Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Steve and the Seven Twinks...

During the summer I had the chance to get re-acquainted with some guys that I met at university.

They are a true band of twinks, minus the derogatory stereotypes of dim-witted, 'fashion' obsessed fuckwits. It struck me as a little hilarious how now they all have degrees and have moved forward in life, they have stayed very much the same.

I somewhat crashed one of their birthday party's (24 I think...) at the host's apartment, the pre-gathering before heading out to the clubs. Any time I'm at one of these things, I feel like an outsider (because I am) both literally and figuratively.

The typical twink uniform hadn't changed much, with their enviously-thin bodies fitted glove-tight into skinny jeans and tank tops. They've all aged pretty well, with none of them looking burnt-out now that the flame of their late-teens has passed. In fact, a couple of them are looking a little more distinguished now that they've grown into their features.

Shockingly, there was a ton of food at this shindig. Granted, some of it was veg platters, but for every healthy item there was twice the amount in flaky pastries and fatty foods. How do they do it? I mean, honestly, they're all rail thin but they ate. I guess their metabolisms are still in teen mode.

We all swapped stories, and as usual these days, it seemed like everyone was doing something worthwhile/interesting/professional except myself. These guys are genuinely nice, so there was no one-upmanship going on; they all appear to be genuinely doing well for themselves, which is nice.

At some point I excused myself to use the washroom. Normally, this wouldn't be a noteworthy experience, but true to my luck and timing I managed to turn it into a bit of an affair.

I pushed on the soap dispenser, palm open to catch whatever came out. I guess I pushed a little hard, or at the wrong angle, because the next thing I saw was a huge jet of liquid soap rocketing out of the dispenser, completely missing my hand and landing perfectly to the left of the crotch of my jeans.

"Fuck," I muttered. "Seriously?" I'm not a klutzy person, but I seem to be prone to having less-than-graceful moments that are totally out of my control. There I stood, jeans soaked with a perfect line of liquid, practically as if I'd pissed my pants. I slapped a palm to my head, grabbed the towel and feverishly rubbed my crotch, hoping to soak up some of the liquid so I looked less like an idiot.

I did the best I could, but the wet stain refused to budge. Thank you God for my sense of suave and timing.

Darting out of the bathroom, I ran for the nearest chair, grabbed a cup and napkin, crossed my legs and covered my crotch. I don't really think anybody noticed, but I wasn't standing up any time soon.

As the first part of the evening drew to a close and the merry band of twinks marched in procession to the elevator, my friend and I said our goodbyes. Now that everyone had had a few (other than me) the hugs were a little tighter and the smiles a little glowy-er. And so, I watched them walk off into the night, like a zoologist observing a rarely-seen species in it's natural habitat. Some were on the hunt, some were along for the ride.

And I was on my way home.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

I am happy goddammit...

It's pretty bad when you have to justify to a complete stranger that you are indeed a happy person.

I had struck up a conversation with yet another mid-20's girl who was flirting with me (albeit in a bit of a ye-olde-fashioned way) because I'm trying to be a little more outgoing, networkable and connected. She seemed to be a contact that would ultimately be good to have in my files, so I played along with our friendly chatter.

We then got to talking about the job market (the bane of my existence) and corporate citizenship, where she took the opportunity to gush about her Fortune 500 company's recent win of some type of good deeds award, given by some council I'd never heard of.

Since I always find it difficult to believe that big business actually does do good deeds every now and again, I joking asked her how much the company had paid for their title. My little off the cuff comment didn't go over so well and I found myself being lectured about what a great company her employer is and all the things they do for the benefit of all.

I don't like being mean, and it felt like she was a little hurt by my blunt disregard for her employer. The conversation quickly wrapped up and in the end I apologized for my comment, hoping to smooth over any ruffled feathers.

Her parting words of advice were that I should, "Try and be happier," so that things will be more inclined to go my way.

"Oh, don't worry," I said with an attempted grin. "I'm a happy person."

She looked at me, gave me a shrug and a smile, and walked away.

I felt like I should chase after her and explain in 25 points why I am indeed a happy person. Because, damn it, I am!

Ok, so maybe I'm not ecstatic about life lately, but I wouldn't classify myself as someone who comes across as unhappy. I'm still polite and friendly. I'm also incredibly lost, but I like to think that I keep that to myself, on the inside.

So it struck me as pretty odd that I felt such a compulsion to prove to this woman, a total stranger whom I may never meet again, that I'm happy. But there it was.

Of course, now I'm paranoid that everyone I meet thinks I'm emitting this wave of negativity. And for all I know, I might be. But I don't see it that way.

Because no matter what, on the surface, I'm a fucking happy person.

Monday, October 3, 2011


Yep, I'm 25 now.

Maybe it's because I'm overly modest, but I don't get why '25' is such a big deal. Friends and family have all been acting like the fact I've made it to 25 in one piece is worth a gold watch. Perhaps if I was in a better frame of mind I would have enjoyed it a little more.

My negativity surrounding the subject is something I really need to let go of. Where others have seen it as a chance to celebrate, I wind up asking myself, "Celebrate what?"

Bah, I'm trying not to turn this into a negative post, but every time I write a sentence it turns out that way. It's as if my 'biological clock' is ticking away very, very loudly, and I'm the only one hearing it. I know that 25 still makes me practically a baby, but when you're living it, it feels like you are lightyears behind where you ought to be.

In truth, I didn't even really feel like 'celebrating' my birthday, because I don't really feel there is much to acknowledge. I guess that's me being my earthy-Virgo self who doesn't like making much of a fuss in my own name.

The day in question came and went rather quietly. I did receive some lovely notes from people, including some fellow bloggers/readers, which truly did make me smile. It really is the little things that make me happy. I even got a baked-from-scratched cake from my mom (even though it was four years in the making...I finally got it! Yay!)

I will, however, acknowledge one major improvement. My birthday last year was pretty much a disaster. For being 'my day', it turned into anything but what I wanted. At the time I was pretty much nearing rock bottom on the sine wave of life and was pretty miserable.

I don't think I'll ever forget crying myself to sleep, alone, the night of my birthday. Not something that I do...well, ever really.

So there. In retrospect, looking at how awful I felt one year ago and enjoying the fact that I'm not feeling that way any more is pretty fucking awesome. Granted, I'm not on the top of the world. But I'm not scraping the depths of sadness I was one year ago.

And that makes 25 a pretty good birthday after all.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Oy vey...

There are days when I think my family was supposed to be Jewish.

Before I get stoned to death for fleshing out a stereotype, I should preface this. You all know me to be an all-around loving guy, which is why I (and my friends) make racial jokes/commentary without there being any threat of it being taken seriously. (More in this vein later, when I tackle gay jokes at the office.)


So I was out shopping with my mom (I'm such a good son), mostly to seize the opportunity to be within a 20-mile radius of a Starbucks but also for lack of anything better to do. We had pretty much done the mall once-over, but I wanted to stop and check out some jeans (since they're my staple clothing item and you can never really have too many pairs). Mom wandered off towards a shoe store, and I ducked into the shop.

I chatted up the semi-cute sales guy and took a couple pairs to the change room. I tried the first pair, did the usual rotation in front of the change room mirror (not the public one, but the one in the stall. I don't think I would be vain enough to trot out in front of a store full of people to check out how my ass looked in a three-way mirror.)

As I was tugging the second pair off, I heard a familiar voice waft down the hall.

"Oh, hi!" she said happily to whoever was standing in the doorway. "I'm looking for my son. Is he back here?"

I did a combo of heavy sighing, palm-smacking on my forehead and eye rolling (again, all in the privacy of my stall). Grabbing the pair of jeans nearest to me, I pulled them on at light speed and practically fell into the hallway to head her off.

While I was doing this, she had (of course) started a lengthy conversation with the sales guy. I whipped around the corner and waved to get her attention. "Uh...something up?" I asked, for lack of anything really polite to say.

