See me, feel me...

I am a gay with an optical disadvantage.

When I was 16, just before getting my drivers license, I wisely went to the optician. After my examination was over, I was told I needed glasses. Nearsighted was my diagnosis, and I was fitted with a pair of (now hideous but then acceptable) glasses.

Over the years, my vision got marginally worse. I began to grudgingly accept that I needed to wear glasses on a near constant basis in order to function. I also began seeing that many of my friends needed some sort of eyesight aid as well. But the trick was, many used contacts.

I debated getting the little plastic discs for quite some time, instead opting for more fashionable frames. But as I've come to realize, people just look better without glasses. It's as if, while one is wearing them, a giant screen is thrust up in front of you, preventing jaws from slackening in appreciation of your god-like beauty...

Ok, maybe not that much, but when's the last time you've looked at a hot guy wearing glasses and found him as attractive as a similar, glasses free guy sitting next to him?

For example...

Versus...

This is actor Kristopher Turner (whom I had no idea existed until seconds ago, thanks to a Google images search). He's very doable with glasses, but maybe just a touch cuter without. Not that I would turn him away if he happened to leave his contacts at home...oh never mind.

With all of this in mind, I went for my annual optical checkup. My doctor is an amazingly friendly guy who actually gives you the time of day, and was more than happy to set me up for a contact trial.

"Why do you want contacts anyway?" he asked. Such a probing question.

"Well, there's this pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses I'm in love with, but I can't get done in prescriptive..." My voice trailed off. Probably not the best answer.

"Hmm, well if it's just for that," he said, looking disapprovingly at the pivoting chair I was stationed in.

"Oh, no, no, not at all! Um, just, you know, to have options," I stuttered. Yeah, like the option of increasing my hotness factor when trying to get picked up by that hottie across the room...

So I rolled my eyes up, he counted to three and magically I had contacts in. I couldn't help but laugh out loud. "I can see!" I said. "Without glasses!" No shit.

As I sat there gleefully, we chatted about the basics, care, how long to wear them, on and on...until I started feeling weird.

I stopped him in mid-sentence. "Uh, I'm feeling kinda funky right now," I said on an exhale. He instantly looked concerned, telling me to lean forward and put my head between my knees.

After a moment, the sensation passed, and I sat back up. We continued talking and everything was normal. Until another moment went by and the same woozy feeling crept back into my system.

With my head between my knees for a second time, he suggested maybe taking them out. Seconds later, and I couldn't see again...Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!

As it turns out, some 'special' people like myself have a physiological knee-jerk reaction when it comes to contacts. I admitted that I wasn't even afraid of having them on, and felt no physical discomfort when wearing them, which is why he suspected that my body had simply started resisting having something on my eye, much to my conscious commands to do otherwise.

So I left the office with a pat on the back and a, "Lets try again in a few months and see!" from him. I was pretty disappointed, I must admit, because it would be really nice to not have to wear glasses every day of my life.

A couple weeks later I decided I needed new frames anyway, so I went shopping and wound up with a pretty nice pair:




I'm happy with them, and the sales girls who helped pick them out thought they were flattering. "Mmm, functional and attractive," the one cooed. Yeah, just like me! Flirting from the girls aside, I'm pleased I got them. Now if I can only mindfuck my body into letting me wear contacts, I could give those two (and mostly other guys) something to really appreciate.

Playing with balls...

I've been blessed with a lot, in retrospect.

A great brain, a sense of humour, lots of (naive) affection for people, a generally stand up disposition...some people call me good looking (though at least one was drunk at the time)...but one thing I've never, ever had the faintest wisp of is sports attentiveness.

Ever since I was little, when parents put their kids into summer sports like soccer or baseball, I sucked. No matter what I did, I never ran fast enough, had enough coordination or know-how to succeed. And really, being a guy, this is something that doesn't make life easy.

Especially in the middle youth years, when everyone is on some team, either playing baseball or tennis or rugby...I simply could not produce any positive results. My mere presence was enough to send the team into disarray, and no matter how much I would focus on the objective, I could never seem to manipulate whatever ball we were using to do my bidding. As if God had smited me at birth, I could not pitch, catch, kick, hit or otherwise move a ball in the proper direction.

