♬ She came along, just like a song, and brightened my day... ♬

In 1974, 29 year old  Barry Manilow had his first hit with the song "Mandy".  As the song climbed to #1 on the Billboard charts in early 1975, a woman in the eastern suburbs of San Diego found out she was pregnant, and she loved Barry's song so much that she named her first child after it.  Sixteen years later, in my junior year of high school, Mandi sat next to me in Chemistry, and  she quickly became my best friend.  She made high school much more livable, but after school, we grew apart just as quickly as we had become close.  Tonight, after not speaking for most of the last 15 years, we had dinner.

Its funny how the memories can come rushing back.  Before dinner, I just thought of Mandi as the teenage sexual experience that really confirmed for me that I was definitely a big homo.  But there was so much more.

Mandi was friends with me throughout junior year, when I lost my virginity to the girl with the biggest boobs in high school (definitely not Mandi).  In the summer between our junior and senior year, Mandi and I used to spend all night talking on the phone.  I mean literally, we would call each other sometime around 11pm, and we would talk on the phone until 3am, 4am, or sunrise on the long nights.  We would listen to the same radio station, and sing each other Boyz II Men's "End of the Road", and Madonna's "This Used to Be My Playground."  

Mandy was funny, quick, and opinionated, which made her terribly entertaining.  I can't remember anything specific that we talked about, except for when she told me that she lost her virginity to a guy at school named Terry.  In the first few weeks of high school, Terry and I became friends who played masturbation games together.  In the last week of high school he became our valedictorian.  Somewhere in between, he and Mandi popped each other's cherries.  I was soooooo jealous (of her, of course).

Senior year came, and Mandi and I started working at the Krikorian movie theater in downtown El Cajon (that suburb we grew up in). The first time I had sex with a boy I boned my way into being two hours late for my shift, and I was so elated when I got to work that I told another girl that worked there about it.  The kids I worked with there became the first to know that I liked boys, and therefore I came out to Mandi pretty early.  She accepted me completely, and after a life of feeling so ashamed of myself, her acceptance really brought us closer together.  Shortly after the end of our senior year, we started dating.

It was a brief affair though, and I use the term "affair" loosely.  I remember that I was a projectionist (meaning that I started the films in the booth upstairs), and that she and I made out in the booth several times.  I remember that after the theater closed one night, we started a movie just for ourselves, and we messed around a bit in the back row of seats.  And then after a good month of foreplay, I remember that Mandi got us a cheap hotel room one night.  When we arrived, I found that she had prepared by sprinkling flowers and buying champagne.  It was all a wonderful gesture, but after having sex with several boys in the previous months, I was having a hard time convincing myself that I still wanted to have sex with a girl.  I wasn't smart enough to just say no though, so I gave it a shot.  I got the sailboat in the harbor, but within seconds the wind went out of my sails.  I don't think I need to describe how horrible it feels to go soft when you're actually inside someone, and I don't imagine it was much better for her either.  That pretty much ended our affair.

In the fall I started at San Diego State University, and Mandi moved north to go to USC.  We tried to keep in touch, but we had a hard time connecting after that.  The last time we hung out was sometime around the age of 19, maybe in our second year of college.  By that point I had become a pretty die-hard raver and was somehow pulling off being a fantastic student and a maniacal partier at the same time.  I tried to explain to Mandi on that last meeting how fun the candy pills in the rave scene could be, but she made it very clear that she did not approve.  She told me that I was on my way to becoming an addict, and couldn't see it any other way.  The energy was not good between us when we parted that night.  It took several years before the next email exchange took place.

Then last January, when I was living in New York, I went to see Barry Manilow in concert one night.  To my surprise, he was fantastic, and I couldn't help but think of Mandi when he sang his first #1 hit.  The next day, I sent Mandi an email telling her that I had a new appreciation for her name.  In the next few days we wrote several times with updates, and by the end, we agreed to see each other next time I was in town.  

Mandi was a pretty girl in high school, and she is probably even prettier now.  She seems really happy.  She is married, has two kids, lives in the suburbs, and is working 60+ hours per week in hopes of becoming a partner in her accounting firm.  And if you know me at all, you know that that description is almost my polar opposite (though I'm definitely much prettier than I was in high school too.  Oh god.  I had a mullet!).  But I guess that's half the fun of staying in touch with people, isn't it?  It can be very therapeutic to see how two people starting from the same point at some age can end up in such different places later on.  And I guess that's how I felt tonight.  Our little dinner became for me a retrospective on 15 years of adventure, sex, travel, love, friends, career, and an evolving identity.  And as I drove home, I thought, "Wow.  I sure am lucky."

Merry Christmas.

Glide: It's Not Just A Lube

Last Sunday morning, I met my friend Marc at a church we used to go to every now and then when I lived in San Francisco in the early part of this decade. Glide Methodist Church became famous for its own brand of hyper-liberal sermons under the direction of Cecil Williams, a progressive pastor who welcomed gays into the church in 1964 and fought for transgender rights in the 1970's, while also turning Glide into the biggest provider of social services in The City.

I was introduced to Glide by a guy named Jeff who I dated in 2000. Shortly after moving to San Francisco at the age of 24, I met Jeff in a men-for-men chat room on AOL. Jeff was a hot young daddy-type in his late 30's, the manager of a small hotel, a recovering alcoholic, and a member of the Glide Ensemble (the choir). The first time I went to Glide, I went alone to impress Jeff. I had never been in a church like that before, where the first hour was spent singing and dancing, and the 15-minute sermon at the end was almost an afterthought, seemingly meant to just be a positive message for you to take with you for the day. I left in a great mood.

About a month into dating Jeff, I even went on a whitewater rafting trip with him and the rest of the Glide Ensemble. The congregation is about half black, a bit less than a quarter gay, and includes the homeless and rich and everyone in between. The Glide Ensemble was no different. As we sat around a campfire at the end of the day, passing a joint and telling jokes, with queens shouting, "Praise Jesus!" at every mention of a big dick, I thought the surrealism of it all was one of the most fabulous things I had ever experienced. It only got better when Jeff and I quietly started to have sex in our tent that night, and Jeff pulled out the Glide lube. I bet God loves a good pun.

It didn't take long for things to start falling apart with Jeff though. He had seemed so responsible and dateable when we first met, but I started learning that he was on the liberal end of the Glide congregation (and that is liberal). It started when we went to meet some friends of his at a bar one night. As we walked from the car to the bar, he said, "I should probably warn you that I have been in porn movies before, and it might come up because that is how I met these guys. I thought you should know." I asked how many he had done, and when. He said seven, in the last year. Strike one.

A few weeks later we went to a movie at the AMC theater on Van Ness, but showed up really early. We decided to get some coffee at the diner across the street. Somehow the subject turned to prostitutes, and he said that he should probably tell me that he had become a prostitute recently. He hoped that I wouldn't mind too much. Now trust me, I'm not one to judge a past of prostitution, but I am a realist who knows that dating a guy with an active career as a hooker is probably more trouble than its worth. Strike two.

And finally, I went to his house one night for a dinner date. He answered the door in his underwear. I thought he was just taking a long time to get ready, but after we walked to the back of the house, he sat down at the computer and said he was just jacking off with a guy on the webcam. He asked me if I could maybe put on a show and blow him so the guy could watch. Strike three. I was out.

I avoided Glide for a good year after that, but in the wonderful haze of business trips and partying and sex and sex and sex that became my life in San Francisco, I eventually went back looking for something stable. I started going with Marc, or Umecke, or by myself. And like always, I left feeling great.

So this last weekend, I took my new lover. I wanted to hang out with Marc, I wanted to share Glide with my lover, and I think I wanted to maybe give a shout out to God for allowing my life to fall into place here in SF again.

Unfortunately though, it appears that things have changed at Glide. Cecil is no longer the pastor, and neither is the great guy that took over for him when I was going years ago. The new pastor took the stand and screamed and yelled about how sin is the cause of everything wrong in the world. Sin is the reason that half the world is hungry. Sin is the reason that rich men here in San Francisco pay young black men to fight each other. He didn't elaborate on any of this, or tell us what sins he was referring to. He didn't give guidance on how to avoid these sins. He just yelled. I left feeling a bit confused and uncomfortable. I was sad, because I felt like I left with one less safe place in San Francisco.

Fortunately for me, I am feeling more comfortable in my life and more comfortable in my head than I did back then, so I don't need the safe place as much as I used to. I still praise Glide for all that they give to the community, but I doubt I'll go back. I guess for me, Glide is just a lube again.

(Did I really just turn this post into a love letter where Glide the Lube persisted throughout my life? God I'm tacky.)

God: "Seriously, the pun is over. Stop it already."

