They'll never love me

I know that no one reads this anymore. Hell, I don't even narcissisticly go and read backlogged posts anymore either. But I just can't have one more slutty tale to tell my friends that winds up being mostly me pseudo-apologising for being slutty in the first place. So hello Floygn my old friend, I've come to talk to you again.

A boy came over last night. 20 years old may fall into 'guy' territory but the entire experience felt very 'boy' so just go with it and stop interrupting me. He is from a small, extremely religious town a little over an hour outside my city. We'd been chatting via Grindr since the previous weekend. He appeared precocious, enthusiastic and far too complimentary to not throw up about a dozen red flags, none of which I saw.

We were chatting last night and the conversation veered into, shall we say, erotic make-believe.

"I'll come over. Right now. I'll do it lol"

We discussed it, I myself rationaling that I was less interested in a late-night hook up than meeting in daylight and just letting things unfold. But no, he was determined, and as exhausted as I was, it was pretty exciting.

He arrived and presented pretty much how I'd imagined. Tall, slender, an oversized hoodie over his gangly frame.

Clothes disappeared quick. Inhibitions soon followed. He responded to every touch like a man quenching his thirst after a month in the desert. The enthusiasm was...appreciate, but probably a bit telling.

After about an hour he came. As the last wave of his orgasm left him, it was replaced by a tidal of guilt and shame that gushed forth, tears spilling down his face.

This was so wrong. I shouldn't be here. They'll all hate me. I can't be gay. I can't. It's so unfair. I'm so alone.

No amount of soothing, physical nor verbal, helped at all. He cried himself to sleep before awaking suddenly, lying stiff as a board in my bed, not wanting to be touched, not wanting to talk. I tried curling around him, respecting his space but trying like an asshole to show that should he just roll over onto his side a wee bit, I was ready to be the all-comforting big spoon.

This did not happen. Instead at 3:30am he got out of bed, got dressed, whispered, "I'm sorry, David," into the darkness and left.

I sent him this message: I know we'll probably never speak again, but if at some point in the future you would let me know that you're alright, I would appreciate it.

But we and the internet know that isn't going to happen.

Pimp my kid

Yesterday, my father offered to fund an eHarmony premium profile on my behalf.

Ignoring the fact that eHarmony is a secretly Christian site that doesn't offer same-sex matchmaking, this was a sweet if horrifically inappropriate offer. Dad essentially wants to be my pimp. He just can't understand why I'm single (as stated many times before here). I love (LOOOOOOOOOVE) the fact that he thinks so highly of his kid that he can't imagine why this would be. It's ricockulously adorable. He also said that he knows I've kinda pulled myself outta the game (true) and that it's time to get back in (perhaps also true).

So taking this under consideration, I decided to redouble my efforts, or because I'd been putting in no effort, simply double my efforts. I bought and paid for a three-month membership at mypartner.com, a site specifically geared to the Gs, Ls, Bs and even Ts looking for something lasting.

My rationale in actually paying for it is this: I invest in school to make me smarter, a trainer to make me healthier, high quality food to keep my body running as best as it can, plane tickets home to see my friends and family to nourish my 'soul'... why not throw a hundred bucks into the ring for the chance at finding something long term?

I read recently that over two-thirds of lgbt couples now meet online. Staggering, isn't it? Seeing as the stigma around it has pretty much come down, alongside the facts that I don't meet a lot of new people and my friends are zero help in this arena (evidently friend-to-friend matchmaking only occurs in Jennifer Lopez movies), this seems like a good shot.

But no more Manhunt, Grindr, even Plenty of Fish. F-in' wastes of time. If I'm making an investment (only $100, I know, but sha!) I damn well want someone who's going to invest in me too. So I'm sending a template message to any and all that seem remotely compatible, casting that wide net, and seeing what happens. This doesn't discredit any of my previous notions of being happy alone regardless. I'm gonna be a fuckin' treat. But might as well see if there's a chance, right?

GRRRRRR SUPERSTAR!

So many tags worked for this one

"I'm scared that I'm going to end up alone. I'm scared that I'm always going to be somebody's friend, or brother, or confidant, never quite somebody's everything. Mostly I'm scared I'm never going to find a guy that I love as much as I love you."

Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.

I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.

This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.

I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.

It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.



A couple enders:

1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.

2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.

Why I will never be in porn

This would be waaaaaay too much pressure:

You're Welcome

Deener said...
New comic idea: Adventures of David and his Pretend Vulva
4:56 PM EDT

Wherein I devote 17 straight (ha) hours to the community that ignores me

This past weekend, I volunteered 20 hours to Toronto Pride as a result of 3/4 of a bottle of wine. As with my NXNE volunteering, it was a complete shit show and a total waste of time. The following is an overly-detailed account of how my Saturday went:

5:15 - Wake up at housesitting house. Punch their cat in his cat junk for whining at me while I make his breakfast of chicken livers and gravy. Half of the third world doesn't eat as well as this asshole.

6:30 - Arrive at volunteer check-in. Lament pink shirt I'm forced to wear and the fact that the picture for my volunteer badge is the best photo I've taken since 2003. Contemplate scanning it for new Facebook profile pic. Sit around for 45 minutes waiting to be told that my team and I can leave.

7:20 - Walk with group to Vendor Registration tent 10 minutes away. I am the team captain and am completely drunk with power as a result of carrying the walkie-talkie.

