Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Go Get 'Em, Champ.

I’ve never seen a girl eat nachos like Amber Champion.

She’s sitting across from me at a bar on Magazine Street. The place with the beer tap fountain in the courtyard and the fat girl in floral print short shorts on the bar stool. Amber and I are on our second pitcher of Purple Haze and our first and only order of $18 nachos with everything on them. I’ve excused myself to the restroom three times now because I don’t want her to know that I’m texting. Actually, I’m not really texting at all. I’m hastily jotting down notes from our conversation. I’m feeling the grip of my beloved beer buzz, so I want to get this all down while I’m still lucid. Plus, I’m trying to be polite by not texting in front of her. She’s eating nachos like it’s the end of days and we’re talking and it would be rude of me to put my phone between us. And that’s when I realize that I’ve never done this before.

The first time I met her, I thought she was lying to me. Amber Champion isn’t a real name I told her. It’s a stripper’s name. And it might actually be the fakest-sounding stripper’s name of all time. But she was able to convince me without ever pulling out her ID. She can convince anyone of anything. One of her many talents.

Amber wipes her lips with a napkin and tussles her mane of perfect, auburn hair. We’re discussing the reasons why anyone would be nice to their ex — a topic of which I’m a motherfucking sensei. I slap my hands on the table when I tell her that one of my exes would call me when he [rightfully] suspected that his new boyfriend was cheating on him. He would ask me to come over and he would cry and we would have sex and then I would leave and check on him later to see how he was feeling. Other times, he would call me when he was having trouble with his marketing homework. And I would drop what I was doing and write his entire marketing report from thin air. And that was my mistake. Because he didn’t care. When I would leave his apartment, he would immediately go back to screwing his other exes and saying weird, passive aggressive things to me whenever I saw him out. And no one went off to live in Narnia. And he’ll always be an ass. And being a good friend to him will never change that.

Now I’m all wound up and my face is redder than usual. I shotgun my beer and pour myself another, which I drink half of. Amber’s thinking. She says that if her exboyfriend called her and needed something, she’d still be there for him. Because he’s a person. And you should be there for people. Because they’re people. And it’s just that easy.

I want to tell her that what she’s describing is a rabbit hole, but I can’t. She’s gone through the ringer and come out on the other side of a long, painstaking relationship to say nice things like that. But who the fuck am I to correct her? She’s probably right. Maybe it’s just that easy.

The thing about Amber is that I don’t have to look hard to see the best in her. She inspires me to care more about the people in my life. And even though she’s sitting across from me with her cheeks full of tortilla chips and cheese, she’s still one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen in person. And it’s impossible not to feel good when I’m around her. And if there’s one thing I want to tell her, it’s this:

I don’t know what to say when you hold up two dresses and ask me to choose. Because I’m always going to pick the sluttier one. Because that’s the one I would wear if I were you. Because a sluttier dress improves your chances of getting layed. And how else are you going to know if someone likes you unless they’re having sex with you? I have no idea what women want and you’re making me feel like I’m not being a very good gay when you put me in this position.

I'd say this and she'd smile. And that's all I'd need from her.

A. Champ & a champ.

Friday, May 11, 2012

32 Gay Things That Give Me Anxiety

24. Kelly Clarkson's pot roast arms
  1. Being asked by a girl to go shopping with her
  2. Any sort of "pride event" where I might run into someone I know
  3. Southern Decadence Festival
  4. The Logo network and its programming
  5. The pressure to buy designer underwear
  6. Foam parties
  7. That vulgar "p-word" for female genitals. The genitals give me anxiety as well, but strangely not as much as someone saying the "p-word" in company
  8. Pray The Gay Away camps
  9. The reality that one day Oprah will die
  10. Memoirs
  11. Cooking demonstrations
  12. Second tier opinion leading status behind Japanese girls
  13. Halloween
  14. Being asked if I like the musical Rent
  15. The gym
  16. Scarves
  17. The way that all drag queens are bossy and rude
  18. Drag bingo
  19. Drag anything
  20. RuPaul's three decades of fame
  21. The pressure to have an opinion on Chik-fil-A
  22. Tank top tan lines [or severe burns in my case]
  23. Manscaping
  24. Kelly Clarkson's giant pot roast arms and her relentless mission to show them off with sleeveless JC Penney tops
  25. Christina Aguilera's questionable taste [in everything]
  26. Debra Messing's career
  27. Chaz Bono
  28. Chit chat before/after tricking
  29. Diet pills
  30. Tying a bow tie
  31. Butt stuff
  32. Bieber Fever

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Instagramming My Way To Hell

I'm no Tammy Trendsetter, but when it comes to certain things, I'm way ahead of the curve. And when I say "certain," I mean oddly specific. Movie posters for instance. As of three minutes ago, I've seen every international one sheet that's been created for a current or upcoming major motion picture. Boom.

I'm also creepily into singles that are destined for future ubiquity ("No Lie" by 2 Chainz will be a summer 2012 anthem), and impending women's fashion trends (keep an eye out for batshit Louboutin shoes this fall).
That's all you, Viola Davis.
However, I do feel extremely 2000-and-late on the whole Instagramdemic. I fought it and fought it until I finally gave in and drank the Tool-Aid. Even though I knew I was far behind, I embraced it with the fire of a Alabama book burnin'.

If you're not familiar, Instagram is an app that allows you capture images and then add filters and effects before sharing them with your friends, followers, and contacts. Simple, yes. Prudent, not exactly. The thing about Instagram is that the rules for censorship aren't as tight defined as Facebook. I've actually seen someone's ladybusiness (tastefully overlaid with a Kelvin filter and a water drop), but still.

Shortly after witnessing full-on underpants hamster, I felt myself begin to loosen up about what I posted. And although I wasn't sharing shots of m'junk, I posted things that a FB audience might deem inappropriate. And for the sake of credibility, here are my last three Instagrams.
Caption: "My glass calls it likes he sees it."

Caption: "Possible side effects."

Caption: "Conquered & claimed."
My point: I don't always fairly represent myself. I looked back after testing the lax boundaries and "intimate" audience of Instagram and didn't see any pictures of me holding puppies or teaching dyslexic kids how to read without fucking up. Just me, booze, and home incarceration ankle bracelets. If you only knew me through Instagram, you might assume that was just some drunk trollop; running around town like a cat in heat.

I was going to close this out with a smart quip about "not seeing the whole picture," but I decided that I would be lying to you. That's me. It's all me. In really classy filters that highlight my best features. So instead, I'm going to close with the most valuable takeaway from this whole thing: Ladybusiness.

*Drops mic. Walks away.*