half I spent the better part of my weekends in bars on the west side, and occasionally in the EV, drinking, meeting, dating, and hooking up with guys whom lived in similar locales. When Lavish opened up a short distance from my apartment, it was like a whole new asset was added to my already decently sized and affordable rent: a convenient and acceptable gay bar.

This is not to say I wasn’t skeptical. I’d been out with some guys from Astoria before and those were the dates that ended early in the evening, with excuses like, “I have to get my roommate a pregnancy test,” or the time I made out with my neighbor from the building next door, only to never hear from him again, though we were doomed to repeatedly run into each other. Needless to say, Astoria’s record of men in my life was not good. I could only imagine what creatures and lowlifes would surface in the dim light of Astoria’s newest gay attraction.

In the past I tried to think of myself as not picky about where a guy lived. Hell, I lived at the last stop in Astoria, who was I to judge a Brooklyn boy, or any resident of the Heights? But the longer you live in the city the more you realize that everything really does come down to location. My last boyfriend’s East Harlem apartment wasn’t so bad since it only required two trains from home, or one from the gym or work, but it certainly put a bit of a strain on our brief relationship. It also didn’t take me long to realize that I may want to avoid anyone who lived on the UWS or West Harlem, as they were sure to cause problems for my commute.

So the thought of meeting and potentially dating and/or hooking up with someone from my own neighborhood, whom I hadn’t met online, and then been subjected to an awkward date with, was pretty enticing to me. The first couple times I went to Lavish I will say that I was not that impressed. My friends and I came, we saw, we danced, we drank, we left, once headed out to a venue downtown, the other just to stumble home drunk. But third time’s a charm and I just happened to score with a cutie who lived within walking distance of the bar, which also was conveniently just two stops from home when I made my triumphant return the next morning.

It’s hard to say if we are more prone to go home with someone when it’s convenient, or more inclined to go out in the first place if we know we’re close to home. I definitely dread the late night or following afternoon commute back home on the weekend, but wouldn’t necessarily always want to stay so close to home to begin with. In either case it’s a special occasion when an outer borough address is not met with immediate derision or resignation that you’ll have to go home with him. So I’m glad that the rise of gay bars in every neighborhood of New York can make us all a little more proud of where we live, and maybe even improve our chances of getting lucky. Although beware, that slow ride over the bridge, or jerky tunnel trek with a one night stand on board, can make paying Manhattan rent seem worth it.

Appeared originally on www.homo-neurotic.com on 3/26/09

Daisy Chain, Chain, Chain

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 16:41:00 +0000

A daisy chain is defined as a group of three or more participants pleasuring each other in the same fashion, generally orally or manually. A common fixture in gay porn, this practice may also not be unfamiliar to the layman, or any man who’s gotten laid in a group setting. Many have wondered what the term is for the person in the middle of this situation, or generally in the middle while performing oral sex and receiving anally or orally (i.e. an ‘Eiffel Tower, etc.) is called, and it seems the most common responses are ‘Lucky Pierre’ or it is defined as being “spit-roasted.”

I answered that question at the request of my readers who wanted me to, excuse the pun, touch upon more sexual topics, rather than focusing on relationships. Though as a recent participant in some group activities, I have to say that I guess I find it less interesting to report on these than I do to describe the emotional turmoil of the quest for love and companionship. Naturally, our appetite for sex talk is more healthy than delving into the more serious side of our love lives, but that doesn’t make the latter any less interesting, and certainly doesn’t make it less messy.

After returning from the bathroom after one such debaucherous evening I remarked that it smelled like gay sex, and wrinkled my nose at the lurid combination of ass, lube, and latex that we have the pleasure of being subjected to by the nature of our intercourse. It’s moments like these, like the subsequent deflation of arousal following the intense pleasure that accompanies the climax of this activity, that reminds me just how base, mundane, and even gross sex can be. Outside of the porn industry, the time it consumes in our lives is minimal, yet we assign it as much value in evaluating a mate as we may their personality.

This is not to say that sex is unimportant, unnecessary, or not to be taken into consideration in relationships. On the contrary, it is paramount for intimacy and developing a stronger bond with another individual. But what makes ‘Pierre’ so ‘Lucky?’ Literally straddling two partners, attempting to make them both and himself happy, certainly doesn’t allow for much connection or deepening of feelings. It seems that ‘spit-roasting’ would be a more apt description, since this individual functions only as a piece of meat, a dead one at that, used mechanically for the enjoyment of the voyeurs or other participants.

In life, in the wake of a break-up, before another relationship comes our way, or any time we feel torn between periods of contentment, it is easy to feel like the ‘spit-roastee.’ You’re fucked while fucking, unable to express yourself, and even unable to truly control your body’s movement. In the end, the only satisfaction it seems to garner is that all parties end satisfied. Reenacting these pornographic scenes allow us to remove the humanity from these acts, and focus soley on our mastubatory pursuits, leaving us sated perhaps, though not further nourished in an emotional way.

