Goodbye

I need you, and I don't want to need you. Needing you scares me, infuriates me. Who would want to be this vulnerable? You're going to leave me I'm sure. You haven't said so, but it's inevitable. That's why I'm going. Leaving you will hurt, but not as much as being left.

David

I first met David at Las Termas, a gay steambath in Puebla, Mexico. I was sitting at the far end of the murky jacuzzi, looking out longingly through the semi-darkness at all the brown, horny bodies (the more sexually savvy among them wrapped in too small loinclothes made tantalizingly transparent in all the moist heat, a minimalist fashion statement that said "I'm modest" while setting off the plump roundness of an ass, the fullness of a package), when my future boyfriend-- if we can call him that-- dove in, swam over, and proceeded without a word to suck my cock. That, dear reader, is what I call an auspicious beginning. During the somewhat anticlimactic post-blow conversation, I learned that he had a longterm partner of a dozen years, but his marriage need not get in the way of our romance.

We started to date, and a few weeks later I attended his 30th birthday party. When a very dark skinned, very drunk, friend of a friend started to flirt a little too aggressively with David, he let him (and inadvertently, me) know how things were. "I like white skinned guys. See that guy over there, he's my husband...and that one there," pointing at me," that's my boyfriend....and that one there," wagging his finger at yet another guest,"he's my lover...all white..white, white, white!"

David had invited me to spend the night, and as the guests started to go, I wondered just where I'd be sleeping. All the available beds were already taken, so David invited me to sleep with him and his husband. They urged me not to be uptight; they'd done this before (I'm sure that's true); it wouldn't be a problem. I climbed in for a minute, but in the end decided I couldn't do it and crawled off to sleep alone on the couch.

Mexican Quotient

Researchers have recently identified statistically significant differences between the thinking patterns of gringos and Mexicans. The following questions are designed to help us determine whether you have a cognitive style typical of a gringo or a Mexican.

(1) You have a rash on your leg. What do you do?

a. Go to a dermatologist.
b. Rub your wounds with a mixture of lime, garlic, and salt.
c. Pick up a special pomada at the vetinary supply store.

(2) You want to ask about the well-being of a friend. What do you say? (All responses have been translated into English.)

a. How are you?
b. How are the vibrations?
c. What fart?

(3) Which of the following can be used as a personal lubricant during safe sex?

a. A water-based product like K-Y
b. Oil of olay
c. Dandruff shampoo

(4) You consider yourself a straight guy. You'll have sex with...

a. Women only
b. Women for free--guys have to pay
c. Anybody who looks good in a dress

Meth Eyes

My friend Greg and I are deep in conversation in Golden Gate Park when she spots us. Little miss public service approaches with long, triumphant strides and attempts to engage the enemy: did we know that gay men have sex in this park? Like a mouse playing dead in hopes the cat will get bored, I go into ignore mode. "Please Greg," I siliently plead, "don't talk to this witch"...but it's too late--his tender heart has already been hit by her faux-friendly fire. She goes on about the gay menace in the bushes, and he smiles and nods. Finally, as her speech reaches an almost orgasmic climax, she points a finger at me. Apparently, the dark circles under my eyes are not merely, as I had thought, ugly, but rather constitute proof of my drugging and sexing ways. In that moment, a look of smug congratulations sweeps over her pinched features. She has intervened masterfully: there would be one less blow job in the park today.

Almighty Narcissism

Happiness is a contract with God. God agrees to bring good stuff into your life. You agree to notice. It's simple: no gratitude, no goodies. Personally, I don't get why God's so concerned about what me and fellow members of my species think of him, why he's so hung up on being praised all the time. He even wrote the book of psalms, love letters to himself, in case we need a little verbal prompting. I mean can he really be so insecure, so high maintainance? What's with the endless demand for acknowledment-- the constant hallelujah this, hallelujah that? You'd think if anybody wasn't angling for a pat on the back it would be the almighty! Now I understand why all those nuns, who are symbolically married to the dude, don't look so pleased. I'd be sour too. A personal relationship with the divine narcissist in the sky must be a bit taxing. Better, I'm thinking, just to buy a dog.

The Fungi Follies

I would have denied it at the time, but growing up I was a mushroom sadist. My brother hated mushrooms, but he loved pizza. I liked both, and wasn't afraid to use this fact to my tactical advantage at the dinner table. Here's what would happen. My parents would order us some pizza, and I'd request mushrooms as a topping on half. Then I'd eat the pieces without mushrooms first. Before long the only pizza left was covered in the fungi and my brother wouldn't touch it, so I ate those pieces too! Emmm....

