Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
The next few months are either going to be a catalyst for future writing or a Scared Straight program. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.
I'm moving in with gay people. No, I haven't "met someone", or been cast in the first reality show to be aired on MTV LOGO: "The Real Catty World"; I've decided to move somewhere more affordable. While my current roommates are unquestionably the coolest people I've ever lived with, there are some things I couldn't deal with anymore: the way Wiz would hide my shoes on the other side of the house, and scatter the floor with nails and broken glass; the way D would wait for me to go down to The Inconvenience Store, and then stick my geckos in the blender; their constant waking me up at odd hours in the morning to film them having sex with the underage girls they picked up at the local burn unit; the way Wiz pronounces the word "the". I know, I'm being picky, but that's just the way I am. So Tuesday night, I started looking for some local places to move to. Somewhere in the price range of broke. My first Internet Search led me to a quaint little first floor apartment in Dorchester. Reasonable rent, no roommates, moderately furnished. It seemed too good to be...it was the apartment I'd shared with Melissa FUcken Plummer. Granted, she's two tenants removed from the apartment by now, it's still not a place I'd feel comfortable living. I'd be kicking ghost dogs all the time. After assorted promising looking rentals that, of course, did not exist anymore by the time I joined WeTrickedYouIntoSigningUpForOurApartmentSearch.com, I found a few local bonanzas. Today I met with Danny. Danny is a 23 year old Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay guy. He goes through all the ads on the various apartment sites, and expresses interest in every gay guy under 30 looking for a place to live. His apartment is in a complex directly around the corner from the house I'm living in now. It's ripe with "The Danny Touch" as he calls it. Rainbow flags? Check. Titanic poster? Check. Various CD art from Madonna and Bjork albums sticky tacked to the walls? Check. Abercrombie & Fitch ads FRAMED and hung on the walls? Check. Rainbow bedspread? Check. I was shocked when I opened the refrigerator to discover that not all the food in there was covered in pink frosting. There were, however, Snowballs on the kitchen counter. "Because it's winter." Danny cheerfully pointed out. Thanks, Captain Obvious, have another pink star. After a few minutes of reasonable conversation, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I tested to see how long it took for the water to get hot (thanks for the tips, Dmitri). I envisioned an elf with a blue candle swinging from pipe to pipe between the dozens of apartments in the building, trying to get the water lukewarm as quickly as possible. Sorry Link, next time use the ocarina of time. When I came back out, we had an earnest discussion of the kind of guys I liked, and I realized I was being interviewed for something more than a roommate. Well, I could do a lot worse than Danny. He was very cute and seemed both smart and funny, but I'm not going to move in and have sex with someone I just met. That's what lesbians do on their second date, not gay guys. Gay guys don't have second dates. Which is one of the reasons why I didn't say "I'll be in touch" when I left.
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Someone recently made a degrading remark about a gay mutual friend, and implied that the annoying fantasy world he lived in was because he was gay. When I replied that I’d rather not be lumped into a category with the lunatic simply because we both liked cock and ass, my friend said “Wait, you swing that way too?” “Yes,” I said, “but whereas many of our gay friends prefer to swing for the fences, I prefer to bunt.”
This pretty much sums up my sexuality. Odds are, if you see me in a gym, I’m asking for directions. By the same token, if you see me up at the buffet with a heaping plate of food, I’m filling my plate for someone confined to a wheelchair or a pantsuit. So far my experience with men has been, at best, unbalanced. I’ve had some mundane relationships with people who I really cared about, and I’ve had some amazing sex with people I wouldn’t mind seeing strapped to an anchor and dropped off in the deep side of the continental shelf. I’m tempted to write that I’m looking for someone interested in more than just sex, but I should point out that “more than just sex” implies that they’re interested in sex. I already have friends who don’t put out. I don’t really go to clubs, but that’s mainly because I work nights, not because I think I’m too good for them. I’m not interested in married guys or people into in-depth role playing. I have a father, thank you, and there is a reason I don’t have kids. That said, I’m pretty open minded in the bedroom (and the kitchen, and the bathroom at City Hall, and the sidewalk in front of my Republican neighbor’s house...) but there’s only one bodily fluid I’m interested in exchanging, and it doesn’t usually involve toilets. Basically, I’m looking for someone for a LTR, but realize I’ll probably have to go through a few one-night-stands/STRs to get there. As long as there are no STDs I’ll be a happy man. Wake up at noon. Shower. Put appropriate books and work clothes in my backpack. Get dressed. Check e-mail. Eat bagel. Drive to college. Park car. Walk to class. Alternate between paying attention and doing homework. Check e-mail from computer lab. Drive to work. Eat dinner. Throw on uniform. Earn money. When the restaurant closes, drink heavily. Return home. This was the routine for the first forty-five days after I drove Seith out of my life.