I remember one 'sport' I was good at, shot put. Way back in grade 7, we used to be put through these exercises in school to see who would represent us at the regional athletic competition. As far as I remember, everyone participated and tried out for a variety of things. I did my usual circuit, failing miserably at each, with sympathetic teachers smiling at me and wishing me better luck next time.

Finally I arrived at the shot put station. I grasped the metallic ball, motioned back and heaved it forward. To my great surprise, it went rather far. My friends, standing in back of me, burst out with cheers. Everyone was a little astonished that Steve had actually done something credible in the sports world.

Sadly, the bastard running the shot put station was the head gym teacher. While he was mildly impressed, he ended up passing me over for someone else because, to my knowledge, he didn't really like me because I was terrible at sports and wanted a more favored member on his team.

A few years later I picked up my one true sport: skiing. I love bounding down the side of a hill, carving across powder as the wind stings my eyes. Surprising even to me, I love the exhilaration of speeding across the snow. Finally, I had found one sport-like activity I was good at! Probably the main reason I enjoyed it, other than actually developing some semblance of skill, was the fact it didn't involve anyone else. It was just something I could do on my own, without a team to let down.

Still, this doesn't help. During Frosh week two years ago, when everyone went outside to play some sort of football, I simply smiled and declined the invitation. Lots of guys I know still attempt some sports, and even some girls are avid hockey players. But knowing that I can't pull any of these things off is awkward. I would say it's emasculating, but that's not really the case, because I don't think that a woman who's capable of outskating me makes me less of a male. It's just socially irritating.

Apparently my handicap even carries over to the digital world. A few weeks ago I played with a Nintendo Wii for the first time, amazed at the bowling, tennis and other sports that people were playing. I got a feel for the controller, and challenged my friend to a match of tennis. The game passed by, and I failed to score a single point.

We played a rematch, where my defeat was only slightly less embarrassing, with my scoring one point before the game was quickly finished. "Shit," I muttered.

My friend looked at me and smiled. "Dude, you kinda suck."

"Not only can't I play sports in real life, I can't even do it in a video game."

We laughed and played a few other of the sports games, but ultimately I failed at each one. I guess it just goes to show some people are given many gifts, as well as a few deficits.

My night...

The months had felt like years, but flown by too quickly to remember.

I arrived at the apartment feeling jittery and nervous and needing a drink. This sometimes (always) happens when I'm meeting someone, the flux between horny excitement and cold questioning that seems to insert itself into the moment. Really this should not have bothered me, because David has been coming over for a while now, only interrupted by the summer months and my temporary relocation ("Why are you living out there?").

My roommate and I sat at the new old kitchen table, me swigging quietly from a glass of gin and tonic and her pulling from a pre-bottled cocktail. The sun beat through the windows and gave the room a sickening shimmer of heat, pushed away every few beats by gusts of cool air. Tension lifted and we talked about our evenings and she said, "I hope you have a good time," and got in the shower.

The next few hours were spent idly watching the clock, paging through a forgettable paperback left under the coffee table and sipping from a new glass of gin and tonic. He was supposed to show up at 10:30, and by midnight I was getting nervous again. Finally the phone vibrated and he was downstairs worrying his car would be stolen or he would be shot and how can I live in such a fucking ghetto?

I opened the door to him and he smiled with his big lips pushed apart. I smiled sleepy and lightheaded and we took a tour of the apartment where he stopped and sat on my bed. I offered him a drink, closed my door and sat down.

The next several minutes were spent on how summer sucks when you don't got anywhere and how many different job's he had that went nowhere. I forgot to ask him about a road trip he was going on. Then he pulled his wallet and phone out of his pants and lay down on the bed. I pulled the chain on the bulb beside him and lay down.

Over the next two hours we moved around every imaginable angle grasping each other's bodies. He was on his game, more interested than I'd ever seen him before, and I fueled from his energy. The stress and nervousness and worry (this is the first sex you'll have in months...) were gone and all that was left was lust and pleasure.

He finally came while I was inside him, a quiet acknowledgement seconds before the oh-oh-oh's and then I came and we collapsed onto each other and my breath was ragged and the sheets were soaked. Time stood still as the curtain played back and forth in the breeze.

