Tricks From The Crypt!

In morbid self-discovery news: I equate breaking-up with dying.

After reading Joan Didion’s heartbreaking self-portrait, A Year of Magical Thinking, I decided that losing a husband is the same as being dumped by someone you love. Because I’m a drama queen slash douchebag. The author would describe her reactions to stumbling upon some of her husband’s old clothes or losing herself in a memory and I would think, “Joan…I’ve been where you are. It gets better.” I’d catch myself relating to the author and shake my head at the absurdity. These people had been married for several decades, whereas I consider three weeks with the same person “hanging in there.” And although I was completely aware of the disconnect between Miss Didion and myself, I found myself clutching my heart and letting single tears purposefully fall onto the pages.

The truth is, I’ve never really known anyone that has died. Well actually, my former Black History professor passed away two summers ago. By the grace of God, Mr. Orchid’s death is the closest that the concept of mortality has touched me. I’m very grateful to have spent 23 years on Earth without having a close family member or friend pass on. But it’s no wonder that a severe break-up or totaled car would be my emotional cataclysm.

Exboyfriends and the impressions they leave behind are my ghosts. Last night I was sifting through my hard drive, making space for new music, and I came across an mp3 that I’d never seen before. The song was a cover of that praise and worship song “I Can Only Imagine,” sung by a guy from Baton Rouge that I’d slept with only twice. I can honestly admit that I had never heard this song before, nor could I recall how I’d obtained the mp3. But as my former trick’s voice floated through my earbuds, I’d found myself smiling and thinking about the few times we spent together. But to me, he was dead now. A spirit of my early twenties.

There are three events that occur in the wake of losing someone you love:
1. Finding the body / The break-up
2. The funeral / The awkward closure conversation
3. The grieving period / The month you spend sleeping with strangers and dancing on top of things

But since I am myself, this process is expedited to a hasty degree. I value a clean break, and believe that tears are for Virgin Mary statues and gays reading Joan Didion memoirs. If I spent all my time smelling an exboyfriend’s t-shirt or writing letters that I’ll never send, how could I ever find out what’s next?

A resilient heart is more powerful than a tactful mind. And even though I’m haunted by my heart’s investments, I still find new life more attractive than old souls.

I Just Need To Dance

One time I broke-up with a guy because I wanted to paint more. Which is a lie.

Honestly, I ended things because I felt smothered and I didn't know how to gingerly break someone's heart yet. So I told him that I needed to find myself. My journey required that I go back to doing the things that I was passionate about. I told him that I didn't feel alive anymore and that I craved inspiration. I sat with him on the couch in the first post-dorm house and did my best to let him down easy. He and I had been dating for several months across the Texas-Louisiana border, and days after he moved back to his hometown of Lafayette, Louisiana, I wanted out. But I didn't know how to tell him. So I told him that I wanted to read, write, travel, paint, escape student activities, and invest more time in my family. I assured him that he had been an exceptional boyfriend and that my issue was with my lackluster soul. And as the words fell out of my mouth, I began to believe them.

The hardest part was when he asked why he couldn't be with me to do all of those things. And I looked away in my best impression of  Mischa Barton's character in The OC and said, "I have to do this alone."  

The saddest part is that I spent the next three days partying my ass off and making out with strangers in bars. And then on the fourth day after our break-up, I met a guy and dated him for the next two years.

I guess I'll start that painting now.

Best Supporting Queer in a Relationship Goes To...

Included in my plethora of insane dating idiosyncrasies is my need to slap labels on everyone and everything.

