Architect of My Destruction

As the semester draws to a close and I see all the studio kids leave the architecture building, I am disgusted by their camaraderie and sense of accomplishment. Mostly because I used to be one of them, wide-eyed and hopeful for my future in the hallowed profession. But sadly, I left a year into the program and just one month into studio. And naturally, I am bitter now.

I miss studio. The sense of closeness among the fifty or so students. (Well, everyone else was close. I was somewhat of a leper). I miss falling asleep on my studio desk, wrapping myself in sheets upon sheets of trace paper, and scowling at anybody who dared to come near me. I miss the lofty arrogance I used to possess over my friends in other majors because I was studying to create something tangible and beautiful and they were studying rat brains or something. I miss my studio critic, who was sweet and looked a little bit like Taylor Swift.

But more than I miss what was, I miss what could have been. Right before I left, Taylor Swift said to me, "I don't want you to leave something I think you would be really good at." It kind of pissed me off that she said that instead of, "You are out, auf wiedersehen," because now I can't help but imagine what would have been if I stayed. Would I have survived the first semester and done well for myself? Would I have become the next great architect? Perhaps design a Real World house or bathrooms for Oprah.

At the time that I left, I found the studio environment to be somewhat toxic. I thought that everyone was strange, the girls in my section were all lesbians in club rugby, and it was ridiculous that people enjoyed staying in the building overnight and skipping meals just to get their projects done. Maybe through time I would've seen my peers as interesting and eclectic. And maybe through time I would have recognized studio as a semester long slumber party / extremely effective diet. And maybe, just maybe, after a long time I would grow to like lesbians. But I didn't feel like I had that time, so I left.

But mostly, it was about the work, and I can't help but wonder if I left just because things got hard. I am now majoring in finance and accounting, which is easy. While I find it somewhat intellectually stimulating and I am definitely having more fun in college, I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything worthwhile. I feel soulless, and the spreadsheets don't help. At the same time, maybe the only reason I want to go back is to have that close group of friends, feel better than everyone else, and be around gay and trendy people all the time. All bad reasons.

I guess I'm just at a place where I still can't tell if I've made the right decision. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten involved with architecture in the first place. Now I am stuck with all this knowledge about line weights, circulation, and rococo, but not enough experience for it to be useful in any way except for having a little more insight than others when watching HGTV.

And I suppose this all goes back to the common theme in my life of not knowing who I am or what I want to be. Other than not gay and not jobless.

1, 2, 3

At a house party, it is someone's idea to play "Never Have I Ever." This idea does not seem fun to me because there isn't anything I haven't done. Also, I can never remember if you are supposed to put your finger down when you have done it or when you haven't done it.

After the first five never-done-its, Tall Blonde Alcoholic is already out of the game. Everyone lies back and sighs, well that was fun. And then, wait a minute, that means he's had a threesome. Everyone assumes he's done it with two girls or maybe one other guy and a girl. But I know better.

Tall Blonde Alcoholic looks at me. I look at him, and then look away. Like they do in the movies or fragrance commercials. It doesn't look as good when I do it, but the effect is the same.

Seconds later, I receive the first of many texts, "Are you mad."

Why would I be mad? I have no reason to be mad. He did it before he met me. My response: "No." But I am mad, obviously. Because I am possessive and I like to think he has never thought about, wanted, fucked, or fuck+1ed anybody but me. (Keep in mind this is before we officially became boyfriends and I hadn't locked him in a cage under my bed yet.)

From that point, he unravels. The sweet tea vodka does not help. I drag him outside, where he begins crying.

"Everyone inside is judging me."

"No they're not."

"You hate me."

"No I don't."

"Everyone in the entire world hates us just because we're gay."

"Speak for yourself."

He continues to sob. I have a crier on my hands. He says he has nobody. I tell him he has me, which is something I've heard from a movie or fragrance commercial once. He says, "I love you so much."

I don't know how to respond to this because he is drunk and he's having an emotional breakdown so clearly he doesn't really mean it.

So I don't say anything back. And I suggest we go back inside. And I kinda wanna have a threesome now. And also eat a brownie.

Levi Johnston Nude. London Preppy Semi-nude.

Every once in a while, I make a discovery on the internet that changes my life. A few weeks ago, I was on Google typing in all the familiar phrases into the search field: "london preppy nude", "celebrity penises", "zoloft common questions", "baby deer eaten by lions at national zoo."

Usually, these searches result in, nothing, disappointment, hopefulness, nostalgia (in that very particular order). But this time was different. This time I was met with nostalgia, hopefulness, something, and disappointment (in no particular order). This time, using a sophisticated methodology, I was able to finally find an uncensored picture of the man known as London Preppy. And after I found the one, I found like, ten more. And then, I found his name.

Caveat emptor, these pictures are in fact, not nude. Well, there is one picture where there is nothing between me and his pee other than a strangely shaped, tangerine colored hat (story of my life). But by uncensored, I mostly mean his eyes aren't covered with that annoying red rectangle that keeps us from peering into his soul. In fact, there is not one butt butt or pee pee to be found. Which is disappointing, but I especially like the one where he is wearing an unhemmed t-shirt and has dirt on his face because it makes it look like he was just attacked by some sort of large, brown bear.

I hope this entry doesn't make him mad if he ever finds out. Maybe he, along with Dr. Izzie Stevens and I, wishes/wish that his/our nude/semi-nude/semi-formal/semi-former modeling days were left in the past. And maybe he doesn't appreciate annoying-ugly-fat people digging these pictures up and plastering them on their walls and getting them imprinted on their bedsheets. And that is why I'm not going to post them, say where they were, or say his name. But I'm keeping the bedsheets.

But it is a shame he has to cover them, because they really are beautiful eyes.

He said in a terrifying, stalkerish way.


But I do not owe the same debt to Levi Johnston so here they are.


Figure 1: I like how in this one, they don't really show me anything, but his hair looks so curly and nice.


Figure 2: I like how in this one there is a miraculous white line going horizontally through the picture across his back.


Figure 3: I like this one.

Maybe This Time

The day after everyone decides to burst out of the closet in Salisbury, we avoid looking at each other in the eyes. Inwardly, I wonder if he meant what he said. I want to get him to say it sober. I want to sit on his lap. Instead,we go back to pretending we are straight. We sit far apart and hum along to Lady Gaga on the car ride back.

Several weeks after returning from Salisbury, Tall Blonde Alcoholic, Average Brown Quarter-Asian, and I get mildly/wildly intoxicated. We end up in Average Brown Quarter-Asian's dorm room. I lie horizontally on the foot of her bed and decide that it wouldn't be that bad if the sky fell down on me. Tall Blonde Alcoholic walks over to the bed and lies next to me with his head on my chest and his arm around me. And though he would have blamed it on the alcohol if I asked, I feel like the sky has indeed fallen down on me.

Over the next few days, I consider what has occurred. No doubt Average Brown Quarter-Asian is considering designs for my life. But I conclude that he is an alcoholic and probably thought I was either a pillow or an oversized bottle of spiced rum.

A week later we are both sitting on the couch in my apartment watching Chicago. I've had a few drinks and I find Renee Zellweger irresistable. So over the course of the movie, I inch closer and closer to where he is sitting. He has had a few drinks and he finds Catherine Zeta-Jones irresistable. So over the course of the movie, he forgets to inch away from where I am sitting.

I tell him it's late and that he should just sleep in my place. I then systematically talk him out of every article of clothing he is wearing. When I wake up and sober up, I think to myself while he sleeps silently, "There is no way that this has just happened." And then I think, "He is probably gay."

Over the next few weeks, the occurrence repeats itself several times. Always the same, he gets drunk, I get drunk, he wants to make out, we end up in bed together. When he wakes up from his drunken stupor, he realizes his huge mistake. And for the next excruciatingly sober hours, days, weeks, we ignore the homoerotic tension and pretend nothing is going on. He doesn't express any sober or reasonable desire to see me or be with me. I express my desire to drown myself in the Tidal Basin.

