I was right.

I am teething. It's called a supernumery tooth, and most people have them. It's only that for only 1-2% of people that it causes a problem.

And I'm one of the lucky ones.

(I'm at home for the weekend for this impromptu dentist appointment, and thusly will be online less and not able to check up on others blogs as much as I would like. So try and not write anything too interesting while I'm gone.)

Interesting, if true.

I think I'm teething.

Not my wisdom teeth; genetically speaking, I'm not due for that for another twenty years (my mom didn't get hers done until I was in high school).

At first I thought it was a canker sore, or I bit it or something. I couldn't understand why it would be sore on the red mark.
And then I got to playing with some mirrors, to get a good look at it, and then I did some googling of infants teething, and, lo and behold, they look more similar than I would like. And I'm not pleased.

Damn, no wonder those tots cry so much.

To top it all off, a pacifier won't help things.

Insert your own sucking/oral fixation joke here.

After talking to Steve,he suggested that it could be an adult-onset tongue thrust, which is caused by years of improper swallowing.

If that's the case, you can insert your own "bad homo, doesn't know how to swallow" joke.

LAME.

The eclipse that was to happen was obscured by clouds.

And yes, I am trying to bring back the word "Lame." Also, the ironic high five.


And I have no ideas as to explain the recent writer's block.

Fairy Tale

Let’s take back the stories read to us at bedtime.
Grab a pillow and smother our stepmothers,
Take a baseball bat to our fairy godmother
And shove the glass slipper where the sun doesn’t shine.
We’ll hit up the big bad wolf for hits of pot
And spend our nights out with the fairies, just because.

I’m neither a Prince nor am I Charming, but I never said I was.
I’m not the beauty, the beast, a frog, or a witch—really, I’m not.
I’m just a guy and so are you, and we don’t have any stories,
We don’t fit in children’s books too easily
Unless we’re the monster behind the closet door.
We’re ignored if not outlawed, without heroes or histories.
But if I take pen in hand, and you take one in yours,
We’ll create a way to live ever after, happily.


BONUS: Listen to the song that inspired this sonnet: Ever After, Happily by Jay Brannan

A Threesome in Five Acts

i.
I'm pretty sure Guy is out of the picture. We've chatted once since he's gotten back, and even then he was answering in one or two word answers. I've tried talking to him twice since then, and each time it goes something like this:

Me: Hey
Guy: Hey
Me: How goes it?
Guy has logged out

I had kinda lost all hope for him, and added him to the list of guys I like and then its unrequited. Lame.

As Guy was logging out that day, I got a request from a guy on gay.com. He was asking pleasantries and whatever, though his bio line said that he was looking. Eventually, he dropped the hint. He'd like to try sucking and getting fucked at the same time, to be a barbeque skewer of cock of sorts. He found a guy to fuck him, all I needed was to get a BJ. I didn't need to reciprocate, or kiss, or anything like that. I could just come over, unzip, unload and be done with it.

ii.
I thought about it, and figured what the harm could be. I was kind of in a funk because I'd come to terms that Guy wasn't interested, and the night before my roommate had interrupted my date with my right-hand, and so the offer of a no-strings attached blowjob sounded kinda nice. I'm very much the kind of guy who saves for rainy days, yet takes advantage of every drizzle that comes my way.

iii.
There were two guys, who I'll call the Doppelganger and the Mexican. The doppelganger was the guy who set this up; he wasn't really an exact copy since he had a shaved head, broader shoulders and nipple rings, but other than that I think our faces kinda looked alike, and our bodies, even our cocks, were pretty comprable. It was all supposed to go down at the Mexican's house. Normally I wouldn't have cared about his racial status, except his pictures barely looked like him, or if they were of him, they were old and photoshopped. He did not look Mexican in his picture, and he had a good twenty pounds on the guy in the picture.

I got there first, and made small talk with the Mexican which was some of the most awkward I'd had in my life. His English wasn't very good, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought that it wasn't the guy in the picture. I was really close to saying that I had class in a bit and probably wouldn't have time, but the doppelganger came in the nick of time, and I figured that I wouldn't have to deal with the Mexican that much anyway.

Doppelganger is a nice guy, and fortunately is blunt enough to ask where the bedroom is. We file in. Doppelganger takes off my shirt, nibbling on my nipple then working his way down. I pop out, and he starts going at it. Mexican is just sitting on the bed, watching us, occasionally putting his hand on my chest or legs but never really do anything. Doppelganger's pretty good at this, and I push him back onto the bed, and straddle his chest, opening him up so the Mexican can have a go. Mexican unzips Doppelganger's pants, to reveal a cock with more of a curve than I do, but otherwise pretty damn close.

Doppelganger stops, and repositions everybody in hopes that Mexican could, you know, start in. He ever starts grabbing for Mexican's pants, but he just moves away, saying that he was good and we didn't have to worry--LAME. He stays fully dressed throughout, never even taking off his hoodie.

Doppelganger gives up on Mexican for the most part, and continues to work on me. As far as I could tell, Mexican was giving him a handjob to beat the band, occasionally licking his balls and cock, but mostly it was a handjob. Doppelganger comes first, right as he starts rimming me, taking his cock in hand to finish the job.