"Just wanted to make sure I hadn't missed you!" she said, smiling.

I gave a weak smile and tried to stifle a very quiet squeak. The sales guy looked to my mother, then at me.

"Oh. This is your son," he said, halfway between bewildered and bitchy. "I thought you were looking for someone a lot younger."

I looked (in my mind) ridiculous, squeezed into jeans that were the wrong size, standing in the middle of a change room where my mother was practically calling my name to see if she could find me in the store I had already told her I was going to be in.

I could pretty much hear Fran Drescher's voice in my head, whining, "Ma!!!" Oy vey, indeed.

Upon retelling this story to a Jewish friend of mine, he laughed and said that he actually thought for a while that I was a Jew. Apparently that whole story fit the profile. Even at his wedding, his parents and family all thought I was just another Jew in the crowd.

Apparently I have some Hebraic features that I was totally unaware of. And this after being told by my boss just the week before that I must be a true Scot due to some particular nose-ridge-thing that I have (and so do, apparently, all Scots).

"But, in practice, I'd make a terrible Jew," I chided. "The whole foreskin thing...and bacon! I don't think I could ever really say goodbye to bacon."

Kai laughed in his muted, deadpan way. "Hell, I eat bacon all the time.

"It's my favourite condiment."

Tuesday, July 19, 2011


It was fitting irony that, last week, after attending a swank party at an upscale auto dealership in Toronto, my car decided to blow up.

I was cruising home well after midnight, my favourite time to drive. The roads are quiet, the sun is down and rolling the windows down usually greets you with a cool breeze. All was well.

About 20 minutes from home, my engine light started flashing. "Nothing to get worried about," I said out loud, trying to convince myself that I wasn't in for a fuck-up.

My father's mantra has always been, "Just get it home," no matter if it's your car that's broken down, your body that's broken or pretty much anything else. So, I drove on.

A few minutes later, the engine light stopped flashing, and stayed on solid.

A few minutes after that, I noticed the heat gauge spike. The engine chugged and the transmission moaned. It was as if the car was having a heart attack; it was sluggish, slow to respond. If I'd had Aspirin with me, I probably would have thrown some in the gas tank.

"No, no no no. You bitch!" I yelled at the dash. "Don't fucking do this to me!"

But it was not meant to be. I threw in the towel, pulled down a deserted side street, and killed the engine. A quick inspection under the hood confirmed my fears. There was indeed something wrong.

The entire contents of the cooling system had vanished. No hoses were blown, no fittings let loose. The coolant had simply disappeared somewhere, at some point.

I called home for a ride/tow from my Dad, who showed up a few minutes later. We topped up the coolant with water, thinking we'd bring it back to life. I jumped behind the wheel, turned the key...and nothing happened.

Klonk. I tried again. Klonk klonk. The engine refused to come out of it's heart attack mode. After over 400,000km of somewhat rocky service, it had drawn it's last breath.

Dad towed me home, me with the windows rolled down and the radio on, riding along in neutral. A few minutes passed and out of nowhere I started to laugh. I mean, how fucking ridiculous was this? I'm having my last, 3am, with the windows down and the radio going. I didn't want to think of how crappy it was and the million problems the situation introduced.

I just ignored the crap and ran with the completely wacky thought of my last ride in the only car I've ever really called sort-of-my-own.

Thankfully, I've got a borrowed set of wheels for the rest of the week. After that...well, I'm not really sure what the future holds. If I were living in Toronto, I wouldn't really be pressed to find a more permanent car arrangement. Living out in small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere, if you don't have a ride, you don't go anywhere. Seriously, anywhere.

So now I'm doing the rounds trying to figure out who'll screw me less, a bank loan, financing from a dealer, leasing...

I'm not going to say I'll miss the old wreck, but I hear you always have a soft spot for your first. And while getting a new car is high on the 'awesome!' index, it gives me a pretty dim financial future.

At least I'll always remember my last ride, the summer breeze and the after-midnight radio as I cruised off into the night...

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Awkward romance...

Someone has a crush on me.

Actually, two people have a crush on me! It's quite flattering, since they're both attractive, intelligent and spunky and around my age.

It also happens that they're both women. per my usual crappy luck, not only do I seemingly repel my own sex, I attract the opposite! What kind of a 'mo am I!?

Ever since starting my shitty Generic Office Job (I'll fill  you in later), I've notice these two get a little...well..suggestive with me. One keeps asking if I'd be open to letting her take a nap in my lap, and the other one, in total chick fashion, told her female friend (also the one that wants to nap in my lap) that she thinks I look like Mufasa from Lion King.

Granted, I've been called much worse than Mufasa, but seriously, what is that supposed to mean? Like, is that a good thing?

Annnyway...the whole fact that I'm gay hasn't cropped up in conversation yet, so I guess they're both labouring under the idea that I'm straight and available. And it would feel totally presumptuous of me to simply tell them that while I'm flattered, they're missing the correct anatomy to attract me.

It just seems to carry on with my usual luck that, while two completely viable potential persons of romantic interest present themselves, they're just...uh...not my type.

Eventually, when one of them flat-out asks me, or if the opportunity presents itself, I'll out myself and be done with it. But I just don't want to be that guy who's all, "Guess what gang, I'm a homo!" out of nowhere.

At least I know, should I ever really run dry in the gay world, I can still live a totally heterosexual life and make it believable.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Come together...

So today was culmination of Toronto's week-long Pride celebrations.

And I was not in attendance. Partly by choice, partly by scheduling conflicts, partly because I had no irresistible offers.

Of the few people who asked what my Pride plans for this year were, most were surprised to hear that I didn't have any. After all, Pride is supposed to be the big gay celebration, where Mo's from all across the region (and even from around the world) descend on the city, clad in booty shorts and skin-tight tank tops. And how does it all make me "feel?" they ask.

Well...sort of awkward. And anxious.

When I attended my first Pride a few years ago, I did so under the wing of the guy I'd been dating that summer. We went out with his friend, he made all the arrangements, and all I had to do was show up and try not to stick out in the crowd.

That sounds sort of ridiculous, since the crowds are largely made up of nearly-naked members of both sexes, clad with leather or spun out of their minds on a handful of different drugs. Since I don't fit into any of those categories, my simple jeans and T-shirt uniform proclaimed me an outsider. It was sort of like Alice falling through the looking glass, waking up in a world very far from my own.

I actually had a blast that weekend. It was fun and pretty meaningful for me, at that point in my life, to have been part of it. But this year, the thought of Pride just reminds me of how I still really have yet to find out how I fit into the gay community.

There's a whole other post I'm writing on that subject, since I find it pretty daunting to tack down the exact definition of 'modern gay', but that's for another time.

When I think about the thousands of horny homos, sweating under the pulsing beats of a club's sound system, complete with live sex show being simulcast on 50 foot screens...I dunno. I'm very torn.

On the one hand, it's like a huge high school party. There's all these people there having a good time, comfortable in their surroundings, confident in their swagger. All the 'cool' kids gathered together, getting drunk and trying to get laid. The sense of belonging.

Of course, in high school, I was definitely not one of the cool kids, and that's transitioned into my current status in the gay world - uncool. You know there's going to be this huge party, and everybody is going to be there, and it's all amazing and shit...but you're not invited.

I want to say that I'm mature enough to not give a shit about it. After all, at it's seediest, Pride is a cesspool of bad decisions, bitterness and thinly guised disgust for anyone who doesn't fit the perfect homo mould. When I think of it that way, I really don't have time or patience for such bullshit. It's ridiculousness on such a huge scale that they even have a fucking parade to cap the weeks festivities off.

No longer is Pride about gay rights, inclusiveness, acceptance. It's about a bunch of hot guys trying to fuck each other and chastising anyone who doesn't fit into their particular clique. And while I don't mind a bit of good-natured debauchery, when you feel like the odd one out it takes all the fun out of it.

And this is where I feel torn. Because as much as I understand that Pride is a rehashing of high school drama, and really isn't the lifestyle that I want to pursue, I still wind up feeling left out of the fun.