Giving Thanks

I love to make bulleted lists, and Thanksgiving is the perfect time to make one. This year, here are the things I am thankful for:

• My best friend came into the bathroom when I was showering yesterday, sat on the toilet, and announced her "special time" had started. I am thankful I don't have "special time". I was also thankful that she didn't poop while I was still in the bathroom.
• Seriously, I'm thankful to live with my best friend, who still has the gift of making me laugh through anything.
• I'm thankful I have hair. My bald boyfriend is hot and all, but when I got that horrible haircut three weeks ago that I had to grow out, I realized that having hair gives you a lot more versatility with your look.
• I'm thankful that the nose hair trimmer that I bought at a 99-cent store in 1997 still works, despite the bottom end of it melting a little bit from leaking battery acid.
• I am very thankful to be home in San Francisco, where November days are as warm as June days, drag queens roam the streets collecting money for charity, men do their grocery shopping in leather shorts and vests, and the view from Twin Peaks still sends shivers down my spine.
• Tonight I went to my friend Alejandro's house to chat over a glass of wine. A friend of his who was raised on a farm in Kansas was visiting for Thanksgiving. I am thankful that his friend became the first person ever in my life to admit to having sex with an animal (when he was a kid on the farm). He said, and I quote, "Goats are tighter than chickens, because chickens lay eggs."
• I'm thankful for my new relationship. He is handsome, affectionate, empathetic, and very bright, and becomes my own personal porn star every time he takes his clothes off. And he wants to do me all the time. I'm very thankful for that. Every time actually.
• Like every year, I am thankful for my family. My mother and Bob, my sister, and my three nieces are the most loving multicultural homo-centric emotionally supportive mosh pit of a family that a boy could every hope for.
• I am thankful that I get partial usage rights of my best friend's convertible Mustang, even though its not air tight, which allowed a spider in today that came down on a string of web in front of my face while I was driving and caused a girlier shriek than should ever escape my lips followed by me opening the door and slapping at the air while I literally drove past a busy Safeway parking lot full of people looking at me going, "What the fuck?"
• Speaking of my voice, I'm thankful that God gave me that natural talent to sing, though I wonder why I can only carry a tune three octaves above my speaking voice. Seriously, I can belt a Whitney Houston tune. Just ask my poor poor roommate who wakes up to the big notes from "I Will Always Love You" first thing on Saturday mornings. Sorry honey. I'll try to sing like a boy next time.
• I'm thankful that about 10% more of California voted for gay marriage this year than in 2000 (48% in 2008, 38% in 2000). Hopefully within 8 more years I'll be thankful that another 10% finally made us equal citizens under the law.
• Back to San Francisco, I'm thankful that people here are naked all the time. Naked at Folsom Street Fair. Naked at Castro Street Fair. Naked at Bay to Breakers, naked at protests, naked walking down the street, naked in my window when I get interrupted from getting dressed by a good song and have to dance my naked ass off. Naked.
• I'm thankful that you read all the way to the last bullet.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. xoxo

The Perfect Weekend

At the end of this last September, my friend Alex threw a jock strap and waffles brunch on the morning of Folsom Street Fair. My first thought was that it would be a bit strange to hang out in my jock strap with my group of friends and eat waffles, but he assured me that there would be enough guys I didn't know for it to be interesting. Sure enough, I met a bunch of great guys, including a couple of best friends named Michael and Andy from Los Angeles. They were very sweet, and when we finished our waffles at the same time, we decided to head to the fair together. My lover D and I put our clothes back on (seriously, we ate brunch in our jock straps), and the four of us spent the afternoon taking in the madness of the world's biggest S&M event. You would be suprised how quickly you bond when you see people get whipped or blown or fisted in the first few hours of your friendship. By the end of it, Michael invited us to spend a weekend with him at his second home in Palm Springs.

This last weekend, D and I took him up on his offer. D has been really stressed by work and I just run at a high stress level normally, so both of us were looking forward to a nice relaxing weekend by the pool. We flew down to Long Beach and then rented a convertible, hoping to unwind as we took in the Southern California scenery. Stupidly though, we underestimated the traffic, and our peaceful drive quickly turned into a frustrating nightmare of Orange County Friday evening traffic.

Three hours later, when we found Michael's house in Palm Springs, we couldn't get out of the car fast enough. Michael's neighborhood was dark, not a street lamp in sight, and I had to walk right up to the door to make sure the street number was correct. When I saw that it was, I opened the door and stepped inside. The house was gorgeous; a one-story glass and marble masterpiece with a stone fireplace in the middle and a shimmering pool through the sliding glass doors. By the pool was a group of men talking loudly and clanking cocktails. I got very excited, and started walking towards them. Unfortunately though, my eyes hadn't adjusted from the dark outside, and I didn't notice two shallow steps in the perfectly polished white floors. I stumbled a bit on the first one, and then hit the edge of the second with only half of my left foot. My foot bent inwards, and as my ankle went to the ground, I heard a snap, crackle, or pop. I stood there in shock for a moment, and by the time Michael made it inside to kiss me hello, I realized I had a problem.

D and I decided to skip our dinner reservations with the group so that we could go to the hospital. Halfway there though, we realized that we didn't want to spend the night in the emergency room. So instead we got Del Taco and went back to the house. The pain and embarrassment had exhausted me and I fell asleep quickly, but by the time the sun was rising the pain was keeping me up. At 7:30 D and I got up and went to a nearby urgent care facility, where after 2.5 hours we discovered that my foot did indeed have a small fracture. The doctor told me to go home and ice it throughout the day; 30 minutes on, 30 minutes off. On my vacation? Fat chance.

So instead of taking the doctor's advice I decided to get drunk and avoid the pain. The rest of the day was a drunken train wreck. It was Leather Pride in Palm Springs, and by early afternoon the entire house of guys headed down to the fair. Unlike Folsom Street Fair though, this fair was one block long in front of a strip mall that housed Palm Springs' only leather bar. The lack of excitement probably led me to drink a bit too much. In fact, I can't say I remember the end of the fair. I do vaguely remember getting back to the house around dusk, and passing out in the bed. I woke up and hour or two later, still drunk, to find most of the house naked and either swimming or running around drinking cocktails. Though D was perfectly behaved, I was drunk enough to pout my way into an argument, which I don't really remember though I think we both cried. I also don't remember how we made up, but by the time we left to the bar a bit later I had another drink in my hand and I just loved him more than pony and rainbows and kittens.

Our next stop was a bar, where Michael put a little bit of happy in everyone's mouth. Then we were at a leather dance party in a different strip mall from earlier in the day. Again, I don't remember much here, though I do remember being so trashed that I was sprawled out on a bench in the back of the club. When D found me I was probably rubbing my nipples with my eyes rolled back (I think I'm exaggerating), and then my next memory is barfing in the bathroom. Then more nipples on the bench. Then barfing again. Seriously, I must have looked H-O-T. And then finally, we went home. I don't exactly remember going to bed either, though I do vaguely remember standing over D and seeing that he was already asleep, so at least I made it longer than him that time.

I woke Sunday to headache and regret. But as I lay there in the quiet, I realized that there was no more party to be had. I could finally relax. I looked over toward D, and he looked so adorable. When I reached out and touched his arm, his hand opened and took mine, and he moaned in a tone that I know to mean "Good morning." I rolled over and pressed myself against his side, put my head on his chest, and took the time to let my thoughts quiet, to be at peace, and to be in love. The first half of the weekend was a complete disaster, but by the time we got out of bed for the last time early Sunday afternoon, I felt like I finally had my perfect weekend.

Some Things Are Meant To Be

Just before my first birthday, my mother moved into a furnished studio apartment in Alameda, a suburb of San Francisco. One night in the first week, she pulled out the sofa bed and found a man's ring. She wasn't sure what to do with it. Her first thought was to bring it to the landlord, but he gave her a funny vibe and she wasn't sure she could trust him, so she decided to hold on to the ring until she could figure out what to do with it.

A few weeks later she went to interview a woman named Louise to be my babysitter. As they talked, Mom mentioned that she had just moved back to town, and Louise asked her where she lived. Mom gave her the address and described the building, and Louise said that was quite a coincidence, because her husband, Clement, had just moved out of that building. (Louise and Clement were married for 20 years, but separated many times). Louise called Clement into the room and asked which apartment he had lived in. It turned out that he had lived in Mom's apartment. After a bit of suprised chit chat, Clement said, "I lost a very important ring in that apartment. If you ever find it, let me know."

Mom couldn't believe it. She reached into her purse and pulled out the ring she had found in the couch. "Was it this one?" she asked. It was. Mom said that at that moment she felt like she had been given a sign that Louise was meant to watch over me. As I look back now, I think she was right. Louise became a great figure in my early life, and my sister's after she was born, and over seven years became a part of our family.

As Mom told me this story yesterday, it got me thinking about an old theory of mine that you don't create relationships randomly. A long time ago I started thinking that maybe you just go through life searching for the souls that you are somehow meant to find. That theory helps explain why sometimes you meet someone who you immediately feel comfortable with. It explains sudden best friends, and love at first sight. It explains the hope that a lot of us share: finding Mr. Right.

Of course, you never really know at the time if the sign you are getting is a legitimate message from Fate or a coincidence thrown at you by Chance. This summer when I dated Daniel, I was suprised to find out that we went to San Diego State at the same time. He brought his transcripts to my house one night, and I was shocked to find out that we had taken the same small psychology class in the fall of 1997. I thought it was fate. It didn't take me long to learn that it wasn't.

But those little instances aren't enough to shake my hope that sometimes Fate does take your hand and guide you in the right direction. While Daniel and I were dating, I was already becoming friends with D. Later in the summer when D and I started dating, I was suprised to learn that in early 2003, I chose his team at Emory University to work on a vaccine study I was setting up. It was suprising, but not enough.

Then late last Saturday night, I woke up in D's arms. It was a cool night, and I was pressed tightly against him. He had woken me with a twitch and a quiet moan. Then his arms tightened around me, and after another small moan he mumbled the words, "I love you." I laid awake for a minute, wondering if he had woken up, but it was clear that he hadn't. His breath told me he was asleep, and he was probably dreaming. I have no idea what he was dreaming about, or who that "I love you" was intended for. I didn't know what would happen the next day, or the next month or year. But as I fell back to sleep, with his skin warm against mine, I let my insides tingle with the idea that maybe, this time, it is meant to be.

Chapter 4: Losing My Virginity

Lord knows I was an awkward kid in high school. In my head it was very clear that there was a distinct social force separating me from the popular kids, and like every misguided dork, I used outlandish style to get the attention of the popular kids and try to overcome that force. I had a pair of pants that were kind of MC Hammer-ish but made of tiny squares in yellow, orange, and red. I had the most garish Z Cavaricci jeans that I could find at the mall. I even bought a pair of skin tight black stonewashed jeans from the thrift store once and cut a series of very symmetrical one-inch slits down the front of the legs, and long slits down the back. My friend Vikki told me that one day when I got up to leave Spanish class, my white Hanes briefs pinched out one of the slits under my ass. Everyone got the joke except for me. For God's sake, I even had a surfer wave in my bangs and a mullet in the back.