Perhaps I am thinking too seriously about a good ol’ gay pastime for the past who knows how many years. But I’d like to think that when I say ‘everybody does it,’ I mean more than just sex, because with the rare exceptions, of course everyone has sex. What truly connects us though on a human level are the attachments we form with one another emotionally. Some friends or lovers ask that we tend to their needs more often than our own, some want us to top, others bottom, whether in the bedroom or life. So perhaps it is ‘Lucky’ for ‘Pierre’ to subvert himself to the will of two others. When it’s all over he can be proud that their pleasure depended on him, but he still had his hands free to take care of himself. When you’re single and stuck in the middle, that’s the best you can hope for: to be desired, but not dependent.

Appeared originally on 3/19/09 on homo-neurotic.com

Giving Up on Love

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 14:44:00 +0000

Last week we asked the boys at Contact what they were giving up for Lent. Having been raised Catholic, and subject to 13 years of Catholic school myself, I was familiar with the tradition of giving up a luxury or activity for a period of 40 days each winter or spring. Though officially I haven’t considered myself a ‘practicing’ Catholic since graduating high school, I still find the idea of voluntarily going without to be an interesting practice of faith. Though my own claim to be giving up American Sign Language, while signing, “I love you,” was only intended to be ironic, I was struck by how even this empty gesture indicates my current state of mind.

The purpose of Lenten sacrifices is intended to help the faithful connect with the immense sacrifice of Christ. Growing up, my sacrifices tended to be of the sugary variety (ice cream, chocolate, etc.) or mild promises as a petulant teen to be nicer to my family. But giving up on a form of communication or the act of saying, “I love you,” seems to be even more incongruous with the goal of the season than my superficial promises of yore. Nevertheless, giving up on the need to romantically connect, only to find it falling on deaf ears, is something I desperately need to attempt.

Lent is a solemn period that connects the celebrations of Mardi Gras and Easter. The church and its followers revel in the lead up to this time with the parades and parties now synonymous with New Orleans, Rio, and Venice, as well as the rest of the world. Easter is more subdued but is heralded as the most important Christian holiday, since it is the day that Christ fulfills his promise of returning. As a teen it was hard for me to understand why the most important day of the church’s calendar signified the discovery of an empty cave. If only each failed attempt at finding Osama bin Laden had met with as much exuberance, perhaps the last several years of this wasteful war would have been more enjoyable, and think of the number of Cadbury eggs, Peeps, and jelly beans we could have gotten!

Giving up on the idea that all our attempts at finding love are going to meet with success, or the confirmation of a Messiah, seems to be one of the smartest things we can do right now. Giving up the expectations of what each date, Facebook message, or night out may hold for us, may allow us to just relax a little and force us to sacrifice our impatience, until we find that the tomb of our heart is no longer mourning the loss of the one(s) we loved, and is reunited with the happiness and fulfillment we’d been promised would one day return, no matter what shape or size it may arrive as.

It’s hard to give up anything that we hold dear, but some of the things we hold most precious can only be appreciated if we go for a period without. Lent may be about sacrificing to bring us closer to an ideal, a savior, but it could also just be that the very act of giving up and putting our wants and desires into the hands of a higher power will allow us a measure of calm, peace, and serenity. When we stop perusing DList profiles on our lunch break, or wondering why he’s not texting, calling, or messaging back, then the only thing left to do is just to continue living your life and worrying about not what is lacking, but enjoying what is richly afforded.

I’d like to pretend this is easy for me, to pretend like I’m OK with seeing what happens and how things develop, but if you know me, you know that’s it not. I want to know that the time I’m investing with someone is building towards something more meaningful and not just frittered away toward growing ambivalence and eventual resentment. Since college I’ve wondered what it was like to be Jewish, among other things, a religion based on the belief that the Messiah is yet to come. Maybe it’s just the reflection of my own belief that someone great has yet to enter my life, or at least hasn’t shown himself to be my own savior just yet. It has certainly taken more than 40 days, and a lot more than 40 guys, but I’d like to say I remain optimistic. I may have given up on love for now, but then again, spring is just around the corner, and it’s reasonable to assume that anything can bloom.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 3/4/09

Wrapped Up in the Recession

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 14:41:00 +0000

In college I wrote a column about sex and money. Like every nascent sex columnist I was interested in exploring the relationship between the two and how both inversely seemed to affect our love lives. My theory at the time was that those gifted in either area stood to gain most easily in the other. Rich guys can afford the highest class of escorts or attract gold-diggers, and those deemed sexy and desirable have been proven to more successful on average in any industry. But in these trying economic times, do these standards still apply? Has income and appearance become more or less relevant?

