It/He/You Don’t Have to Be Perfect

God and Mother Nature got together to create evolution, and it is the veritable definition of imperfection.  This never-ending process of tinkering has “successfully” resulted in a planet on which the vast majority of species died out ages ago.  Yet for some reason, we have the capacity to imagine perfection.  Why?  Concepts such as success and failure, perfect and flawed, are entirely human inventions.  They have no basis in biological fact.  But love, I believe, does have a biological basis.  Yet most people do whatever they possibly can to circumvent it, even deny its existence.

Despite having to slither through a hot mess of astounding proportions to get there, the miracle of gay male love still manages to find its way to the surface.  Despite having to bear a veritable mountain of neglect, heartache, abuse, and suffering for almost forty years, somehow I am still alive and capable of starting over, psychologically, mentally, physically and, especially, emotionally and interrelationally.  The love of my biology still manages to find a way.

Love is a problematic word though.  I started using it to describe how I felt with my new friend Todd and, understandably, he got a bit worried because the terms of our relationship are that of a sexual friendship, not something more serious.  But I thought we cleared it up.  I tried to explain that I felt feelings of love because I believe in loving one’s friends.  There are so many kinds of love, yet only one word to describe them all.  So we English speakers are screwed–unless we choose to persevere through the messy work of explaining our feelings and motivations to someone who has the capacity to listen.

But what if you’ve never been listened to before?  What if you grew up in a family where everything you ever did or said or expressed or needed was either mocked or summarily ignored?  A family in which it did not matter what you did or said, or even how you did or said it, the message was always the same:  you and your need to be listened to, cherished, valued, acknowledged, and loved MEAN NOTHING.  YOU ARE NOTHING.  YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST.  And if you have the audacity to show signs of self-esteem on your own, YOU WILL BE DESTROYED.

So, as I tried to explain to Todd, not only have I never had a functional, dignified sexual relationship before now, I haven’t ever really had a normal, functional platonic relationship before either.  My previous relationships were always at my expense.  I recently had a bad weekend, but I had long since adopted the habit of hiding my suffering from everyone, my broken heart assuming that it would never be acknowledged or listened to anyway.  I didn’t realize how much pain I was in until I started having this conversation with Todd.  I think he understood why I started getting a little suspicious that perhaps he was blowing me off; on Monday I wrote him some rather terse text messages.  But, very ironically, Todd deals with a similar issue in that he told me how he is used to being used and discarded by sex partners himself.  So he has some pretty major insecurities too.  It was a difficult conversation, and very messy.

I became someone who doesn’t notice things, important things, that are right in front of my nose.  Now I know why.  It’s because I disacknowledged most of the things about myself as my family had done.  A week ago, I met Todd at a coffee shop.  He was nervous and pretty uncomfortable and it showed.  I remember seeing the fear in his eyes and the expressions on his face, but I didn’t act on that knowledge.  Fortunately he was patient enough to explain to me (a couple of times) the specific reasons why he felt that way with me in a public place.

We had a good talk over dinner today.  And our communicating still isn’t perfect.  It doesn’t have to be.  It never will be.  Not in this life anyway.  On Monday afternoon, I asked Todd an important question, and I didn’t get a straight answer, so those terse texts I sent him are actually much more reasonable now that I think about it.  Also we met like two and a half weeks ago!  It’s just that we hit it off so quickly and had the most obscure things in common, more of which we discovered today.  Time sure does dilate when it’s packed full of completely new socio-homoerotic experiences.  And you are each highly attracted to the other.  But now that this initial fiery force has settled a bit, we can move forward having learned important things about the other.  This process is called building trust.  At least I think it is.  I don’t know anymore what’s what.

Another flaky piece of crap just canceled on me.  And Spencer hasn’t written me in a few days.  It’s easy to get paranoid if you let yourself.  I’m just so incredibly afraid to get close to anyone because my heart and body can FEEL the rejection coming.  “It’s only a matter of time,” it says, “until you get destroyed once again.”  Until that friend stops writing you, until that cousin “explains” to you that your feelings are “wrong”.  How do you know it won’t happen this time?  You don’t.

A few weeks ago, I kind of snapped a little bit.  I realized that I had been alone almost full-time for twenty-plus years.  And I knew I could not take it anymore.  So I got up and did something about it.  I continued to go to a coffee shop every day to be around people as I had been doing for years.  But I also started to place really interesting, innovative personals ads to try to attract guys like me.  It has begotten mixed results.  And I had this bad weekend.  But my cousin helped me on Monday night.  She showed me love and acceptance via text message and even affirmed the validity of my feelings!  I could hardly believe my eyes.  I think she has finally started to understand some things about our family.  We have even planned a trip together next month, just the two of us.