So I have established that I was a nerd. You can imagine my suprise then when the girl with the biggest boobs in high school took a fondness for me. She wasn't exactly at the top of the social ladder either, but let me tell you it didn't hurt to have the attention of a girl who the hot guys in the class had at least a curiosity for. Crystal was actually a pretty sweet girl too, so in my junior year, we started dating.

She might be able to correct me on this, but I think the first sexual contact we had was at my house. Her older sister had chapperoned her, but Sis fell asleep on the floor of the living room while we were watching a movie. Crytal and I started making out, and somehow my pants came down a bit. Wow, as I remember that I can visualize how little hair I used to have. Those were the good old days. It takes a variety of heavy duty lawn equipment to keep my bush at a respectable level now. Anyway, so Crystal and I messed around.

Let's just get to the good stuff. After we had been dating for about three months, Crystal and I decided that we wanted to lose our virginity to each other. We enlisted the help of my friend Vikki, who was dating a guy that I just adored. What was his name? Doesn't matter. His parents kept the family RV parked on the street in front of the house. So one night Crystal and I made up stories to our parents about staying the night at friend's houses and Nameless Cutie gave us the keys to the RV.

I believe that I made an attempt at sex that night, but Crystal got scared, and instead we spent the night cuddled in each other's arms. The affection must have been what she needed to feel safe though, because in the morning she let me in. It was nice actually; a bit awkward, but I found her gushy spot to be quite fascinating. It didn't blow my socks off or anything, but it was definitely a memorable experience. Halfway through, Crystal started crying. I stopped immediately thinking of course that I must be terribly huge and tried not to revel in my pride as I asked her what was wrong. It turned out she was just a bit overwhelmed at the finality of her virginity being gone. I imagine that must happen to a lot of Catholic girls. I just felt curious, and excited to tell my friends, and sad that my penis wasn't big enough to make her cry after all.

Crystal and I didn't date much longer, but we did continue to have sex for over a year. My best story from that time was when we went with her mom to a family friend's house, and while mom and the friend sipped tea in the kitchen, Crystal took me to the backyard and "hid" us behind a tree. She opened her shirt, got down on her knees, and played the famous Hide-Mr-Happy-In-The-Big-Boobs game. Oh, we did it in the changing room at Miller's Outpost in the mall too. Hmmm, that must have planted the seed that in my 20's became the public sex tree. I'll talk about that later.

So I guess officially I lost my virginity with Crystal, but if you know me or have read any other post or found my blog through my profile on bigmuscle.com, then you know I'm a big 'mo, so this story wouldn't be complete without talking about my first sex with a boy. When I was 17, in my senior year of high school, I worked at the Krikorian movie theater in El Cajon. On one slow weeknight, the girl working the ticket booth called me over from the door. She was laughing at the newspaper, and told me that she just noticed that the column titled "Seeking Just a Friend" in the personals section was actually listings for guys seeking guys. On the way home from work that night, I bought a newspaper, and when I got home I read every word of every ad in that section. I can't describe the excitement I felt inside me. I didn't really know that men who liked men sought each other out. I thought it was something to hide and be ashamed of, and maybe if you were lucky you might get chance encounters with drunk straight friends every year or two. Could it be this easy?

A week later I wrote an ad for myself and sent it to the newspaper. I said I was an 18yo surfer type. I was actually 17 and afraid of the ocean, but let's not get bogged down in semantics. The first person who left me a voice mail was a 25yo old guy that lived in the suburbs. I called him back and after a few minutes of mostly logistical conversation, we hung up. An hour later I drove to his house. He was babysitting his sister's kid, but apparently I passed his initial inspection because he told me to meet him down the block in 10 minutes. He showed up in a car and told me to follow him. I did, and he led me to a Motel 8 that rented rooms by the hour.

I won't go into too much detail, but I will say that it was completely different than having sex with a girl. I was intoxicated by his smell, by his skin, by his touch. I did everything he asked. And as I got close to finishing, I whispered under my breath, "You are a God." He said, "What?" I said it again, and I remember that in that moment I meant it. He saved me from feeling like I might never experience the kind of intimacy I had been wanting for what seemed like an eternity.

He held me for a while afterwards, and as I lay on his chest, I said, "I have a secret to tell you. I'm not actually 18. I am only 17." He said, "I have a secret too. That wasn't my sister's kid I was watching. That was my kid. My wife came home right after I told you to leave."

I think that about 16 other men left me voice mails from that newspaper ad, and over the next six months or so, I called every single one of them. I didn't connect with all of them, but I connected with enough that by the time I graduated high school, I was already considering myself a bit of a slut. I loved it. And so began my sex life with men.

Deep Discussions in Jock Straps

This last Sunday was Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco, a weekend of bondage and leather and pure twisted fetishism. For us partying gay boys, its climax comes Sunday evening at a party called Real Bad. I went to that party with a group of friends that includes a gorgeous man I will call D who recently transitioned from "friend" to, well, more than a friend. After my friend Todd watched us together late in the night, we began a discussion that has stuck with me for days.

Todd (wearing a jock strap made of neoprene and elastic): When does a guy you're dating become a boyfriend?

Me (wearing a jock strap made completely of leather): I think that he becomes a boyfriend when you both know for sure that you are in love, and you say it to each other. "Boyfriend" implies that you plan to make an attempt at staying together for a while.

Todd: Well, then when do you think a boyfriend becomes a partner?

Me: I guess it would be when you experience a life-changing event as a couple, like moving to a new city or buying a house. I started calling Scott my partner when he moved with me from Sydney to New York.

Todd: Ok, well now that we can get married (...in California...), does that change your answer?

That was a really good question. It occurred to me that, despite our inability to get married, us gays had indeed found a structure for advancing a relationship that made sense to us. But now that we can get married, I guess we stand the same chance as our straight counterparts of making the wreckless decision of marriage before we really have the foundation to support it.

Though the conversation ended there, the question probably remained with me because the status of my relationship with D was called into question so many times that day. We had been together in social situations all weekend by that point, and we received no less than 30 questions about our status. Everyone wanted a label. Because we hadn't anticipated or discussed it, the first one caught me off guard. After an awkward silence, I said, "We just started dating. Ask me next month." D seemed to be ok with that answer. So I gave it another 29 times.

As I rode the bus to work this morning, I told Jason about all the fun I had over the weekend, and about the great time I had with D. He said, "So are you boyfriends yet?" I said, "No, there's no need to put pressure on it with a label." To which he replied, "Spoken like a true commitment-phobe. You might want to explore that." Hmmmm, maybe he has a point???

Though I know that D is not dating anyone else (and I'm clearly not), I am in no hurry to call D my boyfriend. But this does bring up a connundrum that most people probably face when they begin dating someone. When does the label change? You don't want to move too fast, because the label comes with certain expectations that each party needs to be prepared for. However, waiting too long might make one party feel invalidated, or.... oh.... actually I can't think of many reasons why waiting longer is bad. Wow, writing doesn't lead me to answers very often. Oh hallelujah. Ok, good Tony. The answer is wait wait wait.

Nonetheless, Jason made a good point today. I might have developed a little fear of commitment after Scott and Brett. It looks like this post just bought me several weeks before a label change will be in order though, so Therapist, here I come!

Tweety Pic!

Its tragic, but true. And now I have proof. God bless you Tweety.

Felt up in a trailer park, and other fun childhood memories...

Today I got a Friend Request on Facebook from a woman named Jessica. I looked at her pictures, and she only had two posted. Neither looked familiar. I thought it was probably spam and that if I looked around long enough I would find her seductive request for me to check out her naughty photos on another website. But just before I clicked away, I saw that she went to the same high school I did in El Cajon, a suburb of San Diego, and graduated the same year. I looked at the pictures again. Nope, I still didn't recognize her.

I sent her a message saying:

Your face definitely looks familiar, but it has been a long time. I'm going to have to pull out my yearbooks. Hope you're well in Kansas! Tony

And here was her reply:

you were my bestest bud like 10 grade...had honors english together...um used to hang out, my mom was crazy and felt you up once.. lol

Ooooohhhhhh, this is Jessica whose Mom felt me up! That's right. I went to go visit her down the street from where I lived in her trailer park. I can't remember what we were doing that day, but I remember her Mom flirting with me. Then as I was leaving her Mom followed me outside into the driveway that ran through the park. She gave me a hug goodbye, and then put her hand on my crotch and said something like, "You sure are a cutie. Why don't you let Momma check out the goods." Even at 15 I thought it was hysterical. Crazy woman! However, I do also recall that I wanted to visit Jessica at home more often...

Oddly, that was not the first time a mother felt me up. The year before that when I was 14, we lived in an apartment complex, and our apartment faced the pool. Across the pool was another apartment inhabited by a woman with two kids named Elizabeth who couldn't have been older than 19. Liz was a pretty woman with curly dark hair, and she lived with her very tall husband named Darren. In the summer between my freshman and sophomore year I was home all the time, and I started hanging out with Liz to pass the time.

She could tell when my mom was home because she could see Mom's parking space from her living room window. One day when the parking space was empty Liz came over to my house and opened the door without knocking. I was laying on the couch in the living room talking on the phone. Liz closed the door and came in. I gave her a funny look, but kept talking. Liz walked over to me and straddled me on the couch, and I quickly became very aware that her genitals were closer to mine than anyone's had ever been before. She reached back and put her hand down the leg of my shorts, and within seconds was rubbing my crotch. She used her other hand to grab one of my hands in the front and push it up her shirt. I was so nervous that I kept my conversation going on the phone out of complete fear of what would happen should it end. Liz got annoyed that I wasn't getting off the phone though, and before long she got up and did a little tantrum walk as she left the house and slammed the door.

On a warm night soon after that Liz and I met in the pool. Darren wasn't home, and Liz decided to try again. As we talked and swam around in the pool, she started getting very flirty. Soon her top came off, and she backed me up to the edge of the pool, conveniently covering the only light in the area. She wrapped her legs around me and pulled my face to her as I started licking her breasts. I can't remember what stopped it, but I think it might have been Mom calling me from the living room.

Liz's last attempt was made in her house one night when Darren was out. We were hanging out watching movies in her house, and I remember her laying on the floor next to me. I can't remember how it started but I do remember some connection between her breasts and my boner. But as I laid there on the floor, Darren walked in. I rolled onto my stomach in about a half second, and then laid there greeting Darren and asking about his day while I waited for my pants to loosen up. As soon as I felt I could stand without my tent pole giving me away, I said goodbye and practically ran out the door.

Darren was no fool though, and after that Liz said she wasn't allowed to hang out with me anymore. I didn't care though. At the end of that summer I got my first bj from a girl in the grade below me, and Liz with her lactating breasts became old news.

I slept with very few women in the next few years because by 17 I realized that my time was much better spent with men, but interestingly, the last woman I slept with in December 2003 in Sydney was a mother. She may very well be the last woman I have sex with. Wouldn't it be interesting if I started and ended my female sexual experiences with mothers? I guess that brings a new definition to the term "Momma's Boy"...

Life is a Series of Stages

I hung out with my friend Brian yesterday who broke up with his boyfriend Mark two weeks ago. It puts me in a funny mood to hang out with someone just after a breakup. Hopefully all he perceived was a supportive friend, but on the inside it made me a bit sad. Each breakup I hear about yanks at something in my gut that is losing faith in the idea of long-term relationships.

The only model for a long relationship that I have is my mother's parents. They married when they were 20/21, and stayed together for the rest of their lives. For some reason, however, that value wasn't passed to their children. Mom had three marriages, and her brother and sister each had more than that. I'm the first to admit that they had some bad marriages and that staying in those relationships was probably not the best choice, but the fact of the matter is that the relationships I saw in my youth have all ended.

I had my first boyfriend at 18 for 5 months, and then my second at 20 for 14 months. When Matt and I broke up I was 21, and it was the first time I realized that I might be starting the same pattern that my mother's generation had experienced. It scared me. But as I pulled myself through the breakup, I thought back on something my mom had told me when I was a teenager. I can't remember now what brought it up, but I remember mom telling me that life is a series of stages, and that you have to expect changes. Maybe for one stage in your life, a relationship is what you need, but then in the next stage you don't need it anymore. It made sense at the time. And it was comforting as I broke up with Matt.

But then I fell in love with Lenny, and then Scott, and now I'm single again. And sometimes now I think about the implications of mom's statement. If I accept that statement as truth, then do I prevent myself from finding a relationship that lasts through the stages? If I internalized that concept in my 20's, then do I approach relationships now as if they are temporary?

I guess what got me thinking about it this weekend is that I am developing a crush on a friend of mine. We have only known each other for a couple months, but I liked him right off the bat and was really excited about getting to be friends with him. Then when I stopped seeing Daniel, the line between friendship and flirtation blurred. I have been keeping him at arms length because I didn't want to risk losing him as a friend, but as I laid with him taking a nap today I realized that the fear I have of losing him as a friend is based on my assumption that if we date, it will end. That assumption is tied to my belief in mom's theory of stages. But I think now that the assumption of relationships being temporary is a disservice to myself, and that it is not the most productive outlook when you're single and dating. Why not give a new relationship the possibility of permanance?

For many, life is indeed a series of stages. But I kind of like the idea of Happily Ever After. I hope it doesn't only exist in fairy tales. Or if it does, I hope I find my prince.

Tweety

My Labor Day weekend was a hedonistic field day complete with dancing, making out with a hot guy in a bar, making out with him again at a street fair, sleeping with a gorgeous friend of mine, and a messy attempt at a threesome where after 10 minutes I fell asleep between the guys. But nothing was as interesting as Tweety.

On Sunday after going out dancing I went to meet Umecke at someone's house where people were drinking the night away. As soon as I walked in she introduced me to an attractive young brunette named Yvette and said, "I already got her to take her pants off for us. She's hilarious."

Before getting settled I went to the kitchen and got myself a drink. When I returned to the living room, I sat across the room from Yvette. She was mumbling something that I couldn't quite understand, and I realized that she was pretty trashed. Umecke clued me in that she was busting some freestyle poetry. (Seriously, bad sign) Once Yvette saw that she had my attention she raised her voice and started including me in her busted poetry. She rhymed about my tank top, my muscles, and my wrist cuff being on the wrong wrist. Obviously very deep stuff. Then the rhyming stopped.

Yvette got up and stood in front of me. "I like your muscles," she said. "I want to bite them."

Me: Um, ok.

She bit my left bicep. Everyone in the room laughed.

Yvette: Do you want to see my Tweety?

I have a friend with a Tweety Bird tattoo on his leg, so I figured she must have some similar art somewhere.

Me: Um, ok.

Yvette faced away from me, undid her tight jeans, and slid them down to her knees. Underneath she had flesh colored see-through g-string panties. She bent over a little bit and gave me a wide view of her ass (my inner voice was thanking Jesus I couldn't see Mr. Winky), then looked back at me over her left shoulder. I bet I looked a little confused.

She then turned around and started dancing very slowly in front of me. Thanks to the shearness of her panties I could see her brown bush underneath. Despite the awe-struck faces and giggles in the room, Yvette began pulling on the side strings of her panties that normally held her panties on her hips.

Me: (Confused) Yvette, where is your Tweety?

Yvette: (Pointing to her vagina) This is my Tweety!

Me: Ohhhhh, my bad. Um, nice Tweety? (To everyone else in the room:) Well I for one didn't think I would see a vagina tonight. You guys?

Yvette pulled her pants back up and walked over to my friend Dimitri who was sitting on the floor near me. She leaned down and said, "You're wearing fireman pants.'' She straddled him. "I fuck firemen!"

Dimitri: Oh??? (A little scared looking)

Yvette: I dated a fireman once. (Whispering:) But he had a tiny penis.

Dimitri: Really? I dated a fireman once too but he had a big penis.

Yvette: (Looking very intrigued) Really? Do you still know him?

The rest of the room is rolling at this point. Yvette stood up and saw me sitting in a different chair. She came over to me, pulled her pants down again, and sat in my lap. She leaned back on me and put her right hand in her panties. I looked in disbelief at Umecke. Yvette lifted the panty string over her right hip and said, "Bite it."

I said, "Only if someone takes a picture.'' In two seconds, three phone cameras were in my face. I bit it. As soon as someone sends me one of those pictures I promise I will share.

Yvette got up and walked outside. After a couple minutes I realized that nothing inside was nearly as entertaining as her, so I went to the balcony to find her. She was in the middle of telling a story that had something to do with something going up her butt.

Me: Baby, what are you on?

Yvette: Life

Me: You might want to smoke a bit less Life next time.

If I had a Tweety it would look like this:

When you're not gonna die you're having a good day

Saturday was a beautiful warm day in San Francisco, and at 1pm I left the house thinking I might walk down to a local park and sit in the sun for a while. Just after I left my house, I met my friend Brad on the street. I asked if he wanted to join me, and he said sure, he just wanted to buy a sandwich first.

It took him a while to get his sandwich. While I waited I stood outside, and I felt the creeping tingle of my demon, Loneliness, sitting with me. It has been a constant through most of my life, despite the great people I know and love, against all reason, it is just there. Half an hour earlier I was trying to escape it, and it made me want to be outside, around people. That is why I decided to go to the park. Now I had a buddy to join me. I was very thankful that I ran into Brad.

When Brad got his sandwich we started walking to the park. He said that he had a great time hanging out with me at Lazy Bear. "What?" I said. "You were at Lazy Bear?"

He said, "Wow, I didn't realize you were that drunk."

I guess I had been. "Were you drunk?" I asked.

"No way, not anymore," he replied. "I can't drink at all anymore. My doctor told me the other day that my liver is shot."

Though Brad said it with a laugh, he wasn't kidding. Brad has both HIV and Hepatitis C. Unfortunately, when he got Hep C a couple years ago, he didn't realize it, and kept drinking like normal. Hep C affects the liver, and his normal drinking on top of the disease caused his liver to stay swollen for over six months. That trauma in combination with his HIV means that his liver will probably fail soon. He asked his doctor recently when he thought his liver would fail, and the doctor said he probably had a year left. There are so many people waiting for a liver transplant that he can't even get on the list until he goes into liver failure. By that point survival will be a crap shoot. He might live; he might die.

"Let me know if you see anyone selling livers out of their trunk in the Mission," he joked.

Brad made jokes through our whole conversation. Last year he thought he would live a normal life, and this year he knows he might be living his last. And Brad is not sad. Brad is the same guy who was so hilarious when we became friends 8 years ago that I took him to parties with me all the time and had him follow me around like my sidekick. Brad laughs about everything, and that day he talked about his own mortality with an optimism and ease that made me admire him in a way I have never admired anyone before. It made me want to hold him, and it made me want to laugh with him. Most of all, it made me realize that I wasn't having such a bad day after all.

Its easy to get bogged down in your own head, focusing on little things that bug you or bring you down. But seriously folks, remember, if you're not gonna die, you're having a good day.

Lots of love to my friends and family. It has been a pleasure having you in my life another day.

Vendor Management

Just to wrap up my last post... the thing with Daniel is really over now. That mystery didn't last long. Ok, back to my selacious stories.

So I started a job a couple months ago, and as a project manager, one of my main job responsibilities is managing vendors. My team outsources everything. We hire sites to do research, auditors to oversee the sites, trainers, website developers, and actually, I'm a contractor so I guess even I'm outsourced. Last month we had a meeting in Chicago where we brought representatives from all of the sites together to train and schmooze and drink until middle aged women did embarrassing things. And of course, we hired an event management company to organize the meeting.

The organizers did a great job, and the event went off without a hitch. When we finished on Friday, I had about an hour before I had to leave for the airport. I had been up for 10 hours and still had 8 hours of travel ahead of me, so I decided to go take a shower in the hotel gym. The locker room was quite small and had two showers in it. I walked into the first one and took a nice slow shower. As I dried off I realized I still probably had 50 minutes and nothing to do. I decided to just go sit in the steam room for a while and relax.

When I entered I noticed there was another guy in the room. At first I just sat and looked down, but after a bit I realized that I recognized the guy. He was part of the event management team we had hired. I had seen him around a couple times, and while I thought he was attractive, he had that normal-guy-from-the-middle-of-the-country aura that allowed him to sneak under my radar. I said hello, and we talked about the meeting a bit. He said his name was Eric. I then thanked him for his help over the week and said goodbye. I had to take one more shower to get the sweat off me, but the one I had been in before was full, so I walked past it to the other one and got inside the stall.

A minute or two later I was startled by someone opening the door to my shower stall. I turned abruptly so that I could tell the person that it was occupied, but what I saw was Eric. As I stood there confused, he reached in and handed me a key. "I think you left this in the other shower," he said. He was right. I had left my locker key in the shower the first time. I took it and thanked him. He closed the stall door.

I continued showering, but then I noticed that he hadn't actually closed the stall door all the way. And I also could tell that he was still standing outside a couple feet away. I thought he might be waiting for one of the showers to open up again, though it also occurred to me that he might just be waiting for some attention. I caught his eye through the gap in the door. That was all the acknowledgement he needed. He opened the door and came in.

But instead of looking at me or reaching out or doing anything suggestive of sex, he hung his towel on a hook and started the shower next to me. I hadn't realized it until then, but there were two shower heads in the stall and they were actually far enough apart that it was possible for two people to use the shower at the same time. I thought, hmmm, he looks like he's from Kansas but maybe he's from Europe and doesn't realize this is a bit weird. He wasn't looking at me and I was too confused and uncomfortable to say anything, so I tried to just go on about my business.

The uniqueness of the situation caused a little stir in me though, and while my face might have been playing it cool, other parts of me didn't remain so subtle. I tried to angle away from him to hide it, but I didn't have much room to play with. When he saw it, everything changed. He turned towards me, grabbed himself, and said, "Cum for me." I did. He bolted out of the shower.

By the time I rinsed off and made it to the locker room, he was completely dressed. "I think someone caught us," he said. He kept staring at the door as he furiously put his shoes on and closed his bag. No one had caught us, I thought. He was being so paranoid. And then was when I realized that he probably was "straight". He grabbed his bag, and with a nod of his head he left.

Its too bad we only have those meetings once a year. I can't wait to see what happens next time we hire my new favorite vendor.

Friends with Benefits (though a risk/benefit assessment might not hurt)

I haven't written in over a month now because I have been dating a boy named Daniel. He subscribed to my blog just before my last post, and I wasn't sure how to stay objective when I wrote when I knew he would read it. And then he dumped me last Tuesday. Problem solved. Now I can talk about him all I want. Ha! Daniel Daniel Daniel.

I could talk about why Daniel and I worked, but that would be boring now that we have stopped seeing each other. So I'll just skip right to the breakup. Two weekends ago we went to Lazy Bear, which is a big American circuit party for Bears. In case you're not familiar, Bears are a subsect of the gay community that consists of large furry manly men. We went with some friends of mine, and while I had intended to stay mostly sober for Daniel, I started getting very jealous of my friends who were partying, and on Sunday my willpower cracked. I asked Daniel if I could partake in some artificial happiness, and he said yes. From what I remember the rest of the afternoon consisted of flirting, talking, and general merriment.

It wasn't so merry for Daniel though. He is basically sober, and seeing me in my special place was uncomfortable for him. So last Tuesday, after much consideration, he told me that it didn't make sense for him to grow fonder of me when he knew that my partying would always bother him. He cried. I left.

I can't believe I was dumped for partying while I was deep in my hangover. Oh, the irony.

We didn't talk for a couple days, but we see each other at the gym every night, so talking was inevitable. On Friday he came up to say hi. There was awkward chit chat, and then some small sequence of events led to us making out in the locker room. It was good too; right in the entrance so that everyone walking in and out got a good show of two guys in a tongue fight. Then I just said goodbye.

Today he texted me saying that I was on his mind and asking if I wanted to have dinner. When I got to his house I went to his room. I wasn't sure what conversation was about to follow and I didn't want to get caught off guard in a restaurant. He said that he just wanted to hang out and suggested we go out as friends.

Ok, that's fine and all. But I told him that I was dying to have sex with him. Can't friends have sex? I didn't wait for an answer. I put my hand on his leg. Another small sequence of events led to me riding the bucking bronco and then collapsing on his chest. We laid there in silence until he started falling asleep. I kissed his cheek and said it was time to go to dinner now.

I'm usually much better at boundaries. When a relationship ends, it is over. I don't want to talk, I just want to piece together my self esteem and get on with it. So without much experience in this arena, I can't easily see where this will end.

But now that I can write about it, you'll know when I do.

Salads and Douches

Tonight I had dinner at Firewood with Rob and Chris. Over carb-free low-fat high-protein salad, we had one of those quintessential gay conversations that makes me so proud to be a big ol' 'mo.

We started innocently enough with a recap of gay pride and 4th of July weekend. Rob still had rug burns on his knees, but aside from that the stories were harmless. However, there was just enough boy content though that we transitioned into dating history. And that was where the good stuff started:

1. Versatile my ass

As we went through our dating history it became clear that we all had similar experience with versatile guys. Mainly that they don't exist. In San Francisco of course, most guys live on their stomach in the bedroom, though Chris and I had also experienced the opposite: the chronic top. There might be guys who really don't like to get it up the butt, and that's fine. But the real annoying ones are the guys who call themselves a top because they're just too lazy to clean their ass. Which brought us to topic number 2...

2. Douching

Rob apparently learned the art of gay cleanliness when he was just about 19. I didn't learn until I was 24. I guess until that point I thought it was a game of luck. But one night early in my San Francisco party boy career I went home with a British couple who were staying in a cute historic hotel in Nob Hill. They invited me to use the special shower attachment they had brought with them all the way from London. When I saw it I actually didn't get it, but after a brief explanation and 15 minutes of experimenting, I became a convert. By the next month I had one in my own shower, and today, if you look hard enough, you will find 4 different varieties in my house. As I said to Rob and Chris, I really am a fantastic bottom, and preparation is worth as much as the actual event. Chris, however, was the youngest guy at the table, and said he just saw his first one recently. He has yet to take one for a test run. I hope he at least has fiber on his side...

3. Narcissism

I can't actually remember the transition to narcissism. I just remember Rob asking me if I had ever masturbated looking at pictures of myself. Actually, he asked in a way that assumed I had. "You have jacked off to your own pictures, right?" Ummm, no. I can't believe that never occurred to me. Geez, have I been rejecting myself all these years? How horrible. Anyway, Rob and Chris really had a field day on this topic. It turns out that they both made videos of themselves with their parents' video cameras when they were young so that they could then masturbate to themselves later. Chris was only 15, which is terribly young. Rob was 19 (that was a busy year for him), but his story was definitely the most impressive one. He crawled on top of his washer in his parents' kitchen and had sexual relations with a can of fake tan. "Not the end with the cap," he assured me. "That would be unsafe." Don't ask me how the hell he got the blunt end in. I didn't ask. Even I think every story should end somewhere.

I am a Lesbian: Part 2

Feelings man. Seriously, that's what its all about. Feelings.

Today was Saturday of Gay Pride in San Francisco: the dyke rally at Dolores Park. I met my girls there at about 4:30pm. They had already been there for a couple hours and got the party started, but I turned it up a notch with a bottle of vodka and stories about my extreme gayness the night before. The girls ate it up. I love my girls. It was 7 of them, me, and a straight guy who was so fucked up that he barely counts.

I had actually started the day in an even more lesbionic way (lesbionic is my favorite new adjective). I woke up with the gorgeous man I'm dating, and after sex we had a good heart to heart talk. It was very sweet.

It is so interesting to be in this position at the beginning of a relationship at my age. I remember how scary it used to be, but its not anymore. I can see the steps, and how they will progress, and it just feels like an optimistic comfort. LOVER asked me this morning if I was scared at all, and I could honestly say no. I already know that he is a good person, so our best case is fantastic and our worst case is that we just aren't the right people for each other. Its so nice to know that.

Unfortunately, the poor guy I'm dating has never really been in a good relationship, so his fear of vulnerability is really getting to him. So this morning we talked. I let him know how normal it was for him to feel the way he is feeling, and I told him how I was feeling the same way when I first met Scott. Fortunately for me though, I was seeing a therapist when I started dating Scott, and she helped me quell those inner voices that can drive a man mad when he starts becoming vulnerable. I reassured my new man this morning, but also let him know that I could never give him all the assurance he needed, because most of it had to come from within him. It is so interesting to be in this position.

Scott, I know you read this, and I know you'll agree that when you and I started dating it was magically easy. Everything just worked and fit into place. I remember Umecke visiting me in Sydney 3 weeks after we started dating and it felt like we had been together forever already. Neither of us was needy or uncomfortable or full of unrealistic expectations. And for the most part, that is how it feels with my Lover. Easy. Comfortable. This must be the benefit of getting older (that old people always refer to.... thank God I found it).

