1. Could I get away with wearing a bouquet of gladiolas in the back pocket of my jeans? 2. Why is “How Soon is Now” my least favorite Smiths single but my favorite video?
3. Is Morrissey the greatest dancer ever, or the worst? 4. Who is the cute pensive male angel in the video to “The Queen is Dead?” If I gave him a sunflower would he smile? 5. Could I rock a pompadour?
I'm assuming you guys were all thirteen once and so I don't need to explain this, but on the off chance there's a reader out there with a genetic abnormality, wherein he was magically able to skip the perils and awkward minefield that is puberty, I'll elucidate.
I'm a man of habit, and for the past eight or nine years every time I grab a straw at a fast food restaurant and unwrap it from the paper, I cross the wrapper and pull it through. While I pull, I think of the name of a dapper young gent on whom I have my eye. If the knot stays, he's not thinking of me. But! if the wrapper rips and the knot is undone, he's thinking of me, too. In that way. Let me give you a slightly not safe for work picture to illustrate my point.
Last night, around 8:30 I realized that I hadn't eaten dinner yet, and so I went and grabbed some food at a fast food joint. Well, faster food joint, a few steps up from McDonalds. While I was waiting for the food to be ready, I grabbed my cup and filled it with lemonade (I had vodka at home to spice it up). I put the lid on, grabbed a straw, stuck it through, tied the paper in a knot, and thought of.... no one. I was just standing there, holding a straw wrapper in my hand, with nary a cute guy in my head.
Going through a flirting dry spell at the bars is one thing, but blanking as to anyone I would like to be thinking of me in that way is just sad. Celebrities don't count--I doubt that Jake Gyllenhaal or Aaron Eckhart know of me, or at least know enough about me to want me spread lavisciously on their bed. There's no one I even have my eye on, no one in my classes, no friends, or friends of friends, or regulars at the bars I frequent, nothing.
Within the past three weeks, three of my closest friends have been dumped. Long, serious relationships too, one lasting two years, one four, and another eighteen months.
It's been an arduous few weeks, let me tell you. My liver is enjoying the fact that last night was the first time since G. got dumped on the 3rd that I've stayed in and just watched tv, with no alcoholic beverages.
Don't get me wrong--we're not alcoholics. There have been definite reasons why we've gone out, to someone changing his facebook profile to single and therefore she needed to get her mind off of things, or walking past a coffeeshop and seeing him sitting with another girl, or a late-night text message recieved the next morning that didn't sit right. We've gone out for one drink, for two drinks, for three drinks, and gone balls to the wall. We've slummed and looked to feel good about ourselves, we've dressed cute and flirted, we've hit new bars and old haunts. We've laughed (I've even been barred from the bar across the street for my dirty dirty mouth), we've cried (well, I haven't, but others have), it's been a bumpy, hazy few weeks.
Although now, the week before Thanksgiving, all three of them have found someone new. At least someone new.
G. has already dated someone, or seen someone, or awkward-verbbed someone for three weeks and cut it off because he was too boring when he was sober.
J. has her choice of two guys; one a incredibly sweet guy with too much school spirit, and a mutual friend who's looking to take things to a different level.
D. has acquainted herself with a guy she met at the bar, and yesterday updated her profile to tell the world that she's off the market again.
And where does that leave little old me?
Still single.
The only one not to get a phone number, the only one not bowing out early on the arms of some fella, the only one not to walk home the next morning.
It gets old.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize it and the more it bums me out. I've never been asked out in real life. I've never been asked for a phone number from someone I just met. And the times I do try I get politely declined (and sometimes in sign language!).
I can't even just blame it on the bars, since I recently updated my profile pic online to a totally cute picture and there's been no luck.
I can think of a few reasons why I'm so unlucky.
1. Being the only gay guy in the group of friends, we don't frequent places with good odds for me finding someone. 2. I'm not attractive enough.
I'm watching Sex and the City as I'm watching it, and I'm envious. It's all so easy for them. Sure, it may have to do with the poor writing, the cheesy lines, the established franchising and the fact that NYC is represented as a magical land of handsome, dateworthy men.
"It's no longer a waste of a day— I learned how to spell my name in sign language!" He said, eyes wide open, five drinks into the night. Pointer and middle finger up and crossed; Thumb and pinky extended, the other fingers down; A fist with the thumb up and on the side; Another fist, his thumb now underneath his first two fingers.
"Good!" I say, brushing my leg up against his, Moving my right hand, open, from my mouth To my open left hand. I smile and take another drink of my beer As his knee brushes me and his shoe covers the laces of mine. I tilt my head back to get the last few drops And when my neck snaps up his eyes are waiting to meet mine.
"One more?" I clench both my hands like crab claws And bring the two together, almost like they are kissing. "How do you say Yes?" he asks, and I make a fist and nod it, Explaining that it's like a head nodding yes. He makes a fist And nods it, nodding his head at the same time. I motion for the bartender and she refills our glasses.
Let’s see. What other words do I know? I spread my fingers apart, bring them to my mouth, Lick my middle finger quickly, but then bring it to my hairline And run it through my hair to the crown. "What’s that?" he asks, But I shake my head and say "Nevermind." I drink more.
What else? I make a peace sign with both hands, my thumbs At the crux, turn them sideways, and bounce them up and down. He makes a quizzical face and I lean in close, and whisper "fuck," Pretending that the dozens of other drunk patrons in this bar Have never heard the word before. He opens his mouth in mock disbelief, Then shakes his head jokingly. He sticks out his tongue in concentration, Copying me sloppily as his elbow bumps the bar. I reach out, hold his wrists And steady his beats, up and down. He’s giggling as much as I am.
I tap my fingers to my mouth, then move them to my cheek. He asks what that one means, and the alcohol musters up my courage. I lean in for a kiss, but as my lips near his he pulls away, Making a peace sign and snapping his two fingers to the thumb.
"Uh, I'm sorry." I replied, brushing past him and going to fill my glass with Cherry Pepsi.
We were at Fuddruckers at 8:30 on Thursday, mostly because I had a hankering for cheese fries and I didn't want to brave the fluorescent orange walls and obnoxious tools by myself. He was going to grab some cheap vodka at the liquor store, but I convinced him to walk the extra two blocks to sate my cheese fries craving. It was the guy I had written about a month ago, but then promptly deleted when he found my blog and didn't like what I had written. We've been trying to be friends of a sort since then, with mixed results; he reminds me too much of Heart for me to open up and really be friends with him, and that comes off as me being an asshole more often than not.
"I'm sorry."
I'm not really sure how I should have responded. I suppose if I really were an asshole I would have turned around, snapped my fingers and lisped "Hon, I'll sthow you gay" or phrased it as a question—‘I'm sorry? Excuse you?’ or maybe I should have pressed for answers, because I'm pretty sure there's nothing inherently gay about cheese fries and a soda to go, even if I do get it with the jalapeño cheese.
That’s always such an awkward question, and its on my mind more often than I think it should be. Just how gay am I acting? I mean, I’ve always considered myself more of a Will than a Jack, if I was going to categorize myself via late-90s sitcom sexualities. I don’t lisp, my wrists don’t go limp, I don’t think I have that aloof hoity-toity air about me as I walk down the street.
I know it shouldn’t matter, that I should just be myself and be okay with it, but we all know that’s not going to happen. When I’m at a bar and someone walks in wearing a too-tight tshirt, too much product in their hair, a rainbow bracelet or belt, women’s jeans, or is just all-in-all acting too femme, I always roll my eyes, at least. It’s ok to be gay, just don’t be gay.
I’m not really sure why straight-acting got to the top of the identity hierarchy. Maybe it’s because it’s easier to introduce a significant other who is more masculine and gender-conforming to parents and friends, or maybe it’s a visibility thing, and guys don’t want to be outed by association just by hanging out with someone flamboyant. Or maybe its because in junior high the girlier guys were more likely to get beaten up after class.
I mean, masculinity is always prized. Sure, there are guys into twinks, little wisps of hairless things, but I’m willing to bet there’s more about youth than it is about physical preference. Aesthetically they may be more pleasing, but there’s too much drama and upkeep involved for most guys to take them seriously.
There are always going to be calendars of buff, naked firefighters, policemen, and French rugby teams, but I’ve yet to see a calendar collection of swimmer’s bodies, interior designers, and barely-legal choreographers. There’s an element of saving people, of protecting people, putting bad guys behind bars that puts the more masculine traits closer to the ideal. Little boys want to grow up to be superheroes and save the world, not artists and decorate it, or yoga instructors and flex it.
Assimilation probably plays a big part of that as well, though as far as I can tell, it does for most minority groups. When given the choice, the Oreo (black on the outside, white on the inside) is going to be hired before the thug, the Twinkie (yellow on the outside, white on the inside) is preferred over the guy who runs the dry cleaning business. A woman needs to have ‘balls’ if she wants to make it in business. It’s a matter of how well you fit into the dominant society, and in order to join the ‘big boy’s club’ you’re going to have to be a big boy.
And am I a big boy? I always thought so. My voice is a solid baritone, I don’t shave or wax any of my body hair (except for some trimming around the good parts, and hair on the toes). I’m thin, but I’m not emaciated, I’m well-put together, but I’m not prissy about it. I don't refer to other gay guys as 'girls.' I stomp when I walk more than I glide.
I know I shouldn’t worry about things like this, but I do. It’s like the essay I wrote last year on identity, and how when it comes to terms of safety, gay men have more in common with women than we like to think, how depending on the part of the country and the part of town, there are places we shouldn’t walk home alone, how our enemies are mostly the same, how the reason gay men are hated are because they’re too womanly. It’s hard not to think about it when you’re walking home alone from the bar or walking into a classroom for the first time: how am I presenting myself? Am I going to fit in? Do I need to downplay my love of Tori Amos?
Thursday nights we always go to Dueling Pianos. It’s become a tradition. Don’t get me wrong—the drinks are good, singing along is fun, getting on the stage and dancing in great, but the best part of Dueling Pianos is watching old people get drunk for the first time in a long time. It invariably happens. The bar is pretty far from campus, and depending on the week, we’ll often be young enough to be the children of half of the people in the bar. Someone in our group of college students is going to get hit on by someone with a wedding ring on, someone balding, someone who will casually mention his divorce and three kids at home. The kids will be out of town on a camping trip, and the soccer moms go there to let off steam. A friend is going through a rough separation, and he’s brought to this bar. The ‘adults’ are the ones who get too drunk, who vomit in the bathroom and who have to take the taxis home.
That night, an overweight mom was there with her sister. Both women had long wavy hair, and were wearing the standard woman-in-her-forties business clothing from Lane Bryant or the Dress Barn. They were dancing with each other, big spins and jumping and they slowly took up more and more of the bar with their drunken antics. They were loud and shrill, pounding on the banister if they didn’t like the song, and getting way to into the dancing to “Sweet Caroline.” It was hilarious.
During the pianomen’s break, the fatter of the two women came up to our table and started asking the guys to come dance with them. Matt had gone to get another drink a few minutes earlier, and had jokingly danced with them as he walked past, facetious and mocking more than anything else. Matt sat back down and said he couldn’t dance anymore, because he had hurt his knee due to a soccer match earlier in the week (a total lie). John said he couldn’t dance with them because his girlfriend was really jealous and she wouldn’t let him dance with anyone else (John is single). Steve just burst out into laughter uncontrollably as the mom put her arm around his shoulder, awkwardness and fear in his eyes. Excluding the girls, I was the last one left, and so she asked, in her shrill voice, “You’re going to comes dancing with me, no excuses!”
“But I have an excuse—I’m gay.” Everyone smiled into their drinks, and watched how this would play out.
She took my hand from across the table and held it, like we were going to arm wrestle. I made my wrist as limp as I could, hoping to seal the deal with some effeminate behavior.
“You’re not ga-ay!”
“Uh, yeah I am. I like guys.”
“No, you’re just con-fus-ed! Mah son’s in high schools and he’s ga-ay so Ah can tell these things. You just needs a good woman to shows yous things.” She let go of my hand and grabbed the request sheet and a golf pencil from the table. “You should call me when you’re ready and Is’ll make a man out of you. You’s straight, you can’t fools me!” She wrote down some digits on the back of the sheet of paper, but I’m pretty sure her phone number isn’t 68X4U8812.
The song switched over the speakers and the opening beats of “SexyBack” pounded through the bar. Her sister came up from the bathroom downstairs and hollered at the top of her lungs “I LOVES THIS SONG!” They both went and started dancing, an awkward tango with too much hips and an inability to stand up straight for more than a few seconds, lurching onto each other to stay erect.
We all burst out into hysterical laughter, and for the rest of the night, it was “Bawb, yahw’re not ga-a-ay-y!” and my reply “Ah just needs mae a goods woman to shows mes things.”
The two women left soon after that. The pianomen finish up about an hour before bartime, to give them time to drink a bit before they start taking down their equipment and packing up. We left during the last song (because really, Billy Joel’s PianoMan gets excruciating if its requested four times during the night) and went to go dance in the basement of the bar next door.
It was reminiscent of a high school dance, only with more alcohol. Everyone was dancing in a circle with their friends, a few people were standing on the sidelines, holding up the wall. The music was so loud you couldn’t talk, the lights were flashing, and Gnarls Barkley was going “Crazy.”
It was like the ending of every single bad gay movie I’ve ever seen. I was downstairs, in the club, dancing up a storm, sweaty and exuberant, surrounded by my friends, with a big grin on my face. There were flashing lights and music videos on the walls, and then a bad remix of Cher’s “Believe” started pumping through the speakers. I could recognize what a cliché it was, but it was all right. Any worries about how gay I was acting or how straight I could be had melted away, and now I was left dancing, giving my body up to the music, feeling free. I knew that things are going to be all right.
On Halloween, after pregaming we made our way to some bars near the capital. On the way, the guy dressed as a Red Bull with Vodka (a bull costume with a squirt gun filled with cheap vodka) needed to take a leak, and so hid off in a narrow alley. Less than five seconds later, he runs out giggling and says "There are some guys making out back there" and finds the next alley to go to the bathroom.
Naturally, curious we all go and see who's making out in the a dark alley. It turns out, he didn't mean 'guys' in a general sense, it was in fact, two guys going at it in the alley way. As we got closer and our eyes adjusted to the dark, the guy dressed as a doctor pulled away from sucking face, doubled over, and vomited. The other guy, dressed as a biker (I think) put his hand on his back and looked up, seeing us. Everyone else backed off, but he and I made eye-contact, and I knew immediately who it was. It was the Familiar guy.
Not breaking eye contact, he tapped the doctor on the back, and he rose to his feet. The doctor wiped his mouth with the side of his sleeve, and then Familiar grabbed him and resumed making out, forcefully, trapping him against the brick wall.
And then I threw up a little bit in my mouth.
Fortunately, the Red Bull was done by then, and we made our way to the bar, where I hit on the captain of a sports team oncampus (that is too easy to google and find pictures of him if I named the sport) but needless to say, it was a sport which made his costume of lycra a very good idea. A very, very good idea.