Some lessons are never learned, and this is mine. This is just further evidence that nobody on this planet is physically capable of wanting me. In which case I might as well live a life of solitude on the Moon, which incidentally has water. Ready my spaceship.

And although he really is special, out of all the silly boys, I have a feeling this one will disappoint me the most.

HIV Is Not FUN

I feel like it is every gay boy's rite of passage to, at some point, believe they are dying of AIDS. My coming of age came last week when I ran around campus thinking I was dying and said goodbye to everybody I've ever met.

On Monday morning, I brush my teeth, look in the mirror, and wonder if I should take my mom's advice and get a nose job. As I spit out the toothpaste, I find that there is blood in it. My first impulse is to try and remember if I bit my tongue in my sleep or if I tried to bite a hot guy's ass last night. I call my friend Tall Brunette J.Crew and this is how the conversation goes.

Me: Good morning. I am dying of AIDS.
Her: It's 2pm. Why do you say that.
Me: I am bleeding from my gums.
Her: Are you brushing too hard?
Me: No, it's aids.
Her: Or it's gingivitis...
Me: That is disgusting.

Later in the afternoon, I sit on my bed and use every bit of emotional strength I have to regret those two random hookups. Those freaks probably had AIDS and now I am dying.

The next day, I wake up with an intense fever, a sore throat, and a strange feeling of nausea everytime somebody mentions vaginas (the last symptom is not abnormal). But this occurrence, along with the bleeding gums is too much of a coincidence for me.

I walk to the health center and go straight to the front desk, demanding to know where the HIV testing lab is. Every head in the room immediately turns to look at me. Obviously, they've never met a gay whore before. I smile and wave. No pictures please.

Inside the lab, a 20-something African immigrant tells me he is going to administer my test. At least, I think that is what he said. I cannot understand a single word coming out of his mouth. I am not optimistic about this situation and I try to remember where the nearest emergency exit is. But before I know it, he is walking towards me with a needle and crazy eyes. I try to turn my head slightly so I can read the name embroidered on his breast pocket just in case a lawsuit become necessary in the future.

When I come back the next day, I do not need to ask the front desk where the HIV testing lab is. I proceed there on my own. People watching me assume I am a regular at the HIV testing lab. Obviously, they've never met a gay whore before. I smile and wave. I will be signing autographs later.

There is a new doctor in the lab. He motions for me to come in. He tells me to close the door. Which I immediately interpret as an indication that I am positive and dying. He tells me I am HIV negative. Which I immediately interpret as an indication that I am negative, but still dead on the inside.

As I leave the health center, I get a text from Tall Blonde Alcoholic, "Did you go to the health center yet? Are you alright?"

I suppose for the time being, I am.

Salisbury, A Conclusion

After he had cried quietly in our arms for a few minutes, I stood him up to look into his brown eyes and see if he was ok. Average-Brown Quarter Asian motioned for us to all go back inside. I had been looking for the perfect chance to get rid of her so that Tall Blonde Alcoholic and I could get naked and make love on a bed of acorns so I told her that she should go in because it was getting cold and the people inside probably missed her. I would stay with Tall Blonde Alcoholic until his tears dried.

I wasn't wearing shoes since Tall Blonde Alcoholic had dragged me outside so abruptly. I motioned for him to follow me, all the while the acorns and the twigs on the ground poked at my feet, forcing me to tip-toe carefully across the backyard.

As we made our way towards a dark and secluded corner where our secrets could be contained, each painful step felt like an indication to turn around. He would be the first person I have ever told. (Keep in mind, I never told the ex-roommate who I've been screwing for about a year. In that situation, my homosexuality was just implied.) I never pictured doing this in Salisbury. I never imagined doing it just to make somebody else feel better. When we got to a good spot, Tall Blonde Alcoholic was pacing nervously. I told him to sit down, not knowing fully what I was going to do or say.

I sat on the ground, my back supported by the tire of an old truck. He sat next to me and started crying again. He kept repeating, "I can't believe I just did that. I feel like I'm going to throw up." I looked at him and realized I would do anything for him. And I really didn't want him to throw up on me. So amid the chaos, with a voice that was shaking from the cold and the nerves, I managed to mutter, "Hey, it's fine. I am gay too."

Over the River and Through the Hood

On Sunday night I am feeling particularly desperate and lonely. And the question of how far I will go for love is answered, literally.

Average Blonde Creepy found me on Manhunt a few weeks ago and had been aggressively courting me with the same message every few days for the past month. Always, "what sup," as the subject line and nothing in the main message. I was extremely concerned about why he placed the "s" where he did, when simply moving it to the other side of the space would make his subject line grammatically correct (assuming the use of an apostrophe). I also wondered if this man was really only capable of that one thought, "what sup," and if this was the true mark of a criminally insane man.

But Sundays are made for people like me to take their chances with the criminally insane. So when Average Blonde Creepy messaged, "what sup," I responded, "no tmuch."

Without wasting any time on the pretense that he cares about my personality, he asked if I wanted to "come over to his place." I responded by asking, "what would we do?" like there was any question. He said, "we can chill in my hot tub," and I said that was fine, "as long as I can get back in time for Desperate Housewives."

When I asked where he lived, he said, "_________." And though his location was annoyingly distant, I thought about how far Moses walked to get where he needed to go / I had nothing better to do. So I hopped onto the university shuttle to _______ ____ Station and took the _____ line to Chinatown where I switched onto the ______ line to ________ __ Station. In the process, crossing a river, entering another state, and finally arriving at what seemed like the set of The Wire.

So as I tried to position my backpack in a way that would shield me from stray bullets and judgmental eyes, I wandered around feeling shocked that I had agreed to do this, hopeful that this man would be decent looking/smelling/weighing, and confused as to which direction was north. But deep down, I had already regretted coming to this place at the end of the world and concluded that this must be the beginning of the end for me.

As soon as I got through the door of his house, this __ year old of a man immediately began showing me all of the things that make him important and relevant like the security piece that gets him into the White House and his autographed copy of "The Audacity of Hope Yadda Yadda Vom." He also talked about all the homework he had to do and how much he disliked math.

A rare glimmer of literacy emerged when he mentioned having to read a chapter from The Scarlet Letter. And though I had read the book my freshman year of high school, and though this guy was __ years old, I respected him for a brief, shining moment. That is, until he suddenly pushed me onto his bed and began furiously making out with me. And while I didn't stop him, I wondered deeply how we went from discussing the important themes of a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel to sucking face with my jeans around my ankles.

And as he continued to press his face against mine, I realized that no matter how far I traveled, I would still be starved for love. And pretty soon, starved for oxygen.

What Happens in Salisbury, Stays in Salisbury

As we stood at the side of the beach house in pitch black and silence, Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I searched desperately for something sympathetic to say. Even in total darkness, I could see the tears in Tall Blonde Alcoholic's eyes and I wanted to hug him and reassure him and take off his pants.

But as much as he was shaken by what he was revealing, I was shocked by what I was hearing and found myself unable to provide any sort of meaningful words of support aside from, "It's cool man, you're cool." Because even though I've suspected Tall Blonde Alcoholic to be gay for at least two years now, (and though my gaydar has yet to fail me), there is nothing quite like the bombshell of hearing somebody say, "I am gay," or in this case, "I'm not exactly straight."

So while Average Brown Quarter-Asian stood there, quietly interpreting his statement and considering her options, I too weighed in on what this could possibly mean. I thought to ask, "So on the Kinsey scale of 0 to 6, where would you place yourself," or "If I were naked in a room and Megan Fox was naked in the same room, what would you do?" But in an effort to remain sensitive, I refrained.

And after a sufficient period of awkward silence, Tall Blonde Alcoholic said, "I understand if you hate me and don't want to be my friend anymore." At this point, Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I jumped in with a chorus of "NOOOOO" and "Are you kidding?" Because all in all, Tall Blonde Alcoholic played this well. He picked all the right words to finally make me think I have a chance and make Average Brown Quarter-Asian believe there is hope for her too.

So as Tall Blonde Alcoholic continued by telling us how much it kills him to be different and judged by everyone, (and I pretended that this was the first time I've considered such foreign concepts), I noticed Average Brown Quarter-Asian inching closer and closer to him, trying to offer emotional but mostly physical support. And at that point, I knew that the race was far from over.

And all I can remember thinking was, "This sobbing mess of a boy will be mine if it's the last thing I do."

Salisbury Je T'aime

When Average Brown Quarter-Asian invited me to her friend's beach house in Salisbury for the weekend, I was extremely hesitant about going. I am not very close with her group of friends and I live in constant fear of being judged by strangers. Also, if I got into a huge fight with somebody there I would have nowhere to go and I would still have to drive back with them for 3 hours at the end of the weekend. Also, I hate using other people's showers and sleeping on the floor.

But I decided to go because Tall Blonde Alcoholic was going and one weekend alone with Average Brown Quarter-Asian would have given her an insurmountable lead in the race for his affection.

The first night we were there, there was a party in the beach house. I met an impossibly attractive club lacrosse player with an incredible body and a gorgeous face. While trying to come up with ideas to talk him out of his compression shorts, I noticed that one girl had started grinding her ass against Tall Blonde Alcoholic and he kept on backing away. A few minutes later, the girl came to me and asked me what was wrong with Tall Blonde Alcoholic. I laughed and said I didn't know. She said, "maybe he is gay." I laughed again and said, "maybe he is." I looked over at him and he was pretty much standing next to us and he probably heard the entire thing.

For the next hour he stood in the corner of the room and would not stop downing beers and taking shots of vodka. I couldn't decide if he was upset about what I said, the slutty girl who tried to dance with him, or the lab report he had to finish by Monday. Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I tried to get him to stop and ask him what was bothering him but he wasn't listening to either of us.

We went into the next room to discuss strategies of getting him away from the alcohol before he killed himself. But after a few minutes, he came into the room and told us to both come outside with him because he needed to talk to us.

He brought us to the side of the house and said,

"I want you to know that you two are my best friends. And it's probably already obvious but, I'm not exactly straight."

And all I can remember thinking was, "Thank God I came to Salisbury."

Marketing Is Gay

In BMGT451, there is a brief section in one chapter about marketing strategies for attracting gay people. Note, this is for attracting gay people and not for attractive gay people. And though these nuances turn me off initially, and though I am really only interested in attracting attractive gay people, the ensuing class discussion is somewhat exhilarating and it makes me feel alive again.

First of all, I love being in a small classroom when a professor brings up anything gay. Because all the people that are chatting and texting suddenly stop. Everyone gets a sullen look on their face like somebody they knew but didn't love has died. And they all pay as much attention as they can to something they don't care about but not as much attention as they would pay to an episode of The Hills. And this is all because nobody wants to be "the jerk" that hates on "the gays" in public. Though inwardly, most of these people know that they are the jerks that hate in the privacy of their own homes. Dorms.

And it's also fun because I feel like a gay spy, infiltrating a secret meeting for straight people to discuss our strange behavior. I take notes on all their strategies to overcome us and sell us things we don't need like his & her towels and marriage license frames. I will take these notes to Dustin Lance Black and he will try to make a movie out of it if he can stop having trashy yet well-documented sex.

So the professor says:

"It seems as though gay people respond positively to ads aimed explicitly towards heterosexuals but heterosexuals respond negatively to ads specifically for gays."

Excuse me, we prefer to be called sexually challenged.

"Gay people do not take offense when an advertisement features a heterosexual couple but heterosexual people are turned off by advertisements featuring a gay couple."

I don't know about you, but ads featuring straight people make me want to vomit off the Empire State Building and watch as it kills somebody on the sidewalk. And the only gay people that don't vom at the sight of hetero happiness are too busy focusing on the shirtless man in the ads to even notice that there is a woman present.

The discussion ended shortly thereafter because the business school prefers not to hide, nor to flaunt gays. And when addressing gays, it's important not to dwell because gays are a niche market that nobody but Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia wants to tap anyway. So these brief sessions end up being meaningless. The hungover white boys learn nothing about tolerance and the importance of tight-fitting jeans. The materialistic girls still mistakenly think that gays are nothing more than shopping buddies and that they themselves look good in black tights.

But at the same time, their shallow understanding is a blessing because they fail to crack any of the codes and learn any of the secrets of gay people. And even though today's college kids are well aware that gay people exist in the world, they will never truly understand them. us. me.

It's Like An Episode of The Bachelor

After running some errands this afternoon I came back to my apartment and was about to fall asleep when Tall Blonde Alcoholic called me and asked if he could come over to hang out. I immediately pried myself out of bed to get ready so that I didn't look like a complete monster when he got here.

We spent a few hours drinking beer, eating popcorn, and watching Behind the Music: Pink while we sat next to each other on the couch. We were close enough for me to smell his body, admire his tight fitting kakhis, and send my heart beating. But not close enough to feel satisfied.

Average Brown Quarter-Asian comes to my apartment too, mostly because she knows Tall Blonde Alcoholic is there. We take tequila shots. For them, it's typical college fun. For me, this marks the beginning of a substance abuse pattern.

After the first shot, Average Brown Quarter-Asian feels as though she can blame her behavior on the alcohol. So she proceeds to throw herself on Tall Blonde Alcoholic. She touches his arms and chest repeatedly. Not enough to feel satisfied, but enough to send her heart beating. At the end of the night, Tall Blonde Alcoholic is lying on the floor of my apartment and Average Brown Quarter-Asian is sitting next to him, equally smashed, stroking his hair. This is fun for me.

Average Brown Quarter-Asian gets a call from one of her friends asking her to come to a party. It's already 4am and she asks if we would want to go with her or would rather just go to sleep. Tall Blonde Alcoholic gets up off the ground and says to me, "I'm only going if you are going." I decide not to go.

He asks me to walk him back to his dorm. I wasn't sure if this was an invitation to make out in his dorm room or if he was just being annoying, so I said no. He then asks if he can sleep in my apartment for the night. He says it like a joke and I don't want to seem like an eager homo so I say no to that too. I find out later that he goes back to the party that Average Brown Quarter-Asian went to. This is fun for me.

At this point, Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I are in direct competition for Tall Blonde Alcoholic's affection. Obviously she has the upper hand, because it is more acceptable for her to force herself on him in public places in various states of undress.

One Time, On Manhunt

There are some words that you should never begin a story with.

One time, on manhunt, there was this guy. We will call him dcrunner103, because I have no obligation to protect the identity of idiots.

So dcrunner103 sends me the following message:

"hey man, hit me up on a messenger and we can talk. I'm at ___ on aim, ___ on yahoo.

later"

First, I am excited because he starts the conversation with "hey man, hit me up...". And if this isn't a hetero-acting, football-loving, dick-swinging, white boy, I don't really know anything anymore.

Second, I am excited because he suggests that we talk. This means that he loves my profile/personality and wants to know more about me. And once we share our feelings, aspirations, and food allergies, he will tell me that I am his soul mate.

Third, from what I could derive from his 1-centimeter big picture, he had abs.

But.

When I message him, he says, "who is this? lol"

So after I assured myself I wasn't talking to a 12 year old boy, I reminded him who I was and showed him the message he sent me.

"Haha, well that was a long time ago."

Yeah. Like 20 minutes.

And then he immediately asked me, "So what are you looking for?"

I gently reminded him that my profile says I am looking for a husband, trying to be funny and cute.

"Dude i read a lot of profiles, i dont have it open anymore"

And at this point, I am trying to grapple with the idea that this "dude" messaged me wanting to "talk" but didn't bother to remember who I was or anything about me. So I wondered for a while if he was one of the automated computer people or just retarded.

And then I realized he was just like every other guy on manhunt. And I gave up on him. And everyone else.

Love, In All The Wrong Places

By pure coincidence, my old roommate and the Tall Blond Alcoholic live in the same hall in rooms across from each other. God likes to torment me in this way and the only way I survive is by believing that He will pay me back in a big way. This is the old roommate who finds me repulsively unattractive but manages to get me into his bed every other night. This is the Tall Blond Alcoholic that I suspect might be gay and that I harbor lonely-gay-boy feelings for. Feelings that, by definition, should not be taken too seriously.

I live halfway across campus and am completely unaware of what goes on between the two of them in that hall. Sometimes, when I have nothing better to think about, I seethe over the idea that they are probably eating dinner together, working on homework together, or having casual and surreptitious sex.

Last time I hooked up with my old roommate, I accidentally left my shirt in his room. Since I was watching Top Chef in the Tall Blond Alcoholic's room today, I asked him if I could walk across the hall and get my shirt back. He told me to wait in the bathroom for him to hand me the shirt because people in the hall already suspect that I am gay and he doesn't want to be seen.

Several things bother me about what he said.

1) The fact that they suspect me.

2) The fact that they suspect me and not him.

3) The fact that he is embarrassed to be seen with me.

4) I am not even gay.

It is hurtful that my old roommate will use me to get off but can just discard me to protect his reputation. A reputation that is not that great to begin with, which only adds insult to my injuries. And I'm disappointed that he threw me under the bus instead of manning up and being true to himself. Though I'm not really one to talk.

So I left the room of the boy who will never open up to me to pick up my shirt in the bathroom from the boy who will never appreciate me. And I prayed to God that He can pay me back by giving me the strength to stay the hell away from this hall.

In All Fairness

When I stepped foot on the muddy ground at the Montgomery County Fair, deep down in my heart I knew this was the last time I could beg my aging body to eat funnel cake and ride a tilt-a-whirl. But this place always possessed such a sense of adventure and excitement, and I wanted to relive those feelings one more time.

So I paid 8 USD to get in (another 8 USD for my friend) and 20 USD for rides and 15 USD for games and 4 USD for a corndog and wondered if anybody still remembers that we are experiencing a recession. I rode all the rides I used to, inwardly hoping that my now adult-sized body would not cause the entire ferris wheel to come unhinged and start rolling down interstate-270. I got harassed by all the workers to "buy a game for my girlfriend," which got to be really awkward when I replied by saying, "I eat penises for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." One, why do they assume we are dating. Two, why do they assume I am straight. Three, why do they assume I speak English.

On one particular ride, my friend got scared and grabbed my hand. I thought to myself, "Perhaps this is the moment I realize that I am straight." But when I opened my eyes, found myself looking at a female, and felt myself gag, I knew nothing had changed and I looked for ways to pry myself out of her sweaty, needy hands.

I've known this girl for about 6 years now and everyone who's met us for the first time assumes we are dating. Recently, at a party, three separate guys tried to hook up with her and each time she came running back to me to sit in my lap and tell me how disgusted she was. The next day, a guy said to me, " I heard _________ was chewing you out a lot at ______'s." Like I know what that means. But this is annoying. Girls are gross.

Anyway, the fair was too expensive and not that fun today. It probably would have been better if it wasn't 90 degrees and humid. And also if this girl wasn't "chewing me out" the entire time.

As we were leaving, I was 100% consumed in making sure the goldfish I had just won was not missing any scales. We walked passed a group of guys and she whispers to me, "Oh my God, that guy totally just eye-fucked you." So I guess she proved herself to be useful and today wasn't a total loss.

Summer Rides

Tall Blonde Alcoholic and I were going to the same party so he asked me for a ride there. When he got in the car, all I could notice was how good he smelled and how weird I was for noticing. But some guys just smell so good that it makes your mind go numb. Since I was driving and at least a little bit of consciousness was necessary, I rolled down the windows and pressed on.

I am 83% sure he is gay. Which is very relevant to me. But it's also irrelevant because even if he were, there is no guarantee that he would want anything to do with me. I hate people who think that two gay guys need nothing else but their gayness in common to get along. With that said, whenever I see a hot guy who I know absolutely nothing about, I tend to hope he is gay and believe that is the only thing we need to establish in order to get married.

Anyway, we went to the party. Which turned out to be somewhat of a letdown. It was nothing more than a get together where a few people got drunk and watched bad movies. And there I was, hoping it would be the kind of party that got all of us so wasted that I could rape him without him remembering a thing the next morning. Throughout the night, there were lots of weird moments where we both made eye contact or my leg accidentally brushed up against his. It always got my heart beating but deep down I know that he is oblivious to the tension that exists only in my mind. There is nothing between us and there never will be.

So I accepted what we were and drove him home. But before he got out of the car, he leaned over and kissed me. He still smelled good but also like cheap beer and chicken mcnuggets. When I realized what he was doing, I pulled away and he asked me what was wrong. I said, "You know I have a cold, right?"


But that last part didn't really happen.

Metrosexual

The DC Metro, in a perpetual effort to repair the stretch of rail between Fort Totten and Takoma decided in its infinite wisdom to shut down that segment of the red line on Friday night. And when the train operator announced that Brookland was the final stop, the passengers reacted with the intelligence that I expected.

First, they sat there for about 10 minutes, ignoring the train operator's directions and the fact that the lights on the train had been shut off. Then, they stumbled out onto the platform like confused zombies, each face looking more clueless and panic stricken then the next. (This, I can forgive. Because the who the hell has ever gotten off the Metro at Brookland anyway.) Everyone made a mad dash to the escalator and then to the shuttles that Metro had generously procured for us. And they weren't the cheap old ones either. These were the pretty new red ones with hybrid capabilities.

This was when people started to really get on my nerves.

"Where is this bus going?" "Where are they taking us?" "Why aren't these buses labeled?!" This bus is taking us to Disney World. Shut the fuck up.

Inside the bus, people continued to complain about how ridiculous the Metro is and how inconvenienced they were. They forget that places like the Amazon don't even have metrobuses. So when the train shuts down in the Amazon, they probably have to ride giant domesticated anacondas from one station to another.

And inside the bus, it is crowded so I am forced to stand at the joint between the front and the back of the bus. Everytime we make a turn, space and time are bent and I fall over onto the people in front of me.

A middle-aged woman whose life revolves around the Washington Post takes it into her hands to hypothesize why all of this is going on. She then proceeds to lead a discussion group about the history of Metro accidents and their casualties. The fact that she knows everything about Metro crashes gives her life meaning and has allowed her to carve a niche in a world that is otherwise cruel to middle-aged women obsessed with reading the Washington Post. Nine people died for her niche.

I'm also bitter towards this woman because in this situation, I tend to sit by myself perfectly quiet and altogether motionless. She, on the other hand, has already formed a little club in the back of the bus with a pretty hot guy as one of the founding members. They are having so much fun socializing and talking about all the people that have been killed by being hit by a Metro train. And here I am, sitting in the joint of the bus, kinda wishing that the Earth would open up and swallow us all.

Puppy Love

On Monday, while mowing the lawn, the hot neighbor decides to let his brand new puppy out to play and pee. The puppy runs into my yard and I turn off the lawn mower to make sure I don't mow it down accidentally and leave puppy parts all over the place. The hot neighbor spends a good 5 minutes running in circles trying to catch his puppy. I just stand there awkwardly and watch him get increasingly flustered and embarassed. His puppy runs toward me and starts licking my butt. I would rather have the hot neighbor licking my butt.

He grabs the puppy by the collar, gives him a spank, and drags him back to his side of the yard. I would rather have him do those things to me. He forces the puppy inside, only to emerge a few minutes later with a short leash. A leash that I could find a few other uses for.

The neighbor says, "sorry" without ever looking me in my eyes, which I have kept cooly concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. I say, "no problem" without ever revealing the lust in my heart. That is all we say to each other. And the cliche first meeting is over.