I just want to feel like I belong, like I'm not still an outsider, even amongst my own people. All these years later, and I'm still trying to figure out just how I fit into the gay community, where I can befriend some like-minded guys and finally have some fun times in a part of the gay world that I would be comfortable in.

I usually tell myself, "There's always next year." But I've been saying that for a long, long time, and still things have yet to change. I always thought that once I got to university, moved to the city and came out that things would sort themselves out, yet here I am still feeling like a total outsider on the one weekend a year when I should be feeling part of the 'big picture'.

And, alas, the pendulum of my mind swings back and forth between 'this is bullshit' and 'wow I wanna be a semi-cool kid'. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Now that Pride week is over, I'll roll out my excuses for not taking part in any of the events. And I'll probably not feel so wracked with anxious tension about not 'fitting in'. And in another week, it'll all be a distant memory.

But then, there's always next year.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Bad mogambo...

I felt really weird yesterday.

Lately I've been doing better, feeling calmer and a little more sorted out. Things are looking up once more and while I have several things I would like to be different in my life, overall I really don't have a lot to complain about.

But I've had varying degrees of a strange, clenched, choked feeling. Like all the bullshit I've waded through over the last two years is simmering just below the surface in my subconscious. Like I'm too tightly wound, and for no good reason.

I'm not an angry person. I don't blow off steam by screaming loud enough to shatter crystal. When I drink a bottle of wine, I don't become a blithering, melancholy mess. So why do I get the sensation that I've got some crap bottled up inside that's keeping me from climbing out of a funk?

Yesterday was particularly bad, and for no reason that I could specifically name. By mid-day I was wracked with vague, mild grief. I soldiered through the rest of the day and finally felt more normal when I was cocooned in bed, watching crappy TV while skimming an equally crappy book. It felt like for the better part of the afternoon I had some bizarre voodoo dragging me down; I had no real reason to feel anything but content, yet I couldn't shake the feeling there was some bad energy/karma/whatever floating around me.

I don't really know if I believe the whole karma thing. I've always put good out into the world, never really doing wrong by anyone. But for all my good deeds I can't say that I've reaped what I've sown. If "Violence does indeed recoil up the violent," then the reverse should be true; my noble actions should come back to me in noble ways.

From my observation, the saying, "Nice guys finish last," seems a touch more accurate. But hey, that's not me complaining! If for nothing else than to prevent that negativity from whiplashing back to me...

This morning I did my usual coffee-newspaper-pajamas Sunday morning routine, and I feel quite content. Maybe I just had some bad vibes screwing my day up yesterday. If such things even exist.

I'll just steer clear of black cats, ladders, 13, and any other ridiculous superstitious mumbo-jumbo in an attempt to avoid any bad mogambo that might happen to float my way.

Friday, June 24, 2011

These four walls...

Why is everybody I know buying houses?

Seriously, more and more of my close friends are suddenly purchasing their first real estate. Granted, some of them are a touch older and wiser, and have a little more in the bank than others. But my best friend, who is all of 24, just purchased her very own place alone, without a boyfriend or roommate.

I guess we all have different priorities. I've been part-home owner my whole life, dealing with the million and one things that come with being responsible for your property, and I'm sick of it! My aim is set on a nice, cozy one-bedroom apartment somewhere downtown, not on a semi-detached dilapidated wreck of a house, complete with knob-and-tube wiring and an ancient furnace.

Of course, when they tell you about it, it all sounds peachy. "My very own house!" is the typical ecstatic line. It's an incredibly exciting and nerve wracking prospect, but more of my friends are taking the plunge and planting their own white picket fence.

Not that I'm afraid of commitment, but owning a house is so... permanent. Unlike an apartment that you can leave at practically any time, trying to sell your house is not exactly the most painless process. That coupled with the insane 30-year mortgages people are signing is enough to keep me a renter for the foreseeable future. (Well, that is to say, I'll be a renter when I finally move back downtown.)

Like many milestones, these first homes are lampposts on the path of life. I guess it's just hard for me to reconcile the fact that we're growing up and settling down. I've been mature practically my whole life, but I haven't reached the life-stage of home ownership just quite yet.

So for all you new home owners, congratulations on your success. I'll gladly come to the housewarming, but please don't bitch to me when your toilet is stopped up, your water heater breaks, your windows need replacing and the driveway need re-surfacing.

Ok, we all know I'll grudgingly be there to help when I can, pulling the best Mr.Fix-It I can.

But it's not my fault you had no idea what you were getting into.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Have I got a guy for you...

...was the first thing out of her mouth.

I've become friendly with that local guy I seem to be continually talking about, and by extension I'm acquainted with his coworkers and boss. On one of my routine visits, Julie, his boss, grabbed me the moment I walked through the door.

"Seriously!" she said as I tried not to scowl too much. "He'd be perfect for you, I've got a feeling. He's mature and actually a really great guy."

Of course, you could describe me that way as well, but I've been overly-cynical lately and immediately gaffawed at the idea of being introduced to a sane, normal guy. "Oh come on, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," I half-joked.

Julie's reaction was, uh, typical of her. "What, you think I'm going to set you up with a douchebag?"

"OK, fair enough," I said. "But seriously, I just have really bad luck." Bad luck and a still very much broken heart.

Her phone rang, so I was spared any further matchmaking.

Maybe this guy is genuinely nice, and maybe he would be interested. And I do want to meet some people the 'traditional' way through friends. But I just can't muster the energy. I've lost my mojo/groove/whatever.

Some say that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, but even the prospect of hooking up holds relatively little appeal to me. I haven't 'been' with anyone since the ex, and that part of my brain, that drive to get out there and meet people and, yes, have sex, has seemingly gone into remission.

Of course, I know why, to a degree. I'm still reeling, dealing with my feelings, trying to reclaim the normalcy that was once my life. The thought of boys exhausts me (which sounds totally frightening, as if I'm an 80-year-old).

And to make this post even more cliched, it really isn't 'you', it's me.

What happened to good old, horny me? Have I put up so many emotional walls that I've boxed myself in, effectively freezing my underwear to my body?

An old friend of mine who now lives out of town was back for a visit and thinks I've 'grown up' from the person I was. "Before, you were on a mission to find a boyfriend," she said. Honestly, I don't really like the way that sounds, and I immediately challenged her.

"Was I 'looking' for a boyfriend? Yes, absolutely. But it's not like my whole life was devoted to finding a man." We agreed that at that point, I had my bases pretty much covered, minus a relationship: a good academic career, good family life, good friends, good health, etc, etc...

Of course, that can't be said for the present. No career, a group of friends I barely ever see, living in the fucking country with my parents. Granted, things could be much, much worse, but I've got a shitload of life stuff to get sorted out before I even think about men.

Actually, yeah, that's probably what's cut off my zest for guys. With the rest of my life in disarray, what energy do I have to put towards the next campaign to meet men. So for now, the 'perfect' guy that Julie sees me with will have to wait to be graced with my presence.

At least having frozen underwear should help keep me cool this summer.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


Probably not that any of you care, but we had a federal election on Monday.

It was an election nobody really wanted to endure but the results were actually historic; for the first time ever, the Liberal Party did not win or come in second, but were slighted down to 34 out of a possible 308 seats.

Add to that the historical factor for the New Democratic Party, finally gaining enough popular support to become the official opposition.

Oh, and add to that the first win of the Green Party, who finally got one seat after years of campaigning.

All in all, if you're interested in politics, then the election results have certainly delivered a lot to talk about and analyze.

I'm incredibly pleased to see the near-destruction of the Liberal Party. They have lost so much support, even from their traditionally strong ridings like Toronto. I know most people will try and blame it on the now-former head of the party, Michael Ignatieff, but I'd like to attribute it to the colossal arrogance and wishy-washyness.

Firstly, they consider themselves 'Canada's natural governing party'. As in, we're the defacto rulers of the land, we're that fucking awesome. It irks me to no end that they truly believe they ought to play the role of the 'people's party' and that their way is the natural order of things.

Secondly, the party has tried to be all things to all people. They court the vote of every minority possible, play the multiculturalism card at any opportunity yet have a hierarchy of mostly old, white males in powerful positions. Their very fabric has been stretched so thin that I suspect the average party member has no idea what ideologies they stand for.

If you thought John Kerry was a flip-flopper, you should watch the Liberal Party dance.

Of course, ever the optimists, the Liberals have spun their crushing defeat as a 'good opportunity to do some soul searching' and get back in touch with their roots. I have no doubt that they'll be back, perhaps even in the next election, but it's a sweet moment to savour for the next four years.

This is all not to say that the Canadian public, Joe 12-pack (our average Joes drink more than your average Joes), is intelligent or has made its choices based on sound judgment. In one Quebec riding, an NDP candidate who lived 300 kilometers from the seat she was trying to win ditched the campaign mid-way for a trip to Vegas. She won her seat handily, which is a shocking outcome from such a shoddy campaign.

So, now we have four years of political stability, with a new official opposition. I'm actually looking forward to seeing what will come out of the newest Parliament and hoping that there are no political curve balls that screw the whole thing up.

But as with all things in life, time will tell.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Ruminations on a wedding...

Not that I'll admit it in public, I did actually get up at 5:30 a.m. yesterday to watch the wedding ceremony.

I don't really know what captured my interest about the whole thing. Mostly I'm fairly on top of the news, and since it was such an historic event, I felt somewhat obliged to tune in.

And besides, it's nice to be able to look back in a few years and "remember where" I was when William wed Kate. They're historical markers/lampposts of your life that etch memories of who you were at that point in time into your brain, along with the significant world event.

And lets face it, the last few significant world events that we won't be forgetting were decidedly unhappy, so it's quite pleasant and positive to have been witness to a happy one!

Firstly, (I know at least one of you will roll your eyes to this) I have to say that her brother is quite cute. Matter of fact, there were a lot of cute guys seen throughout. I seemingly have a bias towards British guys, and the fact that I was half asleep through the first hour sort of negates me as being a gold standard of hotness.

I actually really enjoyed the service, it was simple and quite touching. The sermon in particular stood out to me as memorable. A few points that I really liked:

- "Transform, not reform one another." What a nice way to actually think about love and relationships. People seem to attempt to 'change' their partner's habits or attitudes instead of working together and becoming something new and more positive. Of course, that's only relevant if the person you're with is actually as committed to the relationship, e.g. "Your very own Prince/ss".

- "Love that is secure, not impulsive." Again, see above. Speaks to the more mature end of relationships, because lets face it, I'd rather a guy that brought home a pizza and wine every Friday night than being swept away for a romantic weekend once and then summarily dumped a couple weeks later.

- [in vows] "With my body I thee honour." This hit me like a ton of bricks when I heard it. Superior and more intimate in every way than, "With this ring I thee wed." You're not talking about an inanimate object here, you're talking about caring so deeply for someone else that you're connected on a molecular level. Why is it so hard for the modern man to honour you with his own body by not cheating on you or doing shit that he shouldn't behind your back?

Actually, looking at what I've just written strikes me as if I'm fairly un-spontaneous when it comes to relationships. I'm not going to say I like a "sure thing" but compared to being swept off my feet then kicked to the curb, I do favour the less-thrilling option. Maybe I'm not pushing myself outside my comfort zone enough, in terms of dating someone on a whim and with little thought for the consequences.

Ugh, even writing that last sentence was hard to write...I always think of the consequences. But maybe that's my problem.

Anyway, the wedding was lovely, upbeat and it was genuinely nice to see all the crowds of happy onlookers. Plus, here in Canada, Tracey Ullman served as commentator/co-host to the broadcast, so that was just funny.

But of course, not that I would ever admit it in public...

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Click click...

The internet is run rampant with sex and porn.

That statement is pretty much an oxymoron, but it’s worth bearing that pretty much anywhere you look, from dating sites to hooking up on Craigslist to all-out porn shoots, there are hundreds of photos of hundreds of guys showing off their bodies.

What I’ve been discovering more and more lately, as I venture guardedly back into the single world, is the staggering number of people who don’t hesitate to post their own pictures of themselves in ‘indiscreet’ situations. Most ‘dating’ (read: hook up) sites profiles have more pictures of a guy’s member or ass than they do of his smiling face.

Hell, half the time the mouth is too busy to smile for the camera.

Sex sells, and if you want to get laid, you better put the goods on display. A few flattering shots of yourself in the raw does wonders for the inbox, or so I’m told.

There are no existing nude photos of me, as far as I know. This is for two reasons:

1. Because I’m wayyy to self-conscious to put my body out there for all to see.

2. I don’t really know there will be no ‘long term’ effects of some candid shots sitting somewhere in the depths of the internet.

When it comes down to it, I don’t have a problem with guys showing off. It’s sexy to see ‘real’ people, couples, whoever, making their own little sex tapes. It offers something that porn – no matter how amateurish it’s production – cannot offer, that glimpse into the ‘uninhibited’ sex lives of real people.

Guys are not only putting up thousands of photos for free that the world is allowed to see, they’re joining ‘Cam’ sites and jerking off for an anonymous customer on the other end of their internet connection.

And again, while it can be all in good fun, what happens in, say, 15 years. How many people have copies of profile photos seen on Dudesnude, Adam4Adam, Manhunt and the like? Will anyone even care by then? Would anyone ever find out?

See, I’m still on the fence about how damaging these ‘pictures/videos’ are. Granted, your political career may suffer if voters see you getting down and dirty with some guy...but are these more scandalous because these politicians have families and are ‘straight’ or because it’s two guys having gay sex?

Add to that the probability that, outside the gay world, people who aren’t looking for gay porn aren’t going to come across your dirty laundry. That’s the theory, anyway. I mean, it’s not like the Times runs a ‘Reader Cock of the Week’ shot in the Sunday insert.

Still, I can’t help but hold off snapping a few cock shots of my own. I have no quibbles about regarding my sexuality, so I don’t necessarily disagree with making some home-made porn. I just can’t help but wonder how many bad things could happen because of those few photos.

I’ll open the floor to comments, because I’m genuinely curious how many of you either have posted or just taken pictures of yourself for the world’s collective enjoyment.

The one sure thing is that younger people, especially younger hyper-sexual gay guys, are not taking a moment to ask the same questions that I have. The number of white, auburn haired Midwestern American teens who make their privates available online is unquestionable. The evidence is all there online, for the world to digest at its leisure.

I just doubt I’ll be joining their ranks anytime soon, even if it means getting passed over for someone else because my profile doesn’t disclose every one of my assets.

EDIT: I've added a poll that I'd love for you to vote on, if the colour is a little hard to read I apologize, my Blogger skills are less than adept...

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The small gestures...

Have random acts of kindness really died in 21st century society?

A long while ago, when I was moving from my old place, I had to drop my washing machine pay card by the property manager’s office and sign a few things. The office wasn’t very busy, and the grandmotherly Bavarian woman who runs the place was happy to see me and get me sorted.
While signing on the dotted line, a young guy wandered into the office and took his place in line behind me.

As I was finishing, he asked the landlady for a laundry card; he had just moved in the day before and it wasn’t given to him then.

I casually asked the landlady if he could just take my old card, since there was still around 13 dollars left on it that I had no hope of using up.

“But, are you sure,” the landlady gasped at me, like I had just handed over a million dollars. “You can get your money back if you fill out another form and wait a few months, you know. You don’t have to give it away.”

She seemed so genuinely taken back by my ‘generosity’ an made a big fuss over how that’s never happened before and how I must be such a nice guy.

For his part, the other tenant who had just accepted my laundry card shook my hand and thanked me profusely. He’d just moved in the day before and was clearly young, probably getting ready to start university.

In a small way I felt like I was giving a hand to someone in a situation pretty much like my own just a few years ago. It made me feel kind of warm and fuzzy (as goofy as that sounds) to see the circle of life, as it were, revolve once more.

But the big deal over 13 dollars still blows my mind. It was as if I had just given them a grant for a million dollars. I tried to be as modest as possible , shrug it off and just say the whole ‘treat others as you would like to be treated’ thing.

“Nobody does that kind of thing though! “ she said matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t happen!”

I know the world can be a pretty cold, lonely, crappy place. I get the whole feeling down, fighting back against life’s hardships, etc. I guess you could call it the ‘human experience’. But jeez, I gave up like 10 bucks on a laundry card. I didn’t think my small random act of kindness would be taken so out of the blue.

I try to live my life as best I can and be a positive and giving person. What I did wasn’t the least bit out of character for me, but the response was certainly a surprise.

In this cold city, I guess I’m one of the few nice ones left after all.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

What is and what it used to be...

If 50 is the new 40, and 40 is the new 30, and 30 is the new 20...then I'm a 14 year old?

Culture is in constant flux, but one of the more changed facets of our lives is the interpretation of age. Sure, it's 'just a number' after all, but most people agree that each decade has skipped back a few years on the 'traditional' scale of existence.

People who were marrying and having children in their 20's now have them well into their 30's or beyond. Women in their mid-40's-to-50's are now considered attractive cougars, flush with the money from their divorces and fueled by raging menopausal hormones.

It all sounds very attractive for someone in the later years of their life, like a chance card in a board game, almost the permission for a do-over of a decade or so of their lives. We crave eternal youth, and society has now deemed it acceptable that the activities and decisions made at an older age are given as much credence as those of teenagers.

But what does it mean, exactly, for someone just starting out their life? If 30 is indeed the new 20, than being 24 makes puts me solidly back in adolescence. Am I then allowed the freedom of being a teenager, absolved of responsibility for my actions and safeguarded by my parents?

It never really crossed my mind, but I do have several friends that fit that description. They've finished university, gotten jobs, started living their own 'adult' lives...but still behave like teenagers. Everything is about the next party, the next weekend, ditching work early and shagging anything in sight. What's scary is they now have the somewhat-disposable income to do just that.

Of course, there's no real planning for the future...but that seems to be what your 30's are for now.

Even my friends who have successfully navigated life out of their 20's are, in a sense, just getting strong footholds in their professions. That came with around 10 years of hard work, mind you, but what used to be the jobs and occupations of freshly-graduated students are now the positions 30-somethings find themselves in.

I just don't get what this all really means for me. Am I allowed to live the life of a teenager? Does society now expect so little from me that I'll not only have less responsibility but less opportunity to get my life started?

And what will it mean for me once I'm in my 60's? I really don't want to feel the burden of being forced to work into my 70's, but at the rate we're going both societally and economically, it's a distinct possibility.

While there are less stressors surrounding age, like 'settling down and starting a family' or just plain settling, I still feel more lost in an age-limbo than embracing my newfound adolescence.

I guess I'm just not old enough to understand.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

These dreams...

I'm such a loser that Even the guys I dream about are complicated and unattainable.

Sweeping statement, I know, but having just had a very vivid, lengthy dream about some fictitious guy that I was apparently totally in love with but in a beyond-complicated situation.

I say this dream was 'long' because it literally chronicled a relationship from beginning to end. Not every second, but enough for the 'viewer' (myself) to get the picture. I say this dream was vivid because I actually had that chest-swelling, stomach-fluttering feeling of love as I dreamed I was lying in bed, cuddling my anonymous boyfriend.

I never did catch his name...

Of course, it couldn't just be a happy dream. It couldn't have been a fun and easy distraction made up by my subconscious to ebb the flow of loneliness I've been feeling. Nope, it had to be as complicated and fucked up as my real-life relationships are.

The general plot dealt with me being introduced to a guy by my apparent best friend, some girl from high-school who I barely hung out with. We subsequently fell madly, passionately in love. I can't remember if the sex was any good, but there was a lot of cuddling.

So everything seems cheery in the quasi-futuristic world that my dream took place in. Except for the fact that my mystery man happened to be the son of two devout Mormons, his mother having her Masters in Mormon Theology and his father having a PhD in the subject.

Where the fuck did my subconscious come up with that?

Anyway, long story short, I agonizingly realized that there's no way for us to be together, given his background and the fact that he could not break away from his family and church. It ended touchingly with my 'best friend' and I sitting on her balcony on a summer evening lamenting lost love.

Alas, even in my dreams, the place of blissful escape, I still manage to meet a complicated man and find myself in a doomed relationship.

Yay me.

Shout out No. 3...

Hola to a reader from Los Cristianos, Spain. Looks like a lovely place to take a mini-break! Just looking at a few photos helps take away the sting of our freezing cold winter!

Friday, March 4, 2011

Natural beauty...

I have to say, I'm a sucker for natural beauty.

I don't mean beauty post-plastic surgery, colonic weight loss cleanse and professional grooming. I'm talking about just truly stunning features people have.

Be they the hallowed high cheek bones, or startlingly insightful eyes, or the perfect curvature at the corner of a smile, I'm always an admirer of someone that makes me look twice. Chalk it up to insecurity, or whatever, but I genuinely can be stupefied by a guy with the most charming curl of hair that lazily spills across his forehead.

Hell, what are we all kicking about the planet for if not to embrace that which brings us happiness. (I realize this makes me sound like a sociopath who abducts and murders pretty boys because he likes the way they look. Not the case, but it makes me sound a little nuts, I agree...)

But what I find most difficult when dealing with these specimens of beauty is the most basic of interactions with them.

Take for instance one of the most striking guy's I've ever come face-to-face with. He works at Holt Renfrew (aka Selfridges Canada) in the men's department, must be around 25, has the lightest tint of golden brown on his skin, black, lanky hair and an angular face. I'd tell you the colour of his eyes, but I've never been close enough to see.

Because I'm too intimidated to even speak to him.

I'll casually shift clothes on their racks, thumbing through for sizes or whatnot, stealing the occasional glance at the shopboy. In some ways it feels dirty, like I'm somehow a lecherous old molester scouting his next grope. Far from it actually, but it still feels funny.

On his part, he has never spoken to me (bad customer service!). I highly doubt he is even aware of my existence. And while I'm not really stunned or silenced by celebrity, this gorgeous man leaves me at a loss for words.

I have no designs to ask him out, or much of anything really. I just find it fascinating that as a grown-up, mature guy, I get lost for words when confronted with natural beauty.  It's stupid. It's frustrating. And it always leaves me with that flutter of insecurity, that voice inside telling me I'll never look that way, nor wind up with someone that damn beautiful.

All in all, a total waste of time. But it is a pleasure to behold a guy, walking down the street or sitting in a cubicle, that hit the genetic lottery and stands head and shoulders above the rest of us. I get annoyed that confronting one illicits such a stupid response from me.

I just need to remind myself that perhaps there's someone out there thinking the very same about me.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Meet market...

I'm already a little more than frustrated with being thrust back onto the singles market.

Even though I'm only 24, only very nearly dead in they eyes of the most cutting queers, I feel like I've really outgrown the whole online thing. First it felt like I was practically alone out here. Now I just feel alone.

The internet is a beautiful thing for gays and lesbians. It allows us to freely meet and mingle in a community that does not threaten us. At least, it doesn't threaten us with reproach from the straights, more threatens us with reproach from one another.

I just really feel at a loss, I'm sorry if this post is a bit rambling. I'm not usually overly-emotional about things, but I just feel really crappy tonight.

After unsuccessfully trying to meet some guys in the area, just for the sake of making some new friends, I canvassed Google and found a few more sites that I haven't hit up yet. I did the typical sign-up thing, wrote my little blurb and finally got to work checking out the local population.

And again and again, the population lets me down.

I don't feel like my standards are too high. I just feel like I have standards.

The internet has degenerated into a sex shopping mall. Literally every profile I read was geared towards finding the next fuck. Even the ones with a few interesting words to say ended their profiles with the typical, "But I'm on here to have fun too." Ugh.

Is it so incredibly hard to fathom that we might use the internet to actually make some friends with gays in our neighborhoods? I understand that it allows us the freedom to seek out sex without the scary consequences of bigotry, but why does it have to be used exclusively for the physical purpose?

I guess when I was a few years younger, I didn't notice it as much. I was content with meeting people on the physical level and not really getting stimulated on the mental one. But at this moment in my life I would really treasure meeting some guys 'like me'. I know my tastes are quite outside the norm (not that they're weird, just unpopular) but it feels like I am literally a one-of-a-kind person. Why is there nobody out there that actually wants to have meaningful conversations? Or that isn't a totally self-absorbed asshole? (Of course, writing this makes me a totally self absorbed asshole, but this is a blog, not a conversation.)

I just feel very frustrated and very down about the state of gay affairs. Are we all just meant to fuck one another and then bitch about it to our girlfriends? Is there nobody out there that just wants to make a more meaningful connection with the people around them? Am I destined to be sitting here on a Friday night, surrounded with my books, music and blog to keep me company?

Really, I just want to feel like I have a chance at standing out 'out there'. Because after reviewing the local postings, I just don't see much of anything in common with my fellow homos. I would say I feel sorry for them, but then again, I'm the one in the minority here, and they probably feel sorry for me.

I guess I just haven't yet found the right market to meet the type of person that I'd like to.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

More than peach fuzz...

I've always had an uncanny ability to grow facial hair.

It sounds like a stupid thing to declare but most guy's I've met have been (shockingly) envious that my beard grows in fully and completely. I'm talking the potential for mountain-man growth, if I don't shave it off regularly. Apparently most of the male population has issues growing proper facial hair, be it too 'thin' or too patchy or just too slow. I, on the other hand, have an abundance of it.

So it usually goes that those who don't have it, want it, and those who have it would rather not. I've actually had guys rub my stubble with nearly as much interest as they've rubbed my cock. To me it's bizarre, but I guess it's a sign of 'manliness'. Hell, I just usually let it grow because I'm too lazy to shave.

I always feel like sporting facial hair makes me look older, possibly a little too old for my liking. That, and I'm terrified that it places me straight into the 'bear-cub' (or whatever other animal they're using these days) territory, and I don't need somebody buying me assless chaps and calling me daddy.

Alas, even though I'm even insecure about something as simple as facial hair, it seems to be a hit with the boys. While it's not something I actively seek out, I will admit to having a bit of a fancy for it on the right guy, like Lady Antebellum's Charles Kelly, pictured below with some random fan. Rawr.

Actually, he reminds me of someone I know...but I digress...

Like most things, the facial hair attraction is a bit of a double standard; guys love to see it and give it a rub, but when it comes to the physical stuff there is the usual complaint of tickling, prickling hair in unwanted areas. When it happens, I kind of roll my eyes and remind them that 15 minutes ago they said it was hot.

So it seems as though I'm a bigger hit with the fuzz than without. That just means that I'll have to actually learn how to maintain it at a nice length without bushhogging it all off every five days. Ah, the things we do to maintain an image...

At any rate, it's nice to know I have a big draw that's all natural and all me.

Shout out No. 2...

Howdy to a reader from Jackson, Tennessee.

Having visited Nashville and the surrounding areas in 2006 (I think, can't exactly remember the date) I must say that you guys have a great approach to life! Great music, great home-style food and lots of hot cowboys will ensure my eventual return.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Some random thoughts...

In an attempt to avoid writing a treatise on one subject or another, I've elected to scribble down a few thoughts and anecdotes from my life.

Prepare to be bored enthralled.

-So remember that guy I wrote about who I had the chemistry with, and flirted with, then found out he had a boyfriend? Well, we've kept in touch, because I genuinely would like to make some friends around here. Anyway, he dropped the bombshell on me this week that he broke up with his 'asshole' boyfriend two weeks ago. He seems pretty bummed about it, so now at least I have someone to commiserate with.

-The other day I pulled out a sweater from my closet that I still had yet to wear this season. It was still wrapped in its dry cleaning plastic, so I pulled it all apart, tore out the tissue and finally put it on. And the fucking thing has a hole in it the size of a walnut.

I think I wore it roughly around five times, and it had only been sent to the cleaners once, and when it was sent there was no walnut-sized hole in it, therefore I deduce the cleaner destroyed by sweater. I'm really disappointed because it was a birthday present and a Fred Perry. This however is not the worst thing to happen to me in recent months, so I'm not going to sweat the small stuff.

-In Grammy news, Neil Young wins his first award (though not televised) for best Rock song from his latest album. Yay Neil! In even better news, Justin Bieber went home empty handed. Then I read today that he thinks we should only have sex with someone we love. And we shouldn't have abortions, because, "Thats, like, killing babies." When asked if a woman, who had become pregnant after being raped, should be allowed to abort the fetus, he responded that, "Everything happens for a reason." Oh, and he can't really answer, because he's never been in that position before. Yup, chalk up another squeeky-clean poster boy that's stupider than a stick. I wonder how he feels about the gays.

Have a good night all.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Another V-Day behind me...

Honestly I can barely even come up with a few good pithy remarks about Valentines Day.

When I was younger I fantasized about spending that special day with a special someone. But this year I felt pretty contemptible about the whole shoddy affair.

I happened to be grocery shopping on the 14th and was stunned by the number of middle-aged men walking in an aimless daze, arms piled with flowers, chocolates and stuffed animals. So prolific was this year's V-Day that the store had set up an entire market area filled with all the Valentines necessities, including an employee wearing a hot pink shirt and red heart buttoned just above where his real one ought to be.

Not trying to sound like a cynical single, but really, I'd much rather celebrate my love for someone year-round with flowers, candy and gifts given 'just because' not 'because the calendar says so'. I mean, doing a little something for your someone on V-Day is sweet, but concentrating all of your creative love-energy on one Hallmark Holiday feels a little empty to me.

But I guess that's just my personality. After filling out some scientifically-questionable surveys,  I discovered that I much rather someone show their affection for me by doing the 'little things' in everyday life, instead of decadent amorous displays. As shocking as it sounds, picking up my dry cleaning and putting your fucking socks in the hamper are true testaments of your love for me. The odd flower would definitely be appreciated, but that's icing on the cake.

Even more shocking is the dollar value of V-Day; the average person reportedly spend $116 for gifts and dinners. I know that I'm a flat-broke student who can easily spend that on a single meal at one of my favourite restaurants, but for Joe Sixpack to spend that kind of money is truly surprising.

It also feels like Valentines Day is just another way for straight men to try and get their woman into bed. Send the kids to the grandparents, throw some flowers and candy at her, ply her with wine and then produce a nicely-wrapped gift of lingerie and then presto sexo, you've gotten laid for the first time in four months.

(My apologies to any married folks reading this, I think a teeny bit of cynicism got out there.)

In all my few years of dating, I've somehow managed to spend every V-Day alone, either by being single or being physically separated from the person I was dating. I have yet to receive the lavish attention the mind conjures when one thinks of the most 'romantic day of the year'. Like I've said before, this is the year of not giving a damn that I'm single.

And that's the best Valentine's Day gift I've had yet.

Shout out...

I'm starting a new trend here at FU.

Since re-re-starting blogging, I've been tinkering with analytics and seeing where my traffic is coming from. Alas, unlike the good old days when I was getting a shockingly high number of hits (at least I was surprised anyway), things have slowed down, no doubt because I barely posted for like two years.

Anyway, now that I'm resuming regular postings, I thought it would be fun to give a shout out to some readers from smaller communities. While I love my city folk, it's kind of fun to think that someone, somewhere is some town is reading my words.

