By the time my 31st birthday arrived I had dated most of the squalor that littered the streets of Seattle. There should have been a sign on my ass that read, "Caution - Vehicle Makes Frequent Stops" or "Caution - Men Working Both Sides of The Vehicle" As Mama once said, "Shu-gah, once you quit lookin', that's when the right person will come along." Short of gouging out my eyes, I had no idea what she meant by that statement. Was I supposed to not look to date, or was I supposed to look like I wasn't looking? It was very confusing until a friend of mine said, "Love will come your way, but by the time it does, you'll be so bitter your asshole will pucker at the mere mention of a date." He's a social worker.
I had just started dating when I came out to my parents. Daddy said, "As a homosexual you will lead a very lonely life." I then asked, "Are you trying to be rude, or just stupid?" To which he replied, "Boy, you better get your head outta your ass, before I do it for you." The thought of my father physically removing my head from my rectum always made me giggle, and this day was no different, but I prefer to avoid pain, so I quickly apologized. The gracious thing to do would have been to ask him to clarify what he meant by "lonely". Was he implying that I would not be able to obtain, and maintain, long term relationships with people I would consider friends (because gay people are known for being socially inept) or was he referring to the inability to maintain a long term intimate/romantic relationship with a person of the same sex because gay people are just inherently indecisive? I've never wanted for friends ('cuz I'm pretty) or for romance (because I'm a slut) so what part of "lonely" was he talking about? I'd like to ask, but Daddy (being a fine, high-ranking, military officer) has a strict don't ask, don't tell policy. I'm permitted to be gay, but I'm not permitted to talk about being gay. It's so odd. My entire family knows I suck dick, but as long as they can't see the dick, they're "okay with it." If only I could get them to apply the same discretion to their affection for Kenny Chesney, and malt liquor beverages.
When I came out to Mama she said, "Really? Are you sure? I had no idea." For Southerners, ignorance is sometimes viewed as the only polite avenue to take when confronted with a subject they view as awkward, like weight loss/weight gain, or in this case homosexuality. I knew the game Mama was playing, so in exasperation I replied, "Mama, I practically grew up at the Clinique counter. I listen to Madonna, and (at times) crochet." She simply muttered, "Oh, you're right. Well, have you tried a woman lately?" As if women were like an iPhone, and Steve Jobs had just announced a new model.
"...because you know you didn't like sour cream, and you gave that a try, and now look at ya...you just can't get enough of it."
"Mama, you realize that you're comparing my sexual orientation to a condiment, and you just said I was fat."
"I'm just tryin' to make sense of it all, and you're not fat...you just should think twice before wearing horizontal stripes."
"Mama, I don't need you to 'make sense of it'. All you need to do is love me."
"Oh, shu-gah I will always love you...no matter what, but never wear that shirt again."
For Mama, dating was never an issue simply because she was smart, and gorgeous. For a woman in the South, in the 1950's, this was a deadly combination. Deadly for men at least. In high school she belonged to an elite group of belle's that called themselves The Fickle Five. According to Mama, these young women were both feared and admired, "...which is the best possible way for people to think of you if you ever want to get what you want." Her words, not mine. Intrigued by her story, I asked why this group called themselves The Fickle Five. Mama, without an ounce of humor, said, "Because we were five beautiful girls who were out to enjoy the company of men. Why be partial to just one when there were so many to choose from?" Recently, I set those words to the tune of Carol of the Bells, because Christmas is the giving season, and Mama was a giver.
Of course, the mistakes I've made in my dating life have everything to do with me, and nothing to do with the men I've chosen. At least that's what a therapist told me. He's dead now. Perhaps my first mistake was permitting straight people to set me up. Straight people are under the impression that if two individuals are gay they need nothing else in order to form a successful, long term relationship. If that were true I would still be dating the first guy I slept with. Well, I think slept with is a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like I fell on top of him, and spent the night there. I blame beer. It was Beer Bust at the Cha-Cha Palace that particular night, and when I bust beer, my frontal lobe shrinks up like a piece of fatty bacon, I end up dancing on tables, and French kissing straight girls. I didn't plan to wake up on top of a guy named Todd, who drove a Cadillac, and forgot to firmly secure his toupee. Until that point, I had no idea that my sexual prowess was powerful enough to evaporate rubber cement. Granted, until that point, I had never had sex before, so clearly a standard was set.
The last time I let a straight person set me up I was employed as a rehab assistant at a brain injury recovery center. When a co-worker learned that I was gay he wanted to arrange a blind date with a lesbian friend of his. Upon learning this, I asked, "Why would I want to go on a date with your lesbian friend?" He replied, "Well, she's gay and you're gay, so I just thought..." It was at that point that I held up my right hand, shook my head, and walked away. This was stupid on a level I had never encountered before, and given that we were working in a brain injury facility, it helped to provide some perspective as to just what kind of stupid I was attempting to communicate with. I soon recommended that Mr. Matchmaker be evaluated for possible admission to the program. I didn't succeed, but he never spoke to me again. I win.
Not getting any closer to solving my romance dilemma, I decided that I would peruse the personal ads both in print and online. It proved to be a wasteland for the emotionally disturbed, and morbidly obese. What follows is what I like to call the Personal Ads You Never Meant to Answer, But You Did:
1. Dumb Monkey, no thumbs, who enjoys manic-depressive episodes, night terrors and infidelity, seeks attractive, gullible Southerner for mind games and dress making.
2. Architect with black soul, and great hair, seeks same. "Oh, it is true...architects can only erect buildings."
3. Angry political activist with foul body odor, seeks attractive, desperate soul for nights of drunken brawls, and slug sucking. He thought the slugs would have a hallucinogenic effect. He works for the post office now.
4. Materialistic, balding, albino, bullet-head with no neck seeks casual relationship for decorating tips, and booty calls. "It's three a.m., so I know this isn't about chintz."
5. Sessile sea creature needs lonely Piscean food source for pleasurable consumption. I'm not opposed to a thick, stocky, athletic build; however, I can't cope with men who are so large that they possess yeasty epidermal folds, cope with various skin conditions, and a gut that doubles as a kilt. I'm just not built like that.
I even made an attempt at speed dating. For those of you who have been in a coma for the last 15 years, speed dating is the process by which a select group of desperate people gather in a public forum, like a bar, (because if you're going to be humiliated the best place to be is in a bar with unlimited access to booze) and proceed to evaluate each other in quick succession. You have less than five minutes, while one-on-one, to determine if there is a match. If you find someone agreeable, and they feel the same, you make plans to see each other again, or just stalk them. It was just as awful as the personal ad experience, only more efficient. During these dates it was clear that most of these men subscribed to AARP Magazine, and preferred to speak to my crotch as opposed to actually speaking to me. I did manage to meet one cute guy, but he had image problems. The kind of problems that arise from watching too many episodes of Queer As Folk. He complained of being oversexed, underpaid, and deserved to drive something more substantial than a Honda Accord. When I told him he should probably seek counseling, get a new job, and look into an auto loan; he said, "Well, that's just what I expected you to say." We had known each other for five minutes.
I met my husband a few months later. By that time I had completely given up on finding a man, and made plans to start collecting cats. My friend, Eric (a vet who was opposed to collecting cats) asked if I had ever met his friend Aster. I said, "What the fuck is an Aster? No. Never mind. I don't want to know. I just want a drink and a dance, and then I'm going home." At least that's how I felt until I walked into the bar. Upon walking in I looked over to the dance floor, and I spied this handsome guy getting his groove on. At that moment, Eric pointed in handsome-guy's direction and said, "Oh, look...that's Aster!" I blushed, and made a run for the bar. "That's Aster!?!" I asked. Eric laughed and said, "Oh, yeah! That's him!" "I can't talk to that! He's too damn cute!" Eric laughed again, and said, "Oh, yeah...he's cute alright, and you're going to talk to him."
Twelve years later we're married, own a cat, and share the same clothes. While the journey to find my guy was filled with more ugly than a Tea Party rally, it was well worth it. Mama was right, and Daddy could not have been more wrong. Mama might be crazy, but every once in a while she gets it right.