I am so very tired of being so sick and poor and screwed up socially.  And I am even more tired of running into people who are the same.  Just when I think things are changing for me and I am undergoing a bona fide healing, something even worse comes to the forefront, bubbling up through the humongous tragedy of my life.  Then I have to deal with that and heal that, and come to a place of peace.  And then start the whole horrible process all over again.  I am scared for my future.

But then I remember my dreams of becoming a bodybuilder and fitness model.  And of finding true friendship and love.  And I feel hope all over again, even though it is far from perfect.  {>^<V}

Canada: the Promised Land?

This isn’t the only option.  The American way of handling sexuality as a whole, gay sexuality specifically, and gay socializing and culture is just one of several.  I have never experienced gay culture in Canada personally, but I have heard some things…

Like they allow full male nudity in the strip clubs/bars apparently.  I saw a documentary on sexuality by the BBC once, and they showed the interior of a club that might have been in Toronto.  It looked nice–clean, spacious, ample room on the bar.  I can’t imagine it was in America because this totally naked guy squatted down right in front of a customer, like a few inches from the guy’s drink!  Anyway, the stripper held his junk forward (probably a good idea around tipsy gay men) and let the customer fondle his crack and anus.  It was amazing.  The guy was sizzling hot; well-muscled and totally shaved.  I want to go to that place!

Then I met a man, on a date, who did go to a Canadian city near the border, for the purpose of visiting one of these clubs.  He confirmed that the laws are different and the strippers were, indeed, buck naked.  One of the first things I asked the man was where do they put their tips?  He described the joint as having a bit of a jock theme that night, so the strippers wore tennis shoes with those tube socks hiked up over their calves.  The socks held the money until their break.  Hmm, handy.

This conversation triggered the memory of a truly disastrous/hilarious date from years before.  This guy seemed great.  He picked me up and paid for lunch.  But the closer we got to his part of town–the GERMAN part of town–the more things deteriorated.  I was never in any danger, unless you consider being driven around by a nazi to be intrinsically dangerous.  He was just so PROUD of his German heritage.  It was a sunny day and the windows were down, so he began to point some things out as we made our way south on the main street of our town.  He delighted me with comments about how the black people standing on the corner were probably on their way to a drug deal, because they looked like they were in need of their next fix.  And he regaled me with stories about how during World Wars I and II, the townspeople tortured and murdered German breeds of dogs in the streets of the German neighborhood.  Sure he was a kook, but his feelings of hurt and anger were very real, I observed.

So, of course, I refused to see him again.  He wrote me twice totally bitching at me for not writing him back and “ignoring” him.  So I DID write him back and explained that I simply couldn’t afford to be seen in public with him; I value my reputation too much.  He stopped writing.

But I’m sure the reason I encountered him was because of his comment about Canada and her gay bars, strippers, culture, and men:  “It’s the promised land,” he said after regaling me with some stories about his trips there.  His eyes lit up with the energy of hope and joy, even if only briefly.  And I never forgot, even after all these years.  Now I can’t wait to go myself.  {>^<V}

Whaaaaaaaah?

Apparently I’m doing better than I thought.  Making the transition from an insecure young person devastated by mental illness, who was brainwashed into taking on a woman’s persona, into a happy, hot, sexy muscle guy who truly feels like a real man on the inside too, is possible.  I almost gave up several times, but I’m glad I didn’t.  I must have had subconscious faith in myself and my dreams.  I always felt so bad that I took it for granted that guys would look down on me, especially hot guys.  And the possibility of them feeling jealous or intimidated?  Wow, that didn’t cross my mind until today.  I keep forgetting that American men are masters of hiding their true feelings.  I know I did it for decades.  Why do I keep getting fooled?