I just hope the locations I pick are actually those of readers, not just randoms that accidentally got directed while Googling alternative testicular cooling methods.

So, the first official shoutout is to a reader from Wollongong, New South Wales, Australia. Hope you're enjoying the dog days of summer down under!

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Peeking at the outside world...

I forgot how much fuckwittage there is in the cesspool of the online world.

I'm not trying to sound cynical. It's been so long since I've even really looked at any online-profile websites that I'd forgotten how ridiculous and traumatizing it is. Silly old me even thought that - maybe - the world would have gotten nicer during my online absence. Oh brother...

In an attempt to actually meet some people in my general vicinity as well as (possibly) start moving forward and putting some distance between myself and my previous relationship, I re-created a profile on one of the more modest sites. My expectations have been set pretty low both due to geography and 'the nature of the beast' but admittedly I've been surprised at my general lack of success and the dent it leaves in one's ego.

First off, it seems that people come in three groups. One, the smattering of guys that come across as having serious socialization problems. Not exactly great material for friendship. The next are arrogant, cocky and generally sex crazed. It always reads like these guys are just looking for the next lay and basically can't stop talking about how wonderful they are. Again, not the type of guy that I'm really interested in hanging out with.

The final group is the one that exasperates me the most. They're the ones that have the perfect hair, perfect teeth, a killer body, a coverboy that holds a doctorate in neurobiology who also find time to build houses for destitute Guatemalans and volunteer at their local animal shelter.

Yes, yes, yes, I can already hear a certain someone's sage advice: "People bullshit profiles all the time and everybody lies." Don't worry,  I'm not sucked in completely, but damn if I haven't read some appealing profiles. But, of course, I shudder to even think of talking to, let alone meeting, these saints.

On one such occasion I read the profile of a guy in his mid-20's who was a short blond with the most amazing smile I've seen. He's a student, working towards his doctorate, seeking genuine and intelligent conversation with similar guys. His photos paint a picture of a very attractive man with a fabulous social life (and deadly smile). His profile described him as having impeccable taste. His favourite music closely resembles mine, something that barely, barely ever happens. In short, he would be the ideal on-paper friend.

So on a whim I messaged him. I politely asked what he was studying and congratulated him on pursuing his education so far. No innuendo, no sly wording, just a few straight-up friendly lines.

Of course I was thrilled when I got a reply a mere 20 minutes later.

The thrill lasted around two seconds when I realized it was 10 words long. An answer to my question. That was it. No further discussion, no questions pointed back at me. Nothing of any substantial meaning.

I don't really know what I'm doing wrong. I didn't send him five pages of personal info, explaining point by point how much we have in common and how awesome and rare that is. I just sent a friendly note. I think I would have preferred silence instead of the one-line reply.

Over the course of about a month I have never been spontaneously sent a message from anyone. Roughly 20 people have viewed my profile. And it makes me feel pretty worthless and unappealing.

I know I shouldn't let it bother me. I mean, it's the fucking internet, it's pretty much all bullshit, lies and half-truths. But it does play into my (insane) want to be wanted. Nobody is more aware than me that my tastes and interests lie outside the 'norm' of a gay 20-something. I'm not expecting people to be banging down the doors wanting to get to know me. But dammit, I would really like if a couple people showed a vague interest!

Sadly, at this point in my life, there really isn't any other way to meet people except online. Now living in a homophobic community, it's even less likely that I'll run into guys around my age and strike up a friendship. And my one experience with a local boy, as you've already seen, was pretty much a disaster. I have little choice but to put myself on the interweb and hope for the best.

I just wish I didn't feel so damn worthless over something so utterly stupid.

Monday, February 7, 2011

So many resolutions...

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions.

In fact, I don't ever recall really making one, ever, both because everyone I see making them usually breaks them within a month or two, and because I generally believe if I want to make a change in my life, I need to do it at any point in the year, not just on January 1st.

But there are so many things that I want to do lately and just can't seem to muster up the drive or concentration for. Most aren't even difficult, but I've been so out of it lately that I have yet to really follow through with all but one.

The one thing I've been doing - writing a short, one page summary of my day - has been sort of interesting. I'd like to look back in 10 years and see what my life was like. I was inspired to do this from reading a biography on Winston Churchill, which used excerpt from many common British folks' diaries. They gave great insight into the times and how they felt about the issues of the day. Sadly, my diary is more of a recap of my terribly boring life, with no real social or political commentary. I guess that's what Frozen Underwear is for, though I doubt I'll wind up in any books.

Other things on my list, but so far ignored:

- Write to a friend every day. I want to send a letter/note/whatever to somebody every day, both as a way to get back in touch with my friends and to keep up to date on how everybody is doing. Not that challenging, but I still haven't done it yet.

- Volunteer. I want to volunteer for a youth services group in the LGBTQ sector. It wouldn't be a huge commitment of time, and it's something I've wanted to do for a long while. I really want to actually do something for others, even if it's just in a small way. Don't know how difficult it is to get involved with, and it's definitely a pain now that I'm not in Toronto, but I want this to happen this year.

- Write fiction. There have been many times that had the vague workings of a novel or short stories, but my insecurities about writing always take over and I wind up shelving everything because I worry it's not good enough, not original, been done to death and would be a giant cliche. I want to write something that's actually good, and it's intimidating.

- Fitness. I know I've beaten this one to death, but come spring/summer I would like to actually get a little more fit. I lost a ton of weight from stress and anxiety last year, then gained it all back (and then some) with the depression I've been in for the last 6 months. Even just for my general health, I'd like to loose some weight and work on the cardio thing.

- Learn to ride a horse. I've had this on my list for years, and now that I'm back in horse country there's no reason that I can't get some experience and learn to ride.

There are others, but that gives you an idea of the types of things I want out of the next year.

Now it's just finding the time to do it all...

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Get out from under my skin...

I want my ex out from under my skin.

He's not in there in any good kind of way. It's not the sexy itch that needs to be scratched, more the poison ivy that continues to welt and swell.

We talked today for the first time in about a week, and it started a little rocky. Mild bickering more than anything. It got better and we even had a 'normal' conversation. We ended it well and everything was fine.

I waited for the text message that I knew would follow our conversation. Sure enough, it came, albeit having a bit of a surprising invitation to come spend the night and sleep with him.

Now, to be clear, this was very out of context. He's told me many times about how sleeping with his ex's always made him feel bad, "Seemed like a good idea at the time but wound up making me feel lonely and like shit after." So, why oh why would he want to proposition me?

My sex life with the ex was never very satisfying. On my side, he never seemed into me enough, never seemed to want to have sex that often and always made me feel more like he viewed sex with me as 'work' more than fun. On his side, he says I didn't listen to what he wanted, that I wasn't in tune enough with him and that I never 'met him half way'.

Me being (stupid) me, I wanted to know why he felt the way he did, why he would want to have sex with me now, if he ever really enjoyed sex together...on and on. He kept feeding the fire with offhand remarks that generally made me feel bad about myself and basically want to cry. After hashing it all out, he then told me none of it even matters anymore since we're not together.

I wanted to know all that, generally, because I'm a very self-conscious person and always felt as if I never actually made him happy. I wanted to know why. Instead of getting an answer or an understanding, I just got my feelings hurt, and I don't really even know what for.

We allow others to have power over our feelings, expecting that they will handle with care. But what happens when we want to take that power away, when it's better not to be able to be hurt my a few bits of text? Why is it so hard to not give a shit about things that he says, when I know full well it's not right? Why do I let it bother me?

By the end of the conversation I was left vulnerable, hurt and really sad. And stupid. And I had nothing to show for it.

I guess it just takes time and detachment to finally take that power away from someone. But I want him out from under my skin. I want to be free of the hurt that words can cause.

When that will happen is another story.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Local love story (Part 2)...

One morning I text my local boy to say hi.

We made the usual chit chat that's become more and more flirtatious. I've still got that little flutter in my stomach and a smile that slips onto my face every now and then. In short, I've got a huge crush on this guy.