8:00 - Darren, a 38 year old volunteer who I inadvertently alienate by guessing he's 40 when asked, goes to get coffee for everyone and a breakfast sandwich for me, a tragic sign of carb-loading to come.

8:45 - We actually do shit for 25 minutes, signing food vendors in and giving them their permits.

9:30 - Chatty-Cathy Darren asks us all what we do and when he learns that I'm new to the city, tells me that he's been here for 7 years and that it "doesn't get easier." I want to punch Darren in the pancreas.

10:15 - A 50 year old white woman in causasian dreads and a tye-dyed muumuu sets up a bunch of hippie-shit necklaces on a nearby picnic table, in clear defiance of those vendors who actually purchased permits. One of my fellow volunteers, a kicky 19 year old aspiring lawyer, asks me if she can be the one to go get all up in Moonchild Rainbowbeaver's grill and, naturally, I say yes. I support her youthful exuberance, but mostly I just don't want to get off my duff.

10:50 - Cindi Lauper begins her soundcheck and I decide to catch a glimpse, handing the walkie over to Darren as secret punishment for getting my breakfast sandwich on a biscuit and NOT THE CHEESE BAGEL I HAD REQUESTED. Turd. In any case, the 19 year old wannabe litigator and I stroll backstage with are super-authoritative volunteer badges and she gets all sassy with the security guard trying to shove us away as I totally gay out when C.Laup passes by within 8 feet of me.

12:00 - A skinny woman volunteer with weird thinning but curly hair arrives, saying that she is a 'runner', meaning someone that can do random errands, but as there is nothing to do, she sits down and joins our crew.

12:05 - I realize this is a man. Stephen quickly becomes a den mother to us all, randomly telling us stories of adventures with lesbians, brown acid in the 70's and jokes with Darren about the joys of leather sex. I want to joke with Stephen about the joys of leather sex. I want to punch Darren in the eyeball.

12:45 - Stephen takes order for coffee and then announces that it'll likely take him a couple hours cause he has to drop off some children. Or Pride buttons. I wasn't really listening.

1:00 - Changing of the guard. Darren et al are replaced by two teenage girls, a quiet Asian who I immediately want to befriend and a curly-haired hippo who reminds me of my retarded cousin.

2:15 - Stephen returns and as Darren is gone I drink both of our coffees, totalling 4 shots of espresso. Lacking is my foam and honey, which Stephen forgot but makes it seem like he didn't hear in the first place. Bloom is sure off the rose with this one.

3:30 - I ask girls what their favourite colour is.

3:45 - Repeated calls are made over the walkie for David. I answer them. No one answers me back. This becomes a running joke that everyone at Pride hates me. This is kinda funny. Not really, but kinda.

4:55 - All that coffee comes back to haunt me and I am escorted to the washroom by Barbara, the little Chinese girl. She goes to the University of Toronto, close to where our tent is and sneaks me into the library bathroom. She's pretty much Michelle Yeoh in Tomorrow Never Dies.

5:05 - I fully Jackson Pollock the toilet bowl.

5:45 - A new volunteer arrives. He is little and foreign and kind of cute. I mentally name him My Little Albanian. He also bears a striking resemblance to this guy who's been messaging me on Manhunt, who incidentally had just had a birthday. I decide to see if they're one and the same, building on my amazingly successful "What's your favourite colour question?" question from 3:30, and ask everyone when their birthday is. MLA's is in August. Myth = busted. But still... I'm fucking crafty.

6:15 - Stephen adds me on Facebook via his blackberry and then leaves.

6:45 - I go for another stroll and some young, kinda cute, kinda stupid guy starts talking me up. I think I've made a new friend but then I realize that he's just drunk and I remember that I don't have friends. Crafty lone wolf am I.

7:00 - Barbara and Tons-of-Fun leave.

7:01 - Twinky boy shows up in a volunteer shirt cinched at the navel and his green-and-white striped underoos more than visibly showing, saying that he's another runner. I tell him that there's nothing to do so to feel free to go run. He smiles huge, yells, "Okay!" and fucking takes off in a flailing jog. I hate him more than Darren.

7:02 - I'm bored. I regret telling Fairy Fox to go away.

7:30 - I try making small talk with MLA and it comes out that he's a huge Mozart fan. We listen to arias on my iPod. Things are looking up.

8:00 - I teach him how to play 'Hot or Not' with a Fab magazine featuring a cover model that looks like Nate from Six Feet Under but totally naked and a guitar covering his junk. MLA says he likes tanned muscle guys with hair only on their heads. I'm fucked.

8:45 - Bag checks at the gate have resulted in a line about a quarter mile long to get in to see Cindi Lauper. A lady asks MLA and I for directions to the beer tent before informing us that she really wanted to bring her kids but that it "wasn't her weekend." Evidently, alcoholism and oversharing does not lead to primary custody. Who knew?

9:15 - MLA and I are tasked with putting up Jones Soda signs all across the top of our tent. I hold the signs while he tapes. We bond.

9:21 - I poke MLA in the stomach. I'm so playful.

9:30 - Things get heavy. MLA tells me all about how introverted he was back in Europe because of his sexuality and how his father doesn't know even now and how he works at McDonald's while going to school for a bachelor of science in biology. I want to hug him.

9:45 - Fresh from the washroom, MLA breathless informs me that that we may get a whole pizza to ourselves if none of the other volunteers claim it. I still want to hug him. Maybe more.

