Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Too 30 for this Shit, Part 1

During my adolescence and early teen years, I keenly honed my business skills, navigating fiscal pitfalls as a concession stand cashier and private-residence muralist. Money became my impetus, for if I could serve up frozen pickles and pixie sticks in 90-degree weather or paint a lovely riparian scene on a bedroom wall, I could mature into Ross Perot or Thomas Kinkade. Little did I know, Ross, Tommy and I engaged a mutual love for prescription-pill cocktails. Ross, or "Penpal #27," as I called him, will officially divulge his pills of choice in his posthumous memoirs, tentatively titled Ears: An Empire. My burgeoning entrepreneurialism waned as I began to sprout public hair, however. While I roused rip-roaring peach-fuzz parties for my pubes, business savvy succumbed to fear of everything heterosexual and/or of ugly evangelicals. For each new pube-popping, I'd endure my penis popping to gay stimuli. Oh, the shame. I tried to hide it, and for years I managed to sometimes unsuccessfully not allow myself to have the life I needed or wanted, not partying with gay boys, not building a homo network, not modeling for the LGBT quarterlies or participating in NAMBLA. My twenties hit, and I decided to make up for lost time much like my mother has in her empty-nest years.

A couple of weeks ago, Adam, Craig and I decided to put on our high-heels and hit the streets. This night we would toss vodka in a few bars and not prostitute ourselves in search of semen or cash from circumcised penises. We did not actually wear high heels (although when I strut down 8th Avenue in Chelsea to get groceries, I secretly pretend to clack on fiercely), but our wardrobes still breathe slutty significance. Naturally, my uniform, a striped green lady-scoop-neck and dark skinny women's jeans with a cowboy belt for a bit of butch whimsy, flatters all the right tendons and ribs on my body. Oh, a lady-scoop-neck is a tank top or tee shirt that I cut into more revealing, avant-garde blouses. Adam dropped by during my three-hour getting-ready process to chat, start drinking and discuss our plans for the night. Adam is very attractive, with a solid dancer's body, cradling a great, effortless and eclectic style. However, he is delightfully dirt poor. His outfit consisted of once-too-short red bell bottoms from Goodwill cut into shorts and a Burberry plaid button-up he kept from a one-night-stand. By kept I mean stole. His brown, worn leather loafers came from a "classy dumpster" on the Upper East Side.

As I finished blowing out my hair and got a recapitulation of his ensemble, Adam poured the first round of vodka sodas, and we chatted about our itinerary for the night:
Adam: So, what are we doing tonight?
Me: Well, I'm wearing a cowboy belt buckle, so I'd really like show off my twattal area at Flaming Saddles.
Adam: Oh yeah, I love that place! And after let's make Craig pay to cab us down to the Boiler Room.
Me: Oy. I'm afraid if we go there I'll want to sleep with everyone. You know I'm hot for Lower East Side boys, but they could care less about me?
Adam: We can have fun with it. If you get frustrated, we can dick around and slowly swap clothes with each other throughout the night.
Me: Whatever Craig strolls in wearing, I'm not switching with him. I don’t have the strength to look like a gay lumberjack having sex with a frustrated ginger. The last time I did that, I ended up contributing to the Santorum presidential campaign. He can pull it off. Not me.
Flaming Saddles echoes the honky-tonk version of Coyote Ugly, except gay steers prance and line dance on the bar instead of supermodels lip-syncing to Leann Rimes during her chunky days. Two mason jars filled to the brim with well vodka and fifteen minutes later, I seriously began to eye-fuck one of the dancer-barback-waiter combos as the crowd swelled inside the bar. He only smiled because he's paid to flirt. Cuntry-fried whore. Saddles matched its reputation and devolved in to a veritable cattle call. Fag hags stumbled in and outnumbered the vaquero queers. If you replaced the bulls in Pamplona with drunken bridge-and-tunnel heifers, you would appreciate a solid representation of the scene. Once I began to sway amongst the heavy cattle, endeavoring to fist my empty mason jar and sing along to the fifth Billy Ray Cyrus song, Adam wrangled us together and led us out of brokeback bar before I really started acting my age.

We rolled into Boiler Room around midnight, yet we were already two mason-jar-sheets to the wind. In the cab ride, we'd mutually resolved to plan out our actions on arrival in a two-pronged approach. It seemed to make sense at the time. Craig and I would bob and weave through the crowd, assessing the "talent" (talent means the attractiveness of the patrons) on our way to the bar. Adam would immediately position his assault on the juke box and select songs from the Britney Spears and Gloria Gaynor catalogs. We executed the prongs flawlessly…with superior improvisation I may add. Craig identified four boys he'd previously spotted on Grindr, which surprised me because they were not Blacktino; I spotted eleven guys I'd like to fuck, and we nabbed six shots of tequila for the three of us. Adam had a spectacular find in Dusty Springfield on the magical music maker. We celebrated. We sang. We had the impromptu-yet-staged photoshoot. We bought three shots of vodka to "clear the taste of tequila from our palates," as Adam declared. Adam and I also decided to switch into each other's outfit. Again, it seemed to make sense at the time. After a quick twenty-minute wardrobe change in the bathroom, we boldly stepped, duds and dicks, out. "Craig, bring me fresh drink and a stale hipster." I remember little of the bar visit after this.

Before I realized the rapid change in scenery due to an alleged blackout, we exited Boiler Room and taxied back to my neighborhood to hit up a diner. I figured after eating ice cubes and lettuce for a week, I should eat some French fries covered in chili with a side of French dressing and a strudel for something sweet. The three of us piled out of the taxi and crossed 23rd Street as a middle-aged man, reminiscent of a younger, gayer Ernest Borgnine passed the other way. The details remain fuzzy and spotty, but someone ran into someone, Craig apologized, and then Ernest invaded my personal space and began to berate me, three-inches from my face. Mutherfucker wanted throw down with me in Chelsea. Meanwhile, I just craved some carbs. Craig took on his protective honey badger stance, pushed me to the side and stood in gay Ernest's face, politely informing him to back the hell up off us or he'd go Kentucky on his ass. Craig is so chivalrous. Ernest backed down, and the confrontation thankfully dissipated, but I thought a nice closing remark was needed: "You have pleated fucking pants! Leave me alone! I don’t talk to your kind of people! Where in sin are my fries?"

The next twelve hours excruciatingly devolved from there…

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Grinding to Gay Jihad and Crying about North Carolina

At last, after a too-long sojourn of laziness, inspiration-slackness and Vanderbilt-rednecks in North Carolina redefining marriage, I've hazily fallen back to my love, my safe place, faking everything with my words, here with this blog. I thought this, too, after a passionate affair with Mitt Romney's obviously and/or allegedly queer son Craig, my other secure sanctuary, the closeted, sometimes-bespectacled Republican with a security detail. Craig messaged me on Grindr several weeks ago (Grindr, for those not in the know, essentially geo-targets homos in one’s vicinity, displaying a picture and a brief profile, where said homos can chat, send cock shots or schedule a play date on 8th Avenue), which is not so odd given my popularity in the gay hook-up scene. The amount of forty-two year old men that shoot "Hey," "Hey sexy" or "Hey cutie, looking?" conversation starters to me astounds. Craig (not forty-two), with an angled, oily torso shot as his profile and a Republican elephant emblazoned above the right nipple, introduced himself to me in a similar capacity:

REPpedStud: Hey, what's up?
Me: Not much, you?
REPpedStud: Horny. Looking?
Me: Always, but I need to see your face and a doctor's note before I can commit to anything.
REPpedStud sends over two pictures of his face…I believe he looks familiar and douchey.

Me: Cute.
REPpedStud: Thx. What are you into?
Me: Depends, but right now I really want to get married and then have bareback sex.
REPpedStud: Oh wow.
Me: Right? This is the best place to look for both scenarios. Are you a Republican?
REPpedStud: Yes. I have a wife too.
Me: I'm practically wet. Where's your hotel?
I ponder the sacred institution of heterosexing matrimony quite often while on Grindr, constantly blocking app-ugly people and refreshing the screen to see if a new crop of studs has risen. Most of the bumping-and-grinding guys would say they want marriage legalized (I've physically polled 76% of them) while finessing the iPhone flash to properly highlight pictures of their taints to send to MuscTop4Bttm et al.

As I write, I've been reading Facebook posts, NYTimes articles and CNN blogs about the North Carolina amendment passing, denying gay marriage more succinctly and causing harm to domestic violence protections. Fuck the residents of that state that supported it. Fuck you all for breaking the heart of someone that rarely gets emotional or upset about these things. Fuck you for instigating me to eat an entire gallon of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream while penning in this "safe haven" of mine. Fuck you for putting those hundreds and thousands of gay teens in your state at risk, burdening their already hunched shoulders with heavy disapproval and hatred. Fuck you.

Deep into the cookie dough, the vanilla coating my tongue and my eyes inflamed with hidden tears, I sit idle, at a loss as to what can be done to shift this paradigm in thinking. I've no clue. However, I do believe it will take generations for the "thinking" to change for these amendment-passing majorities, but in the interim, I propose homosexual warfare on a micro and macro scale. On a micro scale, you and I have to keep speaking about this fight, posting videos, statuses, blogs and tweets about us. Our humanity. Our hurt. Our second-class citizenry. Our voice. Our suicidal teenaged population.

On a macro level, I can only offer lofty/illogical/impossible suggestions:

President Obama should shove his testicles into descended order and make a stance against the blasphemy, bigotry and errant state amendments like North Carolina's. All un-closeted gay residents in NC should refuse to pay their state income taxes. An LGBT-friendly corporation, like Starbucks, should threaten to shut down all locations and services in the state until the amendment is revoked. The LGBT community and its supporters to never step foot in or deal with business in the state again. Everyone against the amendment moves to the state and infiltrates everything.

Ever in self-protection mode, I invariably believe the bottom line is all about money and power. If you damage economies and menace profit margins and shut down service providers, people will take heed and buckle to your demands. We have to get the power. Power will never change thinking, but it will change laws. Again, I'm pondering ridiculous suppositions, but I truly believe, amongst ourselves and our government and those we want to yell "fuck you," we need to stretch those lines of communication wider than a power bottom's anus after an all-black gang bang.

REPpedStud's hotel suite west of Times Square proffered tremendous views of the city, a city that can now house leather-themed gay weddings helmed by a man dressed as a Hasidic Jew and anti-gay Republican fundraisers officiated by Mitt Romney or Donald Trump. At both events, a ball gag sits somewhere. Laying in bed with Craig, I commented on how much I hate men, for they don't know what they want (on the micro level) and build walls of ignorant defense and distraction (on the macro level). They are singularly, gay and straight, responsible for my unhappiness, the United States' shitty welfare and Michael Jackson's still-decaying face. Men constantly let me down.

Me: You look very familiar. Are you a log-cabin Republican with a capriciously bigoted father?
REPpedStud: No, I'm Mitt Romney's son.
Me: So that's a yes? And let's talk a little bit about your use of Grindr…and my penis for that matter.
REPpedStud: Can you please sign this non-disclosure agreement?
It hits me. I'll probably never get married.