The History of My Sexual Orientation...PART ONE

So, in the beginning, there were no men. The women were God. For the first three years of my life, I was raised by my 19-21 year old single Christian mom, her agnostic mother, and my 70 year old Unitarian great-grandmother. Do I believe that a lack of masculine influence during the formative toddler years decides sexual orientation? Who the hell knows? I'm sure it can encourage tendencies that might have been supressed otherwise...

When mom got married, dad realized my bedroom had pink and white checked curtains, teal carpet, and a Rainbow Bright bedspread. He also realized that my great-grandmother had potty trained me like a girl. I was sitting down to pee and "blotting". Yeah, I said that. Do I think this was the turning point? Probably not, but again...who the hell knows? Coudn't have hurt the situation....

At age 10, I was molested by two of my cousins. They weren't hurtful or anything, just completely inappropriate. For a long time, I felt guilty about the activities that took place, only to eventually realize that since they understood what they were doing, and I wasn't mentally developed enough to really get it, they took advantage of me. I wasn't at fault. I'm not the least bit bitter or upset, though. In fact, we have great relationships now, and haven't mentioned it in 10 years. Is this what made me gay? Who the hell knows? Probably had a little do with it, in that it exposed me to activities that I would later grow to love...

More to come...

Missing My Vagina...

So, my Hag/Honey/Female-Other-Half has been in Alaska visiting her b/f, who works there. Unless she calls me from a satellite phone, there's really no way for us to talk. Since she lives 2200 miles away from me, I'm used to not seeing her, but this complete lack of communication is a bitch.

Anyone know any homo honeys that wouldn't mind filling in for awhile? My Vagina seems to be too busy for me...

;-(

Rollin' Wit My Niggaz...

So, I know that wasn't very PC...but that was my weekend... Besides, as I mentioned earlier, I am now White Chocolate, and albino African American. Deal with THAT, byoch.

Anywho...my coworker (who for the purposes of this blog shall be called Sharqueetha) and I arrived in Atlanta on Friday afternoon at approximately 1:00pm EST. We headed to Budget so I could rent a car. Now, I don't know how many of you out there have tried renting cars as a 22 year old, but they charged me $23/day for the car, $25/day for being under age 25, and $10/day for using a debit card...Bitches.

We got a Neon. We weren't in said Neon for 5 minutes before Sharqueetha had found a suitable hip hop station and discovered that our little Neon could thump like a muthufukuh... We found our Hampton Inn and went our separate ways to get settled in. Two hours later, after Skipper told me to get off the damn internet and explore Hotlanta, Sharqueetha and I drove over to another co-worker's hotel for the open bar @ their manager's reception.

Now, most of you should know that while the term "Open Bar" is initially titilating, it also means that you're about to get served up the cheapest-ass liqour ever made, and large quantities of cheap liqour can mean large quanities of vomit...more to come on that...

After three hours and countless rum-n-cokes, we drove to The Cheesecake Factory to eat like crazy on the company's dime. And drink like crazy on the company. And 'drink like crazngy on the acompany. And drink like cra;asodng gdgon teh coap;nmany.... Well, you get the picture.

So, we decided it would be wiser to go to a club that was close enough to walk, as opposed to trying to drive... Our feet took us to Dyme. It is at this club, which also had an open bar, that I obtained the nickname "White Chocolate".

I first approached Charnise because she was there with her hoochie friend Kiki. Charnise was clearly not accustomed to this scene, and was not the least bit interested in the thugs and soldiers that wanted her. So, my coworkers first freaked out when I walked up to the shy girl, whispered something into her ear, and led her by the hand to the dancefloor and proceeded to dance like a damn freak for a half an hour. Little did they know that my pickup line was "You look uncomfortable here. I'm gay as hell, and my coworkers have no idea. I'm not here to try and hook up, I just want to dance."

Charnise gave me her number and told me she'd love to be my negro-hag in ATL. My coworkers thought I was pimp enough to get her digits.

Then there was Taniana. She was a freak from the get go. One of my more ghetto coworkers told me I could get the shy ones, but he didn't think I could get a ho. Hm. After I told her I like "hot dogs", Taniana danced all over me for an hour.