9:50 - Another drunk guy comes up to me and says how much he appreciates the volunteering I'm doing. He then wishes me a Happy Pride and informs me that he's sucking as many cocks as he can in celebration and encourages me to do the same.

10:15 - By the grace of God, we get shut down early. Passive aggressive comments are made at the supervisors about how maybe 17 hour shifts of wasting people's time are a bit excessive.

10:20 - MLA and I listen to Cindi while leaning against a tree. This is his first Pride and had to lie to his father about working all day. He is clearly in awe of the massive amounts of people and music and lights, like a 14 year old dropping E at his first rave. Except instead of E, he's dropping - wait for it - his guard. Deep.

11:00 - We walk back to volunteer headquarters to drop off the walkie-talkie. MLA carries my bag. He's about 5'5" so this is both endearing and sort of funny, too.

11:20 - We walk to the subway, throw out our shirts out - him so his father won't find it, me because I'm an autumn - and exchange numbers, hugs.

12:00 - I get home and talk to Future Roommate incoherently. I tell her that I have a headache which I fear may be do to alcohol withdrawal. I later realize that it's more likely because I've been up for nearly twenty hours and all I've put in my body is coffee and shitty pizza.

12:35 - Receive text from MLA thanking me for a pleasurable evening and that he's never felt so open with someone in his whole life.

Okay, maybe not a total waste of time.

Of Cocaine-Dusted Cupcakes and Naked Men

So last night at karaoke, some douche kept being given glasses of red by his friends and then got up in front of the whole pub and sang Sweet Transvestite to amazed onlookers. I did not quite catch his name but I feel it sounded something like Shmillustrious Blee.

On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.

+++++++++++++++++++

I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:

Um, who the fuck am I kidding?

I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!

The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.

+++++++++++++++++++

Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.

Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:

1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.

2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.

3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"

"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."

What I meant: sophisticated.

What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.

I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.

+++++++++++++++++++

Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.

Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.

Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.

Okay, I realize he's not technically bear

hugging but that shit woulda been hard so stfu.

This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"

EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.

After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.

At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.

Pimp my ass, Bill Cosby

There are two types of gay men in the world: insanely beautiful ones and insanely beautiful ones that are lazy. I, naturally, fall into the latter category.

It is my belief that pretty much everyone can be beautiful to some degree or another given the right diet/exercise/eyebrow maintenance routines. There are some exceptions but they are all straight. (Please do not log on to any online hook up sites or World of Warcraft tournaments in order to prove me wrong. That's just rude.)

I am well aware that physical perfection is not that hard to obtain. Just jokes, kids; it takes crazy kinds of dedimacation. Still, given that a solid 75% of Toronto's homoyoudon'ts seem to have some iota of sculpture to their form, it probably isn't that ridiculous to undertake. That said, I am ridiculous and refuse to lay a foot on a pedal or a hand on a barbell until such a time as I a) want to impress someone or b) get made fun of . The fact that I refuse to do it "just for me" like all those other assholes claim to is probably a pretty good indicator why Bill Cosby once offered to do a commercial spot for my ass. No, I choose instead to jump on whatever new eating habit is presented to me as gospel and just rock that for a while until Reese's introduces their next limited edition offering (I have tried everyone one for the past ten years; please do not be jealous of my legacy). Given that I'm going to be seeing judgmental Hungarian relatives in roughly 6 weeks time, I might want to get that. On the other hand, I hear that they're coming out with a Peanut Butter Cup/Turtles hybrid, so prolly not. Whatever, screw you, Hungary. Way to get beaten in, like, every war ever. Losers.

In other news*, ESLothario is back with his boyfriend of the last five years and I don't care. Is this personal progress people? We think so. I had a genuinely happy-for-him reaction when he told me and he just seemed so sweetness-and-light about the whole thing that even my caustic jealous ass couldn't turn that smile into a shit pile**. He also said that he wants to set me up with a friend of his. This made me excited for two reasons. First, the only infinitesimal success I've had with dating has come not through the 98% of my experiences derived from online dating sites but rather introductions through friends. The Mennotobans failed MISERABLY in this regard (way to all be in the closet *slow claps*) so bring on the Balkans. Secondly, I became very intrigued as ESLothario has fucking...HOT...friends. Like, for serious. He's pretty much the ugly one of the bunch. So naturally, I had high hopes...until he whipped out his iPhone. Now, I am, admittedly, kinda picky about mah menz, but I do my best not to judge until I get to know someone and certainly never from one picture. That said...really? You have an entire harem of Bel Ami models on your facebook and the one you've chosen for me is the Eastern Block's answer to Owen Wilson? MY DAD THINKS I'M HOT!

Good thing I don't have a live journal cause my emotional state or whatever for this post would be "annoying." Dayuuuum...

*Hey David, it's me, your blog. You write "In other news" like every couple of posts, dude. You write a blog; ALL OF THIS IS OTHER FUCKING NEWS.

**That was my flip take on "Turn that frown upside down." Will it flourish in our vernacular? Only time can tell. Early polls, however, say not well.

10 Things I Have Learned From Manhunt

10. The definition of 'slim' is not universal.

9. Nothing says "Looking for a long distance relationship" more than shirtless, headless photos.

8. Most people do not like Asians.

7. Some people fucking love Asians.

6. No one that is out of the closet wears boxers.

5. To be a gay man means two things: You are physically and/or emotionally attractive to other men; you do not know the difference between "your" and "you're."