We stood naked in the dark, the angles of his body barely visible and after hearing a noise he says, "Is someone home?"

"Sure, probably. My roommate was out earlier..." It's now 3, and I'm not surprised she's home.

"Cool. Is she hot?"

"I guess. Yeah." I think about it for a few more seconds, but that sounded right.

"So would she let me fuck her?"

I tilted my head. "Probably not. She likes her boyfriend."

He giggled and said too bad and just stood there. We waited there, waiting for the other to give a cue for the next move.

I offered him a shower and he accepted while I tip-toed out to see if my roommate was home. She smiled slyly as she opened her door and I laughed with guilt and at the fact I had just slept with a boy in my new apartment while my friend was home and it was OK.

We all went out for a smoke on the balcony and he introduced himself to her ("I do really want to meet these boys, you know...") and they shook hands. He talked about his school and she talked about her classes and I sat there not saying much because I was tired and spaced out. David inhaled, then exhaled, talking nonstop about his favorite clubs and where all his friends go and where they might be tonight. There was talk of some friend-of-a-friend he knows who's dating Amanda Bynes, and I realise that he really does know (or thinks he knows) people who know people. He then talks about his dreams to move to California with a friend who wants to get a record deal and how he might go because it's great out there, it's all he's wanted to do in life.

"But what's in California?" she asks, because she can't see past Toronto.

"Everything," I say from my chair, and David giggles again.

I tune out his praise for L.A. and wonder why he's so interested in talking to her anyway and shouldn't he be going home soon because it's getting late?

She excuses herself and he sits for a few more minutes dragging on his third smoke. Finally he runs out of things to say and I sit there because I never had anything to add anyway, so instead he gets up and motions to leave. We get to the door and he makes another joke (seriously though) about getting shot on the way to his car and I tell him not to worry, turning the handle. He sticks out his hand for a high-five and I grab it awkwardly not really believing this is happening again.

"Is that how you do it on the west side?" I ask, expecting a more complicated hand motion, but he laughs. "Not really."

Then he's gone, loneliness filling his previously occupied space. I get a glass of water because my head is starting to hurt, then I slide into bed with my roommate who's watching some rerun on TV. We talk for a few minutes about our nights and I start out really happy because I'd had great sex but realize how odd it had been. It all came crashing in, all of a sudden, and I shut my eyes but it didn't block out the dim flicker of the TV.

I was 'that guy'. You know, 'that guy' that he sleeps with between trying to pick up girls in his social circles and pretending he doesn't like bottoming in bed. Part of me wonders if his musician friend knows where he is tonight. I feel strange, because it's not like the casual times like before where its just gay sex and everyone goes home. I'm playing some part in the theatre of his life, a cutout from some novel. This amuses me because I never thought I could get involved in these 'complicated' social affairs, but it's filled with self-doubt. Please, let me go back to 1953 when nobody had sex and good boys read their bibles before bed and marry the girl from down the road and everything is simple with little room for though.

Moments go by and I realize she's talking to me, asking why I said it was a little depressing. Quickly I explain that all I really want is someone to hold and be there the next morning and actually be interested in me, and not ask to fuck the female roommate as soon as I've pulled out of his ass.

"I wonder if I'll ever see him again," I whisper more to myself than to her, but she sits up and asks why. I know why (because I'm less than just a one-time hook-up) but I just say, "Just a feeling I guess." I pull her tight and tell her I love her and she says it back and how it's nice I'm living down her hall, then I slip out of bed and into my own room.

I change the sheets and open the window to change the stench of sex for some exhaust fumes, pulling out new sheets for the bed. A moment later and I'm under the stream of the shower trying to get the latex smell off of me and ignoring my headache.

I finally go to bed at 4:03.

Vocabulary...

I learned a new word today.

Kind of an amazing feat, in a world where five-cent words are thrown around as commonly as "y'all". And here, being the arrogant university student, I thought I had an excellent grasp of the most used words.

Sadly I was proven wrong. Whilst browsing the BBC online, I came across an article on Canadian Arctic sovereignty. Quite an interesting subject, and I was keen on interpreting the international press agencies' take on our situation. As I was reading through, I hit a word that triggered no recognition.

Vociferously.

I kept reading, being the ass that I am, but my conscience got the better of me.