Got her phone number.

Last, and most memorable, was Nikia. Nikia actually approached me. I was shocked, and my coworkers were dumbfounded. Nikia was damn hot, if you're into the female species. She walked up to me and whispered into my ear "There's a few brothers in here that don't like you much because you're dancin' with their women, and a few who think your the shit for it." I responded, "For the first group, its their own damn fault. There's alot of beautiful ladies standing on this dancefloor alone. They oughta step up. For the second group...well...you want to know my secret?" "Of course," she replied. "I'm on a business trip. My coworkers have no idea, but I'm a complete queer. These girls aren't intimidated by me, so we can just dance and have a good time." With this, she grabbed me by the ass and said "Show this to your coworkers."

Well, you can imagine, she proceeded to dance like it was a Ludacris video. She found a way to asked if I had a man in Memphis and how long we've been together. She thought it was great that I dared to come into this "ghetto-ass-mother-fucker-of-a-club". She was hilarious. I got her phone number and will probably call her. She'd make a nice chocolate-honey...

The next day included shopping at Lenox Square, where, by the way, I found the full line of 2xist skivvies and purchased a few pair (god I'm so gay...), about three hours of work, another trip to the open bar at the Embassy, and thumpa thump all night at Insomnia. Insomnia was a little higher class than Dyme, complete with a brass pole in the middle of the dance floor and cages to dance in. For a second I thought about how great of a gay bar it would make...

I was tired and drunk and mostly just sat in a plush chair on the second level till about 3:00am. There was some dancing to the Michael Jackson remix and that time I did the splits while doing flashdance to Candy Shop, but other than that, I pretty much just enjoyed chilling out for the night...

I Am White Chocolate....

So, as you know I'm in Atlanta for the first time, on a business trip. When I get back to Memphis, I'll post full details of the honest-to-god insanity, but let's just put it this way: I'm the only white guy here, these people love to drink HARD, and I could get any piece of black-nubian-princess-ass that I want at these black clubs. Real females, not drag queens. Ironic.

Now I must go get my drink on at Vegas Nights. I AM WHITE CHOCOLATE.

What This Means To Me...

So, I'm gay. I know. Big surprise. But I've been thinking about all that means to me. Yeah, so my family and friends will have the choice to accept or reject it, and with it, me. But why should I stress about that? That's their choice. Their response doesn't change who I am or how I love. It doesn't change the way my God chose to make me. It was HIS choice, not mine....but I'm glad He made the choice He did for me.

Some gays choose to reject God. They decide that since they think the Bible condemns what it is that we are, they can't accept the Bible. Either you accept the whole thing as the infallible word of God, and accept that it doesn't allow for a man to love and care for and cherish and be one with another man; or you don't. No grey area. One or the other. No questions. No compromise.

Me? I think that's overanalyzing. Why should I spend my life saying that everything has to line up? Everything has to make sense? Love doesn't have to make sense. Life doesn't have to make sense. Guess what: I'm human, I have finite comprehension, and I can choose to accept that or not. It seems to me that so many people are living their life, trying to make EVERYTHING around them make scientific or theological sense. Maybe I'm romantic, but who the hell cares? Really. All that matters to me is to enjoy living my life in a way that helps other people, makes this dark world a little bit lighter, and involves unquestionable love. Does God judge that?

I'm gay. What is gay? Does it only involve sex? If being gay means that I spend my life popping ecstasy and fucking whoever will hold still long enough for me to prick them or ride them, then I would rather be alone. I will not waste my life away devoting my entire existance worrying about the next or the last cock. I won't be the next episode of Queer as Folk. Even though that show has taught me so much, as a young, uneducated queer with no opportunies to learn or people to teach me, I don't want my life to become that of Brian Kinney. My life is way too short and way to important to care spend it that way.

To me, being gay means nothing more than this: I will love someone. That someone will love me in return. We will share with each other the important things in life. We will share all aspects of emotion. My love will be no different than that of a straight person. If nothing else it will be stronger. Stronger because I will face opposition and ignorance as a result of my love. Stronger because I will face unjustified condemnation as a result of my love. Stronger because I am gay.