Each one of us lives in a different world. I gave no further thought to my mischevious mushroom capers once dinner was over; my brother remembers the incidents 25 years later, with what I suspect is a low-grade lingering resentment, as abusive brotherly bullying.

I'm sorry Eric. I didn't really know what I was doing to you. If I could, I'd travel back to that time and let you eat the whole pie.

Boyscout Hospitality

George insisted Kevin sleep with us. No, he couldn't sleep on the couch. Kevin had gotten drunk at our party, weren't we morally obligated to invite him into our bed? Where was my sense of hospitality? Nevermind Kevin was my bestfriend Steve's boyfriend. Steve would understand it wasn't sexual. It would be like the boyscouts. I said no, and went off to sleep on the couch by myself. George (my boyfriend) and Kevin (Steve's boyfriend) slept together.

Fast forward two weeks: George and I split up; Steve and Kevin split up; George and Kevin moved in together.

True story I swear, scouts honor.

A Farting Typology

Dan Savage once wrote in his sex advice column, Savage Love, that "all long-term relationships" were characterized by "unselfconscious farting." That Dan is a smart guy, and his observation got me thinking. I'd already made a list of the qualities I was looking for in a boyfriend (smart, handsome, blah, blah, blah) ; now I needed to decide how my future Mr. Right would manage his intestinal gas. Did I want someone who demurely excused himself, or just let it rip?

The way two people fart together (there's no end of possibilities--unobtrusively, maliciously, shamefully, comically...and so on) says loads about who they are as a couple. What kind of intimacy can there be between partners who aren't even willing to acknowledge their intestinal gas? Honesty, I reasoned, is a trait that runs across domains--a guy whose not embarrassed to fart will also be able to communicate other uncomfortable (smelly) truths. Only dishonest cheaters head to the bathroom when they feel one coming on. I knew that I was looking for an intimate relationship full of truthful sharing and transparency, so hidden farting was a deal breaker. If my guy wouldn't fart, I wouldn't stay. Period.

Today, I'm happy to report that my new boyfriend, Jose, has a farting style that really works for me. (Many thanks to all my new-agey friends--Mike, Debbie, Steve-- who taught me how to attract just the right kind of intestinal gas from the universe.) When Jose lets one fly, he does so with humor and penache: I can't help but be charmed.

The Best Place

I was traveling through the state of Nayarit in Mexico a few years back, and got into a conversation with one of the locals. Asked him if he liked the city of Tepic. His reply? " Of course, I was born here. It's the most beautiful place in all of Mexico." Here's a fellow, I thought, who doesn't get around much. Trust me, Tepic's not on any gringo's top ten in Mexico list by a very wide margin. The only people passionate about the place were born there. It's a quintessentially Mexican attitude, this fierce loyalty to the place of birth. In the dustiest villiages, and the filthiest city slums everybody will tell you the same thing--their place is best.

The longer I live in Mexico, the easier life here gets. My Spanish gets better and better. I learn how to cook the food, how to eat it. Still, there are some cultural barriers no gringo can cross. I'll never really understand, for instance, what it means to be this rooted. Every year more and more gringos come to visit. We enjoy the beach and the beer, and leave just as ignorant as we came. There are mysteries the land only shares with the people who belong to it. I love Mexico, but will never be Mexican.

Salto de Sapito

I'm reading peacefully on the bed when Jose sneaks into the room. His shirtless body seems coiled with a mischevious energy, ready to spring. He says he's going to give me the salto de sapito--jump of the little frog--so I clench myself as the full weight of his body lands on mine. I twist and scream (baby,baby,baby...!) but it's no use. Jose is younger, stronger, and more determined to fuck me than I am to resist him.

Maybe this is what love is. One day we're dancing naked together in the kitchen, our dicks swinging comically to the latin beat; the next day he's moved in, and I'm picking up his blackberry shampoo. Jose doesn't have a job so I buy everything and don't care. I'm afraid to tell my friends how it is, afraid they'll think I'm being used for money. It just doesn't feel that way. I've been used before, but its never felt this good. Sometimes I think I'm the one using him. Why would a beautiful, muscular 22 year-old guy want to be with fat, balding, gringo me? I try to talk to Jose about it. He tells me to shut up my little bocita and take off my clothes, so I do.