On the forty-seventh day, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed, turned, masturbated. Nothing. When seven o’clock rolled around, I conceded defeat, and went into the kitchen to make a bagel. On the way in, I turned on the TV. “Mourners are gathering for Matthew Shepherd who died at 12:53 this morning, nearly a week after...” Apart from hearing his name mentioned in psychology class, and hearing someone at work mention the tragedy in Wyoming, I had no concept of who Matthew Shepherd was. On October 12th, 1998 that all changed. I didn’t go to class that day. Like most of my "alternative lifestyle" (actor) friends I went about making the tragedy of Matthew Shepherd something tangible. Something we could squeeze in our fists until it bled. My name is Adam Stone. You might know me as InSafeMode, an all-too openly gay writer/pseudo-political activist. You probably think I can't leave the house without a cock in my mouth. The truth is, until October 12th 1998, only a handful of people knew my sexuality. Ok, a few handfuls if you counted the people I'd hooked-up with over The Internet. Since then I've become outspoken in a way that annoys a number of my Gay colleagues. I do things like use labels like gay and Gay. I see men who like to love/sleep with men, and women who like to love/sleep with women as being gay. We don't let our sexuality define us anymore than our politics, our diets, our favorite Smurf. On the other side of the equation are people I consider Gay. They wake up in the Gay morning, eat their Gay Cheerios, put on their Gay Diesel jeans, and go about their Gay day, informing everyone who thinks differently than them that they're homophobic. While Gay people annoy the hell out of me, I'm glad they're out their doing what they need to do. There are obviously people in the world who need to hear "We're here, we're queer, don't be a homophobe, buy me a beer." I'm just not one of them. I saw Shepherd's death as a time for reflection, and horror. Some people saw his death as an opportunity for rebellion against homophobic archetypes. Still others, like that demon "reverend" Phelps, saw it as an opportunity to spread a hateful agenda. He was as entitled to picket Matthew Shepherd's funeral, as I am to picket his when Satan finally comes to collect the withered prune that was once his soul. I'm all about freedom of choice. Ryan and I had known each other since he was thirteen and I was sixteen. The fact that we never had an inclination about each other is further proof that something in Cranberry Lake air jams the fuck out of gaydar.
We'd met at a summer camp, and as is common in Cranberry Lake and the rest of The Peninsula, we'd seen a hell of a lot of each other since: various parties, at the beach, at random mutual friends' houses. I was managing a liquor store and waiting tables when he showed up at the restaurant looking for a job. He was less than qualified, and therefore, not hired. So I hired him at the liquor store, allowing me to take more time off to wait tables and fuck strangers that I'd met over The Internet. His working at the store affected my porn time, not a bit. So when he showed up at my front door, I said "Ryan." I was thinking FUCK. "Insafemode." "I wasn't expecting ---" someone who I've hired twice to work with me to show up on my doorstep wanting me to fuck them up the ass. I wasn't disappointed, mind you. Ryan was fun to be around, and easy on the eyes. "This is very ---"fucking awkward. "Awkward. Yea." But I was willing to make the most of it. Even if we weren't going to get our fuck on, our IM conversation had hinted that he really needed someone gay to hear his shit. I was gay. I was his friend. I was more than willing to hear him out, and offer whatever advice I could. "Yea." Was he going to come in or was he going to run screaming back into his car and drive off into the night. And if he did, was I going to half to hire a replacement at the liquor store? "Well ---" I did my best frog bow a la Lewis Carroll. "C'mon in." Ryan did the hawk circle around the den, picking up and then replacing the seashell ashtray, and the Tom Robbins book. "So. This is Chez Insafemode." "You've been here before." "Haven't you?" "Not since you got back from college, no." I watched a single drop of sweat make its way down Ryan's forehead and down the bridge of his nose. I could barely restrain myself from walking over to the couch and licking it off. I had never realized how beautiful his face was. Well." Maybe I had. Maybe that's why I kept hiring him. Maybe my gaydar wasn't as fucked as I thought. Maybe I'd just buried it into my subconscious. How had I not realized how badly I wanted him. "Hard” yes I was “Lemonade?" "I should probably be going." Over my dead fucken body. "No. Please. Make yourself at home.” Move in “I know this isn't what" I tapped on a few of the piano keys. "either of us expected but" damn it, it's what I've wanted for years, whether I was aware of it or not. I flipped the cover over the keys. "you said you needed someone to talk to." "Yea. But the idea was that it wasn't someone I knew. And that we would" he picked up the ashtray again I'd never seen him nervous before. He was so cute when he didn't know what to do with himself. "but I mean" he put it back down "that would be weird now" So the fuck what? he examined it