Whaaaaaaaah? II

That stupid guy, the one who wrote me that tirade about how fat, bald, and unattractive he thinks he is, still has not written me back, and I don’t think he ever will.  Even after I clearly bent over backwards to assure and reassure him that I wasn’t shallow like that.  It’s really sad.  He didn’t believe me and he is probably the one still stuck on those ghastly homo-normative body requirements.  It’s so hilarious to me how supposedly grown men stick to these requirements, even when they don’t exhibit them themselves, or someone puts it in writing that they don’t care about such things, like I did.  Most gay men either seem to have very low self-esteem combined with an inferiority complex, or very low self-esteem combined with a completely unreasonable superiority complex.  And the men with any shred of self-esteem comprise such a small minority that one could easily give up the search.  I’m so glad I did not!

It finally happened.  Within a few days of each other a couple weeks ago, I met Spencer and Todd (not their real names).  Spencer responded to one of my unusual Craig’s List ads in which I tried to articulate how I was truly looking for SINGLE friends (plural) to get to know for the long term, and also to have sex with.  We soon met for coffee and really hit it off.  Spencer is very interesting and positive-minded.  He works on his health and pushes himself to improve on a regular basis, such as his current project to learn a foreign language.

Meeting Todd wasn’t so cut and dried.  On a Friday afternoon, I looked through the personal ads myself and found one with a photo of a very nice looking erect penis.  In any other circumstance I would have passed up such an annoying hookup ad, but something guided my hands to read the ad and write him; there is no other explanation.  Fortunately, before realizing what I was doing, I was talking to him and trading pictures.  And he was CUTE!  And handsome, with a full manly face, substantive dimples, and just all-around charm.  Everything was against us getting together, yet we still did later that night.  He is a plump boy too, but he had taken responsibility (unlike the other guy) for his health and his future.  Only a man with some level of self-esteem is capable of doing something that brave.  He had already lost about 135 pounds!

There was something different and special about Todd.  He wasn’t an impatient, childish piece of crap.  He had manners, and he showed up at my house within like seconds of his promised arrival time of eleven p.m.  We talked at length with our clothes on, and learned a great deal about each other.  But when we did start getting friendlier, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.  We talked a LOT during the sex and learned even more about each other.  Todd was nervous about taking his clothes off because he was still self-conscious about his weight, but I can see through fat into the real man inside.  And my intuition was spot on.  He is a good person who has so much potential as a long-term friend.  We haven’t stopped texting and visiting each other since.  Sometimes I’m not sure if he believes me when I say I’m attracted to him, but I understand because he told me how he has been rejected so many times by the flakes.  I hope he is able to heal that aspect of his self-image soon.  But it takes time.  And he has been working out at the gym all by himself to boot.  That shows character.  I, in turn, was equally afraid that he would soon lose interest in me, per my experience with EVERY OTHER GAY MAN I HAVE EVER MET IN MY LIFE.  But that’s not what happened.

Anyway, back to Spencer.  He and I couldn’t stop kissing the other night when we met after his foreign language lesson.  It was so freeing and healing.  He kept embracing me right there in the parking lot.  My fearful heart frequently made me look around to make sure no one was walking or driving up to us to engage in harassment or violence.  But no one did, and if Spencer noticed I was doing that, he didn’t say anything.  Healing itself is more than violent enough, I soon found out.

With Todd, the connection was on a deeper, more soul-based level, but Spencer is a little bit more mysterious.  The two times we have gotten together we took a long time to warm up to each other.  Then at some point the ice broke and everything changed.  It happened the same way, twice, from my perspective.  But it happened, that’s all that I care about.  Perhaps the warm-up time will shorten as we progress, but I don’t care.  It’s working.

I pushed myself out of my shell and comfort zone.  I pushed and pushed.  And pushed some more.  For several months now.  Then, the moment I found two awesome guys who care about me, my soul was profoundly moved in a deep, metaphysical manner.  It’s happened many times before, but not to this extent.  I’ve never really been cared about until now.  So my body went berserk.  Not because something is wrong or sick, but because the body only has so many ways to effect permanent change.  It’s also known as a healing crisis.