4. No one looks good in pink boy briefs.

3. "Just an average guy" is code for possessing the 3 Bad B's of Heterosexuality: beer gut, baseball cap, butt foliage.

2. If someone appears too nice, they're ESL.

1. I need to stop going on Manhunt.

Something sort of unsettling just happened and I'm not completely sure how I feel about it, other than a bit bloaty but that's most likely the 5-bean soup from lunch.

'Member that coworker of mine who asked about my sexy walk last week (I'm currently marketing it as Centaur Chic; watch your back, Katie Smith)? Well, today we're working on a project in from of my computer and she says, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Here's a little insight into the mind of a functioning homosexual: No matter how comfortable we are with ourselves, how easy our coming out was, how much of a non-issue it is, when we hear the question, "Can I ask you a personal question?" our sexuality is the first place our minds go. This is then followed up with the thought that no one with whom we do not have a personal relationship would ever actually ask this, never mind a colleague while at your place of employment.

Then, without even waiting for so much as a head nod from me, Little Miss Goes-Against-The Grain comes right out (so to speak) with, "Are you gay?"

I reply, "Yes."

She says, "So is a friend of mine on this floor, Emily*."

I say, "Well, then it looks like our takeover is really coming along."


Now, I recognize the complete and utter inappropriateness of her question. That is like pre-Stonewall shit. It's pretty much just asking me what I enjoy doing with my penis and while I consider myself quite transparent, an informational liberatarian if you will, that question in this environment is the precise reason for PC Nazism in corporate environments and, moreover, it's just tacky. The only people that need to be concerned about the whereabouts of my penis are those whose body it directly enters. That said, I am torn between my discomfort in this situation and my ideal that sexuality should be a non-issue, as uncontroversial as eye colour. I've never hidden this aspect of myself, but I've also never volunteered it to anyone. These days, the closest I ever come to coming out is speaking about a crush/date/disappointment using a gender-specific pronoun. This was the first time in my life that someone has pointedly asked me, other than my parents who have a bit more of a vested interest in me than a coworker I've known for a week and a half. On the one hand, the question felt like a violation of privacy, but on the other, I'm pretty pleased with the way I dealt with it by making it a non-issue. I'm not about to raise a big stink about something when my position is that it shouldn't be stinky in the first place.

There's no wrap-up to this post...so here:

The Silky fuckin' Hen

*I've met Emily. She is so cool. I want to be that cool. I want to be a lesbian.

Last night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I went to see the Broadway tour of Rent. This post is getting a 'Homosaywhat?' tag based on that statement alone. The drawing attraction of this particular production was that it boasted the return of the two original male leads, as well as that huge black woman screaming Cs in Seasons of Love. The guy who played Mark was just as great as he was back in the day/soundtrack/movie and I found myself wanting him sexually despite the fact that he is a 40 year old ginger/albino hybrid. Twould seem that my psychosomatic pattern of abhorring what I've just lost/given up, i.e. teenage Hispanics currently, is in full effect. The other lead guy was, well... okay, follow me here. You know when two people couple up and they begin to take on little mannerisms of the other person that otherwise would be totally unnatural? For example, a girl might begin to drink bourbon or a guy might become a Facebook fan of Glee. Well, it's like this guy was in a loving, committed three-way relationship with a grade 9 drama class and the Swedish Chef from the Muppets. He'd clearly regressed in acting prowess since making the film (and anyone who saw his whole "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" scene can attest that there wasn't a lot to begin with), as well as implementing umlauts on every single vowel he sang. To compound all this sexual tension and fallen idol syndrome, I had to contend with SIJ's justified but still cloying emotional state at losing a friend that she'd known for a minute halfway across the country. If this sounds cold, you try giving a heartfelt mid-performance one-armed hug to a chick wearing a leather sweater. Not easy, people.


And now, as an intermezzo, a brief conversation I had with a colleague at my new job preparing exam materials for paramedic students:

Chatty Colleague: Do you know what defibrillation is?

Illustrious D: Oh yeah. I watch Grey's Anatomy.

CC: I watch House.

ID: Well, uh, there's not a lot of defibrillation on House...

She conceded my point.


Well, that was rousing. Moving on, I think it's safe to say that my foray into seeking new readership outside my real life has been an abject failure (with one noted exception; hollah atchya, B-Town). This is disappointing only because there are some highly followed blogs out there that are absolute shite. Like seriously, straight-porn-watchingly dull. One of my favourite bloggers DCcised recently went all ranty on this subject, while adding his own brand of humorous butt hurt, regarding another écrivain that draws a loyal following somewhat larger than his own and ya know what happened? He received more comments on that post than on any other he's ever written. Now, I enjoy this guy's writing; it has a lovely mix of observational bitchiness and self-deprecation that truly is my bread and butter. However, while I completely empathize with his frustration, calling out a fellow blogger was a bit of a dick move... a dick move that got him 32 muthafukin' comments! Do you know what we can garner from this, children? The gay blogosphere, as in the gay reallifeosphere, loves them some trash talkin' queens duking it out in front of a rapt audience. So I feel that in order to really thrive in this niche, I need not be clever or relatably emo or remotely intriguing; all I gots to do is start calling people out on their shit and wait for the controversy to catapult me to fame (blog rolls) and fortune (monetized ads)! I could be the Kathy Griffin of the homo blogging universe!

Suck it, DCcised! This blog is my god now!!!!!!!!!

Like many of my bredrin (new term from the Young Portuguese; he's so street he could have his own streetcar line), I have maintained my fair share of body image issues, resulting in various diet and exercise regimens. As it stands right now, I'm probably the thinnest I've ever been (Thanks, Inexplicable Week-Long Illness/Being Drunk A Lot!) and I haven't had a steady work out schedule since the summer. Beginning anything right now would be so cliché I'm not even going to even reach over to my number pad and add the accent on that 'e'. Suck on that, Dictionnaire Robert-Collins. I am, however, intrigued by an article from last weekend's Globe & Mail that discussed Tabata, a 4-minute(!) work out developed for the Japanese Olympic speed skating team:

"The Tabata protocol is a high-intensity training regimen that produces remarkable results. A Tabata workout (also called a Tabata sequence) is an interval training cycle of 20 seconds of maximum intensity exercise, followed by 10 seconds of rest, repeated without pause 8 times for a total of four minutes."

Rumour on the street (according to postpartum moms, not the Young Portuguese) is that it's 'da bomb, [sic] yo'. So I think I'll that a go, cause, you know, my building's gym being ten feet from my apartment is way too much effort.

On the diet (in the sense of eating habits, not weight-loss regimen) front, I'm trying this new locavore/high fat/natural food thing shared with me by a big ol' Jew I'll affectionately term Me In Ten Year. Essentially you do away with refine sugars, refined carbs, all the typical bad boys and welcome into your home FAT. Turns out that our tongues are actually designed for three tastes: sweet, salty and fat. That's why you get that mouth feel whenever you have cheese or high fat milk. Have you tried homogenized milk?! It's like cum of the gods! But in the awesome way! I shan't bore you by listing the copious number of homosexually-composed blogs written by dimorphics with a diet exclusively comprised of steamed broccoli and browned chicken breasts. Well, this is kinda like that except that I make a whipping cream-based portabella sauce with that shiz! Honey is ubiquitous, whole milk is encouraged and cheese is king. I have to say, having tried this for about a week, that it's pretty freakin' fun. Yes, I can see buying 5 local, free-range chicken breasts and copious amounts of dairy becoming expensive, but in a mere 3 weeks I will be on a government contract and with Kensington Market a mere 10 minute walk away, it seems a shame not to take advantage of the local food about which Ontarians are always self-flagellating.

Lastly, and this is not for the faint of stomach, but I had the most revolting experience of being in a bathroom stall at work next to someone who clearly had a raccoon trying to crawl out of his colon. The sounds this man's bowels made combined with grunting, the length of time and effort necessary to expel whatever demon being was clawing it's way to daylight and the fact that I'd totally just rocked a flying Dutchman (first wipe comes back clean) makes me think that I'm on the right track, food-wise.

Well, this post wasn't particularly interesting, but fuck it. I'm gonna go drink 18% cream through a straw,

Sometimes I start feeling self-superior that I'm not a gay stereotype, out whoring myself, worshipping gym culture, pleading to leave Britney alone. Then I get Rihanna's Take A Bow stuck in my head for 4 days straight and I am knocked down several pegs.

My day at work yesterday was absolutely chock full of amusing anecdotes and ironic yet self-defeating observations that have become the bread and butter for this blog. However, I cannot remember any of them and do you want to know why?

Because I was high as a kite on 3 extra strength non-drowsy decongestants containing a grand total of 180 mg. of Pseudoephedrine.

I have always been skeptical of the "extra strength" claim as they never seemed to provide much more relief than their regular strength brethren. It would seem, however, given the fact that my pupils were larger than my testicles (And that is saying something; I'm Jewish), that I was delightfully/horribly wrong.

As I could barely hold a functional conversation, I sequestered myself to a locked records management room for the better part of the morning, emerging only to go to the bathroom via an immaculately thought out route designed to avoid the maximum number of people with whom I would be socially obliged to make eye contact. This journey happened roughly 8 times before noon.

It was at this point that I decided to share my slightly-euphoric experience via text message:


Illustrious D: 3 extra-strength non-drowsy decongestants at work = not the best idea

Rando Friend: No one is that congested. u r probably totally high.

ID: There is no probably. My eyeballs are practically humming the Glee soundtrack.

RF: I am disappointed that my own eyes aren't as musically proficient as yours.


Truthfully, he wasn't wrong; no one is that congested. I just thought it might be kinda fun and, in fact, I could see it being a ton of fun, say at a club or in a hot tub. At your place of employment, however, it is my understanding that staring at your circa-1995 screen saver for 17 minutes straight is frowned upon.

Lesson learned. Today I only took two.

Manhunt is giving me an eating disorder. Am I first? No. Am I the first that is me? Absolutely. It was bad enough in Winnipeg but now that I'm in the land that carbs forgot, I don't have a shot. Well, unless it's a shot to the face from some 46 year old amateur massage therapist/photographer. I don't even message people any more for fear of the right-out-of-the-gate concessions they'll be making in responding to someone with a waist size of more than 31 (It's 32.5. I should be shot). Also, to all of you 8+ guys, some of you are lying. Seriously. It can't just be that the Asians bring down the average that much. They would require President's Choice Savoury Cocktail Sausage Rolls-sized junk to come close to that making mathematical sense. And is not Manhunt, above all other things, about making mathematical sense?