as if it contained the most important element of his DNA "Right?" Wrong. It made perfect since. Our lives had been intertwined for six years. There was no logical reason for it. Small towns be damned. We were meant to be together forever and ever and -- I must have been fucken tanked. "Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" I didn't want to be the only one trashed out of my fucken gourd. "Jesus. I could really use something to drink, but if I have to drive home later." "No. Don't worry. You can sleep in” my bed “the spare" I remembered the piles of dirty laundry and other assorted crap I'd thrown in the spare bedroom. "Couch. The spare couch." My bed. "Okay." He sat on the couch. "Do you have any Guinness?" I did. Back when I juggled restaurant work and managing a liquor store, my house was filled with every conceivable beer and hard liquor known to Cranberry Lake Liquors. I wasn't too much of a lush but company was forever dropping by, and whether it was a friend from work or someone who stopped over for some cock, they always wanted something to drink. I wondered if he knew that I'd been a little liberal with my employee discount. Would he care? Had he been liberal with his discount? Dear Lord, what if we started fucking on a regular basis and I ended up having to fire him for stealing or --- Yea, I was drunk. "So." Ryan picked up the ashtray again. "You're gay." "Yea." I went into the kitchen and pulled out a Guinness and a Hard Cider (much better than Hard Lemonade). "I had no idea." "Well. When I'm not in love or balls deep in a guy's ass, it's not an important part of my life." "Fuck." I handed him the Guinness and a gigantic mug I'd picked up when I worked at a Renaissance Faire. "Have you ever fooled around with anyone I know before?" "That's classified." I hadn't. Yet. "Would you want me telling the next guy about you." He chugged the Guinness like it was a Coor's Lite. "Well. We're not going to." We were going to I could see it in his eyes. And in the bulge in his khakis. "I mean, we can talk and everything" more chugging "but you probably don't want to" "that would be too" perfect? "Another one?" "Thanks." I went into the kitchen again. I brought the whole four pack out. It wasn't too far a walk from the den to the kitchen but I had a feeling I wouldn't want to leave the room again. It also didn't take much of a psychic to realize that he was going to drink through his fair share of widget cans. He took the second can, popped the top and poured it into the mug. "You're not just trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me, are you?" "Would you like me to seduce you?" "Is that what you're trying to tell me?" I couldn't tell whether he was getting the movie reference, or if he thought I was just quoting a George Michael song. "Ha." He took another pull. "Man." "I don't know if I'm up for this." Again, I refer you to the bulging khakis. He was up for it. "No worries." I sat down in one of the chairs facing the couch. "You said you wanted to talk about things first anyway." He picked up the ashtray again. "So talk." Having been back from college for about six months, I decide it's probably time to grow some balls. So I put on my shiniest shirt and tightest pants, style my hair into antennae, and drive to the only street in America where, on any given night, you can see an obese man in drag riding a scooter the wrong way down a one way street: Commercial Street in Provincetown. I don't know why I do this. Blame it on the memory of the way Alex touched me. Blame it on the sex Amaretto sours, and the shot of tequila. Blame it on the bossa fucken nova.
The last and only previous time I've ever been to Ptown, I went with Jennifer. We went on some lame whale watch, even though everything I wanted to see was on the shore. Most of the bars have some theme that terrifies me. Being only nineteen, I'm forced to skip all the bars that require photo IDs. And having no stomach for kink, I'm forced to bypass all the bars with dog collared men in leather jackets. I end up in The Alley, which, until I got to the front door, I assumed got its name from its stunning location off the beaten path. No. The Alley gets its name from the alley of dirty old men who line up from the main entrance to the dance floor, grabbing the crotch of every man who walks in the door. I am groped no less than eleven times before I reach the bar. It takes every iota of self-restraint I have not to run screaming back out, breaking through the chain of crotch grabbers like a kid in the world's most perverse game of Red Rover. I spend an hour by the bar, as pretty people with brightly colored drinks swarm around me, exchanging phone numbers, flirtatious glances, and a variety of bodily fluids. I don't get any digits. Not even the finger. The alley fags don't even try grabbing my ass when I tango the fuck out the front door. "Red Rover, Red Rover, send the closet case over." Michael Christopher had a mouth like a sewage volcano. He knew how to swear in English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Dutch, Portuguese, Turkish, and Japanese. And thanks to the two weeks I'd spent hanging out with Deaf kids in summer camp, he know knew how to make ten dirty hand movements in American Sign Language. "You're a lot cooler than you were in elementary school." He said.