Well, when I came home from the Dyke March tonight, poor Umecke said that she was at her wits end because every girl had cried for one reason or another. But not me. I was the happiest mother fucker in all the land today. So hallelujah! I can save my balls another day.

Happy Gay Pride everyone. And a special kiss to my girls who like girls. XXX

As if STD tests aren't awkward enough

Yesterday when I walked into Gold's Gym I stopped and asked the guy at the front if he had seen the guy I'm dating, who is a trainer there. Let's call the guy I'm dating James. For once I'm actually going to keep someone's name private for a while because I kind of like him and I don't want to freak him out for, among other things, blogging his life away. So anyway, I ask Tim where James is, and he points to a corner with a table set up where a bunch of people are getting blood tests.

One of the benefits of going to one of the gayest gyms in the world is that gay services come to us. We can buy tickets to dance clubs, get invites to the glam parties, and even get our STD screening done when local non-profits come for a visit, all within the confines of our overly-mirrored-so-I-can-check-out-everyone-and-my-own-ass-too walls. One of the drawbacks of this arrangement, however, is that you might walk into your gym to find the guy you're sleeping with getting an STD screen.

Now don't get me wrong, I know that James was being responsible and yes I of course want him to get screened. We just met a little over a month ago and have no agreements around who we can and can't have sex with, so he might be screwing all of the Castro and some of Hayes and Noe Valley for all I know, and that is fine. But I'm not, and this wasn't how I wanted the conversation to go:

Me: "Thank God you're getting tested you big whore." (grinning)

James: "Everyone should do their part." (with a smile)

Me: "Well its good, because I don't have insurance yet and this test can count for both of us." (kind of kidding, kind of not)

James: "How do you mean? You should get tested too." (kind of serious)

Me: "I haven't had sex with anyone else since I met you, so whatever I have, you have." (nervously laughing)

James: "Oh, I guess I can't blame you then." (nervously laughing back)

Uncomfortable laughter. Umm, awkward.


My theory is that when you first start dating someone, its probably best not to discuss your sex life outside each other at all. If you ARE having sex with other people, then you might make Potential BF feel unspecial. If you ARE NOT having sex with other people, then you might make Potential BF feel uncomfortable that he is, or nervous that you are moving too quickly. The only positive scenario is if you both happen to disclose that you have not been sleeping with other people, but gay guys shouldn't hold their breath for that one.

I don't see anything changing for the foreseeable future. Its way too early to talk about not sleeping with other people, and yet I probably won't because James is hitting my kitty like a rock star and I am settling into a new job and apartment and life. I just don't want to talk about it again, which means that I should avoid folding tables at the gym, and that my fingers and toes are crossed in hopes that his tests come back negative.

It is time for me to come out. My name is Tony, and I am a lesbian.

This has been my last week as a free man before starting my new job next week, and I chose to fill my time by watching a marathon of L Word, Season 5. Man, I love that show. If you had never seen it you would probably think it was about the Butches and Femmes having barbecues and drinking beer and talking shop, but it is actually about a group of Super Femme tall model-looking lovelies having tons of sex and drama. The writing is fabulous. This morning, as I watched the affair between Bette and Tina explode and Bette's girlfriend Jodi ran off crying to her tent (they were camping), I started sobbing on the couch. That was when I realized that, by gosh, I had officially lost my balls and was the proud new owner of a big shiny vagina.

After my little crying session I started thinking about the similarities between me and my lesbian sisters (not really my sister, she's definitely a fan of the penis... runs in the family...). Here are some of the things I came up with:

• short hair
• overanalyzing relationships
• staying in touch with ex's
• lots of crying
• lots of sex
• I'm a big girl

Then, I had an experience with a guy today that made me realize how I am most like a lesbian. There are times in my life when I don't really feel like sleeping with men unless there is at least the potential of dating them. Of course, there are slutty any-man-will-do times as well, but right now I'm experiencing the former, and that is very lesbionic.

In the last few weeks there has been a burning hot guy staring me down at Gold's Gym in the Castro. We ran into each other in the shower one day, and he made a point of making himself very viewable for me. Oh, he was hot. We have smiled at each other every day since then, until this Wednesday we happened to meet on the corner of Castro and Market and we introduced ourselves. It was a quick conversation, and then we went our separate ways. Later that afternoon at the gym, he came up to me and said, "I can't stop undressing you with my eyes." I said, "I already saw you naked so you're already undressed to me." He said, "I have to say... I'm in a great open relationship, but if you would ever like to Get Together, I'd love to hang out." I said, "It fucking figures you would have a boyfriend. How about coffee instead?"

So we met for coffee this morning. I was very smart to have picked a public place to meet, because from our hug hello it was clear that the sexual tension between us was palpable. We sat for a while and then went for a walk, first to Duboce Park and then to Dolores Park. At Dolores Park we laid on the grass, and an arm graze turned into an arm rub which turned into a belly rub. Before long his penis was hard enough to be poking out of the top of his pants.

Most men I know would at this point have given up their stupid morality around sleeping with guys in relationships. He was allowed to sleep around for heavens sake, and his boyfriend even knew he was out with me. In fact, even the younger me from five years ago in San Francisco would have found a way to get that man naked immediately, but instead, I said, "You're killing me. Put that thing away. Let's go get lunch." And so we did.

Now on the bright side, I have been having fantastic sex with another guy that I have been dating for a month, so it is possible that this helps explain my ability to let it go. But really, I chose to not have sex with a hot hot man today, and that makes me wonder, "Where o where have my little balls gone? Where, o where could they be?"

But I don't mind. The lesbionic path seems to make more sense for me these days. I guess I'm just going to have to come out as a lesbian though, trapped in the body of a man who likes men. Fuck, that's queer.

I used to say I was Carrie, but I don't want to be the victim anymore

If you bring up Sex and the City with any fag in the free world, they will ask you one question: "Which girl are you?" I have had the conversation a thousand times, and I usually say a cross of Carrie and Samantha. But tonight, when I saw the new movie, I saw myself in Carrie and Charlotte.

The way I have always thought that I related to Carrie was my uncanny ability to analyze a relationship in the most minute detail. As I watched the movie tonight though, I realized how self-oriented our analysis can be. Why did he say that to me? Why did he do that to me? How does he really feel about ME?

With Charlotte, I really just related tonight to one scene. She said, "I have never been so happy, and it makes me terrified. No one gets everything they want."

Tonight the hurt kid inside me related to them, and I realized that the hurt kid inside me has more of a voice than I want him to have. It is the part of me that is terrified of being abandoned, and tells me that I will be hurt again. It is the scared voice in my head that makes becoming vulnerable to someone as terrible as it is wonderful. It is a part of me that I see in people all around me, and we all hate it. We all fight it. Like it or not, many of us share this demon. The demon fills our heads with thoughts we don't want to hear, and prevents us from (as Carla would say) just enjoying the present.

Sometimes I wonder if these runaway thoughts ruined my relationship with Scott. There were several times in our relationship where I, like Carrie, played the victim. Scott hurt me a few times, and I would have such a strong reaction. But I don't want to be a victim anymore. All it got me with Scott was a broken heart and a broken boyfriend. Do I have the strength to own my share of the responsibility, even when I hurt? Even when I'm broken? Do I have the balls to include in my neat little summary of how our relationship played out that I could have been better to him too? God, I want to say yes, but even as I say it I just don't know.

But actually, I have to say, this is all probably balanced out by a different way that I relate to Charlotte. I have always been a believer in love, true love, and unlike the rest of the girls, Charlotte and I know that we are good in a relationship. We know that we can be a good partner, a good listenter, a friend, and a damn good lover (or is that just me?). Lenny taught me I was worth loving, Scott made me believe that I can actually pull off a relationship when I find the right guy. I guess Carrie was never so lucky, so she talks herself out of every good thing that happens to her. Then what she gets is a life of ALMOST finding Happily Ever After.

But no, I'm not Carrie. I might drive myself a little crazy in the process, but I'm not settling for ALMOST.

So I guess I'm just missing one thing. Mr. Big, where can you be?

Frankie

I have been out all night with Umecke and Carla and we just came home with Frankie, the boyfriend of Carla's roommate. He is a 26yo Mexican who is like our new wind up toy.

"Oh giggles, she's so precious."

"Lets take this show on the road."

"We're like, IT, right now guys. Its a lot of responsibility. Really, its overwhelming. Everyone's looking at us all night mumbling under their breath how they want to be us. Damn its a tough life."

He says to Carla, "I bet you even poop cute."

He uses moist towelletes after he poops.

"I did enjoy it...geting my butt licked. It was quite a treat I must say."

"I felt slutty at first, but then it was kind of hot. Sitting on her face and she was eating my butt."

"Oh there another fucking moment for my heart right there. Oh, oh, let me grab it. Ahhh, there it is."

This is probably a ridiculous entry. He just offered me naked pictures of himself. He says we're helping him keep his sanity. This guy is hilarious.

"Please hug me."

As the night has progressed he has become quite affectionate. He told me about how he kissed a guy once, and he liked it. I pulled his shirt up while he laid back on the couch and I rubbed his stomach. He talked about how he clipped his hair, but didn't ask me to stop. What a cute kid. Too bad he's dating Carla's roommate. This could have been a very interesting night.

Can the Risk Takers and Safe Bets get along?

As I get older it becomes clear that people can be categorized into two groups that really don't understand each other: the Risk Takers and the Safe Bets. I'm not sure how I became a Risk Taker, but now that I'm living in San Francisco again, I realize how we tend to congregate together. And after a life of being close to Risk Takers, I notice when I meet someone who isn't.