Hanging out with the gay Jews on Friday was kinda fun. My contact guy, ie the only one that I knew somewhat, was very nice, babysitting me the whole night. I find him strangely attractive. Not in a I-want-to-bang-that-like-metal-siding kinda way, but more that he was very charismatic. I was surprised by how the more he talked the much more pleasant he became to look at. That's probably just what as known as 'having a good personality', but clearly that is something I encounter so infrequently that it was a real treat. I am, at this point, of course, beyond tired of meeting new people, but these guys were pretty sweet from what I gathered. Some of them were not half-bad looking either, although even the ones that looked like Jewish Moby extemporized on their gym regimens at one point or another. Maybe I'll just stop eating altogether, existing on coffee and fear that no man will ever love me. After drinks at someone's townhouse (I hate my apartment), we went to this 'party', which is a word Torontonians use for any sort of rented-space event, as opposed to the Winnipeg definition of 'a rave'. This was almost an anti-village party, with very few muscle boys or Hollister douches. These were American Apparel douches. Well, maybe AA meets Value Village douches. But minus the douches, as most of the people there seemed pretty cool, including my chaperone who disclosed that he had been "really into black guys for, like, 6 weeks last summer and hooked up with one of them pretty much every week." (Well, suck on that neo-Nazis and KKK members of the world.) There was one couple (not in our group) who were really creepy, a bisexual male and female couple who go to these parties to pick up young gay things for a night of pleasure with them. This sparked a debate about whether bisexuality was a viable option. One fellow in our group, upon asserting that he felt it is simply a form of closeting, remarked of his own closed-mindedness, "If I was straight, I would totally be homophobic." The bi couple was also strangely paired. He kinda looked like a craggy Christian Bale. She kinda looked like a transexual. Incidentally, and I'm sure completely unrelated, it was around this time that my stomach, which had experienced irregular amounts of meat and completely regular amounts of alcohol, decided that I'd made a foolish decision and would be required to leave as soon as possible. I cabbed home, spent the entire night fitfully tossing, skipped Temple the next morning (buh-bye $85) and did nothing yesterday except eat pasta, sit on my bed and talk to losers on Manhunt.

Really glad I'm honing those full-circle skills for this blog.

I have often defended the concept of meeting potential romantic partners on the internet, both on this blog and to my loved ones. However, the time has come to take off the rose-tinted glasses and face the long, hard and unsatisfying fact that it simply does not work for me.

I was having a lovely few days chatting with a potentially intriguing fellow when we decided to meet. It was...not good. Surprisingly not good. He was funny, attractive, a tad over confident and I had nothing to say to him. We struggled for about 90 minutes until finally, in a moment of post-midnight honesty, I said, "You know, I kinda thought that this would be better. That we...would be better." He agreed and left about 15 minutes later. I told this story to my most recent failed relationship who listened with dull, possibly mentally delayed nineteen year old ears with sympathy that I imagine would amount to that of an eggplant. One day later, Mr. Excitement tells me about a weird quasi-date that he went on (Boys, a tip: when trying to woo, do not talk about other dates that you're going on). Two days later Mr. Ex tells me that he went out on a quasi-date. Can we guess the outcome of this story? Yes, well-done: they went on a quasi-date together. And it was at that exact moment that I raised the white flag.

I'm out.

I first started chatting when I was 16 and since then I estimate that I have met well (WELL) over a hundred people from the internetz to varying degrees of success, from painfully awkward half-hour coffee dates to falling madly in love. Out of this 100+ people, I have one in my life. One. Out of one hundred. One (1) percent (%). Un pour cent. The infomercial that are dating sites are selling nothing but cheap goods that break nearly as soon as you get them. None of the romantic entanglements have ever lasted more than six weeks. None of the platonic friendships lasted because they weren't romantic entanglements and who the fuck needs another friend? Oh wait, all of my friends left the city. Crap. I should probably get on that. But I digress...

I realize that there are some people for whom the internet is an amazing social tool. This, however, is just not true for me. I suppose I held on so long because, let's face it, where the fuck else are there potentials? I'm not a bar guy, I'm not a dancer and I went to university with a bunch on Mennos. The only homos there are married with 5 kids. I have no particular links to the interior design world, nor do I frequent truck stops. I don't live in ancient Greece nor am I the shaman of a lost African tribe. In short, I'm kinda screwed. But now I think I'll be screwed in a much healthier way sans le chatting. I will continue to use e-mail, Facebook and sporadically update this withering shrub of a blog, but as for the rest...I'm returning it for a full refund. Minus shipping and handling.

There's something almost humourous about two heterosexual actors playing gay for pay on the screen in that moment just before they kiss. They're never believable and I'll tell you why. In that half second before their lips are to meet, they inevitably part and this most false action completely betrays their pussy-loving ways. Go back and look at the great straight embraces of the celluloid; a straight man would never dream of opening his mouth before his lips touched his lover because that would completely foul that sublime moment when the lips touch for the first time. Do they part afterwards? Well, of course they do. This is not a Disney film, my dear; some friction is necessary. However, that first moment is to be preserved. It's as though these two sweetly delusional thespians believe that the only intimacy that can occur between two men calls for the lips to be parted, which is unfortunately homophobic as they probably think of themselves as allies. Now that our esteemed government has given us the right to marry, this does not mean that weddings will end with the phrase, "You may now fellate the bridegroom!"