Example: I can look back at certain romantic relationships and fit each into a genre of film. My relationship with my only exgirlfriend, Muffin, was a coming-of-age love story that unquestionably resembled The Wonder Years…or maybe Let The Right One In. After that, I was cast opposite my first boyfriend, Ferriday, in a tragedy worthy of a Nicholas Sparks novel. He stopped taking his antidepressants and forgot why he was dating me in the first place. It was like The Notebook if everyone were chain-smoking and making out with random trade in the bathroom stall at Splash. After that, The Dean and I co-starred in our own quirky romantic comedy about maturity and the male gender. And no one bought tickets. Following that, McBougie and I gave Oscar-worthy performances in our own adaptation of Revolutionary Road; self-administered abortion included. Finally, I took a turn against my typecasting when I accepted a character opposite Wit’s End in a Coen Brothers-esk East Texas meets South Louisiana drama where the credits finally role and everyone looks at one another and wonders aloud, “What the fuck just happened!?” Most recently, I wrapped shooting on my latest project: an animated short with a guy from Lake Charles that I will henceforth refer to as “Geronimo.” Trailer release date TBA.

Apart from the expected comedy and drama performances, I’ve also done sci-fi and the occasional supernatural thriller. Meet a trick out in some trailer park in Cade, Louisiana, and you will understand what it feels like to be in a Lars von Trier movie. The fear will immerse you.

In addition to film parallels, I’ve also developed a cataloguing system based on recording artist credits. Norah Jones released an album a few years ago called “…Featuring Norah Jones,” in which every track credited Jones as either the primary artist or the featured artist. Inspired by this format, I decided that at the end of each committed relationship, I would look back and declare myself deserving of majority credit, or the doom of living between parenthesis. In the interest of full disclosure, I offer this statement:

As selfish and self-centered as I can be, I’m even more of an attention whore. I’ve accepted the fact that I am an embarrassingly shameless gay stereotype, and my peace is with God.

Translation: I don’t like being some slampiece’s fucking sidekick. Look, I understand that every relationship is a partnership, but frankly, I have enough anxiety than to deal with without the baggage of closure. Let me decide if I’m T-Pain or John Mayer. I sleep better at night knowing that Geronimo carried most of the weight of our short relationship while I simply paid for drinks and dinner.

The bottom line: My brain is too saturated in pop culture to not create my reality with its influence. Sometimes it makes more sense to frame certain events as movies I’ve seen; people become synonymous with certain songs I’ve heard. Life — and dating more specifically — can overwhelm. But remembering someone as Young Jezzy can make it a little more bearable.

Reggie George is flawless

Even though I’ve been known to play the role of the villain in my relationships, I’d like to think of myself as a relatively decent person. I’m polite to the checkout girls at Rouse’s and I’m generally kind to strangers — especially when they’re really cute, male, and standing within groping distance. I may be a godless daywalker, thanks to my red hair, freckles, and fair skin, but I’ve got a heart, dammit. Ginger or not, I can be a regular youth minister sometimes. You figure out what that means.

Now that I’ve presented my defense for having a soul swimming around inside me, I’d like to clarify that it’s not much of one. My bad nature dominates most of my demeanor and makes me an excellent candidate for an all-male Mean Girls reinterpretation. I’d play Regina George. But maybe in this production, I’d be named Reggie to better identify my gender. I’d be Reggie George, King of the Plastics. Except my power wouldn’t come from my superficial ideals. I would just be the meanest douche in all of my mostly white, co-ed public high school.

And all I would need for my audition would me a list of mean things I’d said before. Maybe it’s a list of the bitchiest things that I’ve said to guys. Or better yet, exboyfriends! I’d prepare a quick, effortless monologue lifted from an actual argument I’d had with a past boyfriend and punctuate it with one of my most callous comments on the list. I would sit in the hallway while the other guys pranced in and out of the auditorium and list the 20 bitchiest things that I’ve actually said to men that I’ve dated, and then I'd number them according to level of cruelty. And the list would look something like:

