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.