I met Spencer.  I met Todd.  Then the following Thursday I woke up with a scratchy throat.  And within thirty-six hours I was flat on my back with a temperature of 103.3.  I’m sure it was also due to letting the stress catch up with me without realizing it.  But I knew what was going on.  I worried it might be a doozy this time.  But it really wasn’t so bad, relatively speaking.  There was minimal nasal congestion so that made breathing while sleeping significantly easier than times past.  Also, the high temperatures weren’t as miserable as they usually were.  I came to the one most logical conclusion I could think of:  ultimately, the only avenue out of a lifetime of debilitating mental and physical illness was via the swift elimination of some pesky, depressed brain cells.  I figure my body realized it needed to kill off many of my original, injured, and depressed neurons to get past this point into a new life following a “miraculous” cure.  Well, it’s not as miraculous as it seems; after all, the mammalian body has been evolving all sorts of intricate ways to solve problems for millions of years.  Why should this be any different?  There were certainly more than enough freshly-born, exercise-induced neurons just waiting to come online.

I didn’t know how high to let the fever get so, naturally, I let my body lead the way.  At 103.3, I had the feeling to stop, and that the cooking of neurons to death was progressing swimmingly.  But after this point, the cooking of many other, healthy, body tissues including brain tissue would begin and I would risk more global injury.  So, I took two giant painkillers and made my way to the clinic at my grocery store.  It was a Saturday morning and I was the first in line.  I started antibiotics right away because it was strep on my tonsil and my right ear canal was rife with fluid.  It had only been forty-eight hours since my first symptoms.

The process was speedy and efficient.  With laser precision, something was getting in and getting out while effecting minimal discomfort, picking and choosing which neurons to destroy in a way no current medical technology could possibly hope to achieve.  Strep are ubiquitous, according to the nurse practitioner I saw, so that was the best and simplest method of getting the job done.  The mission accomplished, it was okay to knock it all out with the miracle of antibiotics, another efficacious agent my body would have been aware of.  My pee was almost brownish later that day, but I wasn’t worried.  Somehow I just KNEW that it represented the removal of the remains of the dead–the obliterated bodies of the neurons and other cells that had plagued me my entire life, and that I no longer need.  I was free.  FREE AT LAST.  And I look forward to the “miracles” that are in-store for me.  {>^<V}

Having Problems Really SUCKS

I got probs.  And the more men I meet, the more problems I uncover.  We learn who we are by our interactions with others–this is the normal way of life, and it’s long overdue for me.  Fortunately I already knew this, so it’s not as shocking and disorienting as it might have been otherwise.  But it still sucks greatly to discover that you have psychological issues with sex.

I have never had normal, functional sexual relationships before.  So, now that I am forming them, I experience so much stress in the bedroom that I shock my body into getting sick with a cold or a sinus infection.  I thought I was past all that because I started supplementing with some vitamins my pharmacist recommended, and had ceased getting sick all the time.  But now it’s happening again.  Ugh!

Years ago, I got into a very bad habit of feeling such incredible fear and pressure when I was with a guy, that I never calmed down from it.  So now it sneaks up inside of me and I don’t realize it until it’s too late.  It’s so ingrained I can’t just choose to relax easily.  It’s going to take some practice with a great new friend I made in Todd (pseudonym).  How did this happen?  How did I get into such a panic about sex?

It’s because I didn’t start soon enough, or on the right foot.  The first sexual encounter I had, I was so petrified with fear I gave myself diarrhea the next day.  I was twenty-one I think.  I had had relatively good experiences with masturbation since the age of thirteen so, naturally, I get hard pretty easily when I’m by myself still to this day.

But with other guys…such a problem for me.  My friend Todd is so wonderful.  He is patient and kind and understanding, just the sort of chap I need.  All things can be healed with enough love and patience.  And I might need a lot.  The topping of Arnold was an excellent example of this.  I somehow got myself to relax and respond naturally.  I didn’t have performance anxiety because he was new to it as well.  Somehow I must have decided on a deeper level that I was going to be calm and relaxed.  Perhaps I didn’t care how my dick performed with Arnold because we were just experimenting.  But with Todd, I think I got back into my old habits because I wanted to impress him and make him feel good and show him how horny I was for him.  The more I want my dick to get hard, the softer it gets!  It must be a form of distraction; the mental wanting of my cerebrum takes the energy away from my brain stem.