My erect dick started out at 5.75 inches long.  But through a lot of perseverance with my penile enlargement exercises, I have made it to 7.00 inches on the dot.  It sticks out far now.  Guys seem to notice.  And the more fat I lose down there, the bigger it appears.  I definitely would like to make it even bigger.  It takes a long time and you have to be careful not to overdo the exercises.  But it does work, obviously.  I can’t help it.  I gotta either have a huge cock and/or get my hands on one, one way or another.  A good friend of mine has a boyfriend with an eleven inch dick.  When he told me I started to cry, no joke.  Right there in the coffee bar.  The barista gave me a free drink.  He probably thought we were talking about someone who died.  I felt sad that the guy met my friend before me.  My rectum felt sad too.  Using dildos, I calculated that I can fit 9.5 inches of whatever into my boy pussy.  That would leave about an inch and a half of wiggle room…

I got to know the eleven inch guy.  And you know what?  He’s a bit precious.  He clearly enjoys spending time with me; when he does grace me with a get-together, he opens up and we talk and have lots of fun.  But he still hasn’t returned several important text messages I sent him days ago.  Once I texted him when my car broke down.  Everyone else I knew was busy or out of town, and I was trapped in the Whole Foods parking lot–a fate worse than death.  I was surrounded by pretentious douchewads as far as the eye could see but, in their defense, two of them did help me bump start my car.  Anyway, the guy totally blew me off.  Apparently he’s moody and goes home and plays his guitar by himself for hours on end, due to him being so deep I guess.  These are classic symptoms of low self-esteem, and I fear he is depressed.  Fortunately he has my good friend as a boyfriend.  Anyway, I wonder why he doesn’t have some sort of penis-related self-esteem.  But if self-esteem were physiologically connected to one’s penis, then we both should have superhero confidence, right?  I’ve had a rather hefty seven-incher for a couple years now, but I have developed self-confidence by many other means that I do not wish to gloss over in this post.  But I shall save them for another time.

Tonight, however, this is what happened.  I met a guy on Craig’s List and we seemed to hit it off.  He said he was interested and sent me his picture.  He was a bit plump, but I didn’t mind.  I liked his crotch.  And his face was so cute!  I just wanted to meet new guys and socialize anyway.  Rejecting him for his weight was the furthest thing from my mind.  But the whole time it turned out that he was super insecure about it.  Finally, we got into an email argument over nothing, and he wrote, “And we’re finished.”  I was like, wow, so dramatic.  I wrote him back to explain that if he couldn’t handle the simplest of conflicts, then how exactly did he function at work, for example?  And that I genuinely liked him and gave him a chance.  I assumed that I would not hear from him, and I wasted my valuable time and energy on yet another ridiculously immature flake.

Then something interesting happened.  He wrote back with a lengthy tirade about how guys always find something to reject him over, and all the pain he was in over being overweight and out of shape.  I could hardly believe my eyes:

  • I know I’m not fit and handsome like you, and obviously you have your shit together and I don’t, you’re witty and intelligent, and you have a big dick–many good attributes.  I liked you too, and I was flattered that you even talked to me.  Fat, ugly, out of shape, bald me.  But there always seems to be something where when guys see me they find something to nitpick just to get out of being with a fat ugly guy.  I’m sorry, maybe that’s just my wall that I’ve built, but that’s how I feel.  I’m always on guard and probably overreact.  Okay so this is a rant–I’m sorry.

I really didn’t mind the weight.  He didn’t appear to be morbidly obese or anything like that.  I bent over backwards in previous emails to assure him that I was not concerned about his appearance.  But obviously he did not hear me.  I decided to try a different approach with my response:

  • You may be surprised to learn that I used to be overweight and very out of shape.  But I decided to change and was a personal training client for four and a half years nonstop.  I’ve been relatively hot for enough years now that I forgot what you might be going through.  But I am still over twenty percent body fat.  Guess what!  I have really thinning hair and thick red psoriasis on my scalp.  I took it for granted that fatter guys would NOT feel intimidated by me, but I was wrong of course.  I understand what you say in your email.  All guys want to be hot.  I’m sorry guys were mean to you.  Like I said, the guys who were born hot are all but worthless.  They are really horrible.  I have stories of them.  They don’t even know how to speak like a man.  I’ve met some who literally seemed retarded.  It’s crazy.  If I meet a kind hot guy I will let you know, in the mean time it’s up to the rest of us to find a way to meet and be friends and fuck I guess.  🙂

Here’s the deal.  The difference between being born hot and becoming hot later in life cannot be overemphasized.  It’s like the difference between being a native speaker of French and learning it from scratch as an adult with flash cards.  And I’m not even extremely ripped or anything yet!  But apparently, this guy assumed I have my “shit together”?  Good God, if only he knew.  I’ve been trying so hard for so many years to make up for the depth of my insecurity and perceived lacks, that I forgot to notice how far I’d come.  Native French speakers are notorious cunts, just like the hot fags who treat everyone they meet like shit, especially if you dare to have more than an ounce of fat.