But my love is no different. It is the same emotion. It is the same chemical reaction. But more importantly, it is the same REaction. The same commitment. The same...fucking...love...

Homosexual. Bisexual. Heterosexual. Transexual. What. The. Hell. Does. It. Matter?

In a world full of hatred, judgement, indifferance and question; I choose to care. I choose to love. Does this merit condemnation? Should the world hate me? Does God hate me?

I don't much care. It is what it is. I am who I am. I love how I love. Accept it or don't. I don't care. I can't care. This is me.

Hotlanta, Here I Come....

So, I'm going to Atlanta on a business trip this weekend. Yeah, business trips on Easter weekend suck, but my entire family lives 2200 miles away, so its not like I'd be waking up to the smell of homemade biscuits and gravy and a basket of Cadbury Eggs and chocalate bunnies anyway.

I have a small dilemma. Nothing incredibly dramatic...but perhaps y'all can help me try to sort this out. I'm going with a group of 5 or 6 people from my company. One of the ladies going on the trip is a pretty good friend (in the office relationship sense). She and I have rented a car, as its the first time either one of us has visited the city and we're probably going to have quite a bit of leisure time to go exploring.

Now, as my dear friend Skipper has pointed out, Atlanta is the San Fran of the South. The Greenwich Villiage of Dixie. The Confederate Amsterdam. In short, the gays love it. Naturally, as an on-the-way-out 'mo, I'd kinda like to see some culture. Understand, I'm not going to get too crazy and pop X (its a business trip) or have a godparent threesomes (I love my man) or anything... but I would like to go check out the more fabulous side of things...

The issue: Not out to this coworker. And not really sure that I need to be. My closet-instinct says don't experience colorful Hotlanta this time. Stay away from the Crown Royal (Hotass will confirm, its my Truth Serum), keep the prancing to a minimum, and enjoy a good band or comedian somewhere. This is the most likely route that I'll take. The other option is to just spit it out to her, tell her how much fun she'll have with the queers, and take her chocalate ass to a disco. As much fun as that sounds, I'm not sure its a wise business decision...

Any advice/opinions?

I'm Such a Damned Drama Queen...

So, last night Roomy and I had the joy of a gay outing. Not an outing as in "of the closet" or anything, just six queers hanging out at a bar. It was grand fun meeting half of the Dynamic Duo and Hotass's Ranger. And of course, Hotass and Skipper were a joy. Now, on with the apologies and confessions.

I must confess, I'm a bit of a noisy drunk. I have a tendency to talk loud and talk alot. Most of what I say I mean, it's just the extent to which I offer it up. I'm quick to offer my life story and express in full detail things that some people might be uncomfortable talking about on a first meeeting. That said:

1) AJ, you're great. I appreciate you listening to my drunk ass all night and pretending not to be annoyed. I probably won't be attending the toga birthday party that I think I may have invited myself to (I'm not sure how that happened) and while I would like to offer congratulations on your upcoming "Big Day", you certainly shouldn't feel obligated to send me an invitation. I look forward to hanging with you again in the future, and I promise, I'll have one less martini.

2) Ranger. You're fabulous. It was an absolute pleasure to finally meet you. I think I told you to be nice to Gary like, 500 times. Not that you weren't being nice to him. In fact, you're probably nice to him 24/7. I have no idea. And I know, I know, Momma knows. Smile.

3) Hotass. You've now seen me tipsy three times. If you go drinking with me again and I annoy you, its your own damn fault! No, seriously though, I love you and your friends. Thank you for being patient and accepting and including Roomy and I as we begin our so-called-queer life together. You're one in a million.

4) Skipper, darling. I may have been drunk and noisy, but at least I didn't spill three drinks all over myself! Ok, that was hateful. Anyway, you're great and everybody knows it. And I didn't think your shirt was plaid. You don't have to be the Fauxmo's first if you don't want, but I will email a picture to ya. He's pretty damn cute.

5) Last, my dear sweet Roomy. You're still sleeping right now, and that makes me bitter. I love you and hope I didn't embarass you too much. They all probably like you better than me, anyway...