All Growed Up

I knew this guy in middle school that was kinda dorky and had a funny voice. I vaguely remember him trying to be my friend but I didn't really pay that much attention to him because I was a little douchebag back then. After we graduated and went to different high schools, I never expected to hear from him again.

But.

I found him Facebook.

And he is so hot.

Of course I am kicking myself for not becoming his BFF when I had the chance and now it's too late. He goes to school in a different state, I have no idea where he lives anymore, and I'm pretty sure it would be weird, (after all these years), to see if he wants to come over to play video games or something.

I think he has a girlfriend.

Of course he does.

Zac Efron is Gay

Last night I may or may not have accidentally typed "naked male celebs" into Google and I may have accidentally searched through the first hundred results before I realized my mistake. I came across this gem somewhere after 43 but before 58.



It is called , "Zac Efron's gay kiss."

Which is exciting in theory. But which one am I supposed to believe is Zac? I suppose the one on the right looks a little more like Zac, but that's only because he is wearing an ugly trucker hat and we can only see 18% of his face. The one of the left could very well be a girl with no boobs. So I guess he looks a lot like Zac too.

I have this fantasy where I make it big in the Asian pop scene. After a few hit albums, I return to America to seek crossover success. Zac Efron will hit me up because he is obviously gay (see above photo) and jonesin' for me, a little pop tart. We will have a secret gay relationship until one of us is outed by the fat ugly Perez Hilton. His career will be over but I think mine will survive since I have that loyal fan base in Asia.

My Philadelphia Boy

While waiting for the Apex Bus (unfortunately not associated with the gay club) to take me back to DC from Philadelphia, 3 people ask me for directions. With two days' knowledge of the city, I can already pretend I know everything. Luckily, yes, I know exactly where Chinatown is, I know exactly where Urban Outfitters is, I know exactly where the Real World house is.

But this is weird. People never ask me for help in DC. In general, people steer clear and avoid eye contact because they fear how much they love me. But in Philadelphia, I am approachable because nobody loves me.

While I was still waiting for the Apex Bus (unfortunately not associated with the style of The North Face jacket), my beautiful boy walks up to the line and stands by me. He is one of those tall skinny ones. With a small waist and an archy back. Long legs and big feet. Conspicuous ears and long eyelashes. Big brown eyes and neatly cropped hair. He is so cute I could hug him and smile forever. His back is facing me. I am invisible to him.

I get on the bus first. I pick a seat and make sure the one next to me is clearly available. An obnoxious French couple asks if they can take my two seats in order to sit together. The French man hints that I should sit next to "the beautiful girl." The French are so obnoxious.

I sit next to the beautiful girl but I don't care about her. My beautiful boy walks on the bus. He sits diagonally behind me, the worst place possible. I can't look at him without seeming completely obvious but he has a perfect view of all my obvious physical flaws. This is not how I planned it, but the French are so obnoxious.

When we arrive in DC, I hop onto the Metro. When I turn around on the platform, he is sitting on a bench behind me. He is beautiful even in the insufficient underground light. I wonder how much longer our paths will coincide. When the train comes, he gets in a different car. That is the last I ever saw of my beautiful boy.

There Goes the Neighborhood

The new neighbors moved in a few months ago but I haven't been home very much so I didn't even know what they looked like until I saw them playing catch in the backyard today. Before that, all I knew was that the family consisted of a single dad and 7-year-old twins (a boy and a girl) and that their situation would be the perfect backdrop for a tv show on ABC in the early 90s.

mommy immediately assumes that the good-for-nothing wife turned her back on her most important duty as a human being and is probably working as a dancer in Las Vegas. I suggested that maybe she died. "Oh, hopefully." I, on the other hand, have a theory that the wife left the husband because after years of sexual repression he finally came out to her. And after seeing today how attractive he is, I fervently hope that my theory is true. That DILF is mine. I have no qualms about the age gap. He looks great for his age and I look horrible for mine. So really, it's a perfect match.

This weekend, I plan on mowing the lawn shirtless and romping around my backyard in an overtly sexual manner. When he sees me from the window above his kitchen sink, his heart will beat fast inside his chest and his knees will go weak. He will come outside to introduce himself and we will have passionate sweaty sex underneath my deck on a bed of freshly laid gravel.

His children won't like me at first because they are quite against the idea of replacing their mommy (with a man). They will play horrendous tricks on me like putting a frog in my teacup and applying superglue to my seat at the dining table. But given time, they too will come to love me and see the beauty that lies deep deep deep deep deep within. They will also see me as somebody who is much better than their good-for-nothing mother who ran away from her responsibilities to become a burlesque dancer at Mandalay Bay with unwholesome ties with the mob.

But sadly, I don't live on Wisteria Lane. Also, seeing me shirtless won't make him weak in the knees as much as it will cause him to throw up in the sink. So this is probably not how things will unfold.

Pride Parades are Dangerous

I stumbled upon a youtube video of a queeny middle-aged gay guy getting harassed by a bunch of black kids in Minneapolis. They follow him down the street taunting him with glittering gems like, "Gay is not the way!" At the very end, he emerges from the throng, thinking of himself as a hero, and walks triumphantly down the street declaring, "See how I'm not scared at all!"

There are a lot of comments. Because when it comes to gay people, you either hate them or you love them. I've culled the best ones. My comments in red.

I hate those mother fucking niggers but i also hate those mother fucking gay ass bitches that like to fuck each other in the asshole. but niggers are worse beacuse they have big ass nostrils and are smelly as hell and they got some big gums. they all need to go back to africaland and play with the tigers and lions. i hate black and gay people. i hope i never see a gay black guy. (There are no tigers in Africa.)

you know what is just filthy? how that faggot is walking around like a girl and his effeminate behavior. what a bitch. gays have a hidden agenda. (To quietly redecorate America.) don't trust these motherfuckers. even OBAMA doesn't care about the faggots. (Yeah... I guess he doesn't.)

I would love to squish all those kid's heads like little grapes. (wow...)

you are not scared because they are kids... (This one is my favorite.)

are those ethiopians? they look weird as hell (Sources indicate that they are, in fact, Somalian.)

most gays die of some type of infection, they only thing that creates homosexuality is child molesters its all psychological, how many gay monkeys do you see? (Carson Kressley and Michael Urie are two gay monkeys off the top of my head.)

What this poor fellow should have done was throw waffles, fried chicken, watermelons, Kool Aid, and Barry White CD's at the mob along with coupons for dinner at popeyes (Don't forget Spongebob Square Pants backpacks and Michael Jackson...since last Tuesday.)

I'm not going to link it because this video is too ridiculous. And I'm not taking sides.

Me Seeking Men

Once in a while, I like to go on craigslist just to see what the dregs of society are up to. Also, lately I've been really desperate to find somebody to make out with. Dreg or not. Seriously. Dreg or not.

As with any forum for man-on-man action, the men can be easily categorized into several groups. First, there are the people with no pictures. These people are ugly. There are the people who use fake pictures of hot guys that obviously are not them. These people really want to lure you into their dark apartments so that they can stab you nine times. There are the people that only show their penis or butt. These people have faces that look worse than a penis or butt.

Then there are the hot guys. These hot guys are always straight-acting muscle-jocks that don't like fat people and minorities. Such is life.

Lastly, there are the picky guys. These guys have a preference for every single facet of your appearance and personality. Which is ironic because these guys are usually horribe little trolls.

Generally there is no creativity, no surprises, no hope on craiglist. However, three profiles did catch my eye. Here they are. Don't sue me either if this is you. My comments in red.

#1
no time for games. (which explains why you aren't on inklink right now)
bored as hell.
6'4", 190, brn, brn, athletic (fuck. me.)
GOTTA BE.......white (this makes me mad, but I would say the same), discreet, good shape (ugh), laid back, gf/wife extra points (should i bring her along...)
SEND PICS IF YOU WANT A REPLY

(pant, pant, pant)


#2
Looking for strictly a massage trade maybe with a happy ending too (STRICTLY...but maybe...). I'm 21, five ten, one seventy eight, athletic (fuck. me.), laid back and your average guy's guy (huh?). Looking for a normal guy (as opposed to a guy's guy) who's in decent shape (it's not too much fun to massage fat rolls) (you're a bitch), under 40, and interested in massage and good with his hands. Be pretty close by. Include a pic with your reply. Let me know, looking late here too.


(your chin and thumbs are so sexy)


#3
You: 18-late-20s, Caucasian or Latino (I have friends of other races, but I'm not sexually attracted to them. Sorry, nothing personal) (it is very admirable that you can find it in your heart to be friends with ugly minorities). I'd prefer you to be smooth/slightly hairy and height/weight proportionate (I don't need a body-builder, just someone in decent shape). Finally, I hope I'm not being too picky (wow, too late), but I prefer cut guys over uncut guys.

Stop Being Nice If We're Not Going to Make Out

I met the cutest guy in the entire world last semester when I was his TA and he was my student. I gave him an A+ just for being cute. I expected him to disappear once the semester ended but he found me on Facebook and started chatting with me a lot. This makes me seem like a pedophile. But actually, he is older than me by a few months. I'm just much smarter than he is.

So this Avg blonde cutie invited me to the bars near school on Thursday. I said no because I was scared. He invited me to the pool on Saturday. I said yes because I wanted to see him with his shirt off. He invited me to his house for a party that night. I said no because I was scared.

Obviously this is just one guy being friendly to another guy.

But.

Why does he keep asking to hang out like we're best friends when he barely knows me? I'm sure he has tons of other friends and we really don't have anything in common. I ALREADY GAVE YOU AN A, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

I want to believe that he is a closet homosexual and he wants me in bed / as a boyfriend.

But.

That is never the case.


It is day 11 of the summer diet of 2009 and I have lost 10 lbs.

Red is the New Dead

Yes, I am fine, I was not killed by the metro. Thanks for asking. Oh wait, nobody asked. Thanks for that.

Right now, every single person I know has their Facebook status as, "OMG I was on the metro!" Ok, you were going from NIH to Shady Grove in the other side of the city going the opposite direction. Don't be dramatic.

That's my job.

In my sophomore year of high school, I was right behind the other train that crashed on the red line. And I missed the earlier train because I bought a burrito right before boarding. So while I was stuck underground for 2 hours, I thanked that burrito and then ate it. Possible death and definite low blood sugar: averted. Chipotle solves everything.

Monday, I left Georgetown at 4:30 and transferred at Metro Center a little before 5:00. And I was fucking pissed I just missed the earlier train because clueless tourists with their fold-a-million-times maps always get in the way at Metro Center. But if I caught it, I might be dead! This deserves an exclamation point. Because I have cheated death twice.

Just kidding. There's no way I could have died in either of these situations. I always sit in the middle of the train (where people don't even know they've been in an accident). Also, I like to wedge myself between to impossibly obese people whose fat can absorb all the force of the impact.

But what this tells me is that the metro has designs for my life. And perhaps the third time will be the charm.

But right now, I am fine. Thanks for worrying. Oh wait, you weren't worried. Thanks for that.

It's My Diet and I'll Die If I Want To

On day three of the summer diet of 2009, I have officially lost 6 lbs. These results are encouraging. I am beginning to see the benefits of starving myself until I pass out in a heap on the ground at which point I eat a single peanut and one baby corn. But the initial weight loss is always rapid. The next 14 lbs will be the true test of my willpower, my determination, and my desire to be loved for my body as opposed to my personality. And the last 10 lbs will be easy because at that point I will have lost so much of my brain mass and my soul that I won't understand the feeling of hunger anymore. I will smile when that day comes.

I tell j-girl about the summer diet of 2009. I seem ridiculous because as I am telling her, we are eating fried risotto balls, drinking caipirinhas, and waiting for our pizza. She tells me I am ridiculous and says that if I lost 30 lbs I would be nothing. Her logic is flawed; she fails to notice that I am nothing already. Losing 30 lbs will actually make me something. Vogue Japan will make me something. She ignores this and suggests that we get Larry's Ice Cream. This is her effort to sabotage the summer diet of 2009. It works. Actually no, I can probably purge tonight's meal in the restaurant's bathroom or a trashcan on the way home. I immediately scan the premises for the bathroom or suitable trashcans.

Inside Larry's, a few guys at the tables are staring at me. I wish they wouldn't look at me until I've lost 30 lbs and gotten my hair cut, but they persist. And then the guy behind the counter tells me I have a sexy voice. This is too much. I have never been so insulted in my life. I grab j-girl. We have to leave.

Thanks for your continued support

After writing my last post, I was overcome with a sense of nostalgia. So I combed through old comments looking for bitchy remarks and more importantly, situations where retrospect has given me the upper hand. Needless to say, it was a mistake to rehash some of those old wounds and I probably spent the better part of an hour crying naked in the bathtub with the water running and the curtains drawn. But I did stumble across this gem:

Hey man, I just started reading your blog. Don't worry you are actually a pretty good writer.

This comment seemed to come unprovoked, which only furthered my righteous anger. The phrase "Don't worry" is used because he thinks his opinion, which he no doubt arrived at in 5 minutes, will make me feel better. The word "actually" is used because after 5 minutes, he already knows that neither he nor I have any faith in my ability to write or function at all as a human being. The word "pretty" is used because he doesn't really think I'm a good writer at all.

And it is somewhat insulting that he thinks a lukewarm response like that will make me feel better about myself. Wait, it's insulting that he took my self-deprecation seriously. And it's all very ironic because after visiting his blog, I came to my own 5 minute realization that he is actually a pretty terrible writer. Maybe the fact that he thinks I'm pretty good should make me feel even worse. Maybe that was his intention all along...

Speaking of pillars of support, mommy took one look at me today and said, "Fatty. You're fat. Don't get fatter." Of course this was in Chinese, but I feel as though her comments have lost very little potency in translation.

As a response, the summer diet of 2009 has commenced. I plan on losing 30 lbs by July 11. I want to be so skinny that I look like I'm dying. And when people ask me what the hell happened, I will tell them that mommy locked me in a cage all summer and deprived me of life's necessities: food, sunlight, cable television. And maybe when I'm that skinny, Vogue Japan will ask me to do an editorial spread for them. No doubt, one of the reader comments will read, "Fatty. You're fat. Don't get fatter." But this time, in Japanese.

Save the Drama for Obama

I once posted comment on some guy's blog (I forgot who) saying this:

"i'm pretty sure obama doesn't give a shit about gays. the fact that he defends civil unions does not offset the fact that everyone he is connected to believes we should die in a fiery pit."

Immediately, a catty bitch (I remember who) sent me an email telling me how stupid I was and how I should read a book or something. He even devoted an entire blog entry to me, saying, "If one makes that sort of inflamatory claim, there ought to be some evidence, IMHO."

Nevermind that this schoolteacher can't spell inflammatory and uses a few too many preteen-esque abbreviations. He has other things to feel stupid about right now.

Becauuuuuuuuuuuuuse

Obama has chosen to actively defend the Defense of Marriage Act, saying it saves taxpayer money. After all, marriage benefits shouldn't be doled out willy nilly in these tough economic times and everybody knows gays are an unnecessary extravagance. (Or is it they are unnecessarily extravagant?)

Obama also stated that the DOMA protects against things like incest and child rape. Although the fact that he likened gay marriage to incest and child rape is irksome, the real question is: How was his trip to Paris? Did he find time to visit the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe? Did Sasha and Malia have an enjoyable time?

Lastly, Obama warned that gay marriage laws should not be compared with interracial marriage laws (you know, the ones that allowed his parents to get married) because the civil rights of blacks are inherently more important than those of gays. I would think the similar plights would give gays and blacks some common ground. But if Noah's Arc (the tv series, not the boat) is any indication, gay themes and black people don't always mix and mesh.