20. I'd rather go to a Nickelback concert than relive this date with you.
19. At least people want to have sex with me. Can't say the same for you, jackass.
18. You're new boyfriend is obviously cheating on you and it's probably worth it for him.
17. Everything about you looks like a muppet.
16. You've slept with more people than me. That makes you Emperor of Whores.
15. You fucking deserve this.
14. It's like a penis, only smaller.
13. I'm sure the trailer park you grew up in was beautiful.
12. You're the fattest person to ever speak to me that way.
11. You're just bad at sex because you were a virgin when we met and there's nothing I can do to fix you.
10. You're crazy like your mother.
9. I hope one of those guys in Europe fucked up your immune system.
8. I can't hear you through those fucked up teeth.
7. As a matter of fact, I'm not really sure who gave me these scratches.
6. You went to public school. Fucking gross.
5. You are the fucking Antichrist.
4. Well, if your dad wasn't facedown in some halfway house, I'm sure he'd be very disappointed in you.
3. I'd rather shoot myself in the dick than marry you.
2. Yeah, well at least I have parents.
1. No one will ever fuck you and love you at the same time.

And when I scream “No one will ever fuck you and love you at the same time!” at my invisible boyfriend under the gelled stage lights, the producers would collectively gasp and shutter in their high-backed chairs. And one would whisper to another, “I think we’ve found our Reggie!” And I would humbly smile as if I hadn’t heard him, thank them for the opportunity, and briskly strut towards stage left, disappearing behind the curtain and silently expressing gratitude for the guys who’ve dated me and lived to talk about it.

Sincerely Over It

Every morning I leave my apartment, lock the door behind me, and trot down the stairs until I land on a concrete slab. I round my building, and depending on the shoes I’m wearing, I either take the sidewalk or cut through the grass. My Jeep is on the opposite side of my building and I usually have to walk about thirty steps from my front door to reach the driver’s side handle. On my stroll through grass or sidewalk, my eyes look for the windshield of my car. And I don’t break my stare until I can establish whether or not there’s a piece of paper under the windshield wiper. Once I know that there isn’t a note, I’m free to look anywhere and my mind to return to un-paranoia.

One of my exboyfriends has a habit of leaving notes on my car. It started when we were dating. I would be in a University Program Council meeting and unable to accept his calls for several hours, and when I’d return to my car in the evening, there’d be a note. The messages were always sugary and never consisted of more than five or so words. A year has passed since our break-up and he still leaves little reminders that he’s alive. The last note said “Cross your heart. Cross it!” and ended with a heart and his signature. He wrote this message on back of a Gulf Coast Bank statement, and on the reverse, he’d scratched out his account information with a ballpoint pen. Which was really charming.

I wish I’d saved some of his notes from break-up box hell. I’d make a collage of his sweet poetry and mail it back to him with my own love letter. I’d write the words in black ink on simple, wide ruled paper and each letter would be as big as my middle finger. And then when he’d open the FedEx box and sift through the styrofoam packaging peanuts, and he’d find my note taped to a framed mosaic of paper-mache heartbeats. And the note would read,

“Write me off. Sincerely over it.”

And then the camera would cut to me walking in slow motion down a busy Manhattan sidewalk while my boobs and hair leisurely bounce and “The Blower’s Daughter” plays in the background. And I wouldn’t look behind me. Just right into the camera. Fade to black. Roll credits.

Look Dad, No Shame!

Growing up in New Orleans, my dad dragged me red afro-first into every organized sport that Terrytown Playground offered. Between the ages of five and thirteen, I alternated seasons between baseball, soccer, basketball, and football. Once high school began, I used my conditioning skills and knowledge of sportsman-like conduct to take up wrestling. I wasn’t any good, but I was a part of a state-winning team two years in a row and earned my varsity letterman jacket after three years. In college I swam, ran, and practiced yoga. This discipline to always be engaged in some sort of physical activity is attributed one hundred percent to my father.

My dad coached me in every sport. Even when I was wrestling, he could coach me from our living room on my form and technique, even though he’d never set foot on a mat. My dad is the absolute definition of athleticism. Even today at 56, he can outrun, outswim, and outperform me or my little brother without even taking off his Brass Boot loafers. He is what most men would call “a badass.”