It’s also the ambivalence my subconscious still has toward being male and topping.  I understand why guys are total bottoms.  If they had a similar problem growing up, then it makes sense that they might just give up on penetrating altogether.  But, of course, there are many all-bottom guys in the world, with innumerable reasons for how they got that way as adults.  Gay lovemaking with my beautiful new beaux (Arnold, Todd, and Spencer) is supposed to be fun!  But I must be patient with myself.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is the pillar of sexual healing.  {>^<V}

With all the focus on gay men’s bodily appearance, I think that the health factor gets lost in the shuffle.  I’m trying to get “hot” in the gym and kitchen because of all the diseases I’m trying to combat, for example.  If becoming super hot, ripped, and energized with self-esteem and love for the world and other people happens to coincide with that, well so be it.  Men are designed to be lean, muscly to some extent, active, and energized with legitimate confidence (i.e. not being a pompous ass).  If you haven’t found your version of this lifestyle yet, then that simply means you can start right now, today.  It is never too late to put your temple in order.

Chances are you’ve been distracted by a job or some kind of career.  But it’s still no excuse.  It has been incontrovertibly proven that a sedentary lifestyle kills subtly yet efficiently behind the scenes, slowly destroying your body’s abilities until one day you wake up overweight and miserable.  But it is never too late to intervene upon this destructive path.

I used to be fifty pounds overweight, and now I’m not, because I took the necessary time to find exercise modalities I truly enjoy.  There is something for everyone.  And I was wise enough to ask for help from professional trainers when I knew I needed it.  Fitness is complicated; it takes time, effort, and money just like anything else, especially good relationships.  Don’t give up on yourself and your birthright:  to be healthy, lean, strong, and happy.

Nobody said it would be easy.  Guys who look amazing work out a LOT.  They have chosen on some level to make it a permanent part of their lifestyle.  And it’s not going to be perfect.  Since I started a new medication a couple month ago, I have become a little lethargic.  But once I start the workout, my energy usually snaps back into place.  And, fortunately, I am making some new friends who are already in the same mode of life, so the possibility of getting a workout buddy is very motivating as well.  I also find motivation in my hot guy art.

Have a nice day.  {>^<V}

Rosy the Wiener

White guys can be so hot.  I’ve noticed that if a white guy has a rosy face, then his dick and scrotum are usually rosy as well.  But if he has very dark features, such as one of those five o’clock shadows that makes his face look gray from a distance, then his dick and balls can be gray or even olive.  I’m one of the rosy ones.  So is my friend Todd.  His entire cock is pinky, not just the head.  So are his lusciously full lips.  I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful in the universe than a ruggedly handsome guy–you know, muscles, beard, chiseled brow and jaw–who has the lips of an angel, or the eyelashes of a doe.  Once I met a guy at the gym who looked like he was wearing rouge, that’s how naturally pink his cheeks were (face cheeks, that is).  I have ridiculously rosy cheeks.  It’s probably due to my Swiss-German ancestry.  I wish I got a thicker/blacker beard and bush, but oh well, you can’t have everything.  I’m sure there are darky guys out there who wish they had my eyes or something.

But I digest (just kidding, I know the word is digress).  Anyway, one of the darky kind of guys was fucking me one recent Saturday night.  A darky fucking a pinky!  He had the very full, dense five o’clock shadow I mentioned, complete with dimples just like Tom Selleck.  But somehow this guy was even hotter.  He shaved his body hair except for his bush, so that only made it stand out even more!  I complimented him on it, and he laughed awkwardly like he was embarrassed.  I pulled his gorgeous muscular hindquarters in close and asked him to go as deeply as he could so I could feel that beautiful black bush tickle my scrote.  I don’t think he was prepared for my exuberance.  What a waste of sumptuous bush and elephant-gray dick though.  He seems to be another clueless guy when it comes to conversation and making time for his sex life.  To make a long story short, he might be one of these turds who believes that his time and schedule are the only ones that matter.  I feel disappointed.  I wanted to get to know him.  He seemed nice underneath his stuck-uppery.  He had a really neat house too.