My phone buzzes and I pick it up, expecting to see another cute message from him. Instead, my heart falls nearly as low as my jaw sags.

"So...I have to be 100% honest with you, since you're a really really nice guy...but I have a bf."

Fuck. Off.


I mean, really God? I do hope someone out there is getting a laugh at my continual expense.

After a minute or two of hearing ringing in my ears and grasping for something to say, he sends another message. "Please don't hate me"

So I do the gentlemanly thing, and tell him I'm happy for him and hope that we can still work on a friendship since it's nice to actually meet someone new in small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere. Oh and by the way, why didn't you tell me this when I asked you fucking out?

"Well I was going to say something but my bf is a huge asshole, he's a gym nut and really jealous."

Again, lacking in the logic department, this answer seemed as good as any. The subtext was simple: I'm having fun flirting with you because I can't stand my boyfriend but that's all there's ever going to be between us.

Most of the day passes and I'm still walking around harbouring a bit of hurt. Not hurt so much as let down. For whatever reason, I'd finally met someone practically in my backyard. And we have chemistry. And he's crazy cute. Like the non-cynic that I am (when it comes to love, anyway) I thought that maybe this guy would be different, not screwed up by a life in the city, a million one night stands, cheating boyfriends and all the baggage that most people seem to be carrying around. I just hoped he was different.

How wrong I was.

Things continue to get more complicated. Apparently the boyfriend also lives in said town. What a hoot to discover not one, but TWO local gays! Laws of averages dictate they inevitably should be a couple, or at least according to him.

Strangely, the flirting from him continues. He texts nonstop for the rest of the day, saying things that made me blush and wonder just how serious he is with this other guy. Hope springs again as I fantasize about the possibility he's not committed and that maybe we'll have a shot at things.

I visit him one afternoon and arrive just moments before another friend of his. As he's distracted taking a phone call, she leans over and whispers in my ear, "Steal him away from that asshole!"

Jesus, not only does he sound like he hates his boyfriend, the rest of the world apparently does as well.

It continues over the next couple of days, and I start getting a little more uncomfortable with our textual banter. My ethics start up with a vengeance as I realize that his sexual innuendo could actually lead to something. I don't want to be the 'other guy' in the scenario because I respect myself too much to play that part as much as I respect that his boyfriend doesn't deserve being cheated on. And besides, I don't want to be the 'other guy', I want to be the 'guy'. 

Just as I'm about to go for coffee with him and inform him of my principals and tell him I won't go beyond just talking to him, he texts me. His boyfriend snooped on his phone and saw all that had been said back and forth.

My drama-alarm goes off and I get the sinking feeling that this whole thing just really isn't worth it.

The boyfriend called him a whore and a slut, they got into a huge fight, it went on forever...and they decided to stay together.

Ok, now I'm officially done. With one last long message telling him that I suppose all we're meant to be is friends, and how I hoped his boyfriend appreciated him, and how nice it must be for him to be so in love with a guy he calls an asshole, I bury any remaining thoughts of what could have been.

We're still texting now and then, and I suppose we're working on the whole friendship thing, but I'm more than a little discouraged about the whole affair. All my hoping that dating outside the city would be relatively drama-free and that the local guys would be genuinely both moral and non-cynical has more or less evaporated. Apparently no matter where you are, the gay baggage that bogs down so many relationships still exists.

After a good weekend of venting to a few friends, I feel better about the whole thing and can pretty much laugh it off. But I'm always going to remember the first guy I almost-dated back home, and what a disaster the whole thing was.

(Stupidly) This doesn't mean I've given up on the idea of a straight-shooting country boy.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Local love story (Part 1)...

I met a boy in town.

I've been living at my parents since the big breakup a few months ago, which means a life back in the sticks, far away from culture and other gays. Not that it's a big deal, but just kind of a fact-of-life out here.

But recently I made the acquaintance of a guy who works in town and is most definitely gay. And not only that, I found myself strangely, naturally drawn to him. Not out of necessity or neediness, mind you, but simply out of a natural attraction.

So I've visited him a couple times, and we've talked and flirted and found we get along famously. He's got a wicked grin and is quite possibly the cutest guy I've ever chatted up (mostly because I'm so damn shy about that, but anyway...). There's a spark between us, sexual and personal.

He also happens to be my age, which gives us a lot of common ground, both coming from the same area and both being gay. We've talked at length about growing up in a neighborhood where gay is still taboo and compared notes on how he's survived living out here while I up and left for the big city.

For him, living out here hasn't treated him too poorly. In contrast to me, who's never officially met anyone the least bit gay in the area, his experience has been plentiful, with many a homo chatting him up. "Mostly while their wives or girlfriends are out of hearing range," he said with a grimace. While indeed the closeted non-urban gay isn't a rare creature, he seems to have brought them out of the woodwork.

So I summed up the parts to ask for his number, and he gave it to me.

I think this is the first time on record that I've asked someone out face-to-face. I giddily drove home and started planning what we could do in a town with as many cows as people.

What surprises me most about this is how ready I am to just have some fun with somebody. It's been so long since I've felt that spark of something new, the fluttering in your stomach that just won't seem to fade. I'm not looking for an instantly-serious-fall-in-love scenario, but I feel like I deserve to have some fun with someone I genuinely click with.

What surprises me even more is how flattering this guy is to me! I've never been called cute and handsome so many times. It's a damn fine feeling to receive compliments like that, mainly because I have a hard time grasping that someone could possibly feel that draw for me.

So everything has been sunshine and daisies, and I've put myself out there with the hopes of reaping a reward.

But something happens that puts a cloud in the sky and sends me into an ever-more confusing spiral of circumstance...

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


If you've been a semi-regular here at FU, you probably know that I'm slightly weight-conscious.

Not that you could tell by looking at me as I scarf down chips or order my fourth cocktail, but I've always been sensitive about my size. I'm not 'fat', or overweight for that matter, but I've never really become at peace about my body type. I'm gay-fat - AKA I have more than 5% body fat.

Think football(er), minus the actual intensive working out. Broad shoulders, tall, thick chest. And as I've gotten a little older, I've started to realize that, no matter how small my waist should get, I'll never be a more 'compact' body. My chest will never cave in on itself, shedding it's size such as a waist could.

I have been told if I did put my mind to it, I could have a jock-like body. Since that has never really fit my mindset, I've never really been intent on getting toned up, or sexier still, full-on ripped. The word jock - gay, straight or otherwise - makes me think of all the qualities that I dislike in a man. (Though clearly not you, dear jock readers.)

For my part, I've always maintained my weight based on what I eat. My formal exercise has been practically non-existent, but I'm not a couch potato. While I have actually stuck my head in a gym in recent months, I've yet to see any major impacts on my pecs, quads and delts (I think I may have made that last one up.) I found I actually enjoy using an elliptical provided I've got the tunes to work to. I also found out I sweat like a madman, which is kind of gross.

Would I like that Sean Cody-esque model body? Absolutely. Would I have the foundation for it? Probably. Will I be able to get it? Who knows, maybe if I worked at it.

When I was in high school, I always noticed that my body didn't quite fit in with the rest of the guys my age. Like my personality, my body matured earlier than most. I never got to be a stick-figure twink, and I'm a little sore about it.

The more I've learned about what other guys look for, the more I see that my body might not be so undesirable after all. Granted, once the clothes come off I'll hope the lights are down low. But by then it's too late anyway and they're basically stuck with me.

Not only that, but as corny as it sounds, I really care a lot more about what's inside than what's out. That's probably a source for both discomfort and ease; on one hand I hope the person I'm courting is looking more at my personality than how chiseled my abs are, but I also fully recognize the fact that a portion of the population is primarily vain and driven by looks.

As a new year rolls around, I silently promise myself that this will be the year I take control of my body. Being newly single, I have reason to dedicate a bit more time on how I look.

Now it's just a matter of getting my gay-fat ass in shape.