One down, two to go.

iv.
Doppelganger has to go into the other room to grab paper towels (Mexican didn't have any kleenex), and so when he got back, he really went to town trying to finish me off, giving me what amounted to a hand job with the head of my cock in his mouth. Mexican watched for a bit, nippled on my nipples briefly, and then went down and tried licking my balls. The speed of Doppelganger's enclosed fist made it hard for him to actually make contact with my balls without getting punched in the face. I didn't care so much because he was realy creepy.

I say I'm close, and Doppelganger takes his mouth off of me and he jerks my watery load onto my chest. I clean up with a paper towel, while Doppelganger grabs Mexican's cock through his sweat pants. Mexican grabs his hand and removes it, saying that he's good. We don't have to be told twice. Doppelganger and I get dressed and leave. Mexican tries to give us hugs as we leave but we just stand there stoicly and the fuck out.

v.
As Doppelganger and I are heading out, we gossip about how creepy Mexican was, and how his pictures looked more like his brother than him. Doppelganger theorizes why Mexican wasn't so gung-ho: When he grabbed at Mexican's cock through his sweatpants, he didn't get a full hand's worth, and he felt almost painfully erect. He said that he felt sorry for him for like, a second, but then realized that his picture probably wasn't of him and he gave a shitty blowjob, and so that guilt passed. He offered to have fun with me some other time, without the other guy.

I'm as surprised as you are

I had my first threesome yesterday.

Well, sorta. I don't really want to get too much into details, but I could probably argue that it really wasn't so much of a threesome as much as it was awkward.

Unfortunately, other than the sheer fact that I did that, there really isn't anything else interesting about it.

Cowboy Personals

Example number 654321 that Brokeback Mountain has infiltrated absolutely everything:

Farmer's Only: New Online Dating & Friendship Finder for Farmers, Ranchers, and Country Folks. Now featuring Male Seeking Male search option!

City folks just don't get it!

Oh Brokeback references, I wish I knew how to quit you.

Either those curtains go or I do!

"God, Bob, you're so judgemental"

"It's what my people do best."

I forget the exact context for these lines, and what I said to spark their interjection, but I'm sure I was catty and delightful.

I wasn't lying, either. You know it. Gay people are judgmental. It is what we do best. That's why we rule the Red Carpet, we rock America's Next Top Model, the soundbite on VH1, the best quips on the Real World, you name it. We're masters of the snappy putdown. To survive a night out with the guys, you'll need thick skin, tight pants, and a reply to everything.

Of course we're judgmental. We have to be in order to survive. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that our criticism and need to judge others not only has a entertainment value, but a safety one as well.

What is gaydar if not a snap judgment of another's sexuality? It's a opinion that comes within a few seconds of meeting someone, or seeing them across the room. Walking into a bar, the first thing I do, almost subconsciously, is to do a "fruit loop" and identify how many gay people are there. It always makes me feel better if I'm able to identify one, even though there's no real reason. Another gay person in the bar doesn't offer any protection or safety, and yet I feel more comfortable in the bar if I'm not the only gay guy around, even if that safety is only in my mind. (I should mention that my friends are all straight and cheap, and the bars we frequent usually cater specifically to such people.)

Of course, the inverse is true, too. I'm not really sure if this still counts as gaydar, but I can usually tell who to be careful when I 'come out' to them. Sure, it might be more imagined than a real talent, but I still like to think that it holds some water.

I don't really think that it's that big of a jump from gaydar to snap judgments to being judgmental. If I can identify someone with a glance as gay, closeted, a slut, a straight bigot, or whatever, I've already identified and labelled them. Once they're labelled, I know them, or at least their type, and know how to act. And once we have that snap judgment, it doesn't take much to come up with a retort.

Especially if you're fabulous. Then it doesn't take much at all.

Dane County Expo Center Coliseum Madison, WI: December 3, 1977

Paul Stanley Summarizes The Tragedies of William Shakespeare During Between-Song Banter from the 1977-78 KISS Alive II Tour

I gotta tell you Madison. We been all over this country and there ain’t nothin’ like those good Madison, Wisconsin, women! Yeah! You know what I’m talking about, people! You know I seen women all over this world, people, and there ain’t nothin’ like a Midwest woman. Woooooo! One thing about a Madison woman, people, she always tells you what’s on her mind. ON HER MIIIIIIIIND. Let me tell you about a straight shooter named Cordelia, people! She told it like it was. I’m talkin’ ‘bout no bullshit, people. She looked her daddy right in the eye and she told him how it was, people. And her daddy wadn’t just any daddy, Madison. Her daddy was KING LEAAAAAR, Madison. Now I’m tellin’ you what, people: you need a good woman like Cordelia around, Madison. A good WISCONSIN WOMAN because I’m tellin’ you people … when that time comes…I’m sayin’ when that times comes, people, and you gotta look your woman in the eye … you gotta look your woman in the eye, now, Madison, and you gotta ask her that question … that one question we all wanna know. I say I know you love my … LIMOUSINE! I say I know you love my … CREDIT CARDS! I know you love … ROCK AND ROLL! But I just got this one question, left, baby … one question for you, Madison … DO … YOU … LOVE … ME?!?