Oh well, once God closes a door, something better comes through the window.  I shall assume that I will meet a wonderfully kind, warm, and communicative guy very soon–a guy who is both a darky and a pinky at the SAME TIME!  Thick black stubble, dimples, eye lashes like a Mediterranean waiter, and the bright, blushing face and ass lips of the newest member of the Swiss Guard…

A guy like this for example:

Andre van Vliet

André van Vliet, world-renowned organist.

{>^<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}

 

Things & People Are Not What They Seem II

Apparently who a person is, is far more complex than I could have ever imagined.  Our only hedge against utter life-long pandemonium is self-awareness, so that we don’t constantly repeat the same old dumb mistakes, and waste a bunch of innocent people’s time.  To make matters worse, what if part of your body doesn’t work right?  For example, I have a HUGE problem.  My level of dopamine, a critical neurotransmitter necessary for life, has never been in the normal range.  My doctor uses antidepressants and dopamine agonists to try to increase the level, but it’s not working out well.  So, as I go through the process of changing drugs and dosages from time to time, I discover the most peculiar things about my character and true motivations.

When I’m on a higher dose of ropinirole (being used as an antipsychotic), my life comes alive mentally.  I can sit down and accomplish a lot of cerebral tasks such as writing in this blog for example, doing various art projects, learning new software, and completing foreign language lessons.  But my physical life completely falls apart.  I start getting lethargic and experiencing that horrible fuzzy zombified feeling.  My joints and muscles hurt and don’t respond with power and strength during workouts.  In fact, I cease having any interest in working out at all, despite the fact that I LOVE working out.  My personality mostly changes for the better, but I start getting the most wicked headaches in the evening.

When I’m on a lower dose of ropinirole, my life falls apart mentally.  Symptoms of depression and psychosis return, as does the drive to work out in the gym and fuck, hard and satisfyingly.  Apparently being a little psychotic and being a badass in the gym and bedroom go hand in hand?  I return to the state of grace in which I can work out for at least ninety minutes, if not more.  My strength, focus, and wiener come alive as more and more disturbing thoughts spontaneously enter my attention against my will–until I begin working out that is.  Workouts are a temporary reprieve from the pain of living.

I’ve already accepted that life is not fair.  But many would agree that this is just over the top.  I mean seriously, this state of things is not just unfair, it’s beyond cruel.  Whether I can get through the day depends on what medications I’m on and how much, not the fortitude of my personal attitude choices.  Over the past forty years I have suffered, suffered, and suffered some more and I’m just tired.  My nervous system is totally out of my control.  My doctor says that I have one of the most stubborn cases of depression he’s ever seen.

Why?  How could this happen to someone?

My doctor finally explained it to me:  extreme stress in early childhood.  My earliest memories are of white hot fear and suffering.  I never had a chance; I know now that my mother was in an extraordinary, prolonged, state of stress while I was in utero, and so my tiny nervous system got acid-washed with stress hormones since, well, before it was a nervous system.  I have been severely depressed and psychotic since I was about four.

This decades-long odyssey of torture and near-death experiences is not the real me:

  • Instead of tanning like an absolute caramel-butter dream like I did when I was a kid, I am a particularly ghastly shade of pale due to a particular side effect of the antidepressants I have taken since I was fourteen.
  • Instead of being the picture of vibrant health and gigantic physical development I have wanted since I was a teenager, I struggle to work out and put on mass due to the dramatic suppression of muscle function inherent to psychiatric drug therapy.