Three Little Games

(1) Let's play pretend. I'll be a nine year-old boy, and you can be my daddy. When people ask what we're doing we tell them. Why not? It's just a silly game.

(2) Let's play pretend. I'll be a nine year-old boy, and you can be my daddy. When people ask what we're doing we'll pretend we are not pretending. We don't want to stop playing the game, but we're ashamed of it, and can't let anybody else know.

(3) Let's play pretend. I'll be a nine year-old boy, and you can be my daddy. When people ask what we're doing we have no idea what they are talking about. We've forgotten all about the game, but still play it out of habit.

Ticket to Ride

My aunt Kathy offers this dating tip: before going out with a guy check out the car. Smart girls of either gender, she quips, can look at a floorboard littered with candybar wrappers and last week's pizza, and know a thing or two about a fellow's apartment, employment status...even sexual appetites. In her orange county conventional way, she's right of course. Don't expect messy car dude to squeeze the lubricant tube neatly from the bottom, or offer moist post-event towelettes. The same guy that leaves a half carton of milk on the plastic upholstery, might well expect you to drink down every drop of his juices.

Before you slam that car door shut though, let me just say, on behalf of horny slobs everywhere-- so what! Do you want to be clean, or do you want mind-blowing orgasmic bliss? That is the question. Nothing squeezes all the sweet juiciness out of a love-life faster than limiting yourself to guys you should go out with. The best sex stretches boundaries, and breaks rules. Touching another person can be like jumping off a high rock ledge into a freezing lake. You just have to screw up your courage and leap into the air never really knowing what it's going to feel like when you hit water. We're somehow different (bigger,brighter) after entering into such a dangerous intimacy. Sometimes you have to let down your gaurd, and just get on in.

Kill a Sheep

My boyfriend Jose and I talk about death. How it can be such a happy time. It's one of those "oh-my-God, you too" moments new lovers have when they discover all the unexpected things they have in common. I tell him I want a memorial service with lots of dancing. His mom wants a big funeral party too. She says, "kill a sheep." I think we're going to be together a very long time.

Touch Issues

My mom and dad neglected to work out all the details before their marriage. Mom assumed they'd sleep together in wedded bliss; dad figured separate twin beds were the way to go. Eventually a compromise was reached: every night they pushed two beds together, and dad built a wall of pillows between them. This story always got a laugh during post-12-step meeting "my family is more dysfunctional than your family" contests, but now that I'm saddled with a relationship myself I finally get it: touching's over-rated. I'm not talking about fucking mind you. Fucking's cool. It's the endless before and after body-contact I could do without. Perhaps someday I'll publish a special pamphlet Happy Co-Habitation in Three Easy Steps: stick it in, wiggle it around, get the hell away. Hope my boyfriend Jose reads it. He's always chasing me around the bed like a zombie starved for contact with the living. Things start out pleasantly enough with him obediently cordoned off in his separate-but-equal corner, but before long an errant foot makes its way across the dividing line to rest, ever so innocently, on one of my toes. I nudge him. "Oh, was I touching," he yawns. "So sorry." Yeah right. He knows exactly what he's doing. By morning there’s no question who has won. Jose’s got me pinned against the very edge, his arms wrapped tight around me in gleeful unconscious victory. I won’t be going anywhere soon.

Kids Just Know

Kids just know. Don't get in a "name the fag" contest with a 12 year-old boy, and expect to win. I assume you're reading this blog--and not some developmental psychology textbook--because you want the truth, so here goes: gaydar, the ability to spot a queen at a distance, reaches its peak in the male at the onset of puberty. Sadly, few middle-schoolers (bless their little hearts) have bought my latest book, Queers: A Field Guide. They don't need to; most of them could of written the thing! Don't believe me? Listen to playground chatter during recess, and you'll hear even obviously straight children, whom you might assume would have better things to do, debating the fine points of gay culture. One boy might remark to another in response to some subtle gesture or witty turn of phrase, "that's so gay." Pay attention, because inevitably their commentary is spot on. I know all this because I used to be a 12 year-old boy myself. At the end of my 8th grade year we ritually took stock of one another. John was voted "class clown." Brian got "most likely to succeed." And me? "Most likely to suck cock."

Loving You

Sex is the answer to a question (do you love me?) we no longer need to ask. Phallic fun fades fast, but love lingers longer. Don't put your cock inside me. I already know we're part of each other.