I guess what made me think of this was a man I went on a date with recently who told me that, at 32, he had never tried drugs. Now please understand that I have no judgment against this (just like I don't have judgment against drug users either), but my thought was this... So many people I know tried drugs when they were younger, in the exploration years. It was when we defied our parents, our religion, even our sense of self. It was when we had irresponsible sex, and we traveled to places our parents didn't think were safe. We made friends that excited us because they were bad. I relate to these people, particularly the people who actively made the decision to experience everything that life handed us as long as we weren't hurting anyone, and could remain on the path to success (in school or our work). What is it about us that makes us different from the people who don't try those things?

This is a touchy subject, so I feel like I need one more disclaimer. I am not condoning drugs, and I do recognize (through extensive experience with loved ones) that drug use is an unhealthy proposition for many people (addicts). What I am really trying to focus on is the dominating personality trait for an individual to either: (a) try things and decide for themselves if they like them, or (b) avoid things that they hear are unsafe.

So what is that internal drive that separates these groups of people? Is it specific to drugs, or does it permeate other risky behaviors? And more importantly for me right now: can two individuals who belong to the separate groups make a successful couple in the long-term?

I don't know. But I do know this. I haven't had the best luck in this area with my relationships to date. Historically, I have chosen Risk Takers; and 2 out of 3 times, I mistakenly chose drug addicts disguised as normal boyfriends.

But still, I think, what would I be getting myself into if I date this guy? Will he come with me when I decide that I absolutely need to move to Europe for my career? Will he support me (emotionally) when I choose to start my own business and give up my income? Will he accept my family, and I mean really accept my family, which is the model for California liberals? (Remember, we are HomomexiblaCaucasian Americans).

I can't answer any of these questions. But as I write this I do know one thing. I am a Risk Taker, so I will date him until I find out how the story ends.

A Tribute to Lenny

Last July one of the most important people in my life died suddenly of a heart attack in his sleep. I cried the day that I found out, and I haven't been able to cry again. I feel like its weighing down on top of me, and I don't know how to let it out. I miss him most when I go through tough times and need affection from a man. I miss him a lot right now.

Lenny would tell you that we met at a party during Folsom weekend in San Francisco in September 2001, but I only have the vaguest recollection of him from that night. The night I remember was December 15, 2001, at the Powerhouse in San Francisco. I introduced myself to him and his friends, and there was heat between us immediately. We went dancing after that, and then he invited me back to his hotel... the Best Western on 9th Street in SOMA.

When we got there we got naked, and he laid me down on the bed. He kissed me softly, and then asked me if I minded being tied up. I said no. He bound my hands and feet and secured me to the bed. He then teased me for what I believe to be about an hour. Feathers, leather, candles, more rope, but absolutely no sex. The stimulation and exhaustion eventually sent me to sleep. When I woke up hours had passed, Lenny was kissing my chest, and I was still bound. I begged for sex, but he said no. He said that he thought if we had sex I would never call him, and he wanted to see me again. He went home to Santa Barbara that afternoon. I called him that evening.

Over the next month Lenny and I talked every night. I learned that he was 39 (I was 26), had a husband of ten years, Wayland, and that they had an open relationship. Wayland knew all about me, and was looking forward to meeting me. We decided that I would visit them the third weekend in January 2002.

My memory of that trip is fragmented. I remember Lenny giving me the best massage of my life. I remember that we didn't have sex, despite wanting to. I remember that I slept in Lenny and Wayland's bed, with Lenny in the middle, and that Lenny held me when I slept. I knew that there was a serious connection between Lenny and I, and that Wayland recognized it and was very sweet to me even there was no attraction between he and I. I remember feeling safe, and confused. The part I remember the most is sitting on the porch with Lenny as I was getting ready to leave. He told me that he was very happy that I came to visit, that he felt that not having sex yet was the right thing to do, and that he was going to come up to San Francisco to see me in February. I knew that it was complicated, but I trusted him so much even then, so I agreed.

He visited me in both February and March. In February we had sex for the first time, and it was great. Then in March, when he was holding me in bed one afternoon, it occurred to me that I loved him. It was one of the best and scariest moments of my life. Let me explain...

At the time Lenny and I met, I had not really dated anyone in over five years. My lack of intimacy was the result of an intense fear and self doubt probably caused by several things, but I think there was one major catalyst. I had two best friends that changed my life, and one of them, Rowena, died when I was 22. I went into a depression that lasted almost exactly two years, and which resulted in an intense fear of being vulnerable again. After that, I emotionally retreated and didn't allow anyone inside. Every time I dated someone in the following years, I pulled away as soon as I started feeling like I cared. The cycle left me feeling very lonely.

But when I met Lenny it seemed like he recognized my fear, and he made a series of carefully selected steps to show me that he could be trusted. I think he waited to sleep with me because he wanted me to know that he valued me as a person. No matter what I said, Lenny accepted me. And by that third month, I felt like I could be more of myself with him than I had been with any man before. So on that day in March, when I realized that I loved him, I cried. I cried quite a bit, because for several years I hadn't felt loveable, and I hadn't thought that I would let myself love someone again. And as Lenny held me through those tears, he changed the way that I felt about myself and my future. This may sound cheesy, but I think Lenny allowed me to love again.

I saw Lenny most weekends through that summer. I traveled a lot for work, and Lenny met me in Miami one weekend and in Washington DC on another. He visited me in San Francisco, and I visited him in Santa Barbara. I got closer to Wayland, and he and I started calling each other "Brothers". Still, when the three of us we were together, we all slept in one bed, with Lenny in the middle. And still, Lenny held me while we slept.

As the summer turned to fall, I became so deeply in love with him that I couldn't bear leaving him during the week. We started talking about me moving down to Santa Barbara. But working out the details started getting tricky. Wayland wasn't sure he wanted me to live in the house, and I didn't want to move to Santa Barbara just to live alone. Things became tense.

Lenny came to visit me on October 12, 2002. We tried to figure out how to work out our situation, but we realized together that there just was no solution that would meet his, my, and Wayland's needs. We decided that it had to end, and he left for good. I cried for two weeks. Even looking back now I'm horrified at how much it hurt.

Five months later I decided to move to Sydney, and just before I was leaving Lenny called one day to say he was in town and wanted to have lunch. We met, and when I told him I was leaving, he asked if he could go out with me on the night of my going away party. That was the night we became friends.

In Sydney I dated a couple guys, and then met Scott, who was clearly my most functional relationship so far this lifetime. I don't think it ever would have been possible without having loved Lenny first. And when I needed to talk about how to relate to Scott or the guys before him, I started calling Lenny first. He became my closest male friend. He still called me Baby Boy. He still made me feel utterly and completely loved.

Scott and I visited Lenny and Wayland once in Santa Barbara, and then they came to New York to visit us after Scott and I moved there. Despite talking to Lenny every week or so in those years, that trip to New York was the last time I saw him.

In his last few months, Lenny was going through a rough time. He had always had a hard time sleeping and didn't have the healthy fear of pills that most of us have. One night last summer, Lenny couldn't sleep and took 9 pain killers over the course of the night. The last one was too much. Wayland got up to take a shower that morning, and he said that while he was in the shower he suddenly got the horrible feeling that something was wrong with Lenny. He ran into the bedroom and found Lenny turning blue. He threw Lenny on the ground and started giving him CPR. Lenny woke up for a minute and grabbed Wayland's hand. Wayland told him to hold on and keep breathing, and ran to call 911. When he came back Lenny was blue again, and again Wayland revived him. In approximately 90 seconds an emergency team rushed into the house and started trying to resuscitate Lenny. But Lenny stopped responding. They put him in the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital, but he was dead before he arrived.

Lenny didn't have a funeral. What he wanted was for his friends and loved ones to each make separate trips to visit Wayland and spend time with him. So that is what I did. I spent a night with Wayland in August. I had never slept anywhere in the house except for their bed, so at bedtime Wayland told me to get in bed. I laid down in the spot where Lenny had his heart attack. It felt horrible. I didn't sleep well that night. It didn't help that Wayland woke up once screaming from a nightmare. And when he saw someone laying in Lenny's spot he jumped. I love Wayland very much, but I left as soon as I woke up in the morning. It still didn't feel like closure, so let me say goodbye again here.



Lenny,

I still love you still than I can say. You gave out such an amazing light and energy, and I still feel it when I think of you. You were one of the kindest, most loving people I have ever known, and I thank you so much for believing in me, and loving me, and showing me how much I could love someone else. You made me a better person.

I hope you are with me when I think you are. And I hope I still make you proud.

Take care of Wayland, because I know he needs you. And when you can, please take care of me too, because sometimes I feel a little lost without you.

Bye Dad. See you in my dreams.

Love,
BBB

P.S. I finally cried when I wrote this. That feels much better.

Chapter 3: Adolescense (Pre-Sex)

My last contact with Chuck Prue (stepdad #1) was in about 1986, when I was 11. That was a big year for me. I was transferred to a new school for 6th grade because they had the GATE program (Giften And Talented Education) for little smarties. I touched my first naked boy when I talked my best friend into getting naked during the love scene in Top Gun and rubbing our penises on the TV. And it was the year that I discovered I was a nerd.

Social status had somehow eluded me before 6th grade, but when I got to Flying Hills, it started to matter. I had never been aware of the popular kids before, but at Flying Hills in 1986 there was a hierarchy. Tiffany was the most popular girl, followed closely by Heather; Jason and David were the most popular boys and best friends, so it was hard to tell who ranked highest. I can't remember the rest of the hierarchy, but I do remember that I wanted to be part of it, so I did what every aspiring kid does and I asked the most popular girl, Tiffany, to be my girlfriend. Denied. Then I asked Heather. Nope. I went down the list until I got somewhere around the 33rd percentile (from the bottom). Oh Rachel darling, how our love did last for a week or two until our dramatic breakup during recess.