There you have it folks. Perhaps I wasn't nearly as dramatic as I think I was, but I had to cover the bases. If you guys weren't annoyed, feel free to disregard the above.... ;-)

I Know You're In There...

So, one of my best friends in the world had emergency surgery to remove a tumor on Monday. When I haven't been slaving away a the concrete plantation (work), I've spent five or six hours a day at the hospital hanging with her. By the time I get home, I'm totally ready for martinis.

Last night, Roomy dearest and I were just getting good and relaxed and watching Queer Eye when we heard a vigorous knock at the door. Now, I'm all for socializing, but its relatively uncommon for us to have people showing up at 10pm on a Tuesday. Roomy was walking around in his underwear and I was shirtless in a pair of warmup pants. Immediately, we realized that our upstairs neighbors probably didn't enjoy hearing the Fab 5 as loudly as our subwoofer was thumping them. In my drunken stupor, I turned the sound down and told Roomy they'd go away.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! "I know you're in there!" I'm thinking "My god, I'm too drunk for this..."

Roomy goes to the door, looks through the peep hole, and says "I don't know who that is." And stumbles his tipsy ass to the bathroom to piss.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! "I know you're in there!" Damn, doesn't this guy have any other lines? So I get up and look through the peep hole. Dude is wearing a shirt with an embroidered security badge, holding a maglite and has handcuffs on his belt. My initial drunken reaction was "Damn." Then I looked closer. These weren't police issue cuffs. These were porno issue. The maglite wasn't on. And the embroidered badge said something about "Haloween Bash '99" on it.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! "I know you're in there!"

So my halfnaked, drunk, queer ass opened the door, just waiting to fend off a bashing from this tool. "I'm not the kind of prick who goes to management over this kind of stuff," says the Tool, "and I'm not sure if y'all have surround sound or what, but its too damn loud."

Well, like I said, I was drunk. "First," I said, "the costume is unnecessary. You look retarded and you should really get some selzer water on that ketchup stain. Second, the mafia gueedo thing is really overdone and lost its effectiveness with the second season of the Sopranos. Third, I apologize for the high volume of my stereo. I was unaware that it was a nuisance. You won't hear it again."

I don't think he knew exactly how to respond. He just stood there for a second, said "Alright, then" and went back up the stairs. Roomy came out of the bathroom and said "What was that?" "Aw, he just asked to turn down the music."

I have a headache today.

Deep Down, We're All Just Bitches...

So, I used to have this misconception that coming out would automatically give me some kind of acceptance in queer culture. Now, for all of you homos and honeys out there with some experience in the gay world, you know that's simply not the case.

After a gay man comes out and alienates his entire conservative family and freaks out all of his straight guy friends who now think he's been checking them out for their entire friendship, and makes all of his ex-girlfriends wonder if they're the one who made him gay, the gay man must then face a bizarre reality: he must now come out as a member of a specific subculture.

Twinks. Clubkids. Bears. Clones. Queens. Sadists. Trannies. Barebackers. Pretentious Fags. Republicans. Bugchasers. Artsy Fags.

But its SO more complex than this. Let's just take Bears for example. Inside the Bear subculture, you have sub-subcultures. Under Bears. Muscle Bears. Leather Bears. Polar Bears. Cubs. The list goes on and on.

I was instant messaging Skipper tonight, and we realized that I'm not really sure where I fit. So I decided I'll try to create my own subculture. Now, I know that it is not customary for gay subcultures to intermingle, but I have good friends in many subcultures. So perhaps...I am a Floater. Notice I didn't say Shapeshifter. No, I will be consistent. Perhaps I can be who I am, and incorporate enough aspects of other subculture extremists' ways that I can be accepted among multiple groups.

I know, I know. This is a foriegn concept; but I'm going to try it. As my trial run as a Floater begins, I don't expect it to catch on...no, much of gay culture is far to bitchy to be that accepting. But that's what really unites us all, right? (aside from the love of Mr. Winky). Deep down, we're all just a bunch of Bitches.

Ben Stein is a bitch...Well, sorta...

So, this morning as the East Coast was shovelling their way out of a surprise late snow storm, I also shovelled my way through a mountain of used kleenex and dirty clothing to rejoin the real world. I've slept through the last 72 hours and I feel much better, though I generally prefer medicine head more when I'm not sick...

It took 32 minutes in the office for me to remember why I'd rather be independently wealthy. The first 20 minutes I played email catch up (Jesus H., can't these people do ANYTHING without me?). The next 8 minutes were spent getting the 4-1-1 from the boss man. 3 minutes to get a Diet Coke from the break room. Then she walked in.

Seriously, Ben Stein's twin sister works in my office. And not kick-ass Win Ben Stein's Money- Ben Stein. No, this is Has Anyone Seen Bueller- Ben Stein. She's a project manager that my boss has lovingly passed me off to as a subject matter expert. I spent the next hour and a half trying desperately to stop myself from figuring out which vital organs might be within a ballpoint pen's reach from my bellybutton, wondering just how difficult it would be to actually get the pen in there, and wondering if I could do it quickly and quietly enough that nobody would try and stop me... She went through 200 lines on her dumbass spreadsheet getting a status update and target completion date for action items like "Order Printer Paper" in her droning monotone squall.

I wonder, if I go to Hugo's office tomorrow, can I convince him that I have the bird flu? Do I know anyone who HAS the bird flu? Would they share a Coke with me?

Why can't they pay me to be this beautiful?

Still No Latin Pornstar...

So, I went back to the doctor's office today. Day six on the meds and still no better. In fact, my minor bronchitis is now completely out of the closet, I've got the flu, and my migraines are acting up. The good news is my white blood cells seem to be fighting of the viral stuff pretty well...go them... Still no Hugo Caballero, the Latin Pornstar...

Posts have been few and far between, which can be partially attributed to my mind-altering drug intake (no Skipper, I didn't have a rockstar weekend without you.) It can also be attributed to my lack of basic blogspiration, but I promise I'll do a better job of honoring my commitment to this self-prescribed therapy...

Oh yes...I recently added two individuals to my list of those who know my gayness....that's eight and counting...watch me go!

My Ass Hurts....

So, I've been hacking up all kinds of thick, offwhite sticky substance lately. No, not that... I finally went to the doctor yesterday, and as it turns out, I'm actually sick. Severe sinus infection and a bit of minor bronchitis. Now, normally, I don't really do the whole doctor thing, but I figure I've missed enough work that I should probably justify it.

My office is a damned disease ridden hellhole right now. We've got people out with pneumonia, bronchitis, the flu...just about everything short of Asian Avian SARS, though I wouldn't be surprised if it happened next. Anyway, the desire to avoid all of this illness motivated me to go see the doctor for the first time since moving to Tennessee.

My doctor's name is Hugo Caballero, which sounds like a hot hispanic porn star to me. His name is the single reason I chose him as my PCP. Unfortunately, I have yet to actually see him, so I can't tell you if the boy lives up to his name (although the UPS guy who delivered while I was in the waiting room was hot)...

I walked into the second floor clinic office and soon realized that nobody in the room spoke a word of english. The receptionist knew enough to get me checked in, and then I waited. At 2:45 my 1:30 appointment began.

Since this was my first time visiting their office, I was subjected to various weighings and measurings, as well as getting my blood drawn (which makes me feel like a wet noodle)... After the premlimanaries, I was ushered into a dimly lit, tiny room with the bench/lounge thingy that's covered in noisy paper covering. My nurse came in, looked at the goo in my throat, and stepped back a foot or two. She wrote my five prescriptions and asked if I wanted a sinus cocktail. Now, I love cocktails. I love cocks. I love tails. I love any combination of those words. I said "sure", not really knowing what that meant.

(Helga, the obese German Housemarm enters stage right)

Ok, so her name wasn't Helga, it was Marshenetria Delrese or something pathetically ghetto like that. And she wasn't obese, she was actually pretty skinny aside from the fake DD's and the junk in the trunk. And she wasn't German, she was some combination of black and hispanic. But either way, I found out that there are no cocks, no tails, and certainly no martinis involved in a sinus cocktail.

So I've been pricked by a needle in the ass. It's sore, but my sinuses feel better.