Affective Discrimination

Equality is all the rage in the United States these days. Protected classes of people are popping up like daisies. Just try discriminating on the basis of age, race, religion, even (gasp) sexual orientation, and see how far you get! In our more progressive towns guys can even shashay around in skirts, and nobody dares say a word. How is it then that the only emotional state we're constitutionaly gauranteed the right to pursue is happiness? Isn't it time to stomp out feeling-ism as well? Think about it: the United States is the only country in the world where you can be an old black lesbian in a wheel chair and, in theory, have no trouble finding a job--but only if you smile. Frown at the wrong customer and the deals off. Now I don't know about you, but in my experience old wheelchair-bound black lesbians aren't the most cheerful bunch, so all those smiles can't be coming easy! We make a big show of asking how each other is, but when it comes to saying how we really feel there's a strict don't ask-don't tell policy. It's just wrong. Angry people need to eat too. Now I've nothing against happiness. As feelings go, it's a pretty good one. I can often be found in hot pursuit of that particular endorphin rush, and friends and family sometimes complain that I seem to do little else. Still, I wonder if we're paying a price for trying to feel good all the time. Sometimes sadness can be sublime, and grief really, really good.

Happy Being Me

My dad used to brag about how he'd be ok if I grew up to be a garbage man. Unlike his mom (that social-climbing devil in a dress whom he despised, and I would too if I knew what was good for me), he valued happiness over prestige. May I just say: bullshit. As a highschool student, I told him about my plan to be a psychologist, and we argued. Why not a psychiatrist? Psychiatrists are medical doctors, isnt that better? I tried to explain that I had no interest in treating seriously crazy people with meds as psychiatrists do. My interest lay in helping everyday neurotics like himself. (Years later he changed his mind when he was forced to shell out big bucks to hire a psychologist to testify in one of his murder trials.) News flash dad: you've grown up to be just like your mom. I remember how she used to criticize him for being a lowly trial lawyer. Surely he could of been a judge! More prestige, more money....wouldn't that be better?

As a family, we're smart, professional, and empty inside—a motley group of disgruntled psychologists and lawyers beating ourselves (and each other) up for not being psychiatrists and judges. I give you our family mission statement....

Whatever you do, do it well. Be the best. The more success, the more recognition, the more happiness! You might be rich, beautiful, or popular...an athlete or an artist—doesn't matter as long as you get credit. The point, always remember, is to be praised.

I've learned alot from my family about life. Everything turns on the question of love, and where you look for it—inside yourself or from other people. We're social beings, but as sources of love and fulfillment, other people suck. Trust me, if you'd like to be happy you can do better than running around trying to convince everybody you're worthy of their love and approval. I'll gladly hire someone to fix my plumbing or clean my yard, but when it comes to loving me, I'm a committed do-it-yourself-er! Most of us get to the point when success no longer satisfies anyway. Everything we thought we knew suddenly seems so wrong. Depression sets in, as the doorway to conventional success-driven happiness slams irrevocably shut. We havent yet learned how to climb through the open window of joy! Conventional happiness depends on constantly acquiring more...more money, fame, accolades; joy gives it all away. Conventional happiness is a beautifully dressed, if somewhat self-conscious, woman everyone admires; joy a little girl who, oblivious to everyones astonished gasps, strips naked and runs laughing down the street.

Painting by Proxy

My boyfriend Marco draws. His quick pen & ink sketches of fantasy figures—mermaids, vampires, dragons, fairies—reveal a “natural, unstudied talent.” Whatever….For him it´s just fun, the joy of seeing the image in his imagination take shape on the page. Personally, I don´t care about any of that. I intend to exploit his abilities for my own emotional, if not financial, gain. Perhaps you´re familiar with a little phenomenon I like to call prestige by proximity. Pushy parents of childhood prodigies everywhere know what I´m talking about: if you don´t have talent yourself just align yourself with someone who does. Can you feel the love? Don´t judge me. Some people are destined to be president (good for them!), but somebody´s got to be first lady. With all the adulation and none of the work, it´s not really a bad gig.

So anyway, I´ve decided. Marco´s going to be a successful artist. Someday you´ll admire his work on a gallery wall, and when you do I hope you´ll look past the signature, and remember that that kind of talent never exists in a vacuum. Who discovered his gift? Who bought him his first quality pens and paper? Who got his early work framed? Who fucking created him?

ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME,ME……