Once, at college, our native French teacher’s parent’s showed up during class; they were visiting from the homeland.  The previous day this instructor, who was actually pretty nice, told us they were coming, and encouraged us to practice speaking French with them.  So, naturally, when there was a lull in the conversation, I gathered my nerve and bravely asked if they had been to any shows on Broadway.  New York is known for the theater, of course.  I thought this would be an excellent way to start.  I don’t even remember how I said it because it involved one of the past tenses–you know, Have you been to the theater, that sort of thing.  Well, the dad totally yelled at me!  He was like, NO.  We HAVEN’T BEEN to the THEATER.  One could have heard the proverbial pin drop in the classroom.  I looked at my teacher.  She looked embarrassed, which helped a little.  No wonder everybody hates these goddamn fucks.  Years later, an American French professor, who went to boarding school in France as a child, explained it to us:  they are taught by the school system from an early age to have a cultural superiority complex.  That, combined with a hefty national chip on their shoulder, makes for a pretty unpleasant group of people.  Just like the hot fags who roll out of bed every morning looking like a Greek god.

So it finally happened.  Someone out there is jealous of the forty-one-year-old guy who can’t work, pulls in a cool ten thousand dollars a year from Disability, has to live in a bad part of town, and has a hard time brushing his teeth regularly.  And all because I’ve managed to counteract my dumpy genes with several years of nonstop ass kicking in the gym to put on a few pounds of muscle.

Please continue reading at Whaaaaaaaah? II.

{>^<V}

 

I’m Not Your Gal Pal, Ya Dumb Bitch

You know, one of the things that disgusts me the most about gay culture isn’t just how most gay guys treat me but, rather, how some of these unbelievably stupid women interact with me.  It boggles the mind, but it is a fact that most people, especially the immature, will approach homosexuals in absolutely every conceivable way, EXCEPT as if we’re actual people.  This nonsense has plagued me most of my life.  I thought for sure that, at some point, I would be approached with a modicum of respect now that I’m an adult.  But I was woefully unprepared for the onslaught of idiocy that was in store.

One of the first memories I have of this rampant douche-baggery is a precocious interaction I had with a voice teacher from my church.  She was a vocal performance major at an eastern university and she and her husband moved to Ohio from the east coast.  One day, after a lesson, she announced that she was going to be my “fag hag” because “that’s what all gay guys have”.  I believe I was in my early teens at the time.

Um…what?  I think I blocked it out for a few years.  I’m serious, I think I psychologically disassociated due to the trauma.  How, precisely, did this woman think I was going to react?  Oh sure toots, let’s go out clubbing this Friday.  But don’t forget, my bedtime is 8:30, so let’s not do too much meth.  But we can still get some poppers and light sticks to dance with.  I mean was she some kind of weird lady pedophile?

Cut to me trying to get along at the prestigious eastern university I went to on scholarship.  I was not out.  I was only nineteen years old for Christ’s sake but, apparently, if you’re not out by that point, then you’re worse than Hitler to the academic community.  Looking back I can easily recollect my roommates, friends, and even the faculty messing with me, even though it was patently obvious that some of them were closeted gaywads too.  The one roommate who conspicuously kept bringing up male on male anilingus had an unbelievably obnoxious girlfriend.  So no one gave him a hard time, despite his frequent forays into how another guy’s anus would taste.  Like I said, his girlfriend was simply awful.  They showed up one day and she demanded that I ballroom dance with her, right there in our cramped dorm room.  In his defense, my roommate did protest that perhaps she was bothering me, but not too strongly.  We wouldn’t want her to break up with him, of course.  His cover gone, he wouldn’t be free to taunt me with his tongue-to-rectum musings.

Another roommate, who seemed pretty straight, was always fucking his girlfriend who flew in from Colorado from time to time.  But, very weirdly, he was the most hard on me of all, and ultimately we couldn’t be friends.  I mean he was really vicious; he made very serious attempts to get me to come out.  The following year, he and the anilingus guy were roommates again.  Once they came to visit me, to taunt me some more I guess.  I don’t get it.  The ferocity of it all.  If I were a loser for staying closeted, so what?  They both had much to be desired about their personalities too.

But, anyway, back to the women.  The summer after my freshman year I made a friend in the film studies program who was interested in ballroom dancing with me.  She was terrible.  She wouldn’t let me lead, even after I patiently explained to her that it won’t work unless we share our centers of gravity.  She seemed intelligent and kindhearted though.  One night she kept bringing up one of her professors who always wore tight black leather pants.  She kept hinting around about how he was so into leather, these were the ONLY pants he wore, and he and his boyfriend were just SO into leather.  Oops, I guess I forgot; being a fag automatically means I’m hot for nasty leather fetish sex.  MY MISTAKE.  And wearing the same pair of leather pants every day sounds very reasonable and hygienic.  Good for him.