I had just started dating when I came out to my parents. Daddy said, "As a homosexual you will lead a very lonely life." I then asked, "Are you trying to be rude, or just stupid?" To which he replied, "Boy, you better get your head outta your ass, before I do it for you." The thought of my father physically removing my head from my rectum always made me giggle, and this day was no different, but I prefer to avoid pain, so I quickly apologized. The gracious thing to do would have been to ask him to clarify what he meant by "lonely". Was he implying that I would not be able to obtain, and maintain, long term relationships with people I would consider friends (because gay people are known for being socially inept) or was he referring to the inability to maintain a long term intimate/romantic relationship with a person of the same sex because gay people are just inherently indecisive? I've never wanted for friends ('cuz I'm pretty) or for romance (because I'm a slut) so what part of "lonely" was he talking about? I'd like to ask, but Daddy (being a fine, high-ranking, military officer) has a strict don't ask, don't tell policy. I'm permitted to be gay, but I'm not permitted to talk about being gay. It's so odd. My entire family knows I suck dick, but as long as they can't see the dick, they're "okay with it." If only I could get them to apply the same discretion to their affection for Kenny Chesney, and malt liquor beverages.
When I came out to Mama she said, "Really? Are you sure? I had no idea." For Southerners, ignorance is sometimes viewed as the only polite avenue to take when confronted with a subject they view as awkward, like weight loss/weight gain, or in this case homosexuality. I knew the game Mama was playing, so in exasperation I replied, "Mama, I practically grew up at the Clinique counter. I listen to Madonna, and (at times) crochet." She simply muttered, "Oh, you're right. Well, have you tried a woman lately?" As if women were like an iPhone, and Steve Jobs had just announced a new model.
"...because you know you didn't like sour cream, and you gave that a try, and now look at ya...you just can't get enough of it."
"Mama, you realize that you're comparing my sexual orientation to a condiment, and you just said I was fat."
"I'm just tryin' to make sense of it all, and you're not fat...you just should think twice before wearing horizontal stripes."
"Mama, I don't need you to 'make sense of it'. All you need to do is love me."
"Oh, shu-gah I will always love you...no matter what, but never wear that shirt again."
For Mama, dating was never an issue simply because she was smart, and gorgeous. For a woman in the South, in the 1950's, this was a deadly combination. Deadly for men at least. In high school she belonged to an elite group of belle's that called themselves The Fickle Five. According to Mama, these young women were both feared and admired, "...which is the best possible way for people to think of you if you ever want to get what you want." Her words, not mine. Intrigued by her story, I asked why this group called themselves The Fickle Five. Mama, without an ounce of humor, said, "Because we were five beautiful girls who were out to enjoy the company of men. Why be partial to just one when there were so many to choose from?" Recently, I set those words to the tune of Carol of the Bells, because Christmas is the giving season, and Mama was a giver.
Of course, the mistakes I've made in my dating life have everything to do with me, and nothing to do with the men I've chosen. At least that's what a therapist told me. He's dead now. Perhaps my first mistake was permitting straight people to set me up. Straight people are under the impression that if two individuals are gay they need nothing else in order to form a successful, long term relationship. If that were true I would still be dating the first guy I slept with. Well, I think slept with is a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like I fell on top of him, and spent the night there. I blame beer. It was Beer Bust at the Cha-Cha Palace that particular night, and when I bust beer, my frontal lobe shrinks up like a piece of fatty bacon, I end up dancing on tables, and French kissing straight girls. I didn't plan to wake up on top of a guy named Todd, who drove a Cadillac, and forgot to firmly secure his toupee. Until that point, I had no idea that my sexual prowess was powerful enough to evaporate rubber cement. Granted, until that point, I had never had sex before, so clearly a standard was set.
The last time I let a straight person set me up I was employed as a rehab assistant at a brain injury recovery center. When a co-worker learned that I was gay he wanted to arrange a blind date with a lesbian friend of his. Upon learning this, I asked, "Why would I want to go on a date with your lesbian friend?" He replied, "Well, she's gay and you're gay, so I just thought..." It was at that point that I held up my right hand, shook my head, and walked away. This was stupid on a level I had never encountered before, and given that we were working in a brain injury facility, it helped to provide some perspective as to just what kind of stupid I was attempting to communicate with. I soon recommended that Mr. Matchmaker be evaluated for possible admission to the program. I didn't succeed, but he never spoke to me again. I win.