So all of this has occurred even though he pledged to repeal the DOMA while campaigning. As I predicted, Obama talked up all the wide-eyed, overly-optimistic gays just to get their votes. Now that he's in office he can do whatever he wants. He can go on late night talk shows all the time. Which isn't really unexpected. You win elections on the far left but you certainly can't govern effectively over there. You govern by betraying your supporters and going on late night talk shows. Either way, he has thrown gays under the bus and this just shows that he really doesn't give a shit about gays. IMHO.

Gayzies Crazies

Sometimes I wonder if this gayness comes with a certain amount of mental instability. For instance, as I watch Gabrielle Solis get thrown under the bus for sleeping with a high school boy on Desperate Housewives, I have to admit that sleeping with a high school boy is actually a lofty goal of mine. And as I watch three college girls on 20/20 cry about gangrape, I recall that as a child I always dreamed of getting raped by 10 guys from a community college baseball team.

And I have to wonder if normal people think about these things the same way I do. Is there some reason that instead of viewing these acts with disgust I kinda sorta maybe wish they would happen to me? Do I only think this way because I am a sex-crazed predatory gay fixated on only two things: hot ass and designer eyewear?

At any rate, I'm a little worried about myself. I am flirting with the notion of preemptively registering on the list of sex offenders. But you know, only to meet other cute sex offenders.

Why can't my sexual thoughts be wholesome, just like those of boring straight people.

lookin4thatguy

And summer has arrived. In between taking extra classes and scrambling to find a job, I have extra time on my hands. This leads to the inevitable reactivation of my account on gay.com.

First of all, I have to voice my objections with the fact that gay.com won't really let you do anything unless you are a premium member. I'm not about to pay $20 a month just so that I can get rejected more comprehensively. Even so, gay.com is still better than manhunt, which has an interface that is completely nonsensical. How am I supposed to find love if I can't even navigate back to the homepage.

The first thing I always do when I'm on gay.com is check "Who's Online." There are only 56 gay people in Martha's Vineyard right now. That number is severely deflated. Lucky for me, there are 755 gay people for me to choose from in my area. Out of those 755 people, one of those guys will be blind and deaf and capable of loving me.

You can tell a lot about a guy through his profile pic. If he cuts off his face, he is still in the closet. If he is shirtless, he is confident about his body and probably doesn't want to date a fatass. If you look closely in the background, you can even tell if he lives in the residence halls of the same university you attend. You send him a message to try to start up a conversation. He does not respond. You search your heart for ways to move on. But my absolute favorite is when guys try to accomplish too many things in their profile pic. Let me clench my abs to show off my body and play the piano to show I am talented and wear only a towel to show I want sex and wear sunglasses to conceal my true identity.

Somehow though, the "About Me" always proves to be less revealing because everyone's is the same. "I'm looking for a handsome guy." Yes, and I am looking for the hunchback of Notre Dame. "I'm a nice guy." That is what they all say until they tell you they aren't into Asians and they can't deal with your emotions. "I'm looking for a masculine guy who loves sports." And after reading that, I feel like I've been thrown under the bus.

In the end, there are only two categories of guys on gay.com. First, there are the "unreachables." They have incredible bodies and incredible faces. They are so beautiful, you wonder if they are real. They are always bisexual because, let's face it, somebody this hot will inevitably leave you for a woman and really they can do whatever they want. They are the hottest guys you have ever seen until you see their "hot list" and it's populated by even hotter guys. They seem to only associate with fellow hot guys and you back away, dejected and embarassed.

Then there are the untouchables. These people are either a really skinny and awkward ethnic minority or a middle-aged and overweight man who looks like Newt Gingrich. Realistically, these are the people you get approached by. They ask you sit on their face or take a picture of yourself urinating. Sorry, I can't be bothered right now, I'm doing homework.

And so, even the internet dating scene poses certain barriers. For a guy like me who would never have the confidence to start a conversation with somebody I'm attracted to, finding love online is just as hard as it is in real life.

Moving Out Is Hard To Do

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Death in the Family

My mother has a candid way of talking about death. “If I ever get sick, I hope I go quickly,” she explains one night over the dinner table. “I don’t trust any of you to take good care of me,” she snaps her chopsticks at me, my sister, and finally my father.

“And I want you to scatter my ashes over my favorite place,” she carefully instructs while we try to eat. I immediately assume she means Loehmann’s on Wisconsin Avenue, the discount-designer where she once lost me but found a pair of Versace sunglasses for seventy-five dollars. She senses my misjudgment and clarifies, “I want you to spread my ashes on the hills of Tuscany.” My mother was born in Taiwan and has never been to Tuscany, but she lives vicariously through the movies. At least she didn’t say the bridges of Madison County.

After a long silence, she settles, “But I plan on staying around until I am eighty.” Looking at me, she confesses, “I don’t want you to be parentless.”

Although the thought of my mother fretting over my potential orphan-hood is touching, I wonder if she realizes that I will be well over forty by the time she turns eighty. With any luck, I will be grown with a family of my own, and the thought of her scrutinizing my every move until then from a rambler house across the street is terrifying.

I find myself laced with guilt whenever I consider my parents’ death. When the thought does comes up, I worry it will be the one time God is actually listening. Angered, he will find some way of punishing my lack of filial respect, perhaps by smiting my parents on my behalf or perhaps by putting me to death for my wandering thoughts. But I must admit that life after my parents seems just as intriguing and exotic as it does terrifying.

With my parents gone, nobody can tell me not to eat ice cream for breakfast. I plan on formally renouncing green vegetables. Every last one of my fantasies of frivolous disobedience can be realized without any sense of guilt. But life without mommy and daddy would represent a sense of freedom much more significant.

With my parents gone, I could get B’s and C’s in school without getting the piercing glare of disapproval and the accompanying lecture of responsibility. I could travel for the thrills, not to study abroad. I could take jobs for the adventure, not to further my career. I could be an artist, a writer, or a chef –not a doctor, lawyer, or chemical engineer.

When I was five years old, still young and naïve, I wanted nothing more than to be a farmer. One of my brilliant ideas was to take eggs from the refrigerator and stuff them in my blanket in the hopes that they would hatch into chicks. (In retrospect, my foray into the poultry business was an idea destined for disaster.) All the while, my mother laughed at my simple dreams, not because I had hidden eggs in a bed I would accidentally jump into later but because, “What would your grandparents think?!” They lived five-thousand miles away and I had never met them, I didn’t care what they thought.

Some years later, when I took the SATs during my junior year of high school, my mother frantically placed burning incense sticks in every corner of the house, an effort to beg my then deceased grandparents to lend a helping hand. When my scores came back, my mother was pleased. “You can thank your grandfather for that!” she clucked. Never mind the previous summer I had spent studying. Needless to say, this culture comes with a great deal of pressure. Along with my never ending quest to satisfy my parents, I am somehow expected to impress an audience that spans several hundred years.

Yet even more than my academics and my career are concerned, my parents have a hand in every facet of my identity. They tell me what I should say to sound more mature. They tell me what to wear to appear more professional. They tell me what kind of person I should marry because, ironically, they claim to “know what will make me happy.” Obviously I don’t always take what they say to heart. But their efforts affect me enough to want to lie when I do against their word. Either way, the control they have over me is suffocating. Sometimes I cannot even tell what I want anymore because I have spent so long doing what my parents want.

It’s sad to say, but I truly believe that I can only start living once my parents are gone. And although it would break their hearts to hear that I feel this way, I am thoroughly convinced that it would hurt more if they found out that I don’t actually want to be a doctor and I don’t really want to marry a Chinese girl. But even though my parents gave it to me, I should not have to owe my entire life to them.