According to this article in The Week last week, condom sales are up, suggesting that people are having more sex, or at least being more cautious about it, but that most people who earn $75,000 or less reported that they thought they’d be having less sex in 2009. It seems obvious that people will want to take extra precautions in uncertain times, especially against the prospect of a costly, unwanted pregnancy, but what does this mean for the homos?

Not needing any other kind of birth control, and well aware that condoms are available at pretty much every gay venue in New York, will the recession effect us in similar ways? And the bigger question seems to be, why would those people in the lower income brackets predict that they would be having less sex, when it is possibly one of the most entertaining thing one can do for free? Ideally it would seem that we’d recognize our common need for fun and lovin’ and be more willing to couple up so we’d have someone to stay in with consistently, rather than going out to spend our money at bars looking for a one night stand.

But it all comes back to what I already knew in college; sex and money are intrinsically tied in a hierarchy of power that doesn’t fluctuate with the Dow Jones. Especially in turbulent times we want a partner that makes us feel secure and stable in all aspects of our lives, including of course our finances. A recession may lead to a brief outbreak of hedonistic or apocalyptic-esque sexual behavior, but ultimately our desire for normalcy will outweigh our wanton attitude towards sex and a partner who can help us maintain the lifestyle we’d become accustomed to will prevail.

Or perhaps we’ll choose to eschew dating all together. Lacking the funds to impress a potential mate, maybe we’ll turn solely to Manhunt encounters and meaningless bar tricks that don’t require us to treat for dinner or the movies. The recession could signal a pause of all romantic pursuit, and as indicated by the jump in sales at liquor stores, an era where we make love to the bottle before passing out each night. This picture portends to be a bit more bleak, but not altogether unrealistic.

Either road we choose to travel at this time will ultimately lead us back to where we’ve been. Eventually the economy will turnaround, the sugar daddies we acquired will lose their luster, as will the meaningless hook-ups. A renewed economy may not be the only answer to a stable relationship, but the peace of mind will surely help. Of course, love may still bloom in a stagnant market, but it will need to be more carefully nurtured than in times of prosperity. So grab some free NYC condoms and maybe together we can all fuck the pain and the recession away.

Posted originally on homo-neurotic.com on 2/24/09

The Hit List

noreply@blogger.com (B. B. Nichols) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 18:23:00 +0000

Though New York is purported to be the largest city in the country, every once in awhile you will still be faced with the unfortunate event of running into someone(s) you absolutely do not want to see. Whether it’s an ex, a one-night-stand, a former friend, unpleasant frenemy, or internet stalker, these can usually be coolly and casually dispensed with a friendly smile and knowing wink so you can appear aloof and preoccupied without having to go to the trouble of actually speaking. But there are always a select few on this list — those whose very presence can very quickly sour a venue or an entire evening. I call them the ‘hit list.’

The ‘hit list’ is an elite roster of these annoying acquaintances or mistakes from our past. Hitlisters make you want to head for the hills the moment you realize they are sharing the same space as you. Whether they are just an ex that ended badly, a fuck that ended awkwardly, or anyone else whose presence you’d done your best to avoid, they all share the same distinction in your mind: you’d rather they be dead than standing next to you in line for an open bar.

I had the ‘exquise douleur’ of running into two such characters over this weekend. One was a fling from my previous city who also made the move to NY and who’s occasional appearance at whatever bar I am patronizing always results in cold stares, sideways glances, and a healthy smirk on his aging face. I generally keep an indifferent expression when encountering these menaces, but even I couldn’t hide my surprise when earlier in the evening I heard the voice of a somewhat recent one-nighter behind me on the subway stairs, and I scurried quickly when I knew he would be following me down the street to the new party I was attending.

Recently my friend had a mild altercation with one a somewhat mutual friend. When that friend stupidly showed his face again at our weekly party, we all wondered what would possibly go down between them. But the guy simply stepped aside as my friend walked by to leave. This of course is the ideal situation when encountering someone on your ‘hit list,’ but otherwise how does one deal with the noxious situation of having to encounter time and again those people we’d prefer to forget?

I’m not sure there is any right answer for this situation, and obviously avoidance and ignoring are my usual M.O., but even these are methods of communication, and ones we should be as keenly aware of as the words we speak directly to others. Actions do speak louder than words, so sometimes it may even be worse not to acknowledge these unwanted party guests, but rather, exchange pleasantries like you couldn’t care less and then carry on with your evening. Sure, it sounds a lot easier than it is, but you’d be surprised the boost a graceful encounter gives your confidence.

The truth is I kind of enjoy killing Hitlisters with kindness or indifference, rather than anything mean-spirited. New York (for the most part) is an island after all so we’re bound to run into these characters time and again, and we only have two decisions to make. When you have the chance to come face to face, to settle the score, either admit defeat or assume triumph and cross them off the list. After all, life’s too short to waste on regret, or to have too many enemies, but then again there are equal opportunities for both in this sleepy little town.

Posted Originally on homo-neurotic.com on 2/17/09