"Uh, you don't recognize that word," it sighed. Somehow it knew it was in for a fight.

I paused for a moment, thinking back to that 'V' word. "Of course I know what it is," I countered. "I'm a fucking 3rd year university student, I think my vocabulary is more diverse than the BBC."

Still, the conscience was not impressed. "Listen, buddy, you may try to kid yourself out of this one, but face facts. You don't know what the word is. You haven't cornered the vocabulary market. Deal."

Shit. This is not at all how my inner self should address me. After a few moments sounding the 'V' word out like a 1st grader, I groaned aloud.

"You're right," I admitted, defeat echoing in my voice. "I'm stuck, I don't know for sure."

"Then look it up, dummy," came the response. "Learn something, for Christ's sake."

I trundled over to dictionary.com and got my answer.

Vociferously: Making, given to, or marked by noisy and vehement outcry.

Just as I thought...

Fighting whores for cigarettes...

Mmmmm....saw Hairspray tonight.

It was actually a pretty nice, uplifting movie. Fun, a good message, lots of eye candy...ok, maybe not lots, but watching frame after frame of Zach Efron did not hurt me in any way.

And when he's lying in bed singing to Tracy's picture...so hot. And when he winks at the camera, fully close up...so hot.

Apparently I was not the only one in the theatre to think so. The two 14-year-old girls sitting in front of us squealed at various moments when Zach was doing his sexy thing. Now, I'm not one to squeal in public (or private for that matter, save nocturnal activities) but I agreed with them completely.

Strangely enough, he never took his shirt off...something tells me in his next movie there will be some unabashed marketing of his body. But damn he looked good in those tight pants...

...what was I talking about?...

Ah yes, the movie. Overall not as 'amazing' as I thought it would be, but lots of fun. The singing didn't thrill me to death, except Queen Latifah who was brilliant. Same on the acting score-card, even though people turned in relatively decent performances, there was an air of "We're making a fun movie, and we know it!" that showed. Kudos to Michelle Pfeiffer and Allison Janey, who's turns as uber-bitches went over smashingly.

I left feeling pretty good, and I still have a tap in my toes. Dropped off my friend, and headed to another friend's birthday thing at one of our few bars. Nice to see people from high school who I don't ever call up outside of these types of functions, and apparently people were glad to see me, which always makes you feel good.

The thing that first grabbed me is how good people looked. Of the 4 guys who were there at the time I was, all had lost weight since high school and looked pretty good. Not that anyone was overweight, but they've all gotten a little slimmer than before. What was great was, I've lost weight and look the best I ever did too...

But of course that brought on the inevitable, "Do I look as good as they do?" Nobody commented on how everybody looked pretty damn good, because, you know, straight guys don't go in for that shit.

I stayed for a while, had a beer and caught up with the people I knew. Finally, I packed it in, because the 'party' was dying off. Overall a fun night out, and different from the one's I've had recently.

Marry me...

I've fallen off the wagon here.

August rolled in, and I thought that I should re-commit myself to one entry a day, or every two days if need be. So far, I haven't done so well...but I've got an excuse. I was away in Ottawa this long weekend, so sadly I couldn't sit and write. Even more sad, I brought my camera with me, having the intention to post some pictures, but I forgot to take it while we were hanging out in the downtown and near Parliament. So sad...

Tonight was my first uptake of the news since I left, and it surprised me to see that Ontario Member of Provincial Parliament George Smitherman got married this weekend. Mr.Smitherman is the 'first openly gay cabinet member', according to the news, and married his boyfriend of a few years on Saturday.

My first reaction was how 'normally' the news portrayed this event, which is reassuring. It said what I would hope one day people say, that he got married. Big deal.

There was no gasps of horror, or choice words to make it seem as though the marriage was a horrible thing, or a beacon of hope for homos across the country. It simply stated he got married. And I loved it.

I've thought a lot about gay marriage these days. Not so much 'gay marriage', but will I get married one day. And the simple answer is, I have no idea.

Even now that I'm coming out, I'll still admit I don't think I'm crazy about gay marriage. Shocked? Well, it seems surprising, even to me. After all, aren't all gay people supposed to want to have the option to marry their lover?

It's not that I don't agree with the idea that same-sex couples should have the same legal status as heterosexual couples do. I know everyone is the same, and deserves the same tax cuts, benefits from employers and recognition that those two people are bonded.

But the whole 'marriage' word...I just don't know if I'd want to marry a guy. To me, marriage does represent the biological commitment of two sexes to procreate. The fact that they get tax benefits or special acknowledgement doesn't really factor into that definition to me, simply because it seems to be all about the nuclear family. That is why I say I am an advocate for all couples who make the formal commitment should receive the same treatment.

I've got the nuclear family thing. A mom, and a dad, and no divorce or separation or anything to disrupt the flow of life from one generation to the next. My parents are married.

It seems to me that two gay men cannot reproduce what is the nuclear family. Of course, they can opt for a surrogate mother, or adoption, or some other means of acquiring a child, but they cannot produce one between themselves. How can they be married if the reason for marriage is to reproduce?

Now I know what you're going to say, that gay parents are great parents and there's nothing wrong with bringing a child up in a gay environment. I agree completely. Whats more, there are so many straight parents who are unfit to raise children (or reproduce at all...) that the idea their marriage is really valid is laughable. I'm definitely on side with the argument that straight families who are broken up, with one or both of the parents MIA, are not good places for children to be raised.

What bothers me about the issue, like so many others, is how dehumanized it gets. It becomes a political discussion instead of a discussion about two people. By my questioning the definition of marriage, I'm instantly labeled a right-winged evil-doer. But it has nothing to do with politics, it's all about two people. Everyone gets so bogged down with the split-second decision that someone is a homophobe, or on the other side, too liberal and pro-everything that it becomes a shouting match. Nobody bothers to step back and ask themselves what they think about the issue, opting to jump on the political bandwagon and support one side or the other.

So you see how very confusing and difficult this issue is for me to both understand and to formulate an opinion on. It's probably the one thing that I don't have a clear-cut opinion on, much less a plan of action about. There are straight families who are wholly unfit to bear and raise children. There are gay couples who would make amazing parents, giving a child a stable and loving upbringing. But does marriage mean two people living in the same tax bracket as two people in a heterosexual relationship, or the ability to, in 'perfect' scenarios, reproduce without outside aid.

I'm really lost on this. I'm all for civil unions, partnerships, whatever. I don't see them as giving gays less rights than straight couples. To me marriage is about the biological aspect of a union. There are certainly questions about equality, and probably people who would see a civil union as being less than marriage itself. I guess I'm just too optimistic about the situation. What I do know is, many people don't like gays in general and it's just a knee-jerk reaction to keep them from marrying. But I'm making my argument on the grounds that people are all as well developed as you and I are, and that the homophobic issues aren't playing a part in the argument.

So convince me otherwise. Make me believe that the definition of marriage means anyone and everyone. Teach me that gay's should be allowed to have marriage. But explain why, other than, "Just because."

And for the love of God, don't hate me because I don't see things the way you do.

So hot it hurts...

Ok, ok...I know you've all seen these before.

And I know that everyone's putting up photos of who'd they do, and their types, and all that. So this post will seem semi-repetitive, and definitely a little behind the times. After all, I should be devoting my strengths to new and sexier topics. However, I can't let the opportunity to put up these pics just one more time pass me by.

I'm talking about the ultra-sexy pictures of Zach Efron on the beach, grabbing his crotch and just looking amazingly hot. They're everywhere...hell, these are even the pictures I saw the other day on a magazine cover, while waiting at the grocery store. Admittedly they weren't the crotch-grabbing ones...but still, same location, same delicious body.


So let's recap. He's a California native, 19 years old and star of a famous made-for-TV kids movie and the newly released 'Hairspray' film.


Can someone please tell me how a guy who was a guest star in a bunch of TV series, then finally had one 'big' part in a made-for-TV movie got so damn sexy? I mean, look at him! He's got the hottest under-20 body I think I've ever seen. I'm dead serious, this boy is amazingly sexy.

Where in the hell did he get a body like that? Sure, you'll probably rattle off hundreds of young guys you've seen with good bodies, but even for Hollywood, and at this age, Zach is just drop-dead gorgeous.

It's just not fair. People just cannot look this good. It must all be in my head...