Of course this could all be misplacement of blame on my part. I don’t have to listen to their advice. I don’t have to care what they think. Last summer at my sister’s college graduation, Oprah Winfrey told a captivated audience to do what “feels right.” My father quoted her for weeks afterwards, something I found to be strangely hypocritical. What if I had told him that it felt right to become a backup dancer for Britney Spears? My father is more of a subscriber to the school of, “Do what feels practical and fiscally responsible.” But Oprah was right, (as always). I can do as I please and throw honor out with window. After all, what’s more important to me, being a happy and true person or being a good son?

And there is always the possibility that their death would not change anything. What if I falsely assume that their physical presence is what keeps me in line? What if their constant nagging and prying has been so firmly entrenched in my psyche that I will always seek their approval, whether they are around to give it or not? If my mother had her way, she’d become omnipotent upon death and she would subtly let me know when she feels like I’m making the wrong decision by dropping boulders from the sky. Then there would truly be no escape.

I once read a scientific article that suggested our parents have very little influence over our behavior. Despite my background in science and my utter faith in the objectivity of scientific research, I view this conclusion with a certain amount of skepticism. My parents have always dictated my life, whether directly or indirectly. And when people call me neurotic, needy, insecure, and desperate for approval, I like to believe that I can blame my parents for that. But at some point, I will have to step out from their shadow, which protects me as much as it holds me back. And all I can do is hope that they will still love and support me, even though I will probably go against their will and scatter their ashes in the backyard.

The Gym

There are several activities that I don’t actually enjoy doing, but I do them anyway because I enjoy the fact that I do them. These activities, which include drinking tea, watching the news, caring about the world, caring about others, etc., make me feel sophisticated, knowledgeable, lovable, etc. But one activity I really can’t decide if I genuinely enjoy or not, is going to the gym.

There is no doubt that going to the gym leaves me with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Finishing a workout is a testament to my determination to better my body. Yes, the fact that I spend all that time trying to get a man to want me superficially really says something about me. I let other people know that too. “I just got back from an awesome workout at the gym!” This gives them the impression that I am strong, masculine, and hetero. But I must admit that running on a treadmill for 30 minutes and doing some half-assed bench presses aren’t really getting me anywhere. My heart’s just not in it. And it’s not like anybody will ever want me for my looks or believe that I’m straight.

I guess what I’m really there for are the men. Because men that go to the gym are always attractive. They always have smooth, muscular arms. They always have perfectly formed asses. They always have blue eyes. They always have huge dicks. Always. And if they don’t, they are playing racquetball in the back part of the gym where nobody goes anyway.

Sometimes I go to the locker room to change even when I don’t need to just to see some naked boys. This makes me feel somewhat guilty because it’s the equivalent of a man sneaking into the ladies’ locker room. I don’t feel guilty enough to stop. One of these days I’m going to be featured on To Catch a Predator.

But going to the gym is also intimidating. I feel like everybody in the weight room is straight and hostile towards faggots. I feel like even the women at the gym are stronger than I am and could beat me in an arm wrestling match. I feel like everybody in the pool has a better body than me and is judging my obese self which looks like an overstuffed sausage ready to burst out of its casing. I feel like everybody in the locker room knows what I’m really there for, a glimpse of their penis and some merciless ass-pounding. All of this has me wondering if I should leave the gym behind and never look back.

But despite my severe paranoia and self-consciousness, the hope that one day I will have a body that horny men drool over, that one day I will have anonymous sex in the sauna, that one day I will meet my future husband in a racquetball court, gives me reason to keep going back to the gym, whether I really like it or not.

Figure 1: Yes, this is pretty much what it's like.

Killed by Kindness

I'm not used to guys being nice to me. Not because they rarely are but because I don't really know how to react to it. A straight guy would just be like, "Hey! Thanks dude!" But when a guy is nice to me, I think it's rational to assume he is in love with me.

I went to Georgetown this Friday with Tall Blond Alcoholic and Average Brown-Quarter Asian. We went to Five Guys and I got a handful of peanuts to eat while we waited for our food. There was one peanut shell that I couldn't crack because I am a weak and helpless infant. So he took it and cracked it open for me in my hand. Then he started opening all of them for me into my hand.

While I was in his room Saturday night, he invited me to his house for Easter. He was drunk when he said it so I didn't take him seriously. Sunday morning, I got a text saying, "Will you be ready in 45 minutes?" I read it as, "Will you marry me in 45 minutes." I said yes.

Avg Brown Quarter Asian tagged along and clung onto him the entire time. When we got back, I asked him if he has feelings for her. He said no and looked really distraught about it. I told him that he shouldn't worry but he should let her know at some point. I'm hoping I didn't just say that for my own benefit because she is my friend too. He asked me if I had enough to eat.

If all this isn't a blatant profession of love, I don't know what is. At this point, I'm going to expect him to act like a boyfriend. I'm going to want him to ask me out on dates, cuddle with me while we watch Iron Chef together, make out with me wherever and whenever I want. When he doesn't do so, I will feel like he is trying to break my heart. He is ignoring me. He hates me. I am never speaking to him ever again.

Oh wait, here's a text from him. "Wanna get dinner?"
"Sure!" Let's also get married.

I know I'm being ridiculous. This is mostly a joke. You don't have to point that out to me.

The Tables Turned

I am embarrassed about how gay I was in middle school. I did not play football. Most of my friends were girls. I gelled my hair. I like to keep tabs on the guys who made fun of me for it. Their names are on my friends list. Their numbers are in my phone. We stay in touch. Because when their lives fall apart, I want to be in the front row, smiling.

But an interesting phenomenon is occurring. I look around and suddenly these very people are self-proclaimed "VERY LIBERAL"s. They passionately defend gay marriages in groups like "If You Don't Support Gay Marriage, Then Don't Get One!" They blast "Just Dance" from their dorm rooms and sing Avril Lavigne in the shower. They take an hour every morning in the bathroom just to get their faces ready. They gel their hair.

Part of me is skeptical about their homomorphosis. How can somebody go from being so closed-minded and hateful to the President of the Gay Straight Alliance. Also, why couldn't you have learned all this like 10 years ago, before you completely ruined my self-esteem.

But it's not a bad thing that these people have changed. Better now than never. And perhaps their transformations are sincere. It's just ironic that those jerks became sensitive men and I became an athlete with the body of a minor Greek god. I guess all I'm saying is, who's the fag now?


Figure 1: You guys are gay. Or European.

What A Tangled Web We Weave

Referring to my friends by letter has become very cumbersome. Even I can't keep track of who they are anymore. And thus, I have created an elaborate system of naming.

Names will be composed of three parts as follows:
Height
Hair Color
Attribute

I've known Tall Blonde Alcoholic for about 6 years now. He was very quiet and reserved in high school but ever since college he has become a raging party animal. I harbor deep suspicions that he is gay. I don't think he's ever had a girlfriend. He never hits on girls. He worships Britney Spears. It doesn't say what he's "Interested In" on Facebook. And one time, when I was using his laptop, I saw that he was subscribed to a gay s&m website. I guess you could say that was the tipping point.

Anyway, I keep quiet about this knowledge because not everyone has the god given talent of gaydar and perhaps Tall Blonde Alcoholic wants to come out on his own terms. I can relate.

I have another friend, Avg Brown Quarter-Asian. She is in love with Tall Blonde Alcoholic even though he has never done anything to suggest he feels the same. She says she has moved on but she has not. When he gets drunk and passes out on the floor, she lies down next to him and pretends she has passed out too. When he's gone, she always complains there's nothing to do. She talks about all the things that he does that convinces her that maybe the love is reciprocated. "One time, after I got him a beer, he said he loved me." Yeah and one time, after I blew a guy, he said he loved me. And that didn't exactly pan out the way I planned either.

She is so in love that she can't see what's really going on. I can relate.


She has a few suspicions that he is gay also. (A seed that was probably planted by me.) I told her that she should give up on him. (Because subconsciously I want him for myself.) But she thinks there might be hope that he is straight because...

get this...

"Remember that one time he said he wanted to marry Lady Gaga?"

I can't argue with that.