But I can forgive other nineteen- and twenty-year-olds–they were just mixed up kids too, and at least they were sort of trying to help.  But the faculty?  There is the possibility that at least three members, one instructor and two deans of the fucking school I was in, actively punished me for not being out.  Either that, or they were just unusually hateful people which, in New York City, wasn’t all that uncommon.  Regardless, I couldn’t take it anymore; I didn’t have the skills to cope with the mounting pressure both from within and without.  I made it through freshman year plus the entire summer session, however I stopped being able to get out of bed and go to classes once my first sophomore semester started.  And when I finally realized I had to leave school, I got nothing but anger from the deans who, instead of showing me any shred of compassion, acted like I was doing something wrong by having the audacity to become sick with severe depression.  People in their position surely would have encountered this type of thing before.  But the so-called “Dean of Students” basically bitched me out from the cross, lamenting about how “hard” she tried to help me.  Help me?  All she did was answer a few questions I had about the dance major one time.

Naturally, it only got worse once I returned to Ohio and did come out:

  • The lady at the mall who kept referring to how she had never employed a “mens” before (pronounced MYINz with a slight lisp at the end), how she was willing to hire a mens–a mens this, and a mens that.  I was like, what in the FUCK is this lunatic talking about?  It wasn’t until later that I learned “mens” is hill-shit-speak for gay dude.  Have you heard of this?  Is this a thing?  I mean I’m just so very GRATEFUL to this cunt for being WILLING to bestow the honor of a part time job at Kirkland’s on a mere “mens”.  Wow, what a saint.
  • My new boss at a posh skincare boutique who, after going through all the trouble to hire and train me for months, announced that, “oh yeah, didn’t you know?  The reason we hired you was because we wanted a gay guy around to entertain us.”  (We?  The entire staff was in on this decision?)  I thought I was moving up in the world.  After my devastating break with higher education and the promising professional future it represented, I thought I possibly had a future in skincare.  The one district manager did officially inform me that I could immediately be promoted to Assistant Store Manager if I were willing to move to Florida.  I could not entertain such a move; I was too sick with depression anyway.  But to her credit and mine, I did receive this offer as an openly gay employee.
  • Another boss who announced, in front of a customer, that gay guys like me must have giftwrapping in our genes.  I stood at the cash wrap of the store tying up a lady’s parcel and tried to “wrap” my mind around what was happening.  I guess I was getting a compliment?  I wasn’t aware that my genome held information this specific.  Perhaps the ability to tie a bow is located on the same chromosome as my compulsion to vogue, and my natural desire to tie up other gay guys before engaging in BDSM.  After all, My Favorite Things is obviously my most beloved song:  “brown paper packages tied up with string…”  Yes, that must be it.
  • And dozens of other incidents, each one more horrific than the last.  Everything came to a head at my first white-collar position at a community/rec center.  My boss there clearly hired me to be a buddy.  She actually told me to my face, several months in, that “we’re going to be friends and have girl talk and do stuff together after work and on the weekends”.  Looking back, I could tell something was up because she kept asking me at the interview if I were sure I was interested.  She “ordered” me to participate in a charity fun run on my own time on a Saturday.  When I protested, she firmly insisted.  Fortunately, I was wise enough to simply ignore this request, as I knew full well that it was illegal.  But, once again, I was at a loss for words when she suddenly started on a spiel comparing “bling” from our “boyfriends” (I was single at the time).  She went on and on about a bracelet I wore, that I bought for myself, and explained to me how her boyfriend of thirteen years (still hadn’t proposed) accidentally gave her the same exact diamond ring two years in a row for their anniversary.  Anyway, I hated this bitch for a long time.  But now I understand that she must have been suffering too; she could have easily weighed over 300 pounds, had a clueless boyfriend, and was desperate enough to hire new friends instead of making them the proper way.

Well, one lives and learns.  No one said life was going to be easy.  I know that’s a corny cliché, but every once in a while one encounters a cliché that’s actually helpful.  “Welcome to life!” a competent counselor once told me.  What wise words these are for me.  If life were easy and fun, surviving it wouldn’t be such a joyous triumph.