  • Instead of making my elite fitness dreams come true and having a credible chance at winning big money in fitness contests, I engage in circuit and other forms of intense training at my peril.  One persistent side effect I have is a skyrocketing heart rate.  Underneath all the drug therapy, I possess crazy-high cardiopulmonary endurance, but one would never know from the way I trudge through exercise classes and swimming, constantly having to stop to catch my breath and take a BPM reading.  Teachers still give me a pep talk about how a “beginner” like me needs to just “stick with it”.  I’ve been sticking with it nonstop for seven and a half years.  I was a personal training client with professional trainers for four and a half of those years.  If I didn’t have to take any medicine I would, quite simply, be the biggest badass in the county, or maybe even the state.

  • Instead of finishing the prestigious film school degree I was given–with huge scholarship–and entering the elite film industry to fulfill my every creative fantasy, I now live on Disability and handouts from my family.  I am totally unable to work to support myself, despite having attempted to do so about fifty-five times since 1996.  I struggle to keep up with the payments on many thousands of dollars of unsecured credit card debt.  I have no assets, no retirement savings, and am almost totally unemployable due to my undesirable work history.  Yet, I have never once been fired or disciplined on the job.

Because my mom chose not to take care of herself decades ago, I’m completely fucked now.  My full-time job for over a quarter of a century has been improving my nervous system with diet and exercise, but the moment I reduce the dosage of any of my medications, I become suicidal in a matter of days.  Basically, I haven’t altered my nervous system, even in a small way.  My doctor explained to me that physical exercise has been proven to stimulate the production of new, non-depressed, neurons.  Why isn’t this working for me?

My life was over before it even began.  Still to the present day, my astonishingly retarded family expects me to take care of them and their emotions whenever we are together.  My sister, who is an experienced, working, graphic design professional, REFUSES to help me start my freelance business or get clients, even though I am a patently multi-talented artist and everyone, including her, regularly compliments my work.

I used to feel sorry for others, such as the people in my family, or people in other, shittier, countries.  But now I know the truth of who I really am.  And my life and I are not what I thought they were.  The real me has been hidden under a Niagara Falls of other people’s worthless shit.  I am now, and have always been since birth, completely alone.  Perfectly rejected by everyone I have ever met.  Or so I thought.

Now that I have finally found an antipsychotic I can tolerate, I’ve begun to remember all the good people I didn’t notice over the years.  All the kind, interesting, caring individuals who showed me understanding, listening, and compassion.  It was a lot to absorb and come to terms with, as I remembered all the people who tried to show me love.  The only trouble was I was too good at noticing the bad people, and not skilled enough in noticing the good ones.  But it’s never too late to heal and change.

My nervous system doesn’t work.  All I can do is keep taking the right medicines in the right amounts to facsimilate as normal a mental experience of life as possible.  But many other parts of my body do work, and work fabulously well.  My sex drive, for example.  More than one lover has informed me that my sexual appetite and abilities are quite above average.  I thought it was normal to cum three times in an evening.  I thought everybody was doing it.  Anyway, focusing on the health of my body, and slowly healing my social abilities to get my basic needs for love, touch, sex, and intimacy met, is what I am meant to do now, despite the constant fear of financial ruin.

I’m only 41.  Maybe I am meant to start my life all over again.  Maybe I can learn how to notice only the good guys, at the expense of all the lousy.  People regularly tell me I look as though I’m in my twenties.  Maybe this was all meant to be.  I might never be able work at a traditional job, but maybe there’s a reason for that.  Maybe I am meant to be an artist and/or a househusband.  My first personal trainer asked me whether I were a “lover” or a “fighter”.  That’s easy, I thought, I’m a lover, a child born under the sign of Venus, two-fold (At my birth Libra was on the horizon at dawn, so the sun was in both Libra and the current rising sign.).  And I’m a lover of beauty to be sure, especially male beauty.

Once I had a dream in which a big, muscly robot lost his head.  But he was fine.  The rest of his body simply adapted, as he crawled around to find things, poured robot fuel down his neck hole, etc.  He wasn’t in any pain; in fact, it was a relief.  Then he found me and, of course, we could still fuck; your dick ain’t on your head after all.  It was weird at first, but his headless body quickly took on the appearance of an intact whole.  And his head happily lay on the ground a few feet away, but he didn’t feel the need to put it back on.  Besides, he now had me to help him find things and lead the way.  {>^<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}