Dad taught me many things about the relationship between becoming a man and athletics, but the most important (and probably misguided) lesson that I live by is this:

You either win or you don’t win.

Let me clarify: Not winning doesn’t equal losing. It just means that you didn’t win. Which is worse.

I was at a party the other night and around the part when everyone was gathering their escalating hammered-ness and heading downtown, the drunkest girl in the room got a text from her exboyfriend. She began screaming and fist-pumping her phone in exaltation, while all of us looked on with confusion and annoyance. She twirled in a circle and yelled “I won! I won!” until finally someone asked her what was going on. Apparently she and her boyfriend had broken up several months before, and he’d just texted her to see how things were going. She said that they hadn’t spoken since Christmas and that this was the first contact that either one of them had attempted. This, she equated with “winning.”

Drunk Girl’s exhibition may have appeared bananas to some of the party guests, but I knew where she was coming from. You see, Drunk Girl and I both come from a background in athletics where you either win or you don’t win. After a nearly four-month Mexican stand-off, her exboyfriend contacted her, and in accordance with the laws of dating, she won the break-up. After watching Drunk Girl gleefully bounce around the room and chug her White Zinfandel from a plastic cup, I gave her a hug and congratulated her on the victory. I’d been in her shoes many times before, and I wanted her to know that her patience had paid off and she deserved to celebrate.

I’ve won more break-ups than I’ve not won, and I feel like a few are still in play. But winning doesn’t just mean that you hold out until they text you. After a certain point, if neither party contacts the other, other factors need to be considered in determining a winner. For me, I consider the following: changes in appearances since break-up, current relationship status, quality of new relationship versus old relationship, progression of self, and finally, happiness. If they outscore me on their evaluation, then I concede defeat and congratulate them quietly on a good game. Not really. I jog around the block until I dry heave, and then I feel too skinny to cry about it.

I’m sure my father would feel less than excited to see how his first born son has unraveled the wisdom he’s tried so desperately to instill in him. Other lessons that I’ve completely misinterpreted:

Date around a little before you decide to settle down. Cut to me with three boyfriends in the same city.

Grey Goose is the standard of vodka. Drink it on ice with two olives. Cut to me waking up in my car on a weekday with a puddle of urine at my feet.

Fuck what people think when you’re on vacation. You’ll never have to see them again. Cut to me on a bar in Playa del Carmen without pants.

I love my dad and I love our system of win/no win. It works for us, and most importantly, it helps cut out the gray area that that tends to bog most people down. And in the cloudy, hemorrhoid-inducing world of boy-on-boy dating, it helps to have a system that works.

Welcome to Ferriday

I met my first boyfriend at a gay bar on Bourbon Street. What do you want from me? I'm not running for Jesus, here.

Like most of life's milestones, it was a complete chance encounter that happened as a series of events unexpectedly came together. I wasn't even supposed to go out that night.

I was on my way home from a long night of waiting tables when my friend Lesly called me to meet her at Oz. I told her probably not, but then reconsidered when I came home to an empty house. I was under the strobe lights within twenty minutes.

We were sitting at a two-person table near an opening in the wall that overlooked the dancefloor when I saw him.

I remember saying something like, "Jesus, the dude looks shitfaced." He was the only guy in sea of shirtless men who 1.) was younger than 30 and 2.) had all of his clothes on. He was also the cutest guy I'd seen in real life. His little blonde mop top was shooting around like a pinball from shirtless bearded man to shirtless bearded man. The look on his face said "I've had multiple handgrenades and I'm having trouble living right now."

By the time I was trashed enough to start dancing, I'd stopped keeping tabs on his whereabouts. And then he bumped into me.

He looked me dead in the eyes and said, " Can you please pretend to be my boyfriend so this fucking weirdo will stop grabbing on me?" He motioned to the six foot tall bear behind him and grabbed my hand with his. