The Lucky Bastard...

I love Matt from Debriefing the Boys. Really, I do.

He was one of the two initial blogs that opened my eyes to the world I was missing out on...he gave a sense of actual reality in a position that I could identify with. I mean, all that 'time' ago, I still couldn't believe that people actually got to experience the things I'd only fantasized about. Or seen in porn movies.

But there are times, even today, when his nearly perfect life makes me want to scream. Not to undermine his pain and suffering discovering his sexuality and coming out, but that boy has horseshoes up his ass (among possible other things). I used to think I could never have what he had, way back when. Now I still think I can never have what he gets.

His latest story about the college soccer player, for instance, drives me mad. How does someone on vacation with his family pick up a nearly-straight soccer player who professes Matt will be his second male-male experience? I mean, come on! This is practically porn-quality plot material here. This can't be happening!

And to ice the cake, the way he describes the experience. "Nervous. Love it!" Good Lord man, how many boys do you nearly-deflower a month? If I'd just picked someone up , I probably would devote 2000 words to the experience...

The question is, what makes this happen? Is this a 'normal' experience for an out gay 20-something? Or does this happen only to the rich, beautiful playboys as dear Matt appears at times to be?

Part of what drives me crazy about stories like this is how completely unattainable they seem to be to me. Way back when, I'd read things like this about far more mundane encounters and feel that I would never be able to achieve the same results, and would feel a mixed sense of misery, jealousy and disbelief. After all, to the guy who lives in small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere, it seems like pure fiction that this stuff actually happens.

Even today, looking at the most recent story, I feel the same inadequacies I did back then. I can never see this happening to me, having this sort of encounter at any time, much less on vacation in the fabulous sun and sand. Now I know we don't have the gory details about the who and the why and the how, but still to the 'average' person, this seems like a nearly impossible thing.

Or is it just me?

The most annoying part of it all is, Matt seems like a genuinely amazing person, with brains and a good heart. He doesn't run his mouth about how hot he is, or how men fall at his feet...yet every so often we're treated to stories such as these.

Sometimes I think that people are just lucky like he seems to be. Other times I feel like some are just cut out for this, while others watch from the sidelines. It scares me, because while in principal I want to have the same things happen to me, I'm just not sure if I'm the one meant for it to happen to.

So Matt, hats off to you. Really, you should write some sort of how-to manual for us other guys who only get what you have in their fantasies. As I said, the hardest part of this to take is the knowledge that you're a bright, caring, loving individual, who also happens to have some number of pheromone-producing horseshoes up his ass.

What to do next...

I finally finished my essay writing, and now am once again free.

Not that it really kept me from doing anything to begin with. I'd get up, do nothing until I felt awake enough, then sit in front of my computer randomly looking at the following: CNN, BBC, porn, JSTOR research archives, porn, Microsoft Word, JSTOR and porn.

The life of a student is so fulfilling.

Every semester I promise myself to get more organized about essay writing. I'm not bad at doing the work at all, but I get very unmotivated when I actually sit down to get busy. When I'm not attempting work, my stomach stays slightly constricted and makes me aware that I have a pressing deadline to meet, and that walking around the house is not helping me research the French resistance during World War II.

So every semester, after I push the pencil as far as possible, I resign myself to the need for change. But change never happens...I think part of the reason that is, simply is because I don't know any other way. We don't get taught how to structure our time, how to research and start writing short bits weeks in advance. Besides, I never like writing the same thing that long, I much prefer to sit down and hammer it out, at least 1200 words a day. I 'spose if I even do an 'essay outline' next time, that'll help me know what the hell I'm doing.

Also, it wasn't very fun to have parents around while you're writing an essay. First time I'd experienced that, and I'm not looking to repeat it. When I'm living at school, nobody asks you several times a day how your essay is progressing...we all just complain about it, nobody needs to ask anybody. Plus I have the freedom to disappear for hours without eating, working madly while I have a creative streak.

Now that it's over, I feel at a loss for activity. Strange as it sounds, I enjoyed mentally exercising myself, and now that it's over my empty days seem even more monotonous. I live in mortal fear that I'm misusing my last month of utter freedom, but when I think, "What else should I be doing?" I draw blanks.

I had to take my paperwork to the post office, because this professor doesn't want emailed assignments...for some reason. So I got to spend $7.84 on priority mail to have it delivered by tomorrow morning. What a waste of money, considering he could get them all in his e-mail for free.

The highlight of the trip to the post office was feasting my eyes on a very cute and suspectly gay guy walking across the road from where I stood. He looked to be mid-20's, average height, light brown hair, wearing jeans (an obvious sign in these parts during summer), and a flattering green shirt that clung close to his body. I stared openly at him for several beats as he and his companion, a blonde girl, walked by. First time I've laid eyes on anyone from around here that set my gaydar flickering.

Oh, and I finished Harry Potter finally, nearly vomiting from the cliched epilogue...but whatever, Rowling is practically God, she can do whatever she wants in this world and nobody's going to complain too hard.

Well, now that that excitement's over...

Ways of the world...

I'll openly admit that I have the dating skills of a 15-year-old.

That would be the fault of several things...one of which would be my sexuality and being closeted. Almost my entire high school career was spent single, save for the actual girlfriend at age 15, and the short list of failed romances that followed. Even my one mildly successful 'relationship' with Brian was short-lived and not all together instructional.

So with all of this inexperience I don't know 'the rules' of dating. I don't even understand the mentality of the process. To me, my friend's have all fallen for other friends, and relationships grew over time. Very few people picked up phone numbers after a night out and followed through with them. It's all been very high school-esque, nowhere near the glitz of the fateful 'Hollywood meeting' between two people, or the sordid, lust-infused grinding between two bodies on a dance floor.

Though I'm sure some object to the idea, I would like to start dating when I get back to school in September. I'm not rushing out to find the first warm body, but it's something that I genuinely would like to pursue. All around me I see people who's happiness is multiplied by 'having someone', and after having a taste of it what seems like years ago I know that there is so much to life I'm missing. And it's not just sex. It's having someone's arms around you, and the touch and connection you can only get in a 'romantic' relationship.

So I've been occasionally checking out online profiles of people in Toronto, to see what the market is like for guys around my age. What I've noticed is a growing trend of egotistic guys who believe they are a gift to you, and not vice versa.

I understand where this comes from. People don't want to be treated like garbage, and probably having bad past experiences where they were not appreciated as much as they would have wanted, they put up the disclaimers to scare off the users and undesirables.

People build themselves up, they're "amazing, talented, sexy..." etc. As I flipped through a few of them, I would find one that looked attractive and read the profile. By the time I had finished, I was overcome with the feeling that I should be only so lucky to have the pleasure of his company.

Then I realized that it's a two-way street.

These guys, who are demanding such approval before they even meet their date, amaze me. Sure, they may be the most amazing person on earth, but what about the guy that's getting in touch with them? There's a whole second person who deserves as much respect as the person who is demanding it in their profile.

So does everyone enter the dating game with such an attitude? I would think that dating would quickly get narrowed down if people think so highly of themselves and set out parameters for their adoration so early on. Or is this something that people just erect as a smoke screen, something that builds confidence and helps protect them.

And do I need to approach life with the attitude, "Hey, you're lucky you know me, because I'm just that damn good!"

It came!...

The storied Harry Potter book arrived in the mail on Tuesday morning.

Seems my frustrations were more-or-less unfounded, but I was under the impression it wasn't going to arrive for a week or more. After spending half and hour on hold with Indigo, I finally got to speak with someone.

"I was wondering about my order, I placed it a long time ago and it looks like it hasn't shipped yet..."

The girl paused a moment, dread creeping into her voice. "Is this about Harry Potter?"

As it turns out, shipping went according to my plan, and I should have received it Monday morning. Because of the huge number of copies shipped, there was a slight breakdown in the system (not used to handling such a volume of books at once) and it took the extra day to reach me.

On top of that, they just stopped updating peoples orders online, so nobody had any idea if/when their book had shipped. "Do you know how much time it would take to update everyone's information?" the girl scoffed.

Oh, excuse me...I thought this was the information age...

Anyway I'm about halfway through, which is preposterous since I've had it two whole days. But I've only had the chance to sit down a few times and delve into it. So far it's very good, and very different from the other novels in the series. Hopefully I'll be done this weekend, but I've also been working on two essays for my trip to France that have to be handed in August 1st. Sadly they take (some) precedence over Harry Potter.

Thank you for all who were concerned about my mental well being during this time of crisis.

Sonofabitch...

It is Monday, July 23.

This is the third day the new Harry Potter book has been available.

My copy was ordered June 15.

It has still not arrived.

Shitty.

I'm now faced with the ever-growing threat of finding out what happens before I actually get to read it. Several friends have already finished it, or are well on their way to doing so. And I haven't even gotten my copy yet.

Now I curse Indigo Books, the Canadian version of Barnes & Noble, because they have failed me. The reasoning for my anger is twofold. I ordered two books, both of which had not been 'published' when I placed the order. The other title was 'Lean, Mean Thirteen' by the hilarious Janet Evanovich. Shocking even to me, it arrived in my mailbox on the day of release, having been mailed a few days before. I was very pleased, and expected similar results with Harry Potter.

So this morning I waited patiently for the mailman to drive by the house. I bounded down the driveway, dizzy with anticipation. Ripping open the mailbox door, I stared in at a few bills and the local paper. No book.

Instantly I went online to check my order's status. Indigo's web page says the order is 'awaiting processing'. Whhhaaat? This was supposed to be boxed up and mailed by now!!!