And then there was the psychologist who counseled me that I wasn’t born gay, and that those gays who promoted this myth were simply “not willing to face their issues with their fathers”.  Funny how she neglected to mention that she was a bible wack job on the phone.  After she applied electrodes to my scalp, to determine how depressed I was, I could tell she was well on her way to recommending “aversion therapy”.  You know, where they hook up your junk to electrodes, for the purpose of shocking you when you start getting hard, while you watch gay porn?  She insisted that becoming straight was a simple matter of cultivating sexual feelings for women by taking them out on a date to Shoney’s (Um…Shoney’s?  SHONEY’S??  Perhaps she was a close relation of the Kirkland’s lady.  Oh wait, I’m sorry, I believe the correct term is “kin”.).  Anyway, I found it very interesting that this woman was not married, wasn’t dating anyone, wore a very short haircut, spent the majority of our “counseling” sessions blabbing about her issues with her mother, and explained how she turned down guys who propositioned her for sex.  I mean, we were pals, right?  Earning a hundred dollars per hour to get free counseling from your psychology client is reasonable, right?  RIGHT??

I don’t believe in something as silly as hell.  I believe in something much, much worse.  And whatever Karma has in store for this individual is beyond any one of us to comprehend.  I don’t even need to find out what happens to her.  I am willing to release any remaining Karmic bondage, and assume that It will take care of the rest.  If you’re a messed up kid trying to survive the transition to adulthood, Karma won’t mind.  But by the time you’ve reached your forties, fifties, and beyond?  And you’re still pulling this crap?  They say Karma’s a bitch.  I say It is a boomerang, born out of the natural consequence of the existence of living things.  There’s nothing supernatural about it.

So I’ve been kicked around, and kicked around some more, by many a worthless cunt.  But I’m no longer a silent doormat.  Despite every imaginable effort by these bitches to use and abuse me, I have survived.  And now, by the grace of my infinite will to live, I am even starting to notice good people of both sexes who deserve to be friends with me.  Like the lady who shows me kindness and respect every time we see each other in the coffee shop, or the office lady at my psychiatrist’s who (amazing I know) actually performs her job with professionalism and genuine kindness.  But I’m not out of the woods yet.  I can still sense a certain amount of pity and/or cluelessness from some of my current friends, who still aren’t capable of handling the gay issue as a whole.  The closeted female minister who baptized me, who still wants to be theater-going buddies.  The married guys, who become gayer and gayer the more they drink, at the beer enthusiast events I go to.  The closeted lesbian psychos to which my straight friends are married.  It just goes on and on and on…  But this cycle of nonsense is halted in me, and that’s all that matters.

Nope, I’m nobody’s gal pal, or girlfriend, anymore.  Do I look like a woman?  My hairy ball sack, beard, and muscles say otherwise.  Sorry to disappoint the sad female losers of this world, but I’m not the Will to your Grace, nor the fruit to your salad, nor the fag to your hag (Really?  Self-esteem people, come on!).  This is the stuff of which stereotypes are made.  Is there some sort of confusion as to my status as a human life?  I have always and only treated others with way too much caring and compassion because I thought the Golden Rule applied in all situations.  It does not.  It only works with people who already have internalized it as a preexisting personal value.  For everyone else, it’s just another nuisance to be tossed aside in favor of their true agenda:  the cheap thrill they get from using and mindfucking the vulnerable.  {>^<V}

So let me get this straight:  you’re “masc” and you’re not attracted to “fem”.  But you’re a “bottom”.  Tell me again, exactly how macho do you think you look with your ankles behind your ears?

–D. S.

How’s that working out for you?

Cowering down in your chair, your weak chin, nose, and shoulders hunching your back?

Do you really get off on wasting people’s time like this?

Is committing to something as simple as a coffee date so beyond your pussy sensibilities?  Apparently it is.

I feel angry and disappointed.  And guess what?  My feelings are FINE.  The fact that you actually believe I’m “being pissy”, by simply sharing an emotion with you, is a truly pathetic reflection of your character.  We talked for an HOUR about how we’re both tired of being treated like crap by these goddamn flaky fags.  And within a matter of hours you became one yourself…  Your hypocrisy is disgusting.

Now I understand why the Spartans killed off anyone who exhibited cowardice in battle.

Guys like you DESERVE to be alone.  And tonight, when I’m fucking the holy hell out of my bro’s beautiful, gleaming pink cunt that he got ready just for me, and holding him in my huge, highly-muscled arms, I’ll be thinking of you–

BORED and LONELY,

ALONE and AFRAID,

with only your hand to keep you warm at night.

God gave you a spine.  Use it, you worthless bitch.

I was nice to you.

{>^<V}