I was grateful for his approval. Mostly because in sixth grade, he'd made it a semi-weekly habit to beat the everliving shit out of me, for no other reason than beating the shit out of me was much more entertaining than not beating the shit out of me. Somehow, in middle school, he'd transitioned from unpopular bully, to extremely popular bully. He'd earned the nickname The Saint, because he only beat up people who deserved it. It was kind of an honor to have him smack you upside your head. But, despite the fact that I was smaller, weaker, and had the social skills of a shaved rabbit in a beehive, he went out of his way to be nice to me. A few weeks into the school year, his mom asked him to move a couch from the basement to the living room on the second floor. I had no concept of why he called me to help him out. I suspected subterfuge. When I got there Michael and Bird Dick were giggling up a storm. I suppressed my fight or flight instinct, and asked what they wanted me to do. "I am so fucken high right now." Michael said. "We just" giggling "we just" giggling "oh, man, so fucken high." I grabbed one end of the couch while Michael and Bird Dick grabbed the other. When the job was finished, Michael hugged me. "Thanks, deeeeeeeeeeewd, we totally fucken owe you one. We're gonna go out on the powerline paths and smoke some more sticky stuff. Wanna join us?" I remembered that commercial where little Gary Coleman says "Say no. Then go. And tell." But I couldn't remember whether that was about drugs, sex, or getting into cars with strangers. "Yea, but I've got a doctor's appointment tonight, and I can't go stinking of pot, you know?" "That's cool." Michael said. I waited for Bird Dick to make a comment, but he was too out of it to speak. Michael giggled out a "Later deeeeeeeeeeewd." Later that week, we had gym together. It was still warm enough that the teachers were making us go outside and play soccer or run track. We were supposed to come to class wearing our school clothes, change into shorts or sweatpants for class, then shower, and change back into our normal clothes when class ended. Only losers wore sweatpants in ninth grade, so we were expected to show up in shorts. Usually, I packed a clean pair in my backpack, but on this day, I'd forgotten. But, I remembered, Saint Michael 'owed me one'. "Hey, Saint, I forgot my shorts at home. Do you have a pair I could borrow?" "Sure," Michael said, pulling his off, "take these." I turned away as quickly as possible. His ass was exquisite. "Stop looking at his ass, you fucken cocksucker." Said one of Saint's sidekicks. "I'm going to pound the fuck out of you." I balled up my fists. I knew I couldn't take them, but I was determined to fight as long as it took to save heterosexual face. "Yea, Bruno." Michael said. "My ass is no entrada, viado." Oh, they weren't talking to me. Bruno was a kid named Liam Brunelli who'd moved to Cranberry Lake from Chicago at the beginning of the school year. He was chubby and red faced. His head was too large for his body. And, at the moment, his too large head was being slammed into a locker by a member of Michael's meatheaded fan club. I decided to risk detention by wearing my jeans, and ran out of the locker room before anyone remembered me. That weekend, my father decided to play a round of golf at the local country club, and I screwed around at the putting green and the driving range while he played. I was on the green when I saw Michael drive by on a cart. "Hey, Saint!" I shouted. He drove the cart toward me. "What's up?" "Not much. I didn't know you worked here." "Yea," he said, looking in the direction of the clubhouse, "my dad owns it." "Cool." I said. "Listen, they closed the boathouse at Davis Pond for the winter, and Kevin Harris and I were thinking of breaking in next weekend and having a party. I was thinking, if you wanted to come and bring some beer or whatever..." Michael looked at the ground. "Look." And then he paused doom. "You're a lot cooler than you were before you went away to military school or wherever, but. Look. You've got to stop hanging out with that Harris kid. Jeremy says he's a total fucken froot loop who used to, like, grab Jeremy's junk when he was just a kid. I mean, you do plays and shit so, you know, I get that you're probably a fag, too, but you're at least cool about it. But if you spend any time hanging out with Kevin Harris where people can see you... I don't know how much longer people will talk to you." I froze. Bird Dick. That stupid, crying, faggy...Bird Dick. I started to say "I'm not gay, you know." when I realized that Michael was already halfway to the clubhouse, and he didn't look too pleased with himself. A look I wore later that day, when I told Kevin Harris I wasn't going to break into the boathouse with him. |
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