It's so disappointing, isn't it? We expected so much more. I can recall sitting through a screening of Making Love in 1982 at the Metro 8. One would have thought that the release of the film was messianic, such were the palpitations in my chest. In the scene where Harry Hamlin and the cute but ultimately forgotten other guy are bare chested, hands tracing backs, lips inching closer, the pulsations moved somewhat more southernly. And then at that moment, that moment for which I braved slurs from the pock-marked box office employee and the disappointment of realizing I was one of seven people in the theatre, each sitting by themselves, their lips finally touched, but not before that asshole Hamlin opens his goddamn lips. Suddenly, it was false. It wasn't the apocalypse but rather some pre-Melrose demi-hunk serving my life up on spray painted silver platter. I walked out in disgust, just like all those that had walked out for the exact opposite reason.

There is nothing more thrilling than that moment, you see. An amazing kiss is about contact, to be sure, but when they disappoint you so 90% of the time, one can't help but live for that second before it all goes wrong. My greatest pleasure on this earth is lingering on his bottom lip the moment we touch. I am convinced that the Song of Songs was written about his bottom lip. I would call it manna had I not been heckled as an old dramatic by some of my ever aging girls. The comments of our 25 year age difference are near constant from them and I take every loving barb with reverie, so happy am I with that bottom lip. That bottom lip is the one vice on this earth that I have maintained in this, the golden years of life for a gay man not yet 50. The previous ones always needed a balance to keep them from oscillating out of control. The promiscuity of my thirties was tempered by the fact that I only slept with unattractive men as to not indulge too frequently or risk contracting some dreadful ailment by one to ugly too bear a repeat performance. In my twenties, my lust for food, thinness and my poverty resulted in a cycle of spending far too much on fancy meals after which I would promptly induce vomiting as a chastisement on behalf of my wallet as well as my waistline. Now in my forties, I only have his bottom lip and fuck, if I don't make up for Harry Hamlin's mistakes.

A couple days ago I was on the bus on my way to my parents'. A couple seats over was a girl, maybe 20, in baggy, punky clothing, short, multi-coloured hair and a definite "No dick" demeanor. We both got off at Confusion Corner at which point I started hearing some odd rumblings. Some slightly disheveled man of eastern European tongue started yelling at her, nearly intelligibly expect for the spewing forth of the word 'lesbo' as though it was the very composite of fire and brimstone. It all happened very quickly and within seconds, she was back on the same bus, my guess being to escape this harassment. For the next five minutes, until my bus came, the man paced back and forth, smoking and yelling in broken English about the vile nature of this young woman. There was nothing that I could make out in his words that were appallingly objectionable, but the hatred in his voice was clear. And I sat there, doing nothing, watching others around me offer each other uncomfortable smiles, but no one saying anything. No one approached him with meaningful dialogue, verbal threats or physical beatings, all three of which he probably could have used. As I drove away on my bus, I was filled with shame, having not said anything to him. I ran my lines in my head for the next ten minutes, painstakingly detailing the firm but non-antagonizing language I would use to make sure he knew that it was inappropriate and that this kind of blind hatred is not welcome and I would vindicate this girl as I hope someone would do for me. It was a cowardly moment and I'll own that. I don't know a whole lot of people that honestly would have done differently, but that doesn't condone it. I suppose the point of this is that if you love me and you see this happening to someone that could be me, say something, please.

On Saturday night, I was hanging out with Seventeen Year Old, talking about a lot of troubling societal issues and cuddling. At one point he went to the bathroom, leaving me to my thoughts - a dangerous idea at the best of times. When he came back, I was staring at my hardwood floor and before he could say a word and without my eyes moving from the ground, this spewed forth from my mouth:

"You know what I just realized? I struggle a lot with this notion that I must curb any femininity in my nature, but the fact is I gain so much strength from it. I catch myself in these moments where I know I'm invoking the Feminine and I feel powerful because of it. We need to draw on both the Masculine and the Feminine to fully realize our full potential. Just think of the jock in the locker room who strives so hard to maintain a solely masculine output of energy and how much more he could be were he to actually let the Feminine work within him. This isn't simply an issue of gender or sexuality. I have straight male friends who are very much in touch with their Feminine and I've conversely known gay men who abhor any sign of femininity. I just think that's so wrong. The powers of Gender are not contingent on what sex organs we have. I mean, when I'm interacting with someone, it's not with my penis. I mean, it can be, but even that is only a fraction of what's really mingling in the situation. There are a million factors that make up each person and yet with all these potentially opposing qualities, everyone is just fundamentally looking for someone to complete them. I know that sounds cheesy, but it's true. It's like this million-piece puzzle that's near impossible to complete and then when we do, we get treated with such hate because our parts don't match the way theirs do. It's such a small part and it doesn't effect them at all. I don't think they understand that we're all just feeling the same thing. They can't get past the biology. And what are they so afraid of? That we'll rise up like some faggy nation of Israel against Pharaoh so they have to enslave us first? Don't they see that they should be gracious because they get to have something we don't in family, rather than to loathe our existence with every fiber of their beings? We each have entire universes contained in our souls and they hate us for what we don't have!"

I finished and looked up at him for a response. He paused, looked me in the eye and said, "You got all that from the floor?"

(For Mikey...

...about whom this entry certainly is not, but whose clear addiction as manifested in his comments I hope to assuage.)