The following summer of 1987 was the year my dad made a guest appearance in my life. In August, just before the 7th grade, my mom called me at home one day to tell me that my dad was in town, and she had just given him directions to come to our house. I hadn't heard from Dad since my brain had formed the ability to store memories, so you can imagine this was a suprise. I took a shower, because of course I wanted to look my best, and 30 minutes later a black van parked in front of our apartment. I walked to the van and out of the driver's side stepped an older version of me. That was Dad. I think we shook hands. Out of the passenger side stepped a tall skinny 19yo young man. I introduced myself. He told me his name was Jason, my older brother. Dad looked at my face for some hint of recognition, but there was nothing but shock. Mom had never told me I had an older brother.

Dad and Jason moved into our house for two weeks. It was overwhelming to say the least, mostly because we didn't exactly have a big apartment. My sister and I each had our own small rooms and Mom's bed was in the living room. Dad slept in Mom's bed, and Jason slept in mine. Within two weeks I think everyone was being turned upside down. Mom was back in love with Dad and Jason and I had fooled around in my bed, which resulted in enough shame from him that he couldn't even look at me for the next few months, so you can imagine how awkward it was to still have him sleeping in my room those next few days. After two weeks I went back to Albuquerque with Dad and Jason to get their things and Dad's two younger sons, David and Chris. I had not known about them either.

From the minute I met Dad he tried to relate to me as a friend instead of a father. One interesting example is that Dad had talked to me about porn sometime in the first couple weeks that we knew each other, and by the time we got to Albuquerque I felt comfortable asking him to rent some. Remember, I was 12, but Dad wanted to be the cool guy and he rented two hardcore videos, one of which I remember to be Taboo. We went home and later when David and Chris were gone, we put them on. The couch was facing the TV. Dad sat on the left side of the couch, Jason sat on the right side, and I sat on the floor leaning against the middle of the couch. We watched both movies back to back without fast forwarding. No one talked. No one touched themself. We just watched for 4 hours. I had never been so aroused, and I had never been so uncomfortable.

We packed up his house and made it back to San Diego in time for me to start 7th grade. Dad found an apartment two blocks away and lived there with all my new brothers.

In 1987 I started 7th grade at Emerald Junior High School, and my social standing slipped even more. Those were the years that I started hanging out with the slutty girls with stringy hair and rocker guys who already had a pharmacist's knowledge of pills.

In the first month of 8th grade in 1988, 14 months after he arrived, Dad came over to the house one day and said that he couldn't afford to pay his rent. He said he was going to pack up and leave in the middle of the night. My sister and I went into our Abadonment Rage. We thought our emotional outburst would make him too guilty to leave, but when we went to his apartment the next morning, he was gone. I didn't talk to him again until I was an adult.

Eighth grade wore on forgettably. The next year, my first day at El Cajon Valley High School was one of the loneliest days of my life. But it didn't take me long to learn how to make school interesting. I made a new best friend, and started having a lot of sleepovers at his house. We started talking about jacking off one night when we were wandering the streets, and when we got back to his house we decided to give it a shot. That started a 2-3 month friendship that was my first crush and probably just very weird for him. We got drunk by stealing his father's beer a lot, and had lots of contests to see who could cum first or the farthest. After a while he rightfully got weirded out by my aggressiveness, and we rapidly transitioned to sworn enemies for the rest of our high school days. He was our valedictorian, and later went to West Point military academy. I always wondered what happened to him.

I didn't let our little fight hold me down though. No sir. Now that I had discovered I could manipulate my friends into being sexual with me, I leapt at every opportunity I got through the 10th grade. Jackie and Jason were a brother and sister that lived in my apartment building in the end of ninth grade. Jackie and I dated, though we never had sex. She was a lovely girl. But I really had a crush on Jason. He was a year older than me, and he and I would hang out quite a bit. He always knew when my Mom was home by looking at her parking space. One day he saw that the space was empty and walked into our apartment without knocking. He went back to my bedroom and opened the door. I was naked on my bed, masturbating, and a little suprised to be caught for the first time. He played it very cool though. He didn't say a word, and closed my door. He walked beside the bed and grabbed my desk chair, turned it around, straddled it, and leaned forward so it was against the bed. His body was now within 3 feet of mine. And then he just watched. So I kept going. When I finished, he put the chair back at the desk and left.

That night he asked if I wanted to spend the night at his house. Uh, hell yes! I found out he was just a voyeur though. He asked me to jack off for him again, and I did with no covers and no shame. He, however, pulled his blanket up to his neck so that all I could see was a furious rustling in the lower region while he stared at my crotch. When we finished we went to bed, and we never talked about it again. They moved out of the complex shortly after.

I know this chapter is getting long, but I wouldn't do the story justice if I didn't also mention the girl action I was getting. Elizabeth was the mother of two young children who lived in our apartment building with her husband and kids. She was 18 in the summer of 1990, and I was 14, and she was all over me. She always tried to have sex with me, but her aggressiveness scared me a bit. She was always grabbing my cock or putting my hands on her tits. They were nice tits I guess. She let me suck them a couple times, but I couldn't really get over my fear of her.

Elizabeth, however, did give me the confidence to date another girl that summer though who was between 8th and 9th grade, and whose name I can't remember anymore. I remember going swimming at her house one day, and that I kept pulling my trunks down and making her feel my goodies. Then when we went inside to dry off, I laid on her bed and she became the first person to give me a bj. It lasted about 20 seconds before her mom knocked and then immediately walked in. You have never seen two people jump up so quick. At the time we thought we got away with it, but now I just think her mother was too shocked to react. Thank goodness.

After this came 11th grade and the joys of actual sex with both girls and boys. I'll save that for another chapter (though it could be a book all on its own ;-)

Quick Cruise Update

For those of you who read the last couple posts, I thought I would just fill you in on how the cruise ended.

Last time I mentioned the straight couple who were really trying to get a swinging vibe going. Well, last Friday night me and my friends got far too drunk at dinner. At the end of dinner, we called over the straight couple. They told us that they had been dating for 10 weeks, were from Las Vegas, were having sex 3-4 times per day, and liked to get drunk and naked in public. That last part sold the deal. We told them to meet us at the disco in a couple hours.

In those next two hours before the disco, we did a variety of activities, such as photo shoots in the fountain, group karaoke to "Love Shack", and a (2nd) pre-party back at our room.

When we get back to the disco, things get blurry for me. Let's just say that the following things happened to people in my group:

• Someone attempted to have an orgasm at the bar in the disco at the hands of the Vegas Man, while simultaneously trying to give an orgasm to the Vegas girl
• Someone got a carpet scab on their left knee, and it is from what you think its from
• Someone went home with another person on the boat, only to pass out before anything happened
• Someone slept with a person on the boat who at the beginning of the night was in a monogamous relationship (but told their significant other that they needed to see other people... immediately... and then left the room to have sex with our Someone)
• Someone passed out on a bench in the nightclub
• Someone was so embarrassed by the rest of us that she left at the first sight of our madness and went home

All in all, I would say that we really rocked that boat. I'd just like to give a shout out to my party peeps. Thanks for the memories kids.

The Daily Highs and Lows

I am still on a cruise in the Mexican Riviera with five very fun friends. Unfortunately, we appear to be just about the most fun people on the boat, except for maybe the woman in the disco the other night who kept straddling her boyfriend on the couches near the dance floor and then opened her legs and rubbed her hand over her va-jay-jay while he danced in front of her. Yes, except for her, we are the most fun. As Marshall said today, “You are living the straight person’s dream on that cruise, which just happens to be the gay man’s nightmare.” So true.

Dinner has become the best part of the day, because we all get to sit and laugh together over some pretty great food. In the last few days, we have started a new ritual: High/Low. We go around the table and say our high point and low point of the day. I can’t remember which night all of these examples were said, but here are my favorites so far:

Tina started one night when she came back from the bathroom. Umecke said, “Tina, what was your high?” She replied, “The dump I just took in the bathroom.” A roar of laughter erupted. “And your low?” we asked. “Right before I went to the bathroom.”

I asked Umecke what her high was. “Drinking tequila and beers in a video bar in La Paz,” she answered. “And my low was when Carla and Tony came into my room at 3am completely trashed and Carla kept rubbing my orifices like an untrained monkey”.

Kelly said her high was winning $10 in the casino, and her low was losing $20 (again).

John (the straight guy in the group) said that his high was hearing me tell the story of being handcuffed while bent over a balcony railing in San Francisco and watching the sun come up. Then he thought for a minute, laughed, and said that was also his low.

A girl named Christina who we adopted at dinner after finding out that she’s traveling alone said that her high yesterday was meeting a couple who have been married for 24 years, and then realizing when they started dancing together how in love they still are. I can’t remember her low. Who wants a low after that? Long live love!

Andrew, another of our adoptees, said that his high point of the day was swimming in the beautiful water of La Paz, right up until he got stung by a sting-ray, which became his low.
I said that my high was when a man (with a wedding ring on) masturbated for me in the steam room on the ship. Someone finally came on to me! He was, however, about 60, so after smiling in appreciation I kindly got up and left the steam room. My low was the 60 seconds I spent in Senor Frogs in Mazatlan, with spring break party music blaring way too loud and obnoxiously drunk straight 20-somethings doing shots with balloon animals wrapped around their heads. I promptly hopped in a taxi and went back to the boat.

Carla’s high was the night she and I drunkenly snuck into the crew-only section of the boat and found a tip at the front where we did the whole Titanic “I’m the Kind of the World!” bit. She didn’t have a low. Isn’t that adorable?!

The nights are getting painfully boring, but at least I have dinner to look forward to tonight. Our only other hope is that we can find that crazy couple from the disco again and talk them into doing highly inappropriate things for our amusement. I’ll let you know how it goes.