Not getting any closer to solving my romance dilemma, I decided that I would peruse the personal ads both in print and online. It proved to be a wasteland for the emotionally disturbed, and morbidly obese. What follows is what I like to call the Personal Ads You Never Meant to Answer, But You Did:
1. Dumb Monkey, no thumbs, who enjoys manic-depressive episodes, night terrors and infidelity, seeks attractive, gullible Southerner for mind games and dress making.
2. Architect with black soul, and great hair, seeks same. "Oh, it is true...architects can only erect buildings."
3. Angry political activist with foul body odor, seeks attractive, desperate soul for nights of drunken brawls, and slug sucking. He thought the slugs would have a hallucinogenic effect. He works for the post office now.
4. Materialistic, balding, albino, bullet-head with no neck seeks casual relationship for decorating tips, and booty calls. "It's three a.m., so I know this isn't about chintz."
5. Sessile sea creature needs lonely Piscean food source for pleasurable consumption. I'm not opposed to a thick, stocky, athletic build; however, I can't cope with men who are so large that they possess yeasty epidermal folds, cope with various skin conditions, and a gut that doubles as a kilt. I'm just not built like that.
I even made an attempt at speed dating. For those of you who have been in a coma for the last 15 years, speed dating is the process by which a select group of desperate people gather in a public forum, like a bar, (because if you're going to be humiliated the best place to be is in a bar with unlimited access to booze) and proceed to evaluate each other in quick succession. You have less than five minutes, while one-on-one, to determine if there is a match. If you find someone agreeable, and they feel the same, you make plans to see each other again, or just stalk them. It was just as awful as the personal ad experience, only more efficient. During these dates it was clear that most of these men subscribed to AARP Magazine, and preferred to speak to my crotch as opposed to actually speaking to me. I did manage to meet one cute guy, but he had image problems. The kind of problems that arise from watching too many episodes of Queer As Folk. He complained of being oversexed, underpaid, and deserved to drive something more substantial than a Honda Accord. When I told him he should probably seek counseling, get a new job, and look into an auto loan; he said, "Well, that's just what I expected you to say." We had known each other for five minutes.
I met my husband a few months later. By that time I had completely given up on finding a man, and made plans to start collecting cats. My friend, Eric (a vet who was opposed to collecting cats) asked if I had ever met his friend Aster. I said, "What the fuck is an Aster? No. Never mind. I don't want to know. I just want a drink and a dance, and then I'm going home." At least that's how I felt until I walked into the bar. Upon walking in I looked over to the dance floor, and I spied this handsome guy getting his groove on. At that moment, Eric pointed in handsome-guy's direction and said, "Oh, look...that's Aster!" I blushed, and made a run for the bar. "That's Aster!?!" I asked. Eric laughed and said, "Oh, yeah! That's him!" "I can't talk to that! He's too damn cute!" Eric laughed again, and said, "Oh, yeah...he's cute alright, and you're going to talk to him."
Twelve years later we're married, own a cat, and share the same clothes. While the journey to find my guy was filled with more ugly than a Tea Party rally, it was well worth it. Mama was right, and Daddy could not have been more wrong. Mama might be crazy, but every once in a while she gets it right.
When I came out my stepfather said I'd live a lonely life, too. I think he was of the same vintage as your dad. I couldn't stand my stepfather--mean bastard. When he died several years ago (and I'm not making this up), my mother had him cremated per his wishes, buried the ashes in the back yard, and then sold the house! I'm not sure she ever realized the humor I found in that. I'd love to do a dance on the spot where the remains are. . .I bet I could find it, too. The circle of dirt with no grass on it.
ReplyDeleteMust I point out that technically Mama was right?
ReplyDeleteThat's such a typical set of circumstances! I know so many gay men, myself included, who have to deal with this. I'm still looking, but at least you've inspired me to KEEP looking. My horrible cat allergy would really limit my choices, otherwise.
ReplyDelete