The ultimate piss-off (and second reason) is the fact that I interrupted tradition by purchasing it online. For the last two books, it has been a bizarre circumstance that I was always at a friend's party on the evening of the release. One year, I mentioned that the book was going on sale, and that it'd be funny for a bunch of tipsy teens to crash the local bookstore's midnight release party to get our copies.

Even funnier, I ended up loading the car full of people to head to the bookstore. We all got our copies, but didn't start reading until the next afternoon thanks to a blinding hangover (ahh youthful indiscretion...).

So it happened that on Friday night I was at a friend's house party, with some of the very same people who picked up the other books in past years. I didn't bother saying anything since my copy was supposedly tucked into Friday's mail and would arrive this morning for my reading pleasure.

But no book has arrived.

Now I've got to censor everything from conversations with friends to my Internet surfing for fear of another "Snape kills Dumbledore!" fiasco.

Sonofabitch. I want my book!

Don't stand so close to me...

"Oh my God, Kevin!"

I turned to face him more fully, moving my head closer to hear what he was saying. The Police had just finished taking their last bows and the house lights had still not come up. I had stepped from my seat and was in a crush of people leaving the Air Canada Centre, stuck on the stairs as those closer to the exit moved to leave.

As I stood there, my eyes wandered around the crowd. I never expected to see anyone I knew, nor did I expect to see anyone that would catch my eye. I had just locked eyes with a slightly cute 30-something when his face creased into a smile.

After his initial comment, his words were lost in the crowd noise. I leaned in closer trying to hear what he was saying. I gave up.

"Sorry, I'm not Kevin," I said simply, shrugging slightly. He looked a little confused.

"You're his fucking twin then!" was all he said, and turned around to the guy standing beside him.

Part of me wishes I was more spontaneously extroverted, had asked the guy who Kevin was, and ended up actually chatting with people 'on the street'. Besides, how am I ever going to actually meet guys if I'm not a little more talkative?

Instead, the crowd began to crawl forward, and I followed them silently to the warmth of the concrete sidewalk.

Broadcasting signals...

I had the mixed fortune of passing through Huntsville yesterday evening.

As you might remember, it's our favorite vacation spot. I love the area and was glad to get to see it, even though we were literally just passing through (long story...). Through a set of circumstances, we ended up eating dinner at the Swiss Chalet just on the edge of town.

We were seated in the corner booth, but to get there we had to pass the waiters station. There stood the usual array of workers, mostly young girls with a few guys mixed in. One of the guys instantly caught my eye, he looked pretty cute, and he had the most amazing black-and-nearly-white-blond hair color. I've seen this done before, and it can look really good or really stupid, but on this guy, it fit.

I had a very good impression he was gay, bringing my total number of known homosexual youth in Huntsville to two. As we passed by, I heard him talking to one of the other waitresses. What can I say, but he had a 'gay voice'.

I mused over what it must be like to be that noticeably gay in such a small community, as I did with the guy from April. But a second thought struck me, the fact that he was noticeably gay. Not that he was wearing a pride flag or making out with a dude, but there was really no question about his orientation.

This lead to two thoughts. First, why do some people have these signals, and others don't? And second, what signals, if any, do I broadcast?

Though people may choose to embrace more gay stereotypes as they integrate themselves into the gay community, I had the feeling this guy was not playing up the gayness. It really felt like he was just being himself. What a wonderful thing, in a way, to have these more pronounced signals. Coming out would really not be a 'surprise' to family and friends, and it would make you obscenely noticeable to other gays.

Of course, there would be the inevitable downside to this trait. All through the intolerant young years of school one would probably feel more out of place than if they were simply a well-disguised closeted gay. But once you were a little older, and had a group of friends who were more mature, being yourself would be a lot less difficult.

So why is it that some people broadcast these signals so effortlessly? It goes beyond gaydar, as I have noticed by walking through the Village that many guys simply have an air about them that takes it beyond the flicker of gaydar and makes it nearly undisputed fact.

And of course, I look at myself and think, "Am I broadcasting?"

There have been comments before in previous posts when I wondered aloud if people understood my sexuality without me formally introducing it. It has been suggested that I likely had been 'figured out' by other gays. But I question, and worry, if that's the case.

I don't know how I would describe myself. I hate sports, know little about the traditional 'manly things' like plumbing and electrical wiring (though thanks to my Dad I can manage to do some things...), and don't live to tinker on my car. But I also don't read fashion magazines, wear skintight t-shirts and carry a miniature dog in a bag on my shoulder.

I do, however, use several different facial cosmetic soaps, am very particular about what shampoo and products I use, and order 136-step-non-fat-coffee-concoctions. I care about calories, would kill to actually be able to tan, and generally thoroughly enjoy the finer things in life.

So what does it all mean? Am I flying under the radar's of gays everywhere? Am I written off as too straight, dismissed because I don't fit a mould. It it not subtly obvious that I'm sleeping with guys? Or is it as clear as the Swiss Chalet waiter that I'm playing for the other team.