I wish I were clever enough to come up with something like that.

NB--It's even better after the consumption of vodka. Try it!

Surfing USA!

Yeah, I know I don't usually post youtube videos, mostly because that's dudetube's modus operandi, but I figured that since yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, a movie of a drunk guy in his boxers singing would at least somewhat fit in to the festivities of the season. You can see balls if you're paying close enough attention.

I know I was.

(And no, my St Patrick's Day was nothing like this. I spent most of my night reading the essays of Karl Shapiro, who is delightfully cattier than I would have thought.)

Fap Fap Fap

Through the miracles of Netflix, this weekend I have Jarhead, Proof, and The Good Girl waiting for me.

If you thought kittens were being killed before, now it's a goddamn massacre.

NB: He's tinted green both for Saint Patricks Day and because he's one incredible hulk hunk. I should also mention the obvious, that his pecs look nicer now, post-Jarhead, and that without the tinting, they are better defined.

EDIT: True story. I used this picture of Jake as part of the template of my first blog about five years ago. I decided to keep it 'old-school' and create a new masthead using the same picture.

Beware!

Its the ides of March. And you know what that means...

Togas!

At least that's what it meant in my high school Latin class.

We always wore them over our clothing, which is good, because the eye candy, especially my senior year, was definitely lacking.


NB: In case I haven't made myself clear, it's Spring Break, and I stupidly forgot to call home in time to put myself on the work schedule, so I'm stuck alone in my dorm room, watching waaaay too much television and killing waaaay too many kittens. You'd think that I'd be smart, and working ahead on homework, and cleaning, and getting some writing done.

But no. There's nothing of the sort going on. Even the blog posts are kind of lame (I'm aware that I'm milking the Guy thing a bit much). I don't have much else, though.

The LoveSong of J. Alfred Fratboy

I called. And left a voicemail. A light, breezy voicemail.

If I were a different person, I'd be obsessing over the fact that his phone rang twice before the voicemail picked up, which more than likely means that he saw that I was calling and pressed ignore on his phone, sending my message to voicemail.

However, I'm not that guy. Honest. The thought crossed my mind, but I'm far from obsessing over it.

Instead, I'm obsessing over this poem/parody, which I think is best thing I've read in a long, long time.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Fratboy

Let’s go babe, you and I,
When the night’s straddling the sky
Like a passed-out drunk guy.
Let’s walk down frat row.
Yeah, let’s go
And remember our night in the HiHo Motel
And that wack restaurant with bad oysters. Hell!
Frat row that flows like a stream of spilt beer
When the keg is empty
To point us to the question…
But don’t ask “Where’s the other keg?”
I’d rather sit here and fondle your leg.

At the rager the chicks come and go
Talking about art or something, I don’t know.

The smoke that hits the windows
Yeah, the smoke that hits the windows
Got sucked into my lungs,
Stayed in the pool at the bottom of the bong,
Let the ashes from the cigarettes fall in it,
Slipped under the door, moved real quick,
And since it was football season,
Sprinted down to the field and disappeared real slick.

And for sure there’s gonna be time
For the smoke in the street
To hit the windows;
There’s gonna be time, there’s gonna be time
(Is that from a Dave Matthews song?)
To get ready to meet the brothers you meet;
There’s gonna be time to win and lose,
And time for all the games and scrimmages
That get your picture in the local news;
Time for you and time for me,
And time for a hundred hip-hop-hoorays,
And for a hundred plays and replays,
Before we go hang out with Steve.

At the rager the chicks come and go
Talking about art or something, I don’t know.

And for sure there’s gonna be time
To think “Will they stare?” and “Will they stare?”
If I turn around and trip on a stair,
I’ll put a cap on over my thinning hair—
(They’d say: “Man, dude should buy some Rogaine!”)
My Hilfiger coat, my Abercrombie sweater pulled over my shirt,
My sneakers, Nike and wicked expensive, but still covered in dirt—
(They’d say: “Man, he’d look better in a skirt!”)
Will they stare
If I mess everything up?
In a minute there’s time
For plays and replays that a ref’s call will reverse.

‘Cause I know everything already:
I know the nights, mornings, afternoons,
I measured out my life in bottles of Boone’s;
I know the cheers that die out steady
Before we take another drink.
So what am I supposed to think?

And I know the eyes already, know ‘em all—
The eyes that look at you in a smoked-up haze,
And when I’m baked, taking a munchie run to Dairy Mart.
Or when I’m staring at the fractal poster on my wall,
Then how should I start
To throw out all the butts from my cigarette-smoking days?
And what am I supposed to think?

And I know the arms already, know ‘em all—
Arms with bracelets that are pale and bare
(But under black light, covered in glowing blue hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me think so messed?
Arms that lie on the sofa, or hold a pom-pom ball.
And what am I supposed to think?
And where should I start?



Should I say, I’ve walked at night down frat row
And watched the smoke come up from the joints
Of lonely guys in T-shirts, leaning out the windows…?

I should’ve been a pair of worn-out cleats
Stumbling across turf in empty fields.



And the drunk guy sleeps so peacefully
Soothed by your cooing
Asleep…tired…or passed out.
Stretched out on the floor, here are you and me.
Should I, after another Coors Light,
Have the strength to force out a climax?
But even though I got drunk and passed out, got drunk and spewed,
Even though I’ve seen my liver (turned all fatty) brought in on a plate,
I’m no D-1 player—this is not a shocker;
I’ve seen the eternal coach burn my varsity coat, and laugh,
And really, I almost shit my pants.

And would it’ve been worth it, after all,
After the Schnapps, the Bud, the Grateful Dead
Around the bong, around some talk about you and me in bed,
Would it’ve been worthwhile
To have made the field goal with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a football
To throw it at some crazy-big end zone.
To say, I am Jerry Garcia, back from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, “I’m a gonna tell you all”—
If somebody, hitting the sack real hard,
Says: “I didn’t say that at all.
That’s not it at all, you douche.”

And would it’ve been worth it, after all,
Would it’ve been worthwhile,
After the movies and the semi-formals and the keggers,
After the pornos, after the bowls, after the skirts that hike up to the waist from the floor—
And this, and a hell of a lot more?
Nobody understands me!
But like a Zeppelin laser show put the feelings on the ceiling:
Would it’ve been worth it
If somebody, hitting the sack or taking off her pants
And throwing bottles out the window, says:
“I didn’t say that at all.
That’s not it at all, you douche.”



No! I’m not Tarantino, and I wasn’t supposed to be;
I’m a cameraman, one that’ll do
To shoot a take, start a scene or two,
Advise the director; no joke, he’s a tool,
Kinda laid-back, a little flaky,
Hip, chill, with a real nice pad;
Full of sweet ideas, but kinda crazy;
Sometimes even almost wack
Sometimes almost a douche.

I’m gettin’ old, man…I’m gettin’ old…
Gonna wear my pleated khakis rolled.

Do I need a comb-over? Can I eat this bean dip?
I’m gonna wear loafers and stop looking hip.
I heard the mermaids singing on that bad trip.

I don’t think they were really singing to me.

But I saw them floating on the waves
Brushing their hair in that flashback
Before everything went all black.

We’ve tripped a lot
And seen other mermaids
Till the nurse sedates us, and we’re out.

I'm Hung Up

I'm in a pickle as what to do.

He left on Spring Break for Puerto Rico around 3 o'clock on Thursday; I got dressed and made my way back to my place around 10:30. We haven't talked since. With all of the tanning, alcohol, and cabana boys he hasn't found time to find a computer to chat or call the guy he had a great night with. I'm not really expecting anything anyway.

It's his 21st birthday. I'm debating whether to call him to wish him a happy birthday or not.

Now, it seems like a no-brainer: call him, wish him a happy birthday, keep it light and flirtacious, and put the ball in his court.

However.

I have a habit of growing too attached too soon to guys I like, and scaring them off. And I don't want to do that this time with Guy.

I mean, basically, all we have've done is a one-night stand. Sure, we vaguely knew each other from before, and we had drinks and were flirting up a storm, and stayed up cuddling to Nina Simone. Sure, that bodes well, and I've got a good feeling about things. But who knows about him? My track record shows that I am lacking whatever innate sense tells you if the guy's got a good feeling about things too.

So I guess if I can calm my nerves enough for a witty, nonchalant, flirty phone call I'll do it. If not, I'll be a simple post on his facebook profile, or maybe an e-card featuring a halfnaked man or two.

And so I'm posting a song in an attempt to dance away the nerves: URHungUp, a Madonna/MIA mashup remix by Stereogum.

First showtunes, now a Madonna reference--what's this world coming to?

I'm as Corny as Kansas in August

Matt, my roommate from last year, was a schmoozer. He loved words and socializing, he loved coming up with outrageous lies and seeing how far he could go with them, and most of all, he loved talking people into things. Most notably, he loved talking girls into sleep with him. It was kind of his thing.

At the end of last semester, I humorously drew a sketch of our building and kept track of his sexual conquests: two on the tenth floor, one on the ninth, one on the eigth, three on the seventh, none on the sixth (unless you count his left hand), one on the fifth, three on the fourth, one on the third, and two on the second. That may sound somewhat impressive, but when you realize that there's only 12 people that live on the floor, he pretty much tapped every ass that was worth tapping in the building.

Which meant that by the last month of last year got to be pretty awkward. As I'm sure some of you guys know, bumping into people you've fooled around with can lead to situations which are less than favorable. When there's an entire building filled with ex-conquests, nothing good can come from it.

It was during that time that I met Guy.

Guy was tall, dark, and very cute. Guy was also the best friend of Matt's first conquest. Matt and I were walking down the stairs, Guy and his friend were walking up. Guy and I caught eyes and smiled, while Matt and the girl looked down and created little storm clouds over each of their heads. I had just started dating Heart, so I couldn't have done anything anyway, but he definitely made me turn my head and want more.

Fast-forward to last Tuesday. I've been following my new years resolution fairly successfully, and have drastically cut down the amount of time I'm online and in the gay.com chatrooms. Last Tuesday, however, I was looking for a quick distraction from the paper on Marlowe, so I logged in for only a bit.

I stumble onto his picture, and am like, "Hey. That guy is cute and familiar-looking." I say Hi, he says Hi, we've got a nice little conversation going. I'm a perfect gentleman; after reading English Renaissance verse I turn into one classy guy. We talk on AIM, and we chat for a bit more. And then chat for a bit on Wednesday, too.

Ten o'clock Wednesday night, I've finished my paper, and so has he. I say I have to head over to a local dive bar for a bit, because it's a friend-of-a-friend's 21st birthday. He says he's going over to a friends as well, but they might come out and say hi. I'm excited.

My friend's party is kind of a bust. It's the week of midterms, and so a lot of people don't stay at the bar for long, and by time I got there, people had already hit the limit they had set for themselves on a school night with tests in the morning, nursing their last beer.

Guy and his friend walk in. If I didn't recognize him when he walked him, I recognized him when he walked over and gave me a hug. He introduced his friend, I did a sweeping hand gesture for my friends, and then ditched them to go sit with Guy and his friend on the other side of the bar.

Things are going well. We're flirting but keeping it enough in check so that his friend doesn't feel awkward. A little footsie action, the insde of my right foot steady against the inside of his left, calves touching to the knees.

Fast-forward to bartime. He invites me over to his place. He says normally he's not that kind of guy, but he's leaving for Spring Break the next day and wants to see me some more before he leaves. I say normally I'm not the kind to say yes, but it's his birthday on Monday.

His apartment is amazing. Probably the nicest one I've seen in Madison. It's pretty dirty (four bedrooms, four college guys=slob central) but there's so much potential. Big picture windows, a deck that's twice as large as my room, right next door to the liquore store; this place is a dream. Two younger sisters, just like me.

Up the stairs to his room. Shoes off, lying on his bed, talking about his Spring Break plans: Puerto Rico with his family. Where he's from: grew up in Malibu, but parents moved to Manhattan his freshman year.

He says something fantastically cheesy, like "I can't believe I've got such a cute guy in my bed." He moves in for a kiss.

He's got stubble, which looks really nice on him, but I always find that scratchy. We're kissing, his shirt off, then mine. He's got broad shoulders, and is naturally smooth. He runs his fingers through my chest hair, saying that I've got the perfect amount. I roll my eyes, since now the cheesiness is in full force. My pants off, his pants off, doing that thing that you always see in movies where we roll all over the place, me on top of him, him on top of me.

I pull off, and say "If I would have known, I would have worn cuter underwear." He says that he would have, too. His boxers and my boxer-briefs off. He represents, downstairs, a little longer than me but not quite as thick. It's a good mouthful.

While his chest is really nice, his legs and ass aren't much, and while my chest isn't much, my legs and ass are nicely sculpted. I've got an ass like cantalopes.

Lots of frottage, mostly because the kissing is so nice.

We cum and clean up. He puts on his Nina Simone mix on iTunes. We lie on his bed for another hour, cuddling and talking about Nina, about Six Feet Under, about classes.

We climb under the covers and go to bed. After a bit of cuddling, he turns onto his back and lies like a corpse, hands even on his side, head up, asleep almost instantly.

I'm on my side, trying to get to sleep, thinking about how much I'm crushing on this guy. I know all about the dangers of CoolKid, and how I tend to crush too much too quickly, how I always feel these sorts of feelings after casual sex. I can't decide if I force these feelings to quash any guilt, or if I only have casual sex with guys that I want more of a relationship with. I'm leaning towards the latter, but the former is certainly possible.

His room gets so bright in the mornings. We're both awake by seven, trying to keep still as not to awaken the other. He turns over, starts to cuddle, and feels my morning glory. We jerk each other off, no kissing due to morning breath. Our panting breath matches, and sounds so hot. We clean up and go back to sleep for another hour. His alarm goes off, and I begrudgingly get up and get dressed. I kiss him goodbye, and wish him a happy birthday and a safe trip.

It's about ten o'clock and I'm walking back to my place to change before class. I spy my roommate walking to class, and he says hi, I say hi. I realize that this is my first "walk of shame."

Good for me.

So.....How's Your Romance?

Perhaps I jumped the gun a bit with my last post.

Or perhaps I'm jumping the gun by saying that the gun has been jumped.


But I did my first 'walk-of-shame' this morning. Well, sorta.
And, predictably, I'm feeling excited about the guy, even though he leaves for Puerto Rico for Spring Break in about six hours, and a week and a half in a country with cabana boys and copious alcohol consumption makes it easy to forget about me.

Unfortunately, I'm just getting back and have class in a few, so I don't have time to give you all of the lurid details. Hopefully later this afternoon I'll get a chance.

How's Your Romance?

Right before Valentine's Day, Madison was named as the most romantic city for couples in USA Today. Now, don't worry, I don't get my news from USA Today. Pictures and graphs are fine and dandy, but I happen to prefer words and complete, complex sentences. But the local newspapers had a field day with the news, including its inverse: if Madison is such a great city for couples, where does it leave us single folk?

Being the number one party school in the country (if not the world) leads to some fun parties and a happening bar scene, but parties and bars aren't exactly the places where relationships are formed. One-night-stands, sure, maybe even a few fuckbuddies, some phone numbers exchanged, but I've heard nothing qualitative coming from late-night beer bongs and toga parties.

Couple that with what amounts to be a pretty dismal gay bar scene in Madison (3 bars in the area: a dance club in the suburbs, a place frequented by 'older, generous' gentlemen, and a place on the far west side with issues with renewing its liquor licence) and you're left with one sad Bob.

I'm not much of a joiner, and the eye candy, both of the homo and hetero variety, is lacking as much as it was last semester. Add that to a group of friends that's been pretty stagnant since last September, and a deliberate weaning off of the gay.com chatrooms, and my right forearm has been getting quite a workout lately (last week notwithstanding).

Sure, I've been making attempts at casual sex, but they've never really been satisfying, or leading to a happy ending. And I've given up on it. It just isn't getting the job done, and it's just not the kind of guy I am.

Is there a point to all of this? Probably. But it's a point I've made many times before: It gets cold up here in Madison (hell, it snowed three inches yesterday), and my body pillow just isn't doing it anymore.

Identity: Voice and Visibility

Last Saturday night, after a movie with friends, my friend Jenna and I went to a bar for some drinks. Jenna is my next-door neighbor, and has been dating my roommate from last year for ten months. We’re pretty close. We ordered our drinks at the bar, then made our way to the back, past the pool tables, to a booth to talk about the movie. As we walked past the pool tables, a group of four guys in flannel shirts and scruffy beards checked her out. As we sat down, we heard “Hey cutie—Ditch that fag and come hang out with us.” We ignored them, didn’t even reference their statement except with an eye roll. But throughout our conversation, their male gaze continued and the word ‘fag’ repeated in their conversation, the only intelligible word of their drunken mumblings. It was apparent that they were all about the sexual objectification of my friend and the sexual ‘degradation’ of me. We were both victims. But neither of us did anything.

“Ditch the fag.” With the simple act of walking from the bar to the table, I was already acknowledged, judged and dismissed. It’s hard to tell whether the fag comment came from an accurate gaydar reading on their part, or only the generic insult given to men outside their group, men who look weaker than they. At either rate, the remark is still a cutting one, a definite insult. “Come hang out with real men,” they implied. “Come to our easily defined world where we as the epitome of masculine work out, wear beards and act aggressive. Ditch the guy of dubious morals you are with, he is nothing. Watch as we diminish his self worth with his dismissal as a minority, one below our rule as athletic young white men. He can’t give you what you want, ultimately.” So much is in that one word: fag. I hear the word ‘fag’ and I tense up, always. I hear it from drunk guys and my jaw clenches and my fingers curl into fists, just in case.

But I have no reason to prepare the fight or flight response. I don’t bet much, but if I were in Vegas I’d put the odds on the four solid-looking drunk men rather than the skinny gay guy. I couldn’t have put up much of a fight. I’m not much of a fighter anyway, physically or intellectually. The words never come.

For example, a few weeks ago in one of my English classes, we read and discussed a Minnie Bruce Pratt essay on anti-Semitism and racism. The professor divided the class into small groups. Perhaps segregated would be a better term to use, as all five boys in the class, myself included, were grouped in the back corner while the groups of girls congregated intermitted throughout the class.

The prompt for our small-group discussion was to respond to a question that Pratt asks the reader in “Identity: Skin Blood Heart:” “If you and I met today, reader, on Maryland Avenue, would we speak?” The prompt was simple, with an understood subtext: how do men and women react differently when meeting people in strange and potentially dangerous situations?

Not being one to give in to stereotypes easily, but as a group of guys expected to talk about our feelings, the conversation was sparse and Hemingwayesque, at best.

As we all sat, absentmindedly paging though our books and fumbling for phrases, I overheard the group of girls on our left talking, about how as young women they often don’t feel safe walking home alone late at night, and how there’s an awkward societal disjunction as young women, walking alone in the evenings, how they tense up and become hyperaware of their surroundings, their minds start racing about rape whistles, mace, and making fake calls on their cell phones for the illusion of company.

I sat, and was listening to the other group, and I realized how much I identified with the women, as a gay man, as opposed to the other straight guys in the group. I hate it when that happens, being in the middle in a male/female dichotomy. Identifying, or at least relating more to a feminine frame of mind, is really not what a young gay man likes to associate himself with. By saying that we as gay men are somewhere in the middle, it means that I’m less of a man. I’ve seen the bad movies from the fifties, and read enough bildungsromans to know that it wasn’t long ago when I would have been called a ‘sissy boy’ or a ‘girlyman.’ Even though those words have, for the most part, been delegated to period pieces in favor of angrier insults like “homo” or “faggot,” I still feel resentment when the comparison to femininity is made.

That being said, girls and gay men have a lot of societal issues in common. While girls must maintain the constructed persona of the pure and innocent, virginal woman in order to keep up society’s expectations, gay men must keep their libidos and their sexual advances in check, not flirting with anyone who would beat them up and leave them in an alley; gay men are expected to ‘pass.’ While women have to be careful walking home at night, and hope not to get kidnapped and sexually assaulted, gay men have to be careful walking home at night, and hope not to get kidnapped and crucified on a chain link fence in the outskirts of the Wyoming prairie. Women have to deal with catcalls and whistles as they walk past. Gay men have to pretend not to hear the word ‘faggot’ muttered under breaths.