I’ve discovered a new and not altogether awesome psychological trait in myself, which may possibly serve as an unfortunately good explanation for my lack of gay male friends. (I have a few, but they’re scattered and only one has been consistently present during my adult life)

This trait occurred to me after an evening of baking, Beauty & The Beast, and light physical contact last week. He is a perfectly nice fellow. Smart, witty, pleasant to be around – all the trappings of good friend material. In addition, he is also nicely-proportioned, red-haired, and kinda looks like a gay cross between Archie and Shaggy (the cartoon, not the egregiously lame ‘singer’). I didn’t feel that I necessarily wanted to partake in his Scooby-Snax, but I felt an urge of a different sort, something between lust and curiosity. We had hung out a couple times previously, with no strong indication on either side that there was desire for anything physical, but through more recent msn discussions, it became apparent that if something was going to happen, twould be this night.

The cookies were yummy; Belle didn’t disappoint. All of a sudden it was midnight and we were just staring at the DVD menu screen making awkward conversation, waiting for an ending or a beginning, whichever was going to happen. Eventually we went to my room. Nothing remotely pornographic happened. Clothes stayed on, for the most part. Hand stayed north of belt lines. I’m lying there and it’s not awful by any stretch, but I just don’t have my heart in it. I realize that this question will only apply to a particular demographic of readership, but you know when you’re making out and lips are doing their thing and hands are wandering, and your fingers graze their underwear elastic and you know that this is the moment where a decision needs to be made? I had no desire to venture forth. This wasn’t a commentary on him, not at all. I just didn’t feel like going down that road. Again. Instead, I was down a different, far too familiar one.

This was not the first time I’d been there. I’ve become aware of what it’s like to be making out with someone new, someone great, but someone who you just never want to see naked. I know this feeling because looking back at all the gay males with whom I’ve had 1-on-1 friendships (group friendship doesn’t count), I’ve done this with all of them! I need The Night. I need that one moment wherein my belief that I’m not into them romantically becomes hard, cold knowledge. After that (and usually a period of a couple weeks to readjust the friendship), I’m good to go. How sick is that? I’m so overly-concerned with not missing an opportunity, that I allow the possibilities for ones to exist where they have no business existing. If one were to compare this to those guys who sleep with someone and then drop completely off the radar, I suppose it would be like comparing murder to manslaughter. Although, to be fair, past participants have been perfectly willing themselves, so it’s not as though I’m conducting a completely selfish social experiment. At least I don’t think I am. Perhaps it’s only assisted-manslaughter.

This week marked the commencement of my attempt, nay my determination, to become a regular gym-goer. Thus begins my bunnitude. For those not in the know, a gym bunny is a LGBT term (and maybe a conventional one as well) for a man who lives at the gym. This shan't be me. Not really. However, it's actually been going fairly well and I now feel rather an expert on the matter having now gone twice. That's right, kids - Tuesday AND Thursday. Contrary to what I expected, the first session did not, in fact, end in exhaustion and/or vomiting. Apparently I don't suck at everything. Like, I'm pretty sure I killed at cardio. Like, full-on slayed, yo. And here's another revelation: out of shape, unattractive people go to the gym too! It's true! I was expecting it to be myself and a bunch of rejected Men's Health models, and while there were certainly some aesthetic confections, I was unhealthily relieved to find myself in good company, if the minority. It's odd how different I’ve felt in these few days; I don’t realistically think I look different or really feel all that different (perhaps slightly more hormonal – more on that in a moment), but looking in the mirror just feels different knowing that it’s heading somewhere. It’s kinda that whole glass-half-full/empty thing. The level of water is essentially holding steady at 50%, but now I see the good 50%. Does that make sense? Not really? Suck it, it’s my blog.

Now, my final observation on gym culture is not for the squeamish. In fact, it makes me feel a little bit pervy even bringing it up, but as it’s a somewhat humorous sign of the times, I’ll share. I was in the change room (aka the place wherein my manhood shrivels to the size of a Cheezie) when a moderately attraction (read: pretty g.d. hot) feller joins me in the locker bay. All is well and good and I’m thinking that I’ll get to see some ab action, maybe even some man lines, and the next thing I know the guy is totally naked and I’m incredibly uncomfortable. Nooooooooooow, here’s the thing. If I was a straight guy in a locker room, I’m not sure how comfortable I would feel being naked and ogled by another guy. Hell, as a non-straight guy I’m not ok with it in my bedroom. And I really didn’t ogle. In fact, when the towel dropped, I did my best to stay exactly above shoulder level with my eyes…but c’mon. It’s not that I need to see another naked guy (I might as well have a commitment ceremony with internet porn), but it’s just there. Like a big (not Jewish) pink elephant in the locker room. Like a (not Jewish) accident that you can’t help but glance at and not because it’s a turn on, but…oh god I’m so creepy! But do you see where I’m going with this? Not so much? Eat me, it’s my blog. *sigh* Ok, let’s approach this a different way. Straight boys, could you really be in a change room which contains many hot women and deal with one of them changing next to you and not feel a bit awkward? See? Who’s pervy now? Still me. Ok, that’s fair, but only because I’m the only one who realistically has to deal with it. Perhaps the time of gender-divided locker rooms should be over. Perhaps there should be four, according to gender and orientation. Mind you, then the gay change room would just be one big circuit party orgy and the lesbians would replace their hand-dryers with power tools.