Everybody Does It...

YOU’RE JUST NOT THAT INTO EACH OTHER

2010-03-30T20:46:00.000-07:00

Dating can be a bitch, take it from someone who does it a lot. After the first and possibly every subsequent date there after is over you try to sort out how you feel about the guy as well as try to gauge how he feels about you. You don’t want to be too exuberant nor too apathetic if you are interested in pursuing him further. Nevertheless, those that don’t turn into relationships eventually end some way or another. Here’s a quick guide of how you can tell that it’s over before it began, and how you can let him know too.

He doesn’t call or text at all. You may have had a nice time, but it wasn’t enough for him to want to work you into his calendar again. Like going on an interview, he’s looking for the right man for the job—and you just didn’t meet his basic requirements. Don’t worry, if you don’t click at first it’s not worth trying to force a connection.

He cancels the next date and doesn’t reschedule. Maybe he’s sick, has a last minute meeting, birthday, or work trip, but if he doesn’t offer to pick a new day for the next date, he’s not interested, and you shouldn’t be either.

He only wants to see you on the same days and infrequently. You happen to live near his Tuesday night Pottery class, making casual drinks easy to work in, and that’s all you’ve done three times in the last five weeks. He’s not interested in including you in more of his life, and you should be looking for someone who works with your schedule and interests as well.

You are making all the effort. Sure he responds when you text or email, but you always pick the place, set the day, and choose the time. Maybe he feels too guilty to decline, or maybe he’s not assertive, but if it persists without balance you should think about finding someone who broadens your horizons as well. Time to walk away.

Be honest. You don’t have to break up with him after one date, radio silence from either party should let the other know where they stand. If you go out on more dates than that and he continues to try to communicate with you even after you may have avoided setting another date, just be straightforward and tell him you’re not interested, or just don’t see it working.

He’ll appreciate it. And be honest with yourself, don’t make excuses for why it didn’t work and accept that it’s ok that it didn’t.

Dating is supposed to be about meeting new people and having fun; compromises are for commitment. Don’t spend time worrying about why a guy you barely know rejected you, or about hurting his feelings by telling the truth, save that energy and attention for the important relationships you already have with your family, friends, and coworkers and eventually you’ll find someone that won’t force you to guess how they feel.

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 3/11/10

SEX & ETHICS: PART I (THE BASICS)

2010-03-30T20:39:00.000-07:00

To define ethical sex, I’d argue, only a few criteria that need to be met: that it be consensual, honest, and safe. Sex that is not consensual is rape. Sexual partners that are not honest about preexisting conditions or their intentions and or are not safe, can be a death sentence. I’d say that’s fairly obvious to all of us, but what about the psychological effects of sex? What about the mental and emotional side-effects that can accompany intercourse? How does one navigate the feelings and expectations of their partner ethically?

When I was in college I didn’t take sex too seriously, something that’s easy to do when you’ve never been in love. I thought myself too mature for most college boys so I flirted with older men, tempted them with my youth, and taunted them with my carefree attitude. That, or I just got drunk and threw myself at them and if they were drunk enough themselves they’d take me home. Sex was just the cost for a one-night stay and the reward for so generously offering to share myself. But beyond being technically consensual and safe, I can’t help but feel there was hardly anything honest about these encounters.

Honesty is the cornerstone of all ethics, and it’s no different in the bedroom. Though we may share past history, favorite positions, and statuses with our partners, there is so much more we can lie about. We pretend to care about someone more than is really true, maybe to get them in bed, or maybe just to keep from hurting them. In the long run though they will inevitably get hurt. One person feels the sex as a connection with someone they care about and see a future with, and the other is just getting his rocks off. I’m not saying this is unusual, even in long-term committed relationships two people are not always going to feel the same level of intensity for each other, but if you are intentionally misleading someone about your feelings while you sleep with them, it can’t be anything but unethical.

Now some may feel that cruising sites or apps like Grindr, Manhunt, Craigslist, Adam4Adam, etc. have made sex all the more unethical, but I’d have to argue the opposite. These sites are not designed for us to find love, but rather to satisfy our carnal desires, and when pictures and details are posted honestly it could result in perhaps the most ethical sex possible, that without any feelings attached. Anonymous or casual sex has its share of hazards, but those can be prevented by safety and intelligence.

Sex in the context of dating and relationships is a bit more tricky because there are no condoms for your heart. Young or old, we have to try to be as respectful and truthful as possible, because we never really know how the other person is feeling. It make take sex to figure out if we want things to move forward, but if it’s the only thing keeping you together it may be time to walk away. So if there were such a thing as ethical sex, perhaps it would be more akin to an online hook-up then a gay wedding night consummation. But removing the passion and connection from sex is like assuming an ethical decision can be reached from the mind alone, there must be heart and soul behind it as well.

B.B. Nichols lives and works in New York. He has been writing Everybody Does It since 2005. Follow me on Twitter @BBNichols.

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 2/24/10.

Salinger, An Introducion: J.D. SALINGER, ZOOEY GLASS, AND COMING OUT

2010-03-30T20:21:00.000-07:00

Like many of us, I was first introduced to J.D. Salinger as a freshman in high school. On the recommendation of my older brother (or a friend who’d already made the discovery), I read “Catcher in the Rye” with rapt attention and the unwavering faith that I was going to absolutely love it. By then, 50+ years after its initial publication, “Catcher” had far surpassed its early cult status (it was censored and banned for decades) to become required reading for all teens, especially among those who floated on the fringes of high school society—perhaps closeted teens like me.

After all, there’s nothing a gay teen feels more acutely than the isolation from other kindred spirits, and nothing he or she desires more than to express singularly how different he or she feels.

I took refuge in Holden Caulfield’s mind where it was not only acceptable but also seemingly cool and fashionable to look down on one’s peers. It was necessary to critique and challenge the value and existence of others, because doing the opposite would threaten one’s individuality.

I pored over “Nine Stories,” but it was “Franny and Zooey” that cemented my love for Salinger. I felt like an entirely new world had opened up to me, and I wanted more than anything to inhabit it. In his novel and his stories Salinger created a class of misfits that were both admirable yet insufferable. For all their wit and aversion to social expectations, they remained weak due to their unwillingness (or inability) to navigate everyday life. They were elitists; sophisticated beyond belief, and acutely self-possessed yet remained isolated. In a word, I was them, they where me—or at least that’s what I thought at 15.

But I never clung to Holden Caulfield as much as I did Zooey Glass. Holden was a rebel and a troublemaker, but in Zooey I discovered a young man who felt at odds with society, one who’d learned how to play by the rules, all the while inventing his own.

As he counsels his baby sister Franny on how to survive, it’s almost as if he is speaking to us all, when he says, “An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.” I knew I could never be exactly what my parents, my teachers, or society in general wanted me to be. So, instead I had to find a way to be myself genuinely.

Authenticity always seemed like the driving concern of both Holden and Salinger. And in seeking that legitimacy they both made significant sacrifices. Holden resigned his sanity, (“Catcher” is narrated from a mental institution). Likewise, Salinger lived out his life in seclusion. If the belief that society will never understand or embrace us leads to insanity or seclusion, is there really a choice? For that reason—perhaps subconsciously—Salinger helped me to come out.

I picked up Salinger because his book was mandatory. I never thought that in doing so I’d discover the conviction to live my life honestly and courageously. Say what you will about Salinger’s cliché status among teens and the self-appointed literati, but we cling to his work because his books recall a pivotal time in many of our lives—a time from which we never hope to return, but love to revisit every now and then. Unfortunately, Salinger never escaped that time. The greatest gift he ever gave us was to withdraw. And in doing so he allowed many of us to emerge.

Appeared originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 2/4/10

Up In the Air

2010-01-29T11:13:00.000-08:00

When afforded countless mediums to meet new mates, and overanalyze our previous dating decisions, do we let our fear of the future keep us from being honest with ourselves and others? Why do we spend so much time looking before we leap if the chemistry is there and you know you want to see someone again whether or not you’ve been in bed together, but maybe just the logistics seem to be working against you? We pour over their profiles, cross-examine their photos, favorites, and resumes, but do we let the baggage of previous breakups follow us around forever, or are we able to check it before the next departure? We love the take-off, and loathe the landing, but can when ever just enjoy the ride?

I promised myself that this year would be different. I promised myself that I wouldn’t force myself to pursue second and third dates with guys that didn’t thrill me on the first. I gave myself permission to text or call whenever I wanted and that if he felt the same way too he’d be happy to hear from me, or wouldn’t be concerned about the immediacy of my communication, but only the gravity of my message. I told myself I would stop worrying so much about the next stop and just try to enjoy each one in the journey. Well like all New Year’s resolutions, some of these promises are hard to keep.

We can go on four dates with someone over the course of the month and still obsess over why they didn’t stay the night. We might be committed for more than year, and rather than chose to recognize how happy we are with how things are going, we wonder if an engagement is around the corner. And it’s not always our fault. If love wasn’t meant to drive us crazy we wouldn’t spend countless dollars on books, movies, and music, that mirror our angst-ridden emotions, and an infinitesimal amount of time listening and recapping to our friends about our fractured love lives, or lack there of completely.

One of the cool parts about my job is that I occasionally get to meet with someone truly inspiring. This week I met with Sheena Iyengar, author of the upcoming The Art of Choosing, a result of more than a decade’s worth of research on why and how we make decisions and the power that choice plays in our life. Though her theory is more in depth than I can ever hope to accurately represent what struck me the most is her discussion of fate, chance, and choice. All three can be employed to discuss how and why we may have arrived at a job, an apartment, or even a relationship, but it’s only choice that empowers us to create positive change. Life that is left to the former two categories may sound whimsical, but it is ultimately a choice as well, a choice to wait around for something to happen, a choice to be lonely until destiny intervenes.

For someone who has the Asian character for destiny tattooed on his body, I must admit that I do find the idea of abandoning fate and chance a little unsettling, but this isn’t the case entirely. The choice to put ourselves out there, to pursue those that pique our interest, and to unashamedly be exactly whom we want to be, does not preclude the work of fate or chance. Both can be important vehicles in romance, but ultimately are the passive agents of change. I promised myself that I’d accept the fact that not every date would lead to romance, but that didn’t mean I was going to leave it all to luck.

Sometimes it’s easier to wish that fate could take care of our romantic lives for us. Though it’s not enough to sit back and wait for everything to come to us, we do have to be confident that if we are honest and upfront about our feelings, the one who is meant to reciprocate them will be happy to do so. We should enjoy the start of any new endeavor, but we can’t always worry about where it’s going, because at every turn we may be faced with new choices that may change the way we feel. In the meantime, try to enjoy the company you keep, after all you did pick him out.

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

Riding in Cars with Boys: An L.A. Story

2010-01-12T20:24:00.000-08:00

I probably should have known that when a 76 year-old man in a 1990 powder blue Toyota Camry slammed into the side of our car on a rainy day, in L.A., that things were definitely not going to go as planned. The freak ‘weather’ and accident aside, the very act of riding in the front seat of a car with someone you’re not paying by time or distance is enough to make any New Yorker feel uneasy. As the debate between NY and LA always concludes, they have the sunshine, but we don’t have to get behind the wheel. Though I enjoyed my own brief journeys coasting slowly down the Hollywood boulevards — it is the one factor that seemed to truly separate us.

I’ve toyed with the idea of moving to L.A. since I began my career in NY, as I think many of us not strictly devoted to one coast often do. I thought that hitching my star to the future of publishing may be a fool’s errand and if I was going to do the Shylockian work of an agent I might as well go towards the hell mouth and make some real money at it. Nevertheless, fate intervened in my career and the fair maiden Manhattan has pulled me ever closer to her bosom. But to quench my curiosity, escape the cold, and avoid another NYE in NYC, I recently paid a visit to La La Land.

To summate the differences between these two cities into those that are vehicularly inclined and those that are not may seem unjust, but in truth in so many other ways they are quite alike. The same strata of wealth and celebrity exist, though individuals may be admired for differing qualities in each respective town. Both are cities of dreams, diversity, and escape, and we dictate what the rest of the country and the world view as entertainment. So, in many respects it does come down to cars and weather, geography seemingly being the determining factor.

In New York we meet our friends or lovers at crowded bars, desolate diners, on street corners, in parks, or at the top of an exhaustingly long staircase. In L.A. they arrive at the building where I stayed. Each time a new friend or suitor arrived I stepped blinking into the sun wondering just what I was looking for, not trained to see the people inside vehicles, merely the absence or presence of a light on top. As they chauffeured me around the city, pointing out sights among the strip malls, I felt almost trapped, like I would suffocate if I left the confines of their car before we parked safely at a destination.

So rarely do we share our subway ride on dates, or with any other party. We come equipped with ipods and books, or sunglasses if we feel like hiding the fact that we’re staring. We’ve come to individualize the process of transportation so acutely; it becomes almost if not palpably uncomfortable when we do encounter an acquaintance on our commute. The same I assume must to be true for the Angelinos in their cars, as they start and stop their way to work, and at home in the evening. Such a personal space that they in fact own or lease it for themselves. I felt like an intruder, like a guest who must behave as expected lest I offend my host.

There are no rules like that on the subway. Even when a one night stand awkwardly joins us on our commute, we both can pretend like it’s merely coincidence we’re seated together, enjoy our music and morning papers, and offer vague acknowledgement when the first of us departs. Alone with another in the car, the silences fill with awkward longing. Longing for meaning of the silences, meaning for the absence or presence of hands held or kisses exchanged, something we would only stealthily or brazenly attempt on the train.

In New York transportation forces us to be on top of each other, in L.A. it demands that we not be. But the closeness bears no more intimacy than the distance. If it was distance between one another that was all that had been keeping two people separate, it could be bridged in one brave leap of the heart. No, it is that insistence that our cities and our lives are so different that truly keeps us apart. I suppose nothing ever does go according to plan, when you come from two different worlds.

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 1/7/10

When Work Takes Over, A Yea Yea

2010-01-05T20:31:00.000-08:00

I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that New Yorkers think we’re smarter than the rest of the country. We work in the most creative industries, run the financial markets, and find ways of purchasing exorbitantly priced footwear on our (usually) meager salaries the majority of which usually goes to rent. So when it comes to dating we eschew the impulse to settle down with our college sweetheart and begin reproducing before our 30’s and instead take our sweet ass time dating a seemingly endless carousel of potential til’ death do us parts until we find someone who meets our requirements for eternal bliss.

When we’re young we’re told to wait to settle down, to focus on our career, ourselves, and not to be in such a rush, and that’s something I’ve clung to throughout college and my first few years of adulthood. But I’ve begun to wonder, is there ever a bad time to look for love? Is there ever a time when we would wish above all else to be uncertain, unsettled, and untethered? I suppose that there is. There is that time when only having to worry about our own needs and wants is primary to worrying about those of another, but then again in this economy, and ever-changing landscape of the workplace where we never know what will happen from year to year, wouldn’t it be nice to have a lover to see us through?

Because of the demands and benefits of our jobs we often find little time to cultivate singular relationships. Long hours, commutes, daily parties and events, and other social commitments make it difficult for us to find the time to devote to screening future mates. Those of us ambitiously minded approach our careers with a tenacity that avoids an ability to prioritize dating until we’ve reached a certain plateau and instead is viewed as an intermittent diversion, like gambling, not truly expected to garner successful results.

But if our resume read like our dating history we’d be mortified. If every failed relationship or series of dates that lead us to nothing further than aborting numbers from our phones were a line on our CV we’d ‘never work in this town again.’ At work we shrug the everyday failures off like we do with our personal lives at times, and celebrate the successes with at an appropriate level, but the difference is that eventually we will hit the pinnacle of our career. There will come a day when we will ultimately plateau and then we’ll slowly decline into retirement. There will be ups and downs in every relationship and for those that fail, a high point may be able to be defined, but for that one that perhaps will last a lifetime, nothing as static will exist.

My parents have been married for almost 40 years and after about a dozen homes in cities all over the country and as many positions and companies for my father what they have to show for it isn’t lauded for them by a healthy retirement fund and vacation homes, but rather their most successful investment is the friendship they have with one another and the pride they share in the success, health, and love of their children and grandchildren. I can only imagine how different life would have been or if it would have been possible had they put their feelings aside at 23 and decided to wait until they felt more established.

Maybe it’s just because it’s the holidays, work has slowed down and capitalist America likes to remind us just how single we are right now since we have no one to buy cashmere and jewelry for, but I think when we try to compartmentalize areas of our life and prioritize one or other for certain periods, we miss out on the excitement of surprise and the true challenge of personal development. There are many ways to be successful and I think the one thing many of us have learned this year is that jobs come and go, but if happiness remains, if satisfaction in how and with whom we spend our time with becomes our priority then who can tell us we aren’t smarter?

Wishing you all a happy holiday(s) and a wonderful new year!

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

Originally published on Homo-Neurotic.com on 12/25/09

WRAP IT UP FOR WORLD AIDS DAY

2009-12-21T20:06:00.000-08:00

I don’t usually write about my job, but yesterday I was surprised to realize that today happened to be World AIDS Day, something I never would have forgotten the last couple years.Before I started a new position six weeks ago, I worked for a publishing house where I represented a handful of authors for speaking engagements. My biggest client in my two-year tenure there was a young woman named Marvelyn Brown. You may have seen her on ‘Oprah,’ ‘Tyra,’ BET, CNN, in a PSA on MTV, or as one of the “Divas on the Rise,” which aired during ‘VH1’s Divas Live,’ but if you don’t know anything about her, please let me introduce. Marvelyn is a beautiful 25 year-old African American woman who contracted HIV from her boyfriend at age 19.

He was her first love and she thought he’d do nothing to harm her, which is why when they consummated their relationship without any protection, she didn’t object. Since learning that she was positive she never remained quiet about her situation, as may have been dictated by her Southern and religious community. Instead she started her own consulting company, wrote her memoir ‘The Naked Truth: Young, Beautiful, and (HIV) Positive,’ and has spoken all over the nation and the world to young people, educating them about the importance of safe sex.

When I came out to my family, they didn’t have to figure out how to love me, but I can’t even remember how many times my mother asked me, “You’re being safe, right?” Her generation had been raised to associate homosexuality with HIV/AIDS, and it seemed normal for her to be concerned that I may have a heightened risk of being exposed to the virus. Though I tried to tell her that I wasn’t stupid, that my generation knew about the dangers and consequences, I couldn’t help but feel afraid myself.

It wasn’t that I had been engaging in unsafe sex, or that I thought that I someday might, but I didn’t know enough about its transmittal to really be sure. We all know that any sexual contact can lead to infection, given certain conditions, but it’s true that some are more risky than others. That never mattered to me though, since every time my college offered free testing, I was there, sweating out my 20 minutes until the nurse gave me the all clear and my heart rate returned to normal. Though I didn’t think that anything I’d been doing was ranked among the risky behaviors, better safe than sorry seemed like an applicable policy to follow.

Now that I’m an adult, living on my own, with no Health Center on site to remind about semi-annual check-ups, I’ve found myself slacking on this necessary and routine check-up. The lapses in judgment are farther and farther apart, and as far as risky goes it seems like my love life has become increasingly safe for network television, but that is still no excuse for me or any of us to become blasé about testing.

As gay men we live with the stigma that our community is plagued by promiscuity that leads to incurable disease. But that stigma comes with responsibility. We are responsible to take the necessary precautions to preserve our health and the health of our friends and lovers. We are charged with not only changing the perception of the world at large, but with fighting for funding, and policy changes that will ensure our loved ones already afflicted will receive the care they deserve and that one day HIV can RIP.

What scares me the most is thinking about what I would do if I ever found I was positive. Would I have the strength and courage to use my life to educate others like Marvelyn, or would I even be able to tell my family? I can’t say for sure. It’s sad to think about all the wonderful men and women we’ll never get to meet who’ve already passed on, but today we celebrate the hope that it will someday be a thing of the past. So take responsibility, get tested, and practice safe sex. If we’re going to makeover the world we all have to stick around long enough to see it happen.

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 12/1/09

LIKE TRYIN’ TO CATCH A FALLIN’ STAR: FACEBOOK & THE LEONID METEOR SHOWER

2009-12-21T20:02:00.001-08:00

I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that every time Facebook updates its home page it significantly affects my life.Like all updates and improvements I recognize their intent is to better serve their users and highlighting the statuses and posts of the friends you communicate with most frequently as your primary News Feed, seems to make sense on the surface level. But it also introduces a whole host of other problems. Not only is the sad and surprising realization of whom my Facebook world has been narrowed down to troublesome, as well as the relatively limited flow of information, but also the knowledge that any of my late-night errant updates will now suffer the sober scrutiny of my ‘closest’ friends the following day.

I had finally gotten used to a constantly updated stream of posts and status updates; I had mastered the art of ‘hiding’ former flames, and Farmville fanatics from insulting my perusal of what constitutes my gathering of news. Not to mention that the alternative option of a live news feed seems altogether unwieldy. Now we are asked to sift through our friends’ event acceptance and friend confirmations in addition to the photos, messages, and posts we may actually care about? Nevertheless, positive things can be taken from every ‘improvement.’ If it hadn’t been for the new live feed, I may have never been made aware of the Leonid Meteor Shower.

I know you’re with me on this. More than two million people have been invited to view it, so I imagine that it’s made its way across your feed at least once or twice. Since reading is apparently a challenge for me, a writer and publishing professional, the first few times I ignored the ‘-er’ and assumed it was some kind of show for a band or artist. The first few friends Facebook told me were attending were all from the DC area, so I assumed it was something to be ignored. But over the course of a week it seemed to be showing up more and more, and now New York friends were attending as well. So I shook off my adult onset dyslexia, and actually clicked on the event link and learned about this amazing occurrence.

Growing up, I was fascinated by the idea that Halley’s comet only came around maybe once in our lifetime. It’s fabled that Mark Twain was born the same month the comet passed in 1835 and died the same month it passed 75 years later. The Leonids pass by more frequently, about every 33 years, but that still offers a few precious chances to see them. To think that I would have been wholly unaware of their existence if it hadn’t been for Facebook is also kind of sad, but luckily the relentless news feed wouldn’t let me ignore it forever.

No matter how many updates they make to the News Feed it will always be an instrument of torture in some ways. There will still be boys I want to block or hide, exes I wish had become grossly obese if they insist on being happy in new relationships, and crushes who’s cuteness will continue to flatten my spirit. But like this event, whose popularity among my friends demanded my attention, Facebook will also remind of us opportunities we may have initially missed to live or love.

Early this morning was the peak time to view the stream of meteors, but if you missed it, it is expected to continue tonight. I would think that most of you reading this will still be around when they come back in a few decades, but when you only have one night to get the best view, who’s to say what may be occupying your time. So stay up late, or set an early alarm. Like me, you may be standing on your roof alone, but millions will be doing the same around the world, and one of those may just be standing with you the next time the Leonids pass us by.

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 11/17/09

Why the National Equality March Matters

2009-10-14T10:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-07T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-29T11:34:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-10T11:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-03T13:15:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-18T12:34:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-31T11:48:00.000-07:00

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'

2009-07-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-07-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-06-23T11:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-18T06:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-07T11:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-09T06:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-26T14:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-19T09:41:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-04T06:44:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-24T06:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T10:23:00.000-08:00

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

February 14th

2009-02-11T08:18:00.000-08:00

For the last three years while writing this column I’ve had the opportunity to write about the one holiday most relevant to a sex and relationships column: Valentine’s Day. Though everyone’s personal opinion of the holiday may vary from love to disgust, from indifference to excitement, I think we all can admit that it is at least impossible not to acknowledge that we are aware that it looms on the horizon. Whether we elect to spend it with a significant other, a group of our single friends, or alone in the dark with a bottle of Scotch, it is important to keep in mind that it is just another day on the calendar, and when its 24 hours have passed our hearts will not have been irreparably damaged or repaired.

To those who consider it to be Single Awareness Day, I agree that the holiday does seem to force us to recognize just how long ‘Single’ has been seared into our relationship status. Indeed, my status has remained unaltered so long that now even the green circle that indicates I am ‘Available’ on G-Chat causes me to simultaneously chuckle ironically while muttering like a crazy homeless man on the subway, “Ain’t that the truth,” to myself. But we must remember that these reminders, like the annual call to make ‘new years resolutions,’ or go ‘back to school shopping’ well beyond our teen years, are not mandatory performances.

Valentine’s Day, like Flag, Arbor, or Groundhog Day, can only have as much importance as we choose to bestow upon it. I am personally not a fan of flags so I choose to abstain from any special celebrations on June 14, but I happen to think that pulling a rodent from a fake log one day a year to predict the weather is particularly brilliant, so February 2 is always a great day for me. But unlike these aforementioned holidays, V-Day carries with it the commercialization and Hallmarkification of Mother’s Day, Christmas, and Easter that demands we also spend money and make special plans to truly celebrate its significance, and that’s what I think makes most people disgruntled.

Recently, my friend was thrown into a rage at the sight of enormous heart shaped boxes of chocolates in Duane Reade and then again at the sight of our favorite bar dripping with glittery hearts and red lit disco balls. Not a huge fan of candy myself, I am never particularly pleased with the prospect of unnecessary caloric intake of the non-alcoholic variety, but I never have had a stroke at their sight either. The truth is I like what the holiday stands for at its core. I’d like to think it is a simple reminder of the love we have in our lives and for singles, the hope that we may someday share it with someone special.

This Saturday, while some of us are staying in cuddling with our lover, or wallowing in self-pity, and others are partying with their friends, or gorging on fondue, I’d like to issue a challenge to everyone. Take a moment to write down just a few things or people that we love in our life. Our job, friends, family, our pets, roommates, hobbies, addictions, and compulsive behaviors, all provide us with the same mix of pleasure and frustration that accompany a relationship, and this year many of us can be so lucky as to worry more about getting laid, than getting laid off.

So even if your status is ‘single,’ it doesn’t mean your V-Day can’t be special. Just don’t try to make love at or to any of the things I just mentioned, unless you want to spend the holiday potentially unemployed, or in jail or the hospital, which may make it a day you dread for many years to come no matter the status of your relationship, and that’s something no one would love.

Appeared Originally on Homo-Neurotic.com on 2/11/09

Sex's Enemies: Religion, Politics, Science?

2009-01-28T13:54:00.000-08:00

Growing up, religion was the first institution that pronounced a judgment on sex, and that judgment was that it was wrong. The shows I was allowed to watch on television, as the youngest of four kids, didn’t give me the idea that sex was a sin or immoral, but the Bible and my Catholic school classes and masses certainly did. It wasn’t just gay sex either, but all sex, well any sex performed out of wedlock that didn’t also stand a fair chance of producing a child. That meant no birth control, no diaphragms, no blowjobs, and definitely no anal sex. The head priest of the church my parents joined in the 80’s told them that sex with condoms was like getting your feet washed with your socks on. I knew from sneaking looks at my father’s porn that socks seemed to be an integral part of illicit sex, so I suppose it all made sense to me.

As I grew older and more comfortable with rejecting Catholicism as a bunch of ceremony and tradition founded on ignorance and denial, another institution seemed to stand in the way of sex: the government. I lost my virginity before the Supreme Court overturned sodomy laws, and since gay marriage is yet to be a Federal right, I can’t help but feel like any sexual relationship I engage in is somehow second rate to the intercourse among married couples. I soon found out in college that the one institution that didn’t seem to demonize sex was science. Sure, science uncovered STD’s and other ailments that resulted from sex, but they also invented the prophylactics, vaccines, and procedures, to prevent, cure, and ease the suffering of these as well.

So why does science now have to cock slap us in the face with its findings? According to a recent study, men who have sex more often, or especially, frequently masturbate in their 20’s and 30’s, are more likely to develop prostate cancer later in life. In a world of AIDS and the ever-present cry for abstinence to our young adults, who among us hasn’t felt like internet porn or cyber sex is one of the safest alternatives to sex society has to offer? But science had to stick its inquisitive nose into our butts to uncover the behaviors that may contribute to this disease, making us now think twice before we rub another one out.

But it’s not all bad news from science this week. Another study showed that men who drank moderately (about 10 drinks a week, on average) performed better sexually than men who didn’t drink at all, or men who at one time drank heavily, and then gave it up completely. The study also showed a decline in performance for men who smoked. This perhaps comes as no surprise to any of us who know that just the right level of drunk can give you the confidence to bed the beautiful boy at the bar, but too much and you’re finished before you can begin, and even a former smoker can admit that an ash tray kiss can definitely kill the mood.

Surprisingly it was a new study that relates to religion that made me most optimistic about my sexual health. This study shows that practicing yoga can make sex last longer and feel better, in addition to improving your overall health. I must admit that I certainly feel as calm and content after a good yoga class as I do after a good roll in the hay, and much better than I do after even moderate drinking. It seems to be the perfect combination of Eastern religious practice and science, without any messy political entanglements. The class I take at my gym may be called ‘virgin yoga’ but as anyone who can’t help but giggle at the sight of their ‘downward dog’ or ‘happy baby,’ pose in the mirror, it’s for anyone but.

Religion may continue to silence our sexual appetite, unless you’re of the Eastern persuasion, and politics may always try to stifle sexual freedom and expression, but I guess we can’t expect much more from science than to report their findings to the community. It seems we’d all just be better off with a few glasses of wine, and some long, tantric sexual sessions a month. But if you can control yourself and avoid the abundance of arousing material that constantly pollutes our consciousness, there is only one thing I can say to you: namaste.

Appeared Originally on 1/28/09 on homo-neurotic.com

Girl Crush

2009-01-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

When the race for the Democratic candidacy began there seemed to be only one woman in our heart. Her name is Hillary and I, along with the majority of the gay community threw our support behind her. We did so with good reason; she was the candidate that best represented our interests in her voting record and campaign promises. When Obama was eventually named the candidate, we dutifully switched our allegiance, and it didn’t take long for a new crush to emerge. Not just on the charismatic gentleman that took the oath of the highest office in the world yesterday, but on his equally charming and stunning wife, Michelle.

Now, it comes as no surprise or news that gays have a long history of worshiping divas in the entertainment industry. We help them rise to the pedestals on which we admire them, support them when they repeatedly fall off, and continue to show our unending support for them well into their multiple farewell tours and Vegas revues. Our love of women in politics may not be as well documented, but it almost certainly began before if not in conjunction with the rise of the Gay Rights movement.

Our adoration for women in the public eye who epitomize class (sometimes), glamour (usually), fame (always), and power is not difficult to understand. Call it envy, or simply our desire to harness our own inner diva, but the innate qualities of these women engender in us a bond that transcends the love we feel for our partners. Like a battered spouse, this love allows us to forgive their faults, their disappointing albums or attempts at acting, and their public failures in life and love. Like a phoenix from the ashes, we merely wait and bide our time until our diva rises again.

But these special feelings are not always reserved for celebrities. There are sometimes women in our lives, a friend, boss, or co-worker whose spirit strikes a chord within us and can make our heart go pitter-patter as easily as the luscious blue-eyed lifeguard, or gorgeous dark-haired grocery boy. Like our divas though, this crush is entirely non-sexual. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and while that may manifest itself literally in drag celebrity impersonators,in our daily lives it resembles emulation or the aspiration to have our lives more closely resemble theirs.

We’re attracted to the women, in our lives that we respect, whether it be for their accomplishments, or simply their attitude towards life. They are our everyday divas, and in the absence of Madge, J. Lo, Whitney, Cher, Hill, Christina, Brit, and countless others , they make our lives just a little more fabulous, as we dream we can one day do the same for them. Of course a girl crush will never take the place of the one we love, since they obviously can’t satisfy all of our desires. But that’s what makes our love for them so pure. Free of the prurient interests of our loin, we champion them purely for the joy they bring us, if not the ecstasy.

I will always love Hillary in the way I love my PFLAG attending and doting mother, and couldn’t be prouder to have her soon be serving as Secretary of State, but I can’t help but be mesmerized by Michelle. More likely to wear Prada than pantsuits, like only Jackie O before her, she brings to the White House what we really wanted all along: a diva.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 1/21/09

Unsinkable Ship

2009-01-14T09:05:00.000-08:00

I think that we’ve all been there. You wake up one morning feeling like absolute crap. A wave of anxiety washes over you as you are forced to look at yourself in the mirror. Dread fills your body as you realize that you will still be expected to act like a normal human being, or at least perform the necessary actions of gathering food to consume and not swallowing the bottle of prescription sleeping pills you just refilled. The truly unfortunate will have to go to work or leave the house, knowing that everyone can see the discomfort, the dejection, and the utter resignation to depression in their face. Good friends may try to put a positive spin on it, but most merely avoid you, knowing it’s better to keep their distance at a time like this. All of us have woken up with a broken heart or a severe hangover, but some of us have woken up with both, and pinkeye.

To say it wasn’t the way I thought I’d spend the first day of the New Year is only slightly less of an understatement than to say that Rose’s trip on the Titanic didn’t go exactly as she planned. So broken down and afflicted with conjunctivitis I took to the couch for days of mostly solitude to contemplate why it was that I allowed a little crush to cloud my vision. Only dating rookies spend New Years Eve with a new and not so single crush or get excited about a boy who hasn’t yet spent an entire year in New York. Like my regrettable decision to engage in personal contact with my pinkeye-infested niece, these were mistakes I thought I’d remember not to repeat. Alas.

The benefit of quarantine and limited social contact is that the healing process is expedited and you have less time to face the world around you grimacing at your bloodshot eyes, or look of despair that accompanies either pinkeye or a particularly nasty break up. The horrible part is obviously all the time you have alone to think doesn’t necessarily lead to happy thoughts, and the absence of friends, sensible enough to decline the invitation of becoming the virus’ next host, doesn’t make things any easier. The phone and Internet are your only outlet and you naturally want to purge them of any reminder of your heartache or misfortune.

When the 5-7 days have passed and your pinkeye has cleared completely, like the surge of strength you receive when you feel like you’ve finally regained your footing from a break up, you get to complete that oh so necessary purge. Your contacts and their case is thrown out, pillow cases washed and replaced, and anything else you may have infected is summarily Lysoled or destroyed. One can’t argue with this necessity, without these measures of precaution, pinkeye can easily come back, infect the same or other eye, or continue to spread to others. So why then, knowing the benefits of destroying any connection we had to an affliction, do we mourn so deeply the closure of communication between a lover, or even potential lover?

It often doesn’t take us 5-7 days to reach the decision to delete someone from our phone, Facebook, Gchat, and hopefully eventually our hearts and minds; in fact it is usually a rash and hurried result of a fight or particularly incendiary text or email. But deleting that contact is every bit as important as throwing your tainted contacts away. There is always the chance that it or they may come back to haunt you and turn your world upside down for an unspecified period of time.

As I celebrate my introduction to my mid-20’s this weekend, I don’t want to be plagued by anything left behind. The past was itchy and uncomfortable and it made me feel ugly and disabled. Free of these threats to the safety of our hearts and heads we can all take the opportunity of this New Year to look ahead. We may meet with more heartache, crusty eyes, or damaged livers in 2009, but we know we can always wash up and try again. As for me, my eyes are clear, and my mind is open, and the jury’s out on the status of my liver. As for my heart? I think it's safe to say that it will go on.

Appeared originally on homo-neurotic.com on 1/14/09

Homo for the Holidays

2008-12-23T17:48:00.001-08:00

At 17 I was intelligent enough to know that public nudity, and especially sex in public were illegal. But my horny teenager self allowed me to ignore those tidbits of information one summer afternoon. I was out on a date with a 19 year-old attending a local college, and after we had lunch he suggested we hang out in a nearby park. Like a scene from a gay Harlequin novel, a freak rainstorm forced us to scamper from the tree that shaded our make out session into a shelter with a handful of picnic tables. Perched on one of the tables, as the water rushed by below, we continued to kiss and grope each other until we eventually brought each other much needed manual relief.

In 2003 Lawrence vs. Texas overturned any remaining sodomy laws nationwide, guaranteeing that gays had the right to express their passion in private. This may have been significant to me at the time I was experiencing splendor in the grass that summer, and perhaps would have made me feel somewhat more confident about what we were doing, except Lawrence vs. Texas was decided a year later, and we obviously weren’t in private. I also happened to be a resident of South Carolina, a state that had yet to repeal its sodomy laws until Lawrence. So, my actions went beyond normal lines of teenage stupidity and hedonism, but also traversed legality a few times over. I was lucky that the rain, or just luck kept the authorities away that day; otherwise the story could have had a much different ending.

I bring this somewhat serious topic up, not to weigh the pros and cons of sex in public, or even to discuss recent Supreme Court decisions. I recently, like hopefully many if not all of you reading this, saw Milk. For the blissfully ignorant, it chronicles the political career of Harvey Milk. A pioneer of the gay rights movement and America’s first openly gay man elected to a high public office, who was assassinated in 1978. Unlike most of you I assume, I saw it with my parents, in the same theater I first saw Brokeback Mountain, in Indiana. That may give you some indication of the support I am privileged to have from my family, but the messages of Milk nevertheless touched me and rang true.

In rallies and in private he encouraged every gay before him to come out to their family, their neighbors, their employers, etc. Though I believe that we are all entitled to our privacy, events such as the recent “Call in ‘Gay’ To Work” are designed to illustrate just how many of us occupy every office, and are founded on the idea that highlighting just how many homos exist in everyone’s life will promote tolerance and understanding for us as a whole. Though this advice may now be falling on deaf ears, since kids are coming out earlier and earlier, and I doubt there are many people who would claim not to know a single a gay person, if not personally, they are probably at least a fan of Ellen or Elton. But to know us intimately is different; to paraphrase Milk, when they know at least one of us, they are less likely to vote against us.

Milk also instructed young gays, troubled by the views of their parents and the conservative communities, in which they resided, to move to the big cities where they could meet other young people like them. Now it would be hypocritical for me to dismiss this advice since I knew from a young age I’d want to go to college and eventually live in a big city, and my parents are happy that I do. But I know many gay people, from my former home in SC and my trips to the Midwest that are happy to stay in the places they grew up. They don’t care if the nightlife is more limited or if the guys are less abundant. Now, more than ever I think we need those men in women in smaller cities and towns across the country to do just that, to show that they are happy to be themselves wherever they may be.

When I pack for home it’s the only time I drag my A&F tees from the back of my shelf, and leave my boots and tightest jeans behind. My thinking is not only do I care less about how I dress around my family, and even if I were to go out I would be held to a lower standard than in NY, but also that I wanted to be able to pass for just another Indiana boy, or at least come close. But now something in that logic seems flawed to me. We aren’t doing ourselves any favors by toning down our personalities or appearance just because we’ve ventured outside our urban sanctuaries.

Being a homo for the holidays is your chance to let your family and all the others around into to your world, and show them that you are no longer afraid of being yourself, no matter the locale or occasion. They may not need to know about hand jobs in the park, but as hard as it is, you must also share your heart. The day my mother became my friend was not when I came out, but when she was the only one who truly helped me through my break up. The Supreme Court may have the awesome power of ensuring our rights, but our families and they way we feel about ourselves in their presence often still hold the keys to our happiness and stability. But we’ll never know that satisfaction if we don’t give them the chance to see just how fabulous we are.

Originally appeared on 12/23/08 on homo-neurotic.com

Forgive. And Forget?

2008-12-17T16:25:00.000-08:00

Did you ever have the chance to re-do a break-up? I don’t mean reverse the decision, pretend it never happened, or reenact for friends as a farce or melancholy kabuki. I mean did you ever reconnect with an ex, only to find yourself not long after rehashing the same arguments you had that lead to the death of your relationship? Now, I know this may not sound strange, people fight for years with their exes over the same things: petty differences, indiscretions, and broken promises. But I imagine that usually when these fights occur neither party expected them to play out to a different conclusion, or at least expected some hot make-up/break-up sex to follow. I feel stupid, because I thought that maybe things would be different, and didn’t even necessarily think it would mean a reward in the bedroom.

When I moved to New York I was determined to set out on my own, try new things, meet new people, and explore this city that I’d felt destined to reside in. And I did do all of those things. I made new friends, got a job, explored more parts of the city and surrounding boroughs than I thought possible, but I also settled back into an old routine. The routine consisted of attaching myself to a gay clique or chosen partner in crime for weekend and often weeknight revelry, while reserving my time with the girls for special occasions, shopping, and brunches.

What I eventually came to realize is that my life closely mirrored my life in college, only with a 9-5 work schedule which, unlike college’s afternoon naps and late morning starts, left only my nights and weekends free to unwind. Superficial friends and regretful nights, piled on top of the rigors of scaling the corporate ladder all began to make me feel like I was living two lives.

I didn’t feel like an up and coming publishing professional when I was out with my friends at night, which isn’t a bad thing, business casual and blackberries should definitely stay at the office, but I felt like in either setting I could only be one person or the other: a consummate professional in the office and a party animal outside. But in our present age our identity is so tightly wound together it is nearly impossible to separate the public and the personal, the private from the professional. Our online profiles may not go into the details of our positions, but to potential employers, and current colleagues, they represent who we are as people. I felt like a poseur when I would go out with some of my friends. All talk of work was tabled from pre-game forward, at which point it was merely a marathon of substance abuse until last man standing. That’s when I finally decided to step back from the race. When the competitors all played dirty, it suddenly didn’t seem so fun. I wanted to spend my leisure with others who shared my ambition, interests, and talents, and even if it the end result of inebriation was the same, at least the playing field was level. It’s a lot more fun to feel like a whole person at all times, and it’s a lot easier when the players in both arenas are often the same.

So who, after under going this kind of transformation, wouldn’t think that his or her ex would be able to see how much they’ve changed? Wasn’t I right to assume that if two of his chief complaints were my immaturity and uncouth friends, that he should now gaze upon with new eyes and awe? I guess not, because the truth is that friends may be an indicator of whom we are as a person and he was right to judge me by the company I kept, but trading in old cliques for new does not necessarily guarantee growth. After all a plant, once transferred, does not immediately flourish in a new or larger pot. Perhaps the drastic steps I perceived myself to be making were only minor in his eyes.

Then again, it is not also fair to assume that I should shoulder all the blame for our stunted reconciliation. It takes two to tango and if a relationship that once failed is to ever work both parties need to change, grow, sacrifice, etc. He may have made the initial overtures to reconnecting but it was clear that it was to be on his terms, for his amusement perhaps, or merely cross one thing off his conscience. And though small traces of change are evident, he is every bit the boy I fell for, for better or worse.

Therein lays the problem. Yes, people can change, but people are people. We fall in love with their attributes and faults. We can show off our improvements as much as we want but sometimes if those nagging faults still dominate our personality or appearance, it may have all been for wont. So what are we to do? Spend another period mourning? No. A corpse cannot be killed twice, so I am personally outlawing any drama stemming from an abortive attempt at rekindling a flame, call it double jeopardy.

And though your friends will tell you that he’s an asshole and not worth your time, we know that only makes us feel even more worthless and pathetic for wearing our hearts on our sleeve for him. So I say make a list of everything you loved or liked about him, so you know you weren’t crazy for doing so. He may have not been the one for you, but at least you’ll have a partial list of traits to look for in the next boy who steals you heart. Who knows, if he’s worth it, he will only require you to re-enact the first time you made love, not broke up.

Originally posted on 12/17/08 on homo-neurotic.com

2008-12-09T10:58:00.000-08:00

“Are you her dad?” the perhaps six-year-old boy with a mohawk asked me. “No.” I replied, “I’m her uncle.” He then told me that my two-year-old niece and goddaughter, who we all know to be the family bully, had stolen his tokens. We were at Chuck E. Cheese’s two days after Thanksgiving. She merely stared at the boy defiantly, while I wrested the cup of tarnished gold coins from her hands and apologized to the boy. Without any signs of remorse from her or gratitude from him they separated and continued to run wildly around the strip mall amusement center, content to ride mechanical animals, waste tokens on games of chance, or focus their energy on winning enough tickets to trade them in for toys and candy a fraction of the cost to play. The very pursuits I loved more than anything when I was a kid.

In the tiny mall that was closest to where I grew up there was an arcade called The Machine. I don’t recall how many tickets I eventually won from The Machine but I have a feeling it was in the 1000’s because I was saving up for something really good. As a kid I was very in tune with the rewards of saving because I also sent in for any prize that only required UPC labels from the cereal boxes, and brought countless soup labels to my school to raise money as well. Perhaps it was because time seemed to move more slowly then, or the prizes seemed to be more valuable, but I often wish I could exercise the same kind of patience and commitment today.

The thought of saving money in New York is almost laughable. Unless your social life consists primarily of DVR and homemade meals, there is little opportunity to sock a lot of money away. We may forgo simple luxuries while prepping for the holidays or making a major purchase, but usually we go month-to-month, paycheck-to-paycheck, just barely scraping by. We make impulsive purchases and go out on weeknights when we swore we wouldn’t, and just watch our credit card debt slowly climb through our 20’s, meanwhile picking dates or mates that won’t put a strain on our finances. It’s nearly impossible to believe that my siblings were all married and somewhat fiscally responsible by my age, and now mostly with children.

Of course we all know the embarrassment of being asked if the boy we’re with is our boyfriend, whether it’s a friend or first date, but when I was 10 my oldest sister took me horseback riding, and our guide mistook her for my mother and called her mom to me several times without my sister noticing. I never bothered to correct her, probably because I thought it was funny, or I might have thought it was kind of fun to have such a young mom. I never thought how appalled or amused at the time my sister would have been if she’d known that had happened. I felt juxtaposition of emotions when I volunteered last spring at a Family Equality event and one of the middle-aged gay fathers asked me if I had any children. I sputtered, blushed, and tried to politely say that I wasn’t old enough, which he brushed off by saying, “Sure you are.” Not knowing an appropriate response, I simply handed him his silent auction win.

It’s funny how our attitude about time and goals change as we grow older. When we’re young, dozens of trips to the arcade, and countless quarters spent, justifies a 20-dollar toy. As we mature, though we’re broke, it seems we’d still rather spend our money than our time on any particular pursuit. So we streamline dating with website subscriptions, fine tuning our requirements and expectations of a potential mate, and then set up an efficient block of dates to screen potential applicants in one full swoop. If we were told that we’d have to chat for months or go on dozens of dates before committing, we’d probably never get started in the first place.

Our expectations for ourselves also change. When I was 20 I was worried that since I was single I’d never be in a relationship like my siblings’. I’ve come to realize that it may just take me a bit more time. I used to worry that I’d never want, much less be able to have kids of my own, which seems to become more commonplace every day, and now I don’t really worry about any of that. Perhaps because I haven’t reached a ‘crisis age,’ but I have become content to allow my tickets to pile up each day until I am ready to cash them in.

I suppose I’m not too young to be a father, at least in the biological sense, nor would it have been impossible to believe that my sister was my mother, or that I was my niece’s father. We sometimes worry about being labeled as single, player, or whore, but sometimes it’s the other titles that are truly frightening: boyfriend, husband, and father. Nevertheless, it’s nice to think that even if only in the eyes of children or strangers, that may just be what we appear to be. After years of games, minor wins, and major losses; it’s nice to think about the eventual rewards.

Originally posted on homo-neurotic.com

Harvest Time

2008-11-25T10:55:00.000-08:00

History will have us believe that Thanksgiving celebrates the first successful harvest after Native Americans helped Pilgrims acclimate to the new world. The “natives” introduced Pilgrims to corn, game, and tobacco, while the Pilgrims bartered with gun powder, whiskey, and syphilis. It’s hard to say who got the better deal. I like to imagine that gay Pilgrims were intrigued by the Americans’ toned bodies, darling beads and headbands, and leather ensembles, while the latter admired the former’s sensible style, including felt hats and patent leather shoes that put form before function. Regardless, they came together on that special day to give thanks for what the earth had given them, and express hope that it would carry them through the winter.

The end of the harvest: what better metaphor to describe this time of year for dating in New York? We spend the summer carelessly tossing seed and sowing our oats wherever we can, wantonly checking here and there to see if anything will grow. The traditional fields: bars, clubs, mixers, and parties, are then fallow; the real cash crops are all being cultivated on Fire Island or other summer getaway locales. So we wait for the heat to fade, the Labor Day parties to die down, and for our schedules to return to normal. Our phonebooks filled with one night stands, or summer crushes, now seem to taunt us with loneliness.

But even before the summer warmth truly fades, the urban routine and back to school sales shake us into reality. Autumn has arrived, and it feels like a new beginning. A new “semester” has begun and new opportunities for love begin to grow. As crops spring up around us, we take time to survey our options. The new transplants, or students in the New York soil, are often not developed enough, and won’t repot into relationships very well, so it’s often best to let them grow, weather the winter and succeeding seasons to see if they eventually mature.

The yearlings, or other saplings who’ve survived a few seasonal cycles seem the most desirable– since they’ve not yet put down firm enough roots to be immovable, nor are they as insatiable as the aforementioned neophytes.

But this is no guarantee these “survivors’ can be successfully plucked into a new, less hostile, life in lieu of their binging and clubbing routines and expected to adapt to confines of a relationship. No,perhaps the rooted veterans of New York City are the ones to invest in. Their roots are strong and stable, their branches and connections are far-reaching, and they provide plenty of support and shelter.

No matter what season, we will always encounter these different stages of guys, but they seem to be most apparent in the fall. Most of my fall was spent dropping leaves of friends from my branches, but also sampling as much produce as I was able to before the harvest was over, and now, whether we’d like to believe it or not, it is over. Thanksgiving, like any major holiday, marks a day when we feel like our achievement or failure is directly related to our relationship status. Whether we spend with friends or family, if it isn’t in the arms of a boyfriend, even if he’s only a zip-code away. If we can’t share him with our family, we feel we’re somehow missing out.

I say it’s the end of the harvest, because following Thanksgiving, you have only days to find a date to the holiday party, which inevitably will end up being your friend anyway, and then the actual holiday will be spent in much the same way as Thanksgiving, either sulking in singlehood, mourning our lover’s lack of proximity, or perhaps for some, blissfully together. Then New Years Eve is right around the corner and we get the chance to punish our livers without guilt for having no one but the nearest stranger to kiss as the clock strikes 12. So really, if it hasn’t happened before this holiday, it is unlikely to happen for the holidays, unfortunately.

Maybe this is why the Pilgrims and the Native Americans got together for that celebratory meal. With the winter ahead, neither party knew when they’d have the chance to find someone to pass the cold winter months in their cabin with. Who knows, Pocahontas and John Smith may have officially announced their love at the first Thanksgiving (if you are willing to ignore glaring historical inaccuracies). Whether you find yourself alone this Thanksgiving, or not, harvest season isn’t the only time you can find a boyfriend. Though one can’t be guaranteed for the holidays, it seems hardly a coincidence that the annual Toys for Tots benefit, unofficially claimed to be the ‘husband finding event of the season’ falls on the following weekend after Turkey Day. If that doesn’t nab you a man I’m not above praying to the ghost of Pocahontas for a little Indian summer, but like the original Manhattanites, I’d settle for some shiny beads.

Originally posted on 11/25/08 on http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/11/25/everybody-does-it-harvest-time/

Prop 8eration

2008-11-20T13:36:00.000-08:00

I, like apparently the majority of gays in New York and America, did not think that Prop 8 had a chance of passing. This was our year. Sure, Hillary and David Archuleta lost their respective, albeit unequal contests, but for all of us liberal, non-God-fearing, cultural elitists, change was on its way. We didn’t expect that some change would not be moving us forward, but rather, reversing the California Supreme Court’s decision that allowed their gay and lesbian residents to marry. Were we simply riding the wave of optimism that washed across the country and foolishly thought that the victories in Connecticut and previous wins in other liberal strongholds would guarantee our success in the Golden State?

I can’t deny that I was aware of Prop 8, or that I was asked to contribute money to help support its defeat, but I honestly didn’t think that California, as vast and diverse as it is, posed much of a threat to my rights. Prop 8 has once again put gay marriage on the national stage, after an election that made it much less of an issue than four years ago. So what does this mean for us now? Our generation seems trained, if not poised to expect that gay marriage will be a guarantee for all in our lifetime. And while part of me thinks that still holds true, I think it may be time we reevaluate not only our expectations but our actions.

Don’t get me wrong, I want nothing more than for my rights to equal my married, heterosexual siblings, co-workers, and neighbors. I want my relationship to be considered a valid expression of love and companionship in the eyes of the law and for my eventual wedding not to feel like an exercise in alternative living with a scaled down version of a marriage certificate. But perhaps, Huffington Post contributor Johnathan Wilber is right, along with others, when they say that it is time to stop pointing fingers at the alleged minority voters and Mormon Church who are accused of being solely responsible for Prop 8’s success. Perhaps it’s time we point our fingers to the mirror.

It’s easy to take acceptance for granted when you live in New York or other urban or liberal parts of the country. It’s easy to forget to celebrate our unique qualities and rich history of being an integral part of our nation’s cultural identity. The entertainment industry, literature, music, fashion, and art, to say the least have been transformed time and time again by our brethren, and yet we trivialize their accomplishments because it seems almost status quo for our community. Everyone is a writer, a painter, an actor, a singer; we can hardly be expected to express surprise that one of our favorite artists is queer or queer friendly, or can we?

Why can’t we adopt the mantle Mr. Wilber expresses in his piece, and do more to promote the sheer emptiness our culture would reflect if it hadn’t been for our gay and lesbian forebears and contemporaries? And how about not just supporting well known gays and lesbians, but also celebrating the men and women in our everyday lives? I have for awhile admired the way previous gay generations have made long term relationships last by accepting that infidelity is not necessarily a deal breaker, as one example. After all, if it doesn’t violate a pre-nuptial agreement, then the only the thing either party stands to lose is each other. In the absence of marriage, gay couples formed their own rules, agreements, and commitments, and though they may take longer than heteros to settle down, once they do, it’s often for life.

The way we sometimes treat successful gay people in any industry, with derision or contempt, not so subtly reflects the way we also treat our friends who become successful in love or in the bedroom. When I began dating my last boyfriend, my girlfriends couldn’t have been happier, my gay friends acted like I’d come down with something contagious that would make their bellies grow and their hair fall out. It wasn’t until we broke up that many of them would even speak to me on a regular basis. A friend of mine recently worried not how he would break the news to his parents that his boyfriend was moving in, but how to tell his best gay friend. How can we expect America to support and embrace our relationships if we don’t support each other?

We all know the scene is vicious, incestuous, and disheartening, but we must find a way to rise above the petty games and jealousies. When your friends pair off, support them, encourage them to follow their heart; don’t constantly undermine their happiness. Maybe marriage won’t be right for all of us, but we owe to those of us whom it is right for to make sure we do everything in our power to make sure it’s an option nationwide. Prop 8 may have said that our love is wrong, now’s our chance to set them straight. If we want everyone to accept our love, we have to show it to one another.

Appeared originally on 11/20/08 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/11/20/everybody-does-it-prop-8eration/#more-2783

You Never Forget Your First Hag*

2008-11-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

I was 17 when I came out to my best friend, a little more than six years ago. She was a year older than me, already a freshman at a nearby college. I don’t recall how the actual conversation took place, but I know I wanted to tell her about a boy I had a crush on at the arts high school in town, and had finally reached that point when I couldn’t bear to be silent any longer. Luckily, she took it well, wasn’t surprised and treated me no differently than before, but her acceptance changed me remarkably. Whether she noticed or not, I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted. Soon after, I told a couple other friends, my family would find out six months later, and by the time graduation had ended and the summer leading up to college began, I was out to the world.

Some of us may have been outed; a video, magazine, or website link left carelessly around provided the evidence for a parent or sibling to confront the issue. Others may have had friends merely guess or assume, and the dramatic scene never needed to be acted out. But no matter the circumstance, the bond we form with the first few friends who accept our true identity is something that alters our view of relationships and serves as a milestone in our maturity that can’t be shared by heteros. I would argue that it is an event that rivals the entrance into puberty or the loss of virginity for dominance in a gay’s development. Acting alone or with another in gay sexual thoughts or acts, can easily be denied or ignored, but when we come out to a friend, it seems to materialize.

Your first hag* sets a standard for what we come to expect from a friend, as they walk that oh-so-subtle line between soul mate and co-dependent. They are the stand-in for any event requiring a date, are the only ones allowed to tell us how we really look when our shirts are too tight, our pants are too low, and our hair too closely resembles T-Boz (not that I would know). All future girlfriends, and perhaps, boyfriends will be measured against the love, support, and gratifying acceptance of our delusions, that our first hag* provided.

After I came out to her, we were inseparable, though both in school and in neighboring towns, with different schedules and commitments, almost every weekend was spent together either downtown or on campus, tiptoeing gingerly into adulthood. I never worried that I wasn’t the most important man in her life, in fact, after college graduation we’d be embarking across the country to seek the fortune and fame our talent seemed to guarantee would make us successful in LA. But life had other plans.

In college our friendship had grown strained with the distance, my semesters abroad, a non-stop carousel of new college friends to distract me, combined with her life and career, and our paths began to divide. She made it to New York a year before I arrived; reunited with the boyfriend she’d been separated from. I came up alone, on the heels of graduation, not sure what the future held for me and even more unsure if it held anything for us.

Life had brought us to the same city, but we couldn’t have been more different. Our brief reunion resulted only in empty promises to get together again soon, stay in touch, and perhaps recapture what we’d lost. Somehow on our road from inseparable friendship, we’d found a way to live in the same city, entirely apart.

Until last Friday, when my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I flipped it open to a picture message of a diamond glittering on her ring finger, with the text, “I’m engaged bitches!” emblazoned above. It didn’t seem unnatural to respond, offer my congratulations, and ask when next we could get together to celebrate.

It is the appropriate season for us all to give thanks for those who helped us take those first few steps out of the closet. Her support made me feel like the best of life was yet to come, and I hope the same is true for her. No matter where our hags* may roam, different continents, the next room, or the other side of town, they may still want our approval as much as we needed theirs. I take pride in knowing that I can say I was that girl’s best friend, and now she was given one to keep on her finger.

*So this word does not sound derogatory ‘hag’ hereby stands for: Honestly Amazing Girlfriend.

Originally posted on 11/11/08 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/11/11/everybody-does-it-you-never-forget-your-first-hag/#more-2702

Choose or Lose

2008-11-06T10:41:00.000-08:00

The last time I walked home from my friend’s house, after a party she threw for the Super Bowl, cars drove by honking and cheering for the Giants. Though I have always been more interested in the commercials, fried foods, and beer that accompany the big game than the event itself, it was fun to get caught up in the excitement and reverie of the neighborhood, and celebrate the home team’s victory. But we were all merely spectators; none of us did anything to contribute to the outcome of that game. As I walked home from the same friend’s house on after she hosted an Election night party, though my hood was a bit more sedate then some, even the smiles on the faces of the young people I passed imbued me with a sense of camaraderie. I felt like we were all part of a winning team that had elected Obama, even if they hadn’t voted for him, or voted at all, as Americans we would all be greatly benefiting from the majority’s decision.

Forgive the obvious allusion, but dating today is so often like the election process. When we aren’t reviewing potential candidates online, analyzing their activities, photos, and group affiliations, or vetting them as potential running mates through their quotes, educational and work information, and ‘about me,’ we may be actually getting to know them in person over dinner or drinks. In either case we’re looking for someone who matches our values and interests, and can keep us happy for the term of a relationship. The apparent differences being that our choice for mates is seemingly endless (though nevertheless barren simultaneously), we never know just how long a term we’ll be electing them to, and the real kick in the ass, they have to choose us too.

When a candidate runs for office they have the benefit of a team of advisors and strategists that carefully cultivate and tailor their image to target key demographics and important voting pacs. We or at least I am forever plagued by the fear of the image I am presenting. Social networking and dating sites allow you to share as much or as little of yourself as you’d like, but still fail to give any complete representation of a human. In this sense we are a lot more like politicians than we care to believe. We choose the pictures we make public, for better or worse, list interests and activities that profess our intellect or reveal our vapidness, and we pick and choose our friends and group affiliations carefully or cast our net as widely as possible to appeal to a wider demographic.

Whether your online profile represents you accurately or not, or we’ll ever be able to know a politician the way we know our best friends is open for debate, but even on dates not one of us can claim that the topics we choose to discuss, the stories or embellishments we disclose, or the personal info we reveal, doesn’t usually fit within the mold of the person we’d like to present as a viable candidate for happily ever after. First dates are like job interviews with alcohol, and the fun doesn’t truly begin until some time later when we begin to feel like we can be ‘ourselves,’ whatever revelations that entails.

Unfortunately for politicians they are forever locked in a first, second, or third date state of mind. Whether for their personal privacy or the desire to appear constantly in control, we are given only brief glimpses of their personality, and even that is oft manufactured for talk shows or special appearances at diners and barbecues across the nation. But I suppose it makes sense because we vote for them to take a position that we don’t want or aren’t qualified to fill ourselves, so we’re not meant to know how they are in bed, despite our curiosity.

I’ll remember this election for the rest of my life not just because of its historic nature, or because it was the first time I pulled the lever in person, but because it is the first time I felt like I was partly responsible for helping change America for the better. A good candidate, like a desirable lover or boyfriend imbues you with confidence that your life is about to improve. Though I’m saddened that so many Americans found it fit to legally deny the legal manifestation of our partnerships in their states, I am optimistic that it is only a minor setback on the road to vast and positive change, not just for New York, but for all of America, and that’s something we can all cheer about.

Appeared originally on 11/6/2008 on http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/11/06/everybody-does-it-choose-or-lose/

Playing House

2008-10-22T14:19:00.000-07:00

When I was in 2nd grade I got married on the playground. Her name was Lauren, and it’s fair to say she was one of my first loves, at least a close second to Missy, whom I explained in Kindergarten what sex was (or what I thought it was) when we got to share the class tent at nap time. You see, I’ve been doing this for a long time, in fact I explained sex to my entire class in third grade, quite clinically and accurately I might add, like that kid in Kindergarten Cop, but I digress. I don’t recall much about our wedding day except that it was spring; the trees were in bloom, and next to our impending First Communion, planning our Honeymoon was of utmost importance.

Why little kids act out adult rituals or situations would probably not take a child psychologist to explain. As a means for understanding their world, children constantly are encouraged or decide on their own to care for stuffed animals and dolls, play with miniature cars and sporting equipment; even fake kitchens and restaurant supplies seem to rank high among items in children’s playrooms. Kids learn the basics of being a grown-up from a young age and seem to relish the responsibility of preparing a meal of rubber eggs and imaginary tea for their teddy bear.

Growing up I was always in charge of what we would play. During the summer we built forts down by the creek and I would direct my neighbors as to the best method of grass weaving and stick placement to make our makeshift domiciles inhabitable. Other times our favorite game was office. An old phone, my children’s fax machine, and an encyclopedic catalog of chemicals and supplies my father had discarded, was all we needed to run our business of creating a Noah’s ark style bio-dome. Our business trips were bike rides around the neighborhood, or simply sitting on the couch in the living room, and we would even go next door to my neighbors’ kitchen for ‘happy hour drinks,’ apple juice for beer, grape juice for wine. We’d sit back and talk about our workday, and then don our shawls and capes from the dress-up bin, which I demanded we wear for such outings, and head back to work saving the world. At this point it’s a relief that you already know I’m gay, lest any of this sound the least bit surprising.

Looking back, these games and scenarios seem more than surprising, but downright extraordinary for a group of seven, eight, or nine year olds, to build elaborate forts in the basement and pretend these homes they constructed were under the threat of wolves and other natural enemies not actually present in a Midwest tract home community. But I suppose like any adult scenario we’d divined from movies or television it seemed just as likely for wolves to attack our make believe homes as it did for a three person office to be in charge of the construction of a bio-dome.

Since I only briefly even lived in an apartment while I was in college, I didn’t recapture that sense of whimsical adulthood until I moved into my own place last year. Though the subtle thrill that accompanies being on one’s own, making dinner, cleaning up, and making a home, wears thin after a particularly hard day at my real office with real fax machine, or post real happy hour in the wake of co-worker revelations and poor decisions that can’t be covered up by an old shawl or cape. Nevertheless, sometimes that call to autonomy, that was only the faintest whisper when we were young and still relied on our parents to take care of our actual needs, can be the siren’s wail that keeps us afloat and strong in the sometimes-mundane existence of adulthood.

Perhaps some of us approach relationships in the same way. The first serious boyfriend we encounter allows us to play out every fantasy of domesticity we have practiced since we were old enough to tie our own aprons. In times like this, in a city like this, no one can deny the simple comfort of taking care of being taken care of by another. But does this signal our true arrival into adulthood, or do we just use these new relationships or even casual paramours as partners in playing house? Are some of us so eager to assume the roles we were programmed to fulfill that we settle for the first person that can tolerate us consistently? Are these just playground matrimonies, doomed to fail when the realty can’t live up to the dream?

It’s funny how work and setting up a home didn’t turn out all that different than I had imagined. The technology is better, and my commute is a little bit longer, but I don’t recall that our game, like my job, ever changed that much. I’ll never forget the day I married Lauren, or the necklace I bought for Megan in the 5th grade, or when I knew that I would never pretend to like a girl again. But I’m grateful that my ideas of love have moved beyond tradition and what we believe is expected of us. We are lucky that when we find that someone, not just someone to play house with, or plan a pretend honeymoon to the far side of the playground, the promise of real matrimony and to see our own kids serve rubber eggs and imaginary tea is no longer just a fantasy.

Originally posted on 10/22/2008 on http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/10/22/everybody-does-it-playing-house/

Sticky Sweet

2008-10-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

“Your cum tastes sweet,” he told me after my Saturday morning blow job. Barring all pretense of conceit, I am used to graciously accepting compliments for attributes beyond my control, but this was a new one for me. I was dumbstruck, not that it was insulting or I suppose a surprising thing to be told, but by the fact that my jizz was deemed sweet. I crave cheese and salty snacks when the afternoon slump rolls around, only accept dessert at birthdays, weddings, or three course meals, and even drink diet soda because I find regular to be too decadent. I take no special health measure to ensure the savoriness of my spunk, so if I had to guess I would assume it to be every bit as salty and aggressive as my diet and attitude.

They say that blowjobs are like the gay handshake, but what happens when you find yourself spending time with an ex whom you obviously already know quite intimately, when a BJ is out of the question, a real handshake seems too informal, and a kiss on the cheek can still feel a bit forced? In today’s culture it seems that most often attraction, physical chemistry, and sexual compatibility form the foundation for our relationships, so when those elements are removed, how do we even attempt to rebuild a connection?

Every time we get in bed with a new guy we silently or verbally establish rules as to how things will proceed. What we want to do, how we want to do it, and where we want ourselves and the other person to cum are summarily communicated and performed. When it comes to oral, some prefer to spit or swallow, others don’t want cum in their mouth at all; some want to have it on their face or chest, or use it after as their own lubrication.

No matter the outcome, or rather how it comes out, the constant for straights and gays is that a BJ is in lieu of or at least a precursor to sex, when anal sex may be out of the question with a one-night stand or new love interest. What varies for us, or so I hear and would like to believe sets us apart, is that oral falls by the wayside as hetero relationships progress.

But after our relationships fall apart, unless you jump right back in bed with your ex at the moment of reconciliation, the water is much muddier, and expectations are impossible to chart. Oral communication is difficult enough, much less the thought of digging through the emotional baggage of the break-up to find an easy way to unpack your passion and unzip your pants for one another again. Despite your attempts to remind or force yourself to forget, that he is the person you spent many enjoyable nights, mornings, and afternoons with in bed, you can’t always see past the wall of hurt and anger you built between yourselves.

I recently spent a day with my ex in the park, quietly reading, and chatting about whatever topics floated into our heads. We acted the part of a couple relaxing in the park, alternating my head on the small of his back or stomach, and he so on mine. But even the bright sun and clear sky could not make anything seem more clear or defined. It felt unnatural not to be touching, but to be touching in such limited and unaffectionate ways. It was like a scene from a soap opera, the main characters both suffering from amnesia, yet have some vague sense of connection to each other, but can’t quite put their finger on it.

Towards the end of the day we hastily left a gazebo we were using to dine on burgers and fries when we realized it was to be the scene of a wedding. We moved to sit only 20 feet away so we could still observe what we assumed was about to be a gay wedding, until of course, the bride showed up in her pristine, white dress. For a reason unbeknownst to us, they held a mirror, reflecting their opposite profiles in our directions, and after a short while, another hetero couple was joined in holy matrimony. It was almost too ironic to be sitting there with him, the first person I told I loved and meant it, with that scene reflecting towards us, to see another one of our assumptions about the future dissolve, just yards of where we first said goodbye.

By the time the wedding had ended and the dozen or so guests departed the gazebo, I knew that this is how it would be. From now on there would only be talk of his or mine, no longer of ours. But unlike that day a mere six months ago when I left the park, shaken, stunned, and perhaps too in shock to be sad, I felt content as I departed. Not every scene can bear sentimental significance for its voyeurs, nor will every clear sky or shiny mirror reflect an honest portrayal about what lies beneath the surface of its captives. Uncertainty about another’s feelings can leave a taste just as bitter as a break up in your mouth, but if you are determined to move on with life it’s nice to discover that the sweetest surprise of all can be yourself.

Originally appeared on 10/14/2008 at www.homo-neurotic.com

Something Old, New, Borrowed, & Blue

2008-10-07T10:46:00.000-07:00

They say that every bride must have four things on her (or his) wedding day: something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. We know this because it has been repeated and used for comic effect in movies and television shows our entire lives. Though I don’t think they ever explained it, and I won’t bother to research and share the history of this arcane tradition, I would like to argue that perhaps these four metaphorical items, most often manifest in jewelry, garters, handkerchiefs, etc. represent the constant presences in our love lives.

Though maybe it can’t be said about every day, weekend, or week in our lives, it is hard to deny that whether you are single or in a relationship each of these themes appears on a somewhat regular basis, whether you are plagued by ghosts of relationships past, constantly trying to keep up with somebody new, borrowing your coupled girlfriend for brunch and shopping, or bemoaning the bouts with depression brought about by loneliness or boredom.

We are all products of our past, and though we continue to grow and change over time we can’t help but tote the baggage of past relationships and experiences with us on each new date. It can sometimes be hard to determine if it is our fear of history repeating itself or our own cowardice to move forward that allows us to bring our past into the present. Nevertheless, a visit from an old friend who knew us in a different stage in our life can be a welcome reminder of just how much we have grown and make us more confident in moving forward with whatever life has to offer.

In New York, hell, even in New Canaan there is always someone or something new. A benefit can garner a few new contacts and potential ‘great on paper’ dates for the following work week, while a weekend evening out can introduce us to people and neighborhoods we never thought we’d come in contact with, much less become enamored with. The single greatest luxury of youth is the never-ending pursuit of exploration, which so beautifully encapsulates our experience of sex, dating, and romance in the city. Until we resign ourselves to becoming jaded about the implications of a stranger’s address, occupation, age, religion, or any number of attributes we swear we’d never allow again, every new someone is cause for excitement.

When we aren’t borrowing a girlfriend for a day of girl talk, our friend’s shirt for a night on the town, or a cigarette from a stranger foolish enough to smoke alone outside the bar, we are constantly bartering physically and emotionally, nary with the intention of returning things as they were given to us, if we return them at all. If it’s not a stranger we pull into the bathroom to screw while his boyfriend is passed out in bed, it’s hooking up with an acquaintance’s childhood, closet-case friend, or a best friend’s sister we enlist to solve the resulting dilemmas. Like a leased car, the dealer or lender never expects them to return in the same condition they were lent, if they even consented to the lending in the first place, but it is with the understanding that we have somehow invested a bit of ourselves in each transaction, both parties coming out a little behind.

It goes without saying that every single or half of a relationship goes through periods of depression or anger. Whether it is merely our balls that are blue or our hearts, these phases can be painful, destructive, and ultimately the times for our character to be tested and revealed. It is only when we reach the bottom that we can gaze up and clearly determine what it is that we want. The clear blue feeling of self-awareness or dull ache of our testicles can help reveal where our life should lead.

Some old things or people will always resurface to weigh us down with fear of what may happen again, but some may buoy us up by reflecting how far we have already come. New boys, friends, or neighborhoods, can change not only the way we think about our city but the way we think about ourselves and what makes our heart pound. The city shares its lovers and its haters, and though there is always interest to be paid on the loan, these experiences may just help prepare us to own. The blues may come with the territory that accompanies each of the recurring themes in our love lives, but without each we would never be well-rounded enough to accept ‘until death do us part.’ After all, what good is a tradition that the gays can’t subvert, dress-up, and make distinctly their own?

Originally posted on 10/7/2008 on http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/10/07/everybody-does-it-something-old-new-borrowed-blue/#more-2389

Weathering the Fall

2008-09-30T12:52:00.000-07:00

My brother left New York more than a decade ago, and returned for the first time last weekend. He came back to find that he could barely remember exactly where on his block he had lived. The East Village is now capped with a luxury high rise buildings and nicer restaurants than he’d known in his time there. Though he wasn’t surprised to see what had changed, throughout the weekend he continued to wonder what his life would have been like if he’d stayed. I surmised that at 31 he’d probably still be single, or at least not married with two kids, as he currently is, and also that he’d probably not have wanted to stay in his tiny apartment, which we all thought to be a dump back then, even though it is now quite desirable address for people my age.

It made me wonder too what my life will be like if I remain in this town for the next decade. Will I still remain scraping by in an apartment in the eastern boroughs, and consider every 2 week to 2 month relationship as significant as the marriages my friends from back home and high school rushed into after college? Their marriages may take years to unravel, resulting in relentless analysis and heartache, but in New York our love lives seem to barrel along the path to destruction much faster, allowing us to pack countless romances into the space of our twenties with as much acumen as we pack a lifetime of belongings into studio apartments.

Not long ago I celebrated my official one year anniversary of living here, and predictably, on the surface not much has changed. My apartment and my income has progressed only slightly, and though I had my first brush with love, my romantic landscape is still primarily littered with first dates and one night stands and is plagued by drought more often than flooded with potential everlasting monogamy. If there were a Farmers Almanac equivalent to dating in the city its forecasts would most likely not vary from year to year, yet would remain steady from season to season until the crop of available men had rotated enough to allow for hearty relationships to flourish.

Weathering natural disasters and crop failures is the life of a farmer, and as we head into a recession we may have to learn how to do just the same. The city’s yield of desirable bachelors in the world of finance and banking are now being hit the hardest, and those of us in the low paying realm of media who expect them to keep us afloat in times of famine, may now be forced to pick from our own field. I often envied my friends whose careers afforded them more fashionable addresses, clothes, and dinners out, but now it seems to be a privilege just to be employed.

To say that this has no effect on our love life is very naïve indeed. Serial dating can be quite costly and the stress of going Dutch at dinners or drinks may make us want to give up the practice altogether. Like those who are happy to cling to their positions while the market sorts itself out, I now find myself most envious of those in relationships who have a significant other with whom to weather this storm. I once read on a guy’s dating profile, or perhaps this was on TV, that if you offer to make me dinner for our second date, I’ll think that you’re cheap. If that’s the case then maybe a first date may be something to avoid as well.

So in these troubled times, what’s a lonely gay man to do? Going out to the bars may be too costly if one is trying to live on a budget, and dates more once a week can add up to much more than one would spend eating at home. The internet offers the opportunity to meet and chat for free, but with the caveat that it’s never as good as the real thing.

Now is the time that we band together as singles, throw parties and introduce each other to our friends. It’s in all our best interest to find someone to brave the fall and the fall-out with, so why not think of new and creative ways to spend out recreational time? A box of wine, a case of beer, and a handle of vodka can certainly fuel a party, and you may just meet the man of your dreams in your friend’s crowded apartment more easily than in a crowded bar.

My brother wonders what his life would have been like if he’d stayed in New York, and though his favorite haunts and home have been altered beyond recognition, I can’t help but feel a little bit jealous that he got out when he did. The high cost of dining, shopping, and drinking in the city is a lot easier to bear when you know you have someone waiting at home. But even when times are tough in the city, you never know when the weather will change, and we won’t have to face the heartache or eons of analysis that would accompany leaving the city we have come to love.

Originally appeared on 9/30/2008 on homo-neurotic.com

Lira for Love

2008-09-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

Before I ever set foot in Italy, I had heard of the Trevi Fountain. Like the Statue of Liberty, or Eiffel Tower, it is one of the iconic landmarks and most popular tourist destinations in the world. But unlike Lady Liberty or la Tour, I had absolutely no interest in visiting it. What eventually enticed me to go see it during my four months in Rome, in addition to my parents’ insistence, was hearing about the legend of its coins. Being a sucker for astrology and superstitions in general, I was thrilled to learn that it was commonly believed that throwing coins into its depths could not only ensure that one would come back to Rome, but also find love.

From the outset it seems obvious that the promises could take years to be fulfilled, and my only case example I had was my parents. They waited more than 2 decades before they returned, and though they had already found love, their marriage endured and flourished throughout that time. So with nothing but a couple cents to lose, I tossed the pennies over the appropriate shoulder and hoped for the best. A few weeks later, one of my best girlfriend’s in Rome, best gay friend, an American studying for a year in Germany, came to visit. She had told me about him before and he and I had even chatted online before his arrival, but whether we would connect in person was yet to be seen.

The very first night we shared a bed together I had one of the most intense orgasms I have ever had in my life. Perhaps it was a result of the complete lack of sexual attention I was receiving in Rome, or just the culmination of the anticipation of our meeting; but I have come off dry spells and met guys I’d talked to for ages since him, and it has never felt like that. I took him on a tour of the city, showing him the gardens, the ruins, but I saved the Trevi for last. A few days together was all we received but I was eager to see just how powerful that brilliant fountain and a few copper coins could be.

The rest of my time in Rome was a whirlwind. The weather got warm so weekends were spent relentlessly shopping, going to the beach, and exploring any sites we had missed in the city. Evenings were spent drinking and dancing the night away. By the time it was over it felt like the shortest semester of my life and I was reluctant to say goodbye. The boy was to remain in Germany where he would be studying through the summer and following semester, but had promised a trip to New York where we could once again rendezvous.

At the time I was still living in DC and had never been to New York without a parent or chaperone, so I was excited to get to know more of the city on my own and more about my American fling in Rome. The evenings we spent in New York, were certainly fun, and as satisfying as I recalled, but something was definitely missing. Back in America, in the humid awfulness of New York in July, it seemed less like amore and more like a mess. He flew back to Germany having dismissed me as immature and incompatible, and I returned to DC finding him to be prudish and uncompromising.

In a way the promise of the legend of the Trevi Fountain is no different than our modern methods of seeking love. When I eventually return to visit Rome I may attribute it to the fountain, to preserve some notion of whimsy in an otherwise scientific world, and though love may have thus far eluded me, I would like to think that the promise of my second coin will also be fulfilled. For six months I foolishly threw money into Match.com, believing their mantra of ‘it’s ok to look,’ and never knowing who might be found. The money spent definitely kept me coming back to the site, and perhaps I’ll find myself back on there again someday. The second coin was to find love, but they never said how long that’d take. Perhaps if we believe enough and invest enough in all the dating sites available, the man of our dreams will materialize.

No matter what legend or marketing campaign in which we choose to put our faith, one cannot deny the inherent romance of a Roman affair. It doesn’t have to blossom on the cobblestone alleyways of the La Città Eterna, but a chance encounter between two strangers that erupts into a brief yet memorable affair is the stuff of mythology and Audrey Hepburn movies. I shall never regret my Roman holiday trist, though hope the storied fountain continues to make good on its promises. Though I guess when you’ve only spent two cents, unlike Match.com, you can’t expect a guarantee.

Originally posted on 9/23/2008 on http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/09/23/everybody-does-it-lira-for-love/

Public Displays of Gayness

2008-09-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

I had a threesome in a hot tub when I was 22. It was spring break, and I was in Palm Springs, CA. I was staying at an all-gay-men’s hotel with one of my friends from work. While the stranger we brought home from the bar attended to us, I noticed that one of the hotel owners was watching us through the bushes, and then more brazenly right next to the hot tub. Usually one’s reaction might be to grow shy and insist we take the party to a more private location, but at that time, and in that setting I did what I think every young, gay man, freed from the mores of society would do in that situation. I arched my back, pursed my lips and locked eyes with the voyeur while the stranger went down on my friend and I.

There is a mentality about public displays of affection that every gay man is at some point forced to address. Those of us fortunate enough to live in a big city where gay couples are more predominant may think less about kissing our boyfriends, or our dates on the street, but for so many others it is not even an option. When I first came out to my family, my mother, not surprised by this revelation, was chiefly concerned that I would end up wounded or killed if I expressed this sort of affection for another man in public. My immense naiveté at the time shrugged this sentiment off as simply ignorance on her part and an example of just how outdated older generations’ thinking could be.

But even in the sleepy little town of New York City this issue persists. The decision to hold hands with your lover or walk arm in arm in even the gayest of neighborhoods is usually not made lightly. Though one would not give a second thought about a man and woman kissing and touching in public, except to occasionally think they should get a room, gay couples are still not afforded the luxury of expressing themselves however they may choose without some nagging doubts about how they will be received.

This is evidenced in the stories or news reports about a gay couple being violently harmed for expressing affection in public, but is more commonly expressed in the hearts and minds of individuals. To walk hand in hand in public is to make a statement that declares oneself as a minority. If the classic photograph that heralded the end of WWII on VJ day was of two males, it would have only been seen by a select audience in a Chelsea gallery, rather than being known the world over. To be gay and in a public relationship forces us to constantly reenact our coming out.

Though it is nowhere as bad as it once was for us, the stigma still exists. The reason that places like Fire Island and Palm Springs even exist is that they were a haven for gays who wanted to have the freedom to be themselves, including being affectionate with other men in public, a freedom that they didn’t always feel, even in the rainbow friendly locales of New York and Los Angeles. These havens weren’t just about sexual debauchery and moral abandon, as they are sometimes viewed, but about self-expression that doesn’t necessitate a feeling of bravery or defiance in a heteronormative world.

The truth is that gays and straights alike can gag at the sight of public make-outs and lovers’ hands resting in each others’ back pockets, but heterosexuals can generally perform these actions without fear. I think it is fair to say they take for granted the fact that they can express their feelings wherever they so choose, unless they are part of an illicit relationship. Even so, would denote that gay relationships are reduced to status of illicit, though the Supreme Court deemed them not, more than a decade (yes only a little more than a decade) ago, and most people (I would hope) would not consider them to be so.

So perhaps it is just the notion that we continue to perpetuate in our heads that keeps us from feeling comfortable with PDA. My ex-boyfriend was wary about kissing me outside his apartment in East Harlem, and I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious when we would kiss on the subway. Every town is not Palm Springs, and even if it was I wouldn’t necessarily advocate sex in public. But in the warmth of the desert night in the bubbling water of the hot tub I didn’t feel an ounce of shame for what I was doing. If only everywhere could feel as liberating, then every day would be hand holding, kissing; our very own BJ day.

Originally published on 9/16/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/09/16/everybody-does-it-public-displays-of-gayness/#more-2132

Déjà Screw

2008-09-09T06:28:00.001-07:00

Déjà vu is described as the illusion of having previously experienced something actually being encountered for the first time. Though I sometimes have this uncanny feeling that the scene before me, no matter how mundane or common, is something I’ve seen before in a dream, déjà vu is stil lnot quite as unsettling as déjà screw: the uncertain feeling or absolute assertion that the person you just fucked was someone you have actually encountered before. Like the French term that precedes it, this sensation may sometimes only be an illusion, clouded by alcohol, drugs, or blind lust. The encounter may only appear to be the same, but in the gay community, these occurrences are not altogether uncommon.

It is important to realize that déjà screw is not exclusive to just sexual encounters. Every day and night we face the possibility of running into an ex, a former fuck buddy, or a one night stand. If we are sober enough to maintain composure and remember their name, awkwardness can usually be easily diffused with a nod of the head, perhaps a casual smile, and noncommittal wink. It’s enough to acknowledge their presence and not be forced to engage in forced pleasantries or small talk.

Other times we willingly stroll back down memory lane and revisit lovers from the past. Usually their technique is unaltered, the progression from making out to descending kisses in a neck to ear to nipples to navel and beyond remains as classic as our parents’ Joy of Sex how-to guide for hippies. And our déjà screw reminds us why we psychologically repressed them in the first place. If they surprise us, and go beyond our expectations, then it isn’t déjà screw at all and we are freed to begin replacing our old impressions of their inexperience with new, more pleasurable encounters.

In either situation the experience of déjà screw is always initially uncomfortable. We’ve put on weight, and forgot to trim; he still tastes like cigarettes, and you aren’t drunk enough not to care. Every repeated encounter offers an opportunity for redemption, but like LSAT scores, they will still be averaged with any previous attempts. Even if we’ve learned to perform like a porn star, will he ever be able to forget the time we came too quickly, or passed out before we could uneven undress?

Like any good made for TV offer, I would like to think that my love life should be satisfaction guaranteed. I often give former lovers I feel could have done better, a second chance to show me what they got. Call it desperation or laziness, but I think we can all admit to being intrigued by a guy who comes back months, or even years later. It is never quite long enough to forget the bedroom scenes entirely, but usually long enough that we aren’t completely opposed to repeating them. Some guys have appeared so out of left field and from ages ago that I wasn’t even able to recall whether I’d even seen them naked. They have definitely been on the bench long enough to come out and play.

But there are some experiences we know we’ll never want to relieve, whether for the damage they caused to our lower digestive system or our hearts, a déjà screw encounter would almost certainly evoke more pain than pleasure. Though we may flirt with the idea when we see them out or online, a brief recall of their offenses should dissuade this notion.

When we find ourselves in the déjà screw scenario in which the scene resembles a former hook-up and only the other leading man has changed, we also must reassess how much of a part we are playing in the recreation of these scenes. It’s not fate that saw me tumble bleary eyed into the Sunday morning sunshine, exiting yet another Chelsea penthouse, but my own subconscious desire to recapture a feeling of decadence and dismissal.

Déjà vu is also described as dull or boring, and disagreeable. The feeling is universally considered to be unpleasant. I think we can all admit that though a déjà screw can be fun or even quite pleasurable, because of the memories and feelings it recalls, it will never satisfy the same as a fresh start with a new crush. We may find ourselves in new places or with new people but if it feels like the same routine then it is definitely time for a change. The literal translation of déjà vu is “already seen,” and I can’t think of a description I’d like to be applied less to anyone I call my lover.

Originally appeared on 9/9/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/09/08/everybody-does-it-deja-screw/

Chapter 1

2008-09-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

It’s funny to hear how two people met. I know before we said that this is something you should avoid asking any new couple, but alone, when you’ve had the chance to drag your friend away to grill them on their crush it will most certainly be one of the first things they confess. We met in the Starbucks line, on the subway, around work, during a friend’s party, online, after church, on the street, and every other preposition followed by clichéd location. I don’t think it’s funny because the account of their coming together is every very humorous, but because it will be a story they will always have to tell if it works out, and the story that will be hardest to forget if they break up.

Over the last three years I have written about dozens of guys that my friends and I have encountered. Each one of these guys carries with them their own special story. How we met, what we did on our first date, and eventually why it didn’t work out. Now, over the years I have given (or at least attempted) to give these guys clever nicknames, if not malevolent monikers, and most of you would never know who they really are, in fact the guys themselves sometimes don’t notice. But I, and perhaps a few of my closest friends, remember each and every story behind the story. Right now I keep them in my heart and mind as a timeline, or table of contents, I guess, of my love life. But if a weekend at home with my entire family taught me anything, it’s that someday these will be just minor footnotes in my ghostwritten unauthorized trashy tell-all biography.

Going back home is always a bit like stepping into a time machine. Being the youngest of four, it was impossible not to feel like the baby around my siblings. But over the holiday, weekend, maybe for the first time, I just felt like myself. A year out of college and supporting myself in New York, they no longer seem to look at me as their crazy, gay, younger brother, bound and determined to take a different path from them. For the first time, reliving the stories of their past, made me feel a whole lot better about my present.

All of my siblings are married, the oldest for 11 years now. So I can’t claim to know all her stories of single hood, but their histories have slowly trickled down to me at holidays, weddings, and other events that bring us together. I started to learn that the further they got into their relationships and marriages, these funny stories from the past seemed to become less special, if not a bit more sad. The most important first-meeting stories are about how they met their spouses. One was a spring break romance; only a Disney meant-for-tweens movie could do justice. The next a brief romance and sudden marriage that grows ever stronger, and the last may never have been after my sister ditched her eventual husband at the bar when they were first introduced.

Nevertheless when faced with their only single sibling the desire to play down their married/parental contentedness rises to the surface. We talked about how many frogs they kissed, or in some cases how few, how certain, how uncertain, and how scared they were when they thought they met the one. But like a bottle, broken on the patio at our BBQ, brushed carelessly into the lawn, navigating the back yard of even our fondest memories can cause unexpected pain. When reminiscing becomes more masochistic than nostalgic, it is definitely time to move on. Even if the very person your reminiscing with is your ex or your closest sibling.

Perusing old columns or chatting with exes online is a naughty habit which I, like others, sometimes succumb. I like to remember how they all began, because for unsuccessful relationships that is the best time. When you have a new crush and you have no idea if it’s going to work out, if he likes you, or is even a bottom. The good times, before you end up inevitably disappointed or apathetic. I like it when it’s a cliché story, because it makes it seem so forgettable when it doesn’t work out, and it’s what would make it feel like a fairy tale if it leads to a lifetime of happiness.

I wouldn’t say that my siblings feel they are living in a fairy tale; marriage still takes work, as does raising kids, and paying the bills. But I would say that we each look at each other with a mutual sense of longing and relief. Relief that neither of us has to be in the others’ shoes, and longing to see or remember what it’s like.

It’s funny to hear about how people met, because it will be the one thing that you’ll want to tell your progeny, and the one thing, no matter how many beginnings I write, that I will never forget. I’m just grateful that we are given so many new opportunities to start new a story.

This post appeared originally on 9/4/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/09/04/everybody-does-it-chapter-1/

Diving Into the Game

2008-08-26T07:34:00.000-07:00

The Olympics came to a close on Sunday. Personally, I’ve given little thought to these events in the past, but was enthralled with the stories of victory and defeat, not least of which the gold medal win of Australia’s 20-year-old Matthew Mitcham, who held the distinction of not only defeating the heavily favored Chinese divers but was the ONLY openly gay male athlete at the games. It was nice to see the out and proud Aussie take the gold — though the silver may have better suited his fair skin tone. Still, the whole Olympiad just made me think of sex, or rather my lack there of. With the solos, the duos, the teams, the “water sports,” spandex, and the relentless parade of perfectly toned bodies, the Olympic Village must have been a veritable Shangri-la for Mitcham or any of the closeted competitors.

Unfortunately, the Olympics fell far short of the abundant and gratuitous porn one can find online to really satisfy any carnal yearnings. The nightly barrage of chiseled abs and taut pecs reminded me that these sporting events too closely resembled the challenges we face on a more consistent basis — the challenge of dating and maintaining relationships in an age of up to the minute updates. Whether on TV or on your laptop in the living room, the man of your dreams seems to be within reach, but the games we play in the competition of love, often keep us from the podium of happily ever after.

Any casual viewer of television sitcoms or romantic comedies, (I assume that to be anyone reading this column) knows about ‘the game,’ its apparent ‘rules,’ and that no matter how closely played or followed, how it’s next to impossible to win. Like the tie-breaking guidelines for women’s gymnastics, ‘the rules’ of the game are both arbitrary and unfair. They ask us to go against our better judgment and emotions and force us to agonize about making the wrong decision. In an age of constant communication, they tell us to be aloof and unavailable. When we are falling head over heels for someone they dictate that we play it cool and act like there is something else we’d rather be doing.

The decathlon may seem like the ultimate torture for many, but anyone who has agonized over when to send a text message after a second date knows that playing ‘the game,’ can be even more exhausting. So why do we put ourselves through it? The game seems to be designed to ease ourselves and the object of our affection into a relationship that neither may truly wish to be a part of. We heighten tension by becoming aloof, and replace genuine affection and growing interest with a competitive drive to successfully woo the unwooable. Am I the only one that sees the flaws in this plan?

The only way to truly win in love is to abandon the rules that contradict nature. Every new relationship is built on the chemistry and spark between people. If we think we have to stifle the flame by screening calls and delaying emails, then how do we ever expect the relationship to grow into an Olympic torch-worthy blaze of glory? If our heart tells us to text immediately on the way home from the first date, than why should we wait the mandated three days? If the other guy felt the same way too he would be elated by your openness and excited to book the next date sooner rather than later. If the pursuit is too eager or off-putting than he can drop out of the race, but at least you’ll know after round one that he won’t be making it to the finals.

I love the spirit of competition and I love the thrill of victory, but I’m also a fan of instant gratification and honesty. I don’t have four years to wait and see if maybe we’ll make history. I don’t want to cautiously play on a team round after round, only to be knocked out at the last minute.

In the game of love we’re all like divers, jumping into a pool of uncertainty. We have our best moves, and lines prepared, our funny anecdotes and touching sentiments. We enter each round of dates ready to take it just a little bit further, hoping to impress the judges with our grace and skill. The game may be rough, and the rules may be set, but if lovely Mr. Mitcham has taught us anything it’s that we never stop diving. It may take until the last round, but with the same relentless spirit and our own set of rules, a gold medal romance, or a steamy locker room scene even, may not be just a fantasy.

Appeared originally on 8/26/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/08/26/everybody-does-it-diving-into-the-game/

Romantic Arson

2008-08-19T07:42:00.000-07:00

It’s been more than 30 days since my ex’s last email. I know this for a fact because in the months following our break-up, my frustration at his refusal to stop communicating with me resulted in my not simply deleting his emails, but having them automatically filtered to Trash. In a daily moment of weakness I would check the Trash and when the final email appeared I crafted my last response and polite request to cease and desist. Emails that find their way into your Trash, which are few in the age of unlimited storage space, are automatically deleted after 30 days. Rather than just permanently delete them myself, I decided the 30 days would be a test for both him and I. My Trash is now empty…success?

Even though we are all now children of the internet age, we were raised with certain notions of romantic souvenirs. Nary a romantic comedy, sitcom, or drama is without the ritual exchange of presents between lovers. We watched after school teen queens horde scribbled love letters from their high school sweethearts, and the gentlemen of the original silver screen clutch dropped handkerchiefs of the lady that struck their fancy.

Throughout adolescence we adopt this habit of assigning extraordinary value to ordinary things. We press and dry flowers we’d have otherwise dumped. We save cards, movie stubs, and matchbooks, because they are the tangible proof that each date and milestone took place. But when everything can be more easily stored online, real love letters are all but obsolete, and space in our tiny apartments is at a premium, what happens when hearts are broken and relationships dissolve?

The tokens of affection that were exchanged and cherished in our favorite shows and movies were summarily destroyed when the relationships ended. It only took Cher Horowitz a quick click of the remote to light the gas log fire that destroyed the towel that Ty saved from Elton. Phoebe and Monica nearly burned their apartment down in their Valentines Day attempt to purge their lives of memories of former boyfriends. Even Carrie Bradshaw suggested to get rid of any photo where you look happy and he looks cute. Is physical destruction of these mementos the surest route to sanity?

I saved the little notes he wrote when we first started dating. I saved the tickets and business cards of movies we saw and restaurants we visited. For months dried roses sat on my desk at work, and the ultimate romantic gesture, a giant vase he gave me on Valentines Day remains perched atop my bookshelf. Inside were 999 tiny paper cranes he’d folded, and one additional piece of paper he asked me to write a wish on for the 1,000th. Though I don’t recall exactly what I wrote, I know I still want it to come true, even though he was not the one to grant it.

I haven’t sought to destroy these tokens of romance, and perhaps I never will. In addition to these mementos, I also starred the email that Facebook sent me to confirm when he requested that we be “in a relationship.” After blocking him on that site, and sending all his emails to trash, though it might sound strange, I felt like I’d done enough destruction. After a month of being out of touch, at a time when no one is out of reach, I feel like I’m finally ready to start again. Like a forest after a wildfire, emptying the trash has cleared the way for possibility and new growth.

Our apartments may be small, but our hearts are big, and the internet has unlimited space to store the friend requests, wall posts, bumper stickers, messages, and maybe someday the confirmation email of a relationship request that will allow the world to see we’ve found love again. It may not sound as sweet as a sonnet, or glint as bright as a diamond, but our inbox charts the progression of our romantic lives as sentimentally as a shoebox of post-marked letters. We’re just lucky that if scorn incites the urge to destroy, we are far less likely to be convicted of arson.

Appeared originally on 8/19/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/

Accommo-dating Socialites

2008-08-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

Our celebrity-obsessed culture has made it harder to date than ever before. Every budding ingénue is a socialite, accommodating every young hunk and his entourage thinks they are the reincarnation of the Rat Pack. A society of status has filtered down to the masses through the ubiquitous social networking sites. I will admit, I am a self-proclaimed socialite, but I accept both the good and the bad that the moniker implies. A socialite at their best prides themselves on numerous and diverse social cliques and interests, at their worst they are nothing more than vapid, fame-seeking whores who subsist on being seen. Though catfights abound, historically, socialites are most in crisis when they attempt to enter relationships. Their sole persona has been crafted from their singularity, so it’s no surprise that becoming comfortable as a couple oft meets with limited success.

Case examples of this phenomenon are documented in every Hollywood weekly and gossip blog, where celebrity couples are scrutinized until they end in eventual heartbreak. Proof that one cannot exist in the public eye as both an independent half of a pair is exhibited by these publications’ predilection of combining the two stars’ names into something cute and clever like Brangelina. For us commoners our relationship ups and downs are charted on the news feeds of thousands of our closest friends and stalkers.

I recognize the fact that I will not be gracing the cover of US Weekly in the near future, nor will I have to worry that Perez will out me to the world, I took care of that myself. But you can’t deny that no matter who you are, you sometimes feel defined by whom you are dating. The truth is that every new potential mate forces us to express the qualities we feel they’ll favor, and suppress the traits we worry they may disapprove of. This may not be a groundbreaking revelation, but I think it’s time we’ve examined our propensity of ‘accomo-dating.’

It’s no mystery that we all try to put our best foot forward when it comes to dating. When I date an older guy I want him to take me seriously, and find me intelligent and mature. For outdoorsy guys I’ll talk about how I love to run and be out in nature, even if this usually means a treadmill and the patio at my favorite bar. No matter what his interests, I will find a way to cater my life experience to make it seem like we’re a perfect match. The trouble is that if our conversations remain restricted to those narrow topics I will quickly lose interest, or he’ll begin to realize I may not know as much as I portrayed.

The whole point of online dating was supposed to have made all of this easier. You list what interests you in every category imaginable, you can upload countless photos, add applications, videos, news stories, or anything that strikes your fancy, but yet it seems like it’s never been harder to get to know who someone really is. The more filters and criteria I create for the type of guy I’m looking for, the more frustrated I become with the options available.

So what’s a lonely homo to do? The last (and probably only) successful relationship I had with a guy online I thought would never go past a first date. I found his profile to be so contrary to my personality that I assumed we’d meet for a drink and go our separate ways. Though it did eventually unravel, I was pleasantly surprised with how much we had in common and it was unbeatably attractive to meet someone who exceeded my expectations. Perhaps the key is to avoiding examining all the little details we share so openly online and ask someone out who may just say one thing that intrigues you. If the conversation doesn’t progress from there then just call it another loss.

We may all think we’re celebrities in this internet age, but we can’t be afraid to challenge the way that we view ourselves and others, and more importantly to be brave enough to allow others to see us in a new light. Sex and dating aren’t about accommodating to suit the whims of another, but about discovering new things we haven’t considered trying and sharing our passions with another. It doesn’t mean we’ll be compatible with everyone, but we will take those lessons with us to the next relationship.

After a weekend that saw me celebrate the birthdays of three close friends in a large gay club, a small house party in Brooklyn, and a private karaoke room, I need a man who’s energetic and adaptable. If Lindsey Lohan can go from curvy, nascent, sex kitten on the arm of Wilmer Valderrama to the skinny, strung out Mrs. Ronson she is today, there must be a guy out there who isn’t afraid of a little self-reinvention. Maybe next time I’ll meet the one that changes me. I just hope his name sounds cute when combined with mine.

Originally published on 8/12/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/

Jurassic Parking Lot

2008-08-05T08:57:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school my first boyfriend asked me to take his virginity. Our relationship chiefly consisted of hooking up in the back of his Ford Explorer in parking lots and garages around town, so this was no romantic, candle-lit scene. That night, atop a garage downtown, where the lights glinted from the buildings towering almost eight stories above ground, he asked me to be his first. Since I was still a virgin in both ways that count, I didn’t feel like I could grant his request. We broke up before we ever went all the way, but it wasn’t long after that we both found other parties to make us men.

For some reason I feel like every sexual relationship I have with someone exists within a frozen moment in time that wouldn’t make sense if reintroduced into my current life. Like the mosquitoes trapped in amber, if our past love affairs were extracted and allowed to run amok in our current lives, surely they would wreak more emotional damage than the velicoraptors of Jurassic Park.

Nevertheless, it’s easy to fool ourselves into thinking that if properly cloned these former trysts could flourish in new cities and stages of our development. If timing is everything, then who’s to say that this time it might not work out? Hindsight is 20/20 so we should be able to analyze what went wrong before and do our best to avoid a second extinction. Unfortunately, I would have to say that successfully revitalizing relationships is more the exception than the rule. We’ve all heard stories of high school honeys or study abroad sweethearts reconnecting after college, but for every couple that makes it, at least four are doomed to fail again.

Never was this more evident than in a recent visit with a paramour of mine from college. A year older than me, he sought me out when I was a sophomore, and for two years we would meet sporadically, often months and months between, for hours of conversation and manic, almost tantric hook-ups. Like my first boyfriend, we never went all the way. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had a long-term, older boyfriend or we just never got around to it, I never really cared, because even without sex our passion was like a wild bonfire, more likely to destroy and delight, than provide any practical purpose. When he graduated we called things off, like the good adults we hoped to someday be, but we never lost touch.

A few months ago his long relationship finally ended and so, besides distance, it seemed like every obstacle had been pushed aside. It was decided we’d get together as soon as we could. When the time finally came, we lost ourselves again in conversation and launched into our usual routine, only this time passion gave way to fatigue, and neither of us could really think of a reason why it was so necessary to cross that line we’d drawn so long ago. Even in the wake of possibility and a guilt-free conscience afforded by singleness and adulthood, our connection had been tamped down to a camp-fire: a gentle comfort to warm your hands, and reminisce around, a calming resource we now took pride in keeping under control.

A couple years after I graduated high school, and I was back in my hometown for the holidays, and I couldn’t resist the urge to call my ex. I don’t if I wanted more for him to see how I’d changed or to see how much he had. That night I learned he’d changed quite a bit, but told me me how I’d been the most special guy he’d ever met. I realized how many special people I’d met since him and couldn’t help but just feel sad, for many reasons, but also partly that I hadn’t taken his virginity when he offered; it might have been my chance to share it with someone who truly cared about me.

We didn’t sleep together that night, although I think he may have wanted to, but as we sat in the front seat of my car he still looked like that 18 year old guy to me, the one who first told he loved me, a week after our first date. There was no way I could mutate that pure, puppy love experience of him into just another one night stand.

Most relationships aren’t meant to continue sexually in the future, if you’re lucky you grow to be friends. Even if the temptation persists to finally cross that threshold, just remember: an unfulfilled fantasy is the only insurance from disappointment or the destruction of an island resort by prehistoric creatures.

Originally posted on 8/5/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/08/05/everybody-does-it-jurassic-parking-lot/

What's Your Sign?

2008-07-29T10:45:00.000-07:00

SIGN LANGUAGE — For weeks now it seems that my horoscope has been setting me up for disappointment. It has promised success at work and in my personal life, and extolled the virtues of patience and humility while these blessings come to fruition. If these stargazing fools knew anything about Capricorns they would realize that patience in the promise of reward is not an attribute that characterizes our stubborn, type-A personalities. As a disciple of Gay Astrology I have never felt more closely defined by my sign. So if these scribes of my chosen religion believe that my immediate future is to be blessed, why am I so hesitant to believe?

Something I have noticed is that gay men seem to be more adherent to the principles and practices of astrology than others, but why? Around the world your country, family, or autocratic government may seem to predetermine you for a particular religion; but the zodiac is all encompassing and arbitrary. It requires no baptism to be an Aquarius, no special ceremony on your 13th birthday to declare yourself a Sagittarius, it’s as simple as a range of dates your birth falls in and the way the stars aligned at that special time to determine what course your fate would travel and your personality would develop.

So do the gays love the inclusiveness, the idea that your star sign, like your sexuality, was gifted at birth, another trait out of our control? Or the fact that its system of belief not only fails to demonize our sexual behavior, but also doesn’t bother to overtly state we are to be accepted?

My roommate can tell a loathsome Cancer before they ever share their sign with him, his resentment for these summer birthday celebrators runs so deep. I sometimes shudder when I discover a boy I’m interested in shares the sign of certain exes. I may even think better of allowing the relationship to continue. Is it all in our heads or do the stars really dictate our fate?

I hadn’t compiled a list of my best lovers and cross-referenced with their particular sign, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if some similarities emerged. But now I know it was a nasty Scorpio that took my virginity, a proud Leo who first captured my imagination, the forward Taurus who first took my breath away in bed, and the slippery Pisces who first stole and later broke my heart. Each as different as his sign, I can’t help but wonder what each says about my sexual appetite.

I don’t think Gay Astrology or any of the zillion columns and books on astrology can answer this for me. If astrology can teach us anything about ourselves, or our love lives it’s that the stars are constantly changing. One night Mars may rise in Venus’s house and the next he’s going down on Uranus. Our many loves and lovers may be born under the house of Saturn or the banner of fall, but it is up to us to listen to own inner astrologer and chart our course for what makes us feel ecstatic and satisfied.

“What’s your sign?” is a pick-up line that is seeing a resurgence, at least in my life recently. We may not always be happy with the response, but keep an open mind, just like that the stars may change, the planets realign and you can find yourself in heavenly bliss. It may fade when the stars disappear with the sun, but as long as the universe continues to shift and adjust, our possibilities for love and lust remain as endless as the skies above. And that’s something you could never say about a fortune cookie.

Originally appeared on July 29, 2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/07/29/everybody-does-it-whats-your-sign/

Head of the Class

2008-07-23T07:03:00.000-07:00

I was 17 when I gave my first blowjob. When it was over I asked him, the 16-year-old jackass whose backseat I was currently leaned across, if it was ok. He shrugged his shoulders, paused for an eternity and said, “Yeah, it was alright.” I may have been an amateur but I knew that was neither the average, nor desired response. I later found out he’d moved to my town because of an alleged affair with a male high school teacher, so it’s fair to say he’d probably had better and more experienced blow jobs before.

For better or worse, anytime you pick up a new skill, or add something to your sexual repertoire you are eager to try it again. As a newly minted non-oral-virgin I guess I was no exception. Although I didn’t run out to blow every guy I could get my twinky hands on my senior year of high school, I will say the decision to perform the act on a new paramour took significantly less soul-searching than it did eventually to decide to go all the way. It was like I had learned the perfect one-liner, or a simple slight of hand that no one could figure out; I had a new party trick and I was eager to try it out.

My high school boyfriend probably benefited most from my eagerness to put my DSL’s to use. The back of his Ford Explorer in a parking garage or lot was usually the scene of the show and the only reason it seems significant is since I remained a virgin our entire relationship, this was as far as we went. He is my 4th longest relationship to date, so I had plenty of time to perfect my skills before graduation.

That summer, no longer a virgin of any kind, I still wasn’t eager to don a condom for just anyone. I began to hit the ‘scene,’ tragically laughable in the small town I lived at the time, but it did allow me to meet a few interesting locals before I fled to college. One particular guy took me to a house he’d recently vacated. Since I’d had neither in my mouth before, the taste of beer and cigarettes as he kissed me made me want to vomit, but I composed myself and finished the job on the floor of his old, empty living room. The other standout, whom I actually dated for most of the summer, actually caused me to choke. Not because his girth was too much to handle, but because he exclaimed, “Don’t stop, get it, get it,” while in process. I started laughing so hard; I couldn’t finish.

Through college and the year that has followed, I have collected the stories of friends who’ve vigorously rinsed cum from their eye only to be accused of being high, who have burst into tears when a load hit their face, and who earned a reputation for keeping a diet coke can on their night stand for surreptitious spitting. My best friend’s older sister hosted a BJ clinic for us when we were underclassmen, and I sometimes was called upon to consult a wary girlfriend on the best suggestion for head and hand placement. I wouldn’t claim to be an expert in the theory or practice of fellatio, but my unrelenting thirst for people’s tales made me at least a very reliable secondary source.

So, after all these years of ups and downs, and downs and ups, you’d think that no situation could surprise me in the bedroom. I would generally agree with you if my recent long weekend hadn’t brought me right back to high school. No, I didn’t corrupt a young man or commit statutory rape over state lines, but had an encounter with a species that has (almost) entirely avoided me since I set foot on my college campus: The Closet Case.

He was a friend of my friend and my gaydar was beeping louder than R2-D2 in a lightning storm so I ignored her dubious claims that he was hesitant about admitting his sexuality. It was my first night in town and after several beers and a short cab ride back to my friend’s place, I later found myself alone with him. After our breath quickened and our touching became more localized, he pulled me into a nearby room. There I was again, in a completely empty room where neither of us resided; and he begged me to show him my party trick, one he was unwilling to perform himself.

This time I stood my ground, and let him finish the game by playing his own hand. Maybe after all these years I’m too much of a pro to fool around with amateurs; then again maybe I just didn’t want another jackass say it was just alright. After all, we may be significantly better than our harshest critic, but it’s our worst reviews that stay with us the longest.

Originally appeared on 7/22/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/07/22/everybody-does-it-head-of-the-class/

Staycations?

2008-07-22T07:50:00.000-07:00

LASCIVIOUS LOCAL – As gas prices climb higher and higher, local officials and politicians have encouraged people to consider going on ’staycations.’ The idea being that because of the high cost of travel, we should explore the attractions and accommodations in the nearby area. In most parts of the country this would probably sound a bit ridiculous since the local ‘attractions’ are a bit more limited, and for the many New Yorkers who deign to show their faces in Chinatown or the Circle Line when begrudgingly entertaining out of town guests, the idea of a being asked to stay in the city for vacation sounds downright outrageous. But it needn’t seem so distasteful. Despite the dozens of places you can reach for just a few dollars on the train or bus, there is also plenty of fun to be had without even leaving your neighborhood.

It is no secret that New York is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world and the most populated city in the country. Its endless stream of residents and visitors I discussed last week provide unparalleled opportunities for us to find people to meet, get to know, and get to know better. We may see familiar faces in our neighborhoods and bars, but it’s the new dishes on the menu that keep the city interesting. In fact there is such an influx of associates, interns, and of course tourists, during the summer, you are more likely to party with the same old people if you do escape for the weekend to Fire Island or the Hamptons than if you stick around. Staying in town puts your first in line to play host to these charming newcomers.

Of course there are many reasons we sometimes stay in the city for the weekend. Another reality about living in New York is that it is almost always someone’s birthday. The annual dilemma for just about everyone in this town is where is the best place to celebrate. Luckily, one of my more well heeled friends solved this problem this year by renting a suite at an upscale hotel on the cusp of midtown and Hell’s Kitchen.

When I was a senior in college, I thought my spring break trip to Palm Springs would be one of the last times I could in good conscience partake in any activities that resembled MTV’s Spring Break or anything produced by Joe Francis. But as all of you who have made that no so subtle step into adulthood know, having fun with your friends doesn’t end at 22. Just breathing the words ‘hotel party’ seems to immediately conjure images of debauchery, and this party did not prove to be an exception to that rule. Remove us from our overheated and undersized apartments and place us 49 stories above Manhattan with ample seating, air conditioning, and a full bar, and things are bound to get a little crazy. In the morning we were fortunate enough that we only needed damp rag, some carpet cleaner, and crazy glue, to put things back in order.

The best thing about escaping within your own city is that you can pretend for an evening, a weekend, or longer that you are only here to enjoy yourself. There is no laundry waiting to be folded, or dishes to be washed, and you can temporarily forget about the job you must return to on Monday. If you’re single you can take this opportunity to play the part of the sexy stranger or cock-tease tourist, because it rarely takes more than whispering in someone’s ear, “Do you want to come to my hotel?” to ensure you’ll be ordering room service for two the next morning. Of course, couples can also use this as a romantic getaway from the home they may share. What could be hotter than making love on sheets you don’t have to wash?

Even if you only end up crashing in bed with your friends, as eventually my two nights resulted, it’s a lot more fun to greet the blinding sun together as you make your weary, yet fabulous exit from a five star hotel.

No matter if you’re a little worse for wear, it’s comforting to think you won’t have to ever see that bed or room again if your ’staycation’ gets too carried away. Blame it on the summer heat that makes us the sweatiest city in the nation, the crush of people, or a decrease in clothing; but summers here can make you restless and reckless. It’s nice to know that when it happens there are thousands of hotel rooms we can go to escape, if only for the night.

Originally posted: 7/15/2008 http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/07/15/everybody-does-it-staycations/

Celebrating Independence, Throw Your Hands Up At Me

2008-07-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/07/08/everybody-does-it-celebrating-our-independence-throw-your-hands-up-at-me/

My Mini-Feed Says My Heart is Broken: Navigating Break Ups in Our Digital Age

2008-07-06T20:14:00.000-07:00

My column is now moving exclusively to homo-neurotic.com I hope you'll continue to read me there!

http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/07/02/my-mini-feed-says-my-heart-is-broken-navigating-break-ups-in-our-online-age/

Something Old, Something New

2008-06-16T20:26:00.000-07:00

Two weekends ago my parents came to visit so we could attend the wedding of a family friend upstate in the Berkshires. I didn’t know the couple or really anyone else who would be attending, but the promise of an all expenses paid weekend away with the added bonus of a black tie affair had me packing my weekend duffle faster than you could say …well faster than you could question whether 7 outfits were needed for one weekend.

Three hours, or a short nap later my parents and I arrived at our hotel and prepared for the ‘casual,’ rehearsal dinner/BBQ on the bride’s family’s country estate at the edge of New York and Massachusetts. Given the circumstances I thought a polo, jeans, and flip flops would have been dressy enough, until I discovered that except for my soon-to-be new best friend, also dragged by her mother to this wedding from the city, everyone was pre-high school, almost 30 (mostly married) or much, much older, and looked like they stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. My attire was on par with the teens they’d hired to valet the cars in one of their fields beyond the house.

Not to be deterred by this, I bellied up to the open bar and began my evening with Jack Daniels. My fellow city refugee and I hunkered down together for the evening and deftly hid our giggles at the endless marathon of toasts and tributes from girlfriends, older brothers, and mismatched band mates.

The thought of socializing with these kind of people is usually unthinkable in my day to day life, since I rarely converse with anyone who is even entertaining the thought of procreating, but something about being outdoors and the several generations in attendance recalled my own siblings’ weddings I’d participated in every few years from middle school until mid-college.

At my second sister’s wedding, (second of two, I being the youngest of 4 with a brother in between those two girls) I declared that it would be the last “Nichols’ wedding,” which at the time met with a mixture of laughter and nervous glances since I was 19 at the time and probably only half the attendees knew I was gay.

Nevertheless, as the evening wore on the sentiment and whiskey began to run its course and I became increasingly invested in the ceremony of the whole affair. I went to bed that night eager for the wedding and more importantly, the reception. After a day of playing tourist in the quintessential New England towns that dotted the hillsides, and convincing my father to purchase more than a few things for my apartment, it was time to return to our hotel, don our rented tuxes and witness the most lavish wedding we’d probably ever be invited to attend.

I would be lying if I said it didn’t live up to the hype. After we watched the bride and groom exchange vows under the hoopa at sunset on the crest of a hill in the backyard, we were immediately filed into a tent for at least a dozen different appetizers before the sit-down dinner, and of course the ubiquitous open bar. After cocktail hour we traipsed down the hill to the circus tent below and were treated to three courses and three hours of singing, toasting, dancing, and general celebrating. I don’t know if it was the 17 glasses of the Veuve Cliquot I had consumed throughout dinner or the three Ketel and sodas that had preceded it, but I found myself wistfully thinking about how my own nuptials would play out. I’d always imagined a small destination wedding on an island somewhere, so only those most important to me could attend, but having so many people come out to give their blessing and support for your newly founded union all of a sudden seemed so appealing.

I only recently realized how much lifelong commitment meant to me in my pursuit of relationships, and so I won’t pretend to have planned it out since puberty, but I think in light of new law in California and all over the country, every gay may be beginning to think that many more opportunities to express and celebrate their love are now available to them.

In that sense the weekend was bitter sweet. Sweet to be with two people who love me more than anyone, to be in the presence of newly minted love and commitment, and the warm embrace of their extended family who exuded happiness and support in every moment, yet bitter with the thoughts that this may still be an event I never witness in my life. A weekend that a few months ago I thought would be my parents’ opportunity to meet a guy I loved, that sounded like an excuse for us to eat great food, and laugh at silly traditions, became a weekend of self-reflection of how my life had changed, how my parents now saw me, and how I wanted it to continue from there.

I thought they’d want me to be settled by now, like my siblings had been at my age, but they see me for who I am as an individual and would never assign me value based on the failure or success of my relationships.

This weekend I will travel back to where I graduated high school to witness my classmate’s wedding. No, it won’t be as extravagant and perhaps not as elegant, but I am excited to yet again witness the exchange of vows and promise of eternal love. We all know these unions don’t always last forever, but at least in my family they have all done pretty well so far. I won’t worry about catching the garter or the bouquet, because everybody now knows that what I said at my sister’s wedding isn’t true, it’s my turn next.

Sex Teaches us About Labels, Love

2008-06-02T20:53:00.000-07:00

Like the legions of gals, gays, and whipped boyfriends the world over, I went to see the Sex and the City movie this weekend. Out of respect to my friends near and far who haven’t had the chance to view it yet I’ll keep my commentary spoiler free, but I would like to say that the movie did nothing to ruin the series that saw me through night after night for almost a year abroad, and guided the metaphoric arcs I strived to achieve in every one of my columns, and now this blog. Cynics beware: this movie, like the series, is about love. It opens with the idea that every young woman (and young gay?) moves to NYC for the two L’s: Labels and Love.

Initially of course I found this ridiculous. Yes, the show had always had heavy doses of fashion and was about the ups and downs (and ins and outs) of dating in NYC, but it was a bold and broad assertion to say it was what drew everyone to this city. Every year countless college grads move here with dreams of raking in the money on Wall St., publishing the next great American novel, being discovered as a new break out star and runway model, or merely to escape whatever circle of hell that small-town America was for them, and hopped the next Greyhound to the Big Apple. Very few of these brave and adventurous souls came here merely for the fashion, although it does quickly become part of your consciousness. Whether it’s the media frenzy surrounding Fashion Week, the red carpet premieres, boutiques, or Page 6, couture becomes hard to ignore, and personal style goes hand in hand with personality.

But perhaps it’s other labels that people come to NYC to don. The finance major wants to be a banker and hedge fund manager, the student who paints as a hobby wants to be known as an artist, the singer a star, the writer a luminary, and the small town kid maybe just wants to be anonymous. For others it could be to escape the labels that’d been sewn on their adolescent attire. The jock takes to the stage, the bimbo cheerleader exercises her PR prowess, the nerd becomes the stud with a penthouse, the Goth girl now guards the door of the hottest new underground venue, and that little gay kid finds himself in a field where his expertise is not only respected, but demanded.

My best friend moved to Shanghai under the mantle of “Bai Ni,” or “white girl,” that her college Chinese teacher had dubbed her. But has proven how valuable her Western experience can be in the fields of PR and Marketing. Perhaps it’s not the labels we seek to adopt, but what we do with what we are given that proves how well we can live up to our names. Either way, taking the leap from college to the big city or abroad does not guarantee success. A desire for reinvention opens the door for transformation, but it must be coupled with passion and hard work if you want others to see you for the real thing; otherwise you are just another Canal St. knockoff.

This is where love comes in. Sex and the City credits itself with imbuing young people with a desire to move to NYC, and that is probably part of it for many, but the reality is much less shiny than the illusion. Only a lasting and true passion for the city that never sleeps allows the strong to survive. For this reason just as many young professionals leave NYC for their home or college town, pleased with just a few years in the mythic home of Carrie Bradshaw. Those that come here and stay have found love share it with Ms. Bradshaw, a love for the city itself.

Like the trials and tribulations that I have oft discussed about dating and relationships, the city can wear you down or lift you to dizzying heights all in the course of a weekend. Some may label us as lucky, while we sometimes see ourselves as impoverished. We feel cultured and elite, and others think we’re foolhardy. But love is blind and sometimes we don’t notice how much a relationship has changed us until it’s over. If you move here just for the label of New Yorker, chances are a few years down the line you’ll hang it up in your closet and only briefly miss its concrete beneath your feet once a year when you come to the city for a girls’ weekend of shopping and shows. For those, NYC was a passing fancy and not a lifetime love. For the rest, it’s decades of apartment hopping, and social climbing, a never-ending cycle that never fails to reinvent itself just when you think you have the hang of it.

So how do we reconcile our motivation for love and labels, ambition and ambivalence? Is it possible to separate the desire to succeed in our careers and succeed at life in the nation’s most expensive small town? How long does it take until the label of New Yorker feels natural and authentic? And what about love? Is it impossible to manage relationships here when we are constantly trying to balance our commitment to the city?

Perhaps that is love after all. As Faulkner said, “...you don't love because: you love despite; not for virtues but despite faults.” There are many things to love, and many things to hate, but you live in spite of those things. One of the many virtues I will always love about this city is its seemingly endless opportunities to find new places, things, and people to love. Not to mention the countless chances to redefine yourself.

We may not all come here because we wanted to be relabeled, but we stay because we can. We may not have come to escape love gone sour, but to surround ourselves with people who know that both labels and love can be fleeting, so we might as lead a fabulous life, at least that’s how I would label mine, and yes, right now, I do love it.

Hand Me Downs Give me The Downs?

2008-05-22T20:05:00.000-07:00

As the youngest of 4 children you’d think that my entire life would have been nothing but hand me downs. In most families, toys, clothes, and furniture are passed along (depending on gender) from sibling to sibling until it is time to lock it away with the eventual hope of grandchildren. But since my brother is 8 years older than me, making the clothes he wore just outdated enough by the time I came along, and my father who found it easier to throw out our personal possessions and furniture rather than schlep it from house to house (we had a tendency to move around), I was blessed with a wardrobe, toys and furniture all my own. Nevertheless, the few articles I adopted from my siblings’ pile of throwaways became more prized and valued than the teal pair of Calvin Klein jeans I begged my mother to buy me from TJ Maxx. (I have yet to forgive her for this error in judgment.)

My sister’s sweatshirt, 2 sizes too large for me and her, is the only thing I want to wear when I have one of those hangovers that makes you feel unsuitable to walk among the living; any song I recognize by the Counting Crows I feel has been gifted to me by my brother, and even undershirts I’ve borrowed from friends or lovers seem more special than any of my own drab white v-necks.

Now it seems that my love of hand me downs stretches farther than my closet and ipod. I’ve begun to notice that the men I give my heart to all seem to be hand me downs as well. I don’t mean that my siblings or friends have passed their boyfriends along to me, but that every boy I’ve really cared about belonged to another, or was thoroughly worn by his previous relationship.

The first category is easy to explain. The classic draw of being ‘the other man.’ I have never refuted my oft tendency for ‘homowrecking,’ and I won’t defend its merits and inherent flaws. I will merely say that if the draw of the forbidden fruit was so easy to avoid than we’d all be naked and happy in Eden, but think of all the outfits we’d have missed out on! Loving the boyfriend of another man is easy when you are in love with the idea of affection without attachment. I love to wear my friend’s clothes out to a bar but dread the thought of staining his shirt or ripping his jeans. This trysts are fun because of the danger and wanton disregard for decorum, but must be handled with care lest the real owner notice the damage you’ve afflicted.

The second category is more difficult to explain because there is a nary a man (or woman) you will meet that is not in somehow affected by the relationship that came before, but I seem to have a special knack of choosing the guys that still communicate regularly with their ex, still hold the thought in the back of their mind that perhaps it may work out someday if the stars decided to realign and both parties fall prey to limited amnesia.

I love these boys because at first they look at me like a clean slate, like an opportunity to start over. I am the Ellis Island of dating. I adapt to their surroundings and make a genuine effort to rise above any first date’s expectations and morph into their dream boy. In that way I get to slip them on for the first time, see how it fits, if the threadbare elbows can be patched and the missing button replaced. But in my attempts to adapt to them I only begin to look more like the boy they’ve already thrown away, or whom had already thrown them, and when I look in the dressing room mirror I don’t recognize the guy before me, although he resembles someone I once knew.

What makes hand me downs so desirable is that it’s easy to escape the blame if the relationship fails. The previous owner can always be held responsible. I love that my sweatshirt is worn and comfy, but I now despise the thought that someone else had to break in my future boyfriend. Learning from past relationships is one thing, but being forced to repair the damage a previous boyfriend inflicted isn’t as emotionally profitable as fixing a hole in the seam of a Marc Jacobs shirt you fished from a bin at the Housing Works warehouse sale.

So hand me down a sweater you’ve simply outgrown or may have shrunk in the wash. Give me the CD you’ve already transferred to itunes, and by all means pass me the book you’ve already read and enjoyed. But I no longer want to share your boyfriend with you because you are too busy to notice we talk each night for hours, he’s too scared to leave you but not enough to abstain from fucking me. I no longer want the ex you swore you didn’t want until you saw how good he looked on me and decided I wasn’t right for him.

When I was growing up I was rarely denied what I wanted. I was the only kid to get Jnco jeans, my own credit card to 6 stores in the mall, and a new car. Is it too much to ask for a guy that treats me like I’m the only one he’s ever loved? I refuse to believe that ‘the one’ can be handed down. Although, I do really love that sweatshirt.

Unexpected Fantasies

2008-04-22T20:34:00.000-07:00

George Bernard Shaw said, “There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.” I wasn’t even aware of this quote when I titled my Senior Thesis project “The Disappointment of Sleeping with One’s Fantasy.” Borrowed from the novel I was focusing on, Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex, my title expresses Bernard’s same postmodern dilemma. Why do our real life experiences seldom live up to our fantasies? Are those with little or no imagination never disappointed? Is the only antidote to tragedy lowering our expectations to a point where even the simplest surprise is cause for celebration?

Birthdays, holidays, presents, trips to Grandmas, movies, toys, and picture books: so many things we instinctually enjoyed growing up begin to not only lose their luster as we age, but increasingly turn into sources of anxiety. We stress over what to buy, what we get, who to spend it with, who was there, what so and so thought, and if it was all worth our money, our time: which suddenly seems like the most precious commodity of all. The magic of Santa Claus is lost and we begin to direct our disappointment at real people. Our expectations of their contributions plague our ability to be appreciative.

As we move into adolescence, our expectations continue to fall on real people, but they take on a fantastic quality once again. Every teen movie depicts the nerd lusting after the head cheerleader, the awkward girl for the football player, and more often than not, they fall in love. Simple fantasies come to life, no different than the Disney movies that entertained us when we were young. We fall for teen heartthrobs and pinup models, kissing their posters in lieu of their presence. From afar, I fell for an author.

Most of us who end up in publishing and every English major in college, can tell you at the drop of a hat what their favorite authors and books are. These authors are rarely, if ever, objects of our sexual desires. If you even know what they look like authors are often awkward, nerdy, and usually old or dead. For a gay teen, the two categories seemed even less likely to overlap. But in one person they did. When I was 16 I discovered my favorite author in his first novel that described a high school experience quite different than mine, yet fraught with so many of the same underlying emotions I could barely breathe until it ended.

I followed the author to college. As I began to take control of my own sexuality, I mimicked the sensuality of his new character, navigating campus life and mastering Seduction 101. Before I became a bonafide ‘adult,’ my author revealed his personal struggle with vice in his third novel and I saw in the story the slippery slope abandonment of self-control could lead to, if I wasn’t careful as well.

To say it wasn’t a fantasy to meet this author would be a lie. To say I expected to seduce him would also be a lie. There was nothing calculated or smooth about the evening we first met. We played the parts we’d been assigned in reality. He was the author, I was the fan, he board member, me volunteer, he older, attractive, single, me younger and willing. Any other night it would have just been two guys who met and acted impulsively. But it wasn’t any other night, it was our first meeting in the six years I had known him, and the first moment he knew of my existence.

The next morning, I dressed quickly, and made my way down to the lobby via the two elevators it had taken to get to the top floor. I walked to the train as if it was any other morning, any other walk of shame, but it wasn’t. It was the morning after I had fantasy fulfilled, a fantasy I didn’t even know I had. Perhaps the very best kind of fantasy is one you never expected.

The next time we saw each other, we played the appropriate roles once again. He author, me acquaintance and fan of his work, we were friendly and casual, the way only two people who’ve never seen each naked but once can be. Before I could fantasize that the night would carry us any further, I headed quickly for the door. We now both had other stories to tell. I clutched a signed copy of his new book to my chest. I got exactly what I expected.

It’s funny that fantasies can leave us so dissatisfied and empty when they’re fulfilled. The excitement of intoxication is always dulled by our hangover. Falling in love for the first time, only to have it dissolve overnight is like waking up from a dream of a life we never thought belonged to us, yet miss more than anything.

I once heard that people afflicted with bi-polar disorder are more likely to commit suicide at the peak of their manic phase. They know how low they are about to emotionally sink. I think people who die of a broken heart do so not because their heart is broken, but because they fear it will never be whole again.

Our fantasies, our heart’s desire, our expectations and anticipation: they are so often ruined by reality. But without them, what would reality be? I suppose we can only hope it’s a series of unexpected fantasies, which may be postmodern, but definitely not tragic.

RIP Brad and Heath, My Girlfriends Loved You...and So Did I

2008-01-27T20:22:00.001-08:00

Growing up as a gay man doesn’t afford you certain opportunities that other adolescents typically pursue. Though most of your friends are probably girls it is still not acceptable to gush about how hot the latest teen movie or blockbuster heartthrob is. Your besties may understand you’re not like all the other boys but you still do everything in your power to avoid affirming their beliefs until you’re ready.
So instead of Josh Hartnett and Ben Affleck posters lining your walls you have to divert your attentions and mock desires towards the opposite sex. Since Cher, Bette, and Barbara are not acceptable pin-ups, you cultivate a love for the younger divas or current TV stars. My girl crush was Sarah Michelle Gellar. I was lucky that it allowed me to put up Cruel Intentions posters that also had Ryan Phillipe in them.
These fond memories of denial were brought to the surface in the wake of the tragic deaths of Brad Renfro and Heath Ledger. In middle school my best friend loved Brad Renfro. I think we saw Apt Pupil in the theater at least twice (which is no small feat, I’ll tell you) and I listened to her constantly gush about how dreamy he was. In high school she became enamored with Heath (as so many young ladies did) with his breakthrough role in 10 Things. One friend was so committed, that in the notes we passed, the code name for her current crush was always a play on Heath’s character in the movie, Patrick Verona.
Talking about these guys with my girls was the only time I got the chance to express even the smallest inkling that I shared in their affection. I wanted nothing more than to be able to tear posters from Tiger Beat and post them on my ceiling. I had to content myself to hoping no one would notice the lip prints on Ryan Phillipe’s face, that smudged the poster on the back of my door.
After high school, and coming out, it was now acceptable to share the same crushes with friends, unless they got irate when you continuously insisted their favorite was actual a closet case mo. Then you just have to let it go and let the ladies go on believing that his ‘confirmed bachelor’ status is because he’s waiting for the ‘one’ which she hopes will be her.
But with Heath’s role in Brokeback he became more than just the teen idol your friends worshipped in high school. He exhibited a model of confidence with his sexuality and ability that made no one question his orientation. He also beautifully portrayed the silent struggle that accompanies denying love and passion, a struggle that for some men and women can endure a lifetime. Ironically (or perhaps not) Heath’s character is not the one to meet an early death in the film; it’s his lover that leaves him on Earth to mourn alone.
The final scene where he stands holding a plaid shirt, that his lover had kept for so many years, evokes memories of those moments we recall a love we lost, whether it persisted for decades or lasted only an evening, and are left with little tangible to hold. Though these memories and experiences exist in the past, time seems to filter out all the hurt feelings, distance, feelings of regret or remorse, and sometimes presents a feeling so pure it feels as if you’ve been transported back.
Perhaps, it’s just called nostalgia, or perhaps I’m just a sap that hates to see young, talented artists go too soon. And though I am exceedingly sad Heath will no longer have the opportunity to make us laugh, make us swoon, or make us cry, I am quite glad that I will forever have the memory of the first time I saw Brokeback. Sitting in the theater with my mother, as tears rolled down both our cheeks, I knew she definitely understood our struggle and I began to understand the transformative power of love.
Though I don’t think I’ve experienced love with a man in quite the way it was presented, I am excited to see who the next heartthrob of my life will be. Until then, it is comforting to know that even an ex, out of touch for more than a year, would tell me that “you'll always have a soft spot in my heart... and a hard spot in my pants.” If that’s not an affirmation of passion, I don’t know what is.

Haunted By Our Feigned Affection

2008-01-16T22:08:00.000-08:00

In Anton Chekhov’s story, “The Lady with the White Dog,” is about an adulterous relationship. When the lovers first leave each other he writes, “And he thought that now there was one more affair or adventure in his life, and it, too, was now over, and all that was left was the memory…She had called him kind, extraordinary, lofty; obviously, he had appeared to her not as he was in reality, and therefore he had involuntarily deceived her…”
What strikes me about these lines is their ability to evoke the horrifically complex emotion that is tied to illicit, unfounded, or unintended affairs. Those starved for attention feast on the affection of another, even for one night, though they know, in parting, that it was never genuine, only a part played out by both parties’ mutual agreement to make sexual interaction not only seem allowable, but absolutely necessary.
In the past (as this blog and past columns can attest) one night stands occurred at a much higher frequency then steady sex with any one person. Though that has declined since moving to New York, there have been recent events that perfectly encapsulate this sense of empty displays of affection for the sake of maintaining a charade.
Though the young actor and I had never formally met ‘in person,’ our online conversations had ranged all over the map from silly and superficial to intimate and personal. So the decision to have him over did not seem like inviting a stranger to my home. After cleaning and preparing us a full dinner, we sat on the couch, wine glasses perched an arm’s length away and stared blankly at the movie. Though unlike two strangers seated next to each other on the train, it was initially as awkward as a junior high locker room. As we grew more comfortable, the movie got more romantic, the wine began to work its way into our blood or all of the above, affection came more naturally and before I knew it we were cuddling and kissing as if we’d been together for months or at least weeks.
After the movie our assumed connection extended to the bedroom but lacked the true heat or genuine desire and seemed more fueled by red wine, gratuity and general horniness than an innate connection to each other.
The next morning, as he dressed and left to go, I had that same sinking feeling Anton so perfectly captures, ‘I will probably never see you again.’ Though it sounds pessimistic, I’ve left my fair share of bedrooms and had others flee mine enough times to know the low rate of recidivism.
But the difference between my life and the story is that the characters in Anton’s story are separated by a distance of hundreds of miles with no means of communication, though the memories of their affair haunt them daily. We, on the other hand, are haunted by our bedroom ghosts in the multitude of sources online. I don’t want to harp about how much it ‘sucks’ to see an ex’s relationship status change from ‘single,’ or that though we have blocked them on AIM, we still see their pictures all over our friends’ albums, or that the news feeds inform us of their every move, and their ‘available’ status on gchat has the ability to burn a wider hole into our soul every moment they don’t send us a message, because we all obsess over these things enough. It’s enough to live with the memories of whom we’ve loved and lost but can be absolute torture when these are continuously updated by our nefarious technology.
Alas, what are we to do to quell the constant reminders of what might have been or what almost was? Should we shun the ubiquitous social networking sites, remove any ‘friend’ that’s entered our bed and block these offenders on each messaging service? Well that seems quite foolish; many of these conquests, defeats, and amiable truces are more if not only real to me because they exist online, whether or not our ‘friend details’ reflects the depth of our connection. We have the pleasure of triumphing in their failed relationships, their recent weight gain, or their apparent inability to secure a ‘real job,’ although we would never admit it. Nor would we admit that that the pictures of an ex and their new paramour make us want to wither up and long for the days when it was as simple as crossing their face out in our yearbook.
So these too remain, an inextricable part of our romantic lives. We keep them close so one day they can see how ‘happy’ we are, or perhaps can reconnect when they are suddenly interested in ‘whatever I can get.’ At the close of Anton’s story, the lovers’ reunion has been achieved but their future is still uncertain. “It was clear to both of them that the end was still far, far off, and that the most complicated part was just beginning.”
I was convinced the boy I dragged home not so long ago was a tourist, until he mentioned something about having to get back to Hells Kitchen in the morning. I thought for a local the “Thank You” note he left was a bit overkill for a one night stand, I must have been more generous than I thought. But his friend request on Facebook later proved that he was indeed from out of town. I guess that is one ghost that will only appear online, but the net’s ability to make even this slight reunion possible makes the task of moving on and finding love seem very complicated indeed.

So This is 2008...

2008-01-06T18:54:00.000-08:00

It’s the end of the first weekend of the New Year, and I can’t help but think of that holiday song, the one that begins “So this is Christmas, and what have you done? Another year over, a new one just begun.” It’s hard not too feel empty recalling those words. Taking stock of a year gone seems to force the mistakes, missteps, and failures to rise to the surface. Forget graduating college, moving to a new city, and landing a job, ringing in another new year single seemed the surest indication that 2007 had been little more successful than the last.
I know this is taking the pessimist’s way out, assuming all the other accomplishments are somehow cheapened by a perpetual avoidance and or inability to sustain a relationship, but don’t we always measure what we have in relation to what we lack? Sadly, I am not alone in this estimation. Many of my friends have seamlessly moved on from college, to grad school, careers, new cities and even new countries, but somehow we still finger love’s elusiveness as our greatest defeat. Perhaps when you surround yourself with scholarship recipients, TFA professionals, law school candidates, and Chinese language immersion students, it’s easy to feel like an underachiever. But it’s not our professional achievements that cause discord among friends. We support each relentlessly through work’s ups and downs, but seem to divide when it comes to relationships. It is more likely to be success in love rather then life that complicates friends.
What has always kept us afloat though is the promise that each year offers new opportunities for change, for growth and achievement. That hope still exists, but when our year is no longer divided by semesters, new classes, professors, internships and the regular affirmation of good grades on papers, tests, and workshop critiques, what do we cling to bolster our fragile egos?
For many of us, we try to seek out new challenges at work, causes, organizations and opportunities to expand both our social and professional networks. There are the weeks when my calendar is filled with open bar soirees, cultural events and openings, filled in with the usual nights out with the boys, mandatory birthday party appearances, and the rare movie nights with a close friend. But how are we advancing our lives with these pursuits? We no longer have an academic schedule that varies from season to season, but our lives remain uncertain nonetheless. We slip into a post-modern social stream of consciousness that allows us to temporarily forget our professional responsibilities in favor of the attending the next event where we might make a new connection, a new friend, or maybe, a new object of affection.
My father likes to gush about how he read that ‘my generation’ is the most ‘connected’ of all time, and I pretend that the analysis of our communication skills is not surprising to me, but the truth is that it never fails to astonish. We spend more energy seeking out that drunken reveler we talked to in line for the bathroom at the party of our co-worker’s best friend’s boyfriend on facebook than we do updating our resume. Stop me if you think that is a stretch, but my network of ‘friends’ seems to grow exponentially every week, and my resume may remain unchanged for the next year and a half.
So we carry on, professional accolades both material and not, stack high on our head, while our hearts remain heavy. It’s 2008, and what have I done? Well I was recently tagged in at least have a dozen photos; I added two new friends to my network, updated my profile, and wrote on a few different walls. I have no idea what my financial portfolio looks like, I’m not seeking a job change or promotion just yet, but I have a handful of parties coming up to attend. Who knows, I may meet more friends, my next boss or co-workers, or the love of my life. Like every New Year, each event can only be hedged with that song’s timeless lyrics, “Let’s hope it’s a good one, without any fear.” If only it could feel that simple.

A New Beginning, or Doomed to Repeat My Mistakes?

2007-10-03T22:04:00.000-07:00

Approximately two years ago the first column I sent from London was published. At the time I had embarked on my second semester abroad with a renewed commitment to exploring everything the city had to offer, most importantly its men. Ironically, the column was about masturbation.

At heart, like any regular reader of my column would note, I am overwhelmingly independent. My college years were spent floating not just from city to city, or even from man to man, but also through varying circles of friends. More significantly than my ever changing hairstyles, my progress can be charted each semester, stage, and year of my life through the company I kept.

Tonight I re-watched one of my favorite episodes of Will and Grace. Will and Grace had decided to have a child together, but Grace backs out before she becomes pregnant to pursue a man she had recently met. At the end of the episode they have a dramatic fight that lays bare the underlying corrosive nature of their co-dependency on each other, and how Will delights in Grace’s misery that results from failed relationships. It is scary for me to watch not just because as viewers we become invested in the characters’ lives, happiness, and relationship, but because it hits so eerily close to home.

Though no one girl or guy best friend can be singled out as my Grace, I can see my tendency to inwardly celebrate the friends whom are single, and place a wall between my friends who become involved. Never committing to a boyfriend myself, I move like a yenta or parasite from single best friend to the next available host body, attaching them to myself as my newest and most prized accessory. The old best friends become like worn out necklaces one begrudgingly puts on when nothing else will do for the night.

When had I become so cynical about friends taking significant others, and reevaluated their commitment to me on these criteria? Although I could guess, this would be impossible to pinpoint. Every wedding I have attended recites the same biblical verse about the time coming for a man to leave his mother and cling to his wife, but it is more the case of leaving one’s friends to cling to a partner. This ultimate transition from adolescence to adulthood had somehow consistently eluded me, and I am someone who places maturity next to intelligence and on humor on my list of attributes.

Now my life begins in a new city, my circle of friends mostly (ok, almost wholly) populated by unattached young professionals like myself. What will it take to break from my habit of clinging platonically to the arm of my single best friends, and find comfort in holding the hand of another? If I can’t make it happen here, can I make it anywhere? Or is this blog just fucked from the start?

Please peruse my archived columns from the first two years of ‘Everybody Does It,’ and come back often to read updates on my adventures (or lack there of) in the Big Apple.