If the enemy of my enemy is my ally, then women and gay men are on the same side. We both walk the streets like Red Riding Hood, needing to be wary of the Big Bad Wolves: the drunken frat boys and the Reactionary Conservatives. But our shared villains attack us with different weapons: rufies versus baseball bats, legislation against birth control versus legislation against equal rights, delegation to the domestic sphere or to the closet. But while women are fighting for equal wages and family-friendly workplaces, gay men are fighting for equal rights and anti-discrimination laws, the right to have families in the first place. We are too weak to make significant strides separately, and our problems are too varied to join our forces.

As I was thinking this, forming the words of my internalized monologue while paging through the essay, I was thinking about why I didn’t want to open my mouth in class, and try and explain myself It’s easy to understand why I let it slide at the bar that night, but this is different. Arguing the finer points of sexual preference with predatory drunk guys is one thing, but why wouldn’t I mention this in class, in a controlled environment, with sober young men who were at least open-minded enough to sign up for a class dealing with sexuality. I’m usually much more open about my sexuality, at least with my friends, especially when it comes to my neuroses and sexual experiences. Well, not sexual experiences, but experiences when my sexuality has dictated the tone in a less-than-flattering way, when I have to be more conscious of my sexual preference that most other people have to be, ever. The vulnerability of gay men is a unique experience, one that’s hard to put into words, only instincts. There are certain bars that I refuse to go to anymore, after walking in and not feeling safe; I’ll definitely think twice the next time we go to that bar, if we go at all. I transferred schools after my freshman year when my passive-aggressive roommate left homophobic messages on our whiteboard: Silly Faggot, Dicks are for Chicks and tore down the HRC sticker I had up. There are times when, like girls, I have to be superaware of my surroundings when walking home alone and bumping into strangers. If girls are ‘asking for it’ by dressing and acting like sluts, then gay men are ‘asking for it’ by their clothing and demeanor as well. I worry about straightening my posture, maintaining stoic hips, and widening my stance, butch it up so that I feel more secure. I have to wonder if my jeans are baggy enough, my shirt is loose enough, my shoes more sporty than classy. Even if Madison is a different place from where I grew up, the much-hyped liberal hub of the Midwest, things aren’t exactly perfect here, either.

In January 2006, four students were arrested and charged with felonies for sexually harassing a GLBT liaison in one of the dorms. They woke him up around 3 in the morning by banging on his door and screaming, “I hate fucking faggots! Die!” They spit on his door, made threats for his life on the whiteboard on his door, and went around the building, ripping down posters that advocated GLBT events and activities. Editorials in the school newspaper about the event ranged from decrying the hate-crime laws to students angry that the fact in the paper it mentioned that two of the suspects were members of a local fraternity, giving Greek life a bad name, from alumni saying that this was the definition of a mountain being forged from a molehill thanks to the socialist attitudes of the city to explanations that the only reason the story was in the newspaper was due to the dry news spell that happens at the beginnings of most semesters. I didn’t read anything about how terrifying that must have been to wake up to death threats, about being harassed for doing your job, trying to foster a welcoming community for those living in the dorms and becoming a victim. I read nothing that took his side.

But I didn’t write a letter to the editor taking his side, either.

I didn’t stand up for myself and for gay men at the bar, in class, or in the local media. Three times, and in three different situations did my voice fail me, and yet each time I thought about it. I thought about it, but decided against it. Why? I’m an English major, with a double minor in creative writing and GLBT studies, and yet the words never come when dealing about my own sexuality. I’m in denial. I just don’t want to deal with it. I’m not good at putting my personal into the political. I always want that distance, that buffer, if only for my own imagined security.

I’m at the point where I just want to be me, I just want to ‘pass’ in the heterosexual, ‘regular’ world. This is a society where gay is the ultimate buzzword, in politics and in the media. Being part of such a visible minority can end up being stifling, where I always feel expected to be political, to be the entertainment, to live up to stereotypes, to speak up in class to give the ‘gay’ interpretation of the reading. I want the invisibility, the ability to join the norm, or at least pass as a member of the norm at times. It’s not so much as a desire to renounce my sexuality, but to be able to lose that as my master status, to reposition my identity, or have others reposition their thoughts on my identity, to ‘go back into the closet’ socially, at least. I won’t have to deal with feeling obligated to talk about it, in bars, in class, anywhere.


(Edit. This is a rough draft of a paper I'm writing for my English class, a creative nonfiction essay contrasting the political and personal. Besides, it beats yet another post about how Brokeback Mountain lost the Best Picture Oscar last night.)

Chin Up!

It's ok. It really is. It'll all work out. If you need a shoulder to cry on, someone to dry your tears, a new pair of supple male lips to lock with, or if a naked romp would get your mind off of things, you know where to find me. It's snowing here, so we can keep each other warm.

Just remember. I'll make out with you whenever you want, and George Clooney can just wait in line. Or if he can join in, if you want.

I wouldn't mind.

Who sleeps all night in a cake made of strawberry?

I haven't jerked off in a long time. I think it's been since last Saturday, but I can't be sure. I mean, I can't be sure, but it's definitely been a while, and I don't remember having a load off since then.

I hit all the old haunts yesterday, but more out of an obligation or feeling that I probably should whip it out and get it overwith. Unfortunately I got a phone call and made plans for $3 margaritas (which were pretty good) which unfortunately interrupted things.

Then, this morning, I woke up not hung over (yay!) but feeling... loaded. This is a good morning to take care of buisiness. They just feel heavy, a definite 'gravitas' to them.

I started trolling juicygoo when I feel a drop of something on my chest.

I hadn't cum yet. I didn't fling my cock to spray myself with precum. I looked down and saw blood.

And then another long viscous drop landed in my chest hair. And then another.

Nothing quite ruins the mood than realizing that you're bleeding profusely, and it never seems to cease. I started writing this after about ten minutes of plugging my nose with kleenex, and positioning my head in all sorts of awkward positions.

I suppose if I worked things out and kept at it I could give myself a Strawberry Shortcake, which probably wouldn't be so difficult a task given the 6 day load.



Alas, I'm not into that sort of thing, so I'm just stuck with a garbage can filled with kleenex stained with blood and mucus instead of kleenex with my boyjuice. Not a good start to the weekend.


EDIT::
In an odd coincidence, A Softer World has a somewhat similar comic posted today. Theirs is better.

Fat Tuesday

Tuesday night. Fat Tuesday. What's a college boy to do but go out and drink?

I don't have classes on Wednesdays, and to top it off, at the dive bar we usually go to, Captains and Coke are on special for $1.75. How could I refuse?

It was just my fag hag/fruit fly/fairy queen/add-your-own-euphemism and me. The place was not as busy as I would have thought; busy for a Tuesday, yeah, but nothing deserving of the Mardi Gras title.

We ordered our drinks at the bar, sandwiched between two large drunk girls with beads, who were insisting on showing their boobs again to acquire more. The bartenders seemed pretty bored with those boobies, and were ignoring the two girls. They were the kind of girls who wore tanktops that were too small for them, and so there was about an inch of pale flab circling their waist, in addition to their flabby arms. They gave new meaning to the phrase "Fat Tuesday." The girl on our left gave up and went back to her table. And when her massive space cleared some space at the bar, who was on the other side of the abyss?

CoolKid, that's who.

CoolKid who, after that first attempt at sex, talked to me online twice, trying to set up a second go at it, and both times stood me up, with no explanation or apology. He lost his phone and has a new phone number, and while I gave him my phone number again, I don't have his new digits.

And there he was, in a dark blue baseball cap, staring at me. Fuck. I turn my head quickly and stare at the bald dude making our drinks.

We grabbed our drinks, and make our way to a booth on the other side of the pool tables. I lean in.

"Remember that story I told you about the guy and the lube?" She's one of three people to whom I've told this story in real life.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm pretty sure that's him at the bar, in the blue baseball cap." She turns and looks.

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Fuck."

We drank our drinks, and I listen to her whine about her boyfriend. It's just not a good situation, since he's one of my really good friends, my roommate's from last years best friend and new roommate, and she pretty much treats him like shit. No one really likes her anymore, but she doesn't catch on to the hints we give her, and everyone's kind of crossing their fingers that they break up.

The crowd started to grow around 1, to the point where I could no longer make out CoolKid at the other side of the bar. I'd noticed him starting at me occasionally throughout the night, but I decided that enough was enough, and unless it was an apology, I didn't really want to be dealing with him anymore.

I excused myself to hit the bathroom, only to find CoolKid already there, taking a leak.

There's only two urinals at this bar, right next to each other, no divider or anything. The floor is warped, and the only way to urinate and stand on solid ground is to be about four or five inches away from the porcelain, and the only way for two guys to urinate at the same time is to practically have their legs touching, one foot on top of the other. Usually if its late enough, and everyone's drunk enough, no one cares.

Unfortunately, I made the concious decision not to drink much last night, so that I wouldn't develop the drunken courage to ask CoolKid why he hasn't called.

So I walk into the bathroom, see the dark baseball cap, and freak out. I stand in the really small bathroom for a few seconds, trying to figure out what to do. I'm usually pretty good at urinal etiquette, but I don't think that taking a leak next to a drunk former hookup whom you're not speaking to is in the literature.

I didn't even stand around to wait, do the weird 'check my hair and teeth' in the mirror routine, or straighten out my clothing and stare about aimlessly, or any other of those time-wasting things that guys do when waiting for a urinal to open.

I just leave and go back to the table.

"Boy, that was quick."

"Actually, I just didn't want to piss next to lube guy." I tried to explain the protocol for urinals, but like most girls, she got it but not really.

We hightailed it out of there. I'm such a pussy.

It's a Communist Party!

I really, really wish this tshirt were still in print.



And not just because I'm writing this on a Tuesday night, and I'm a bit tipsy.

I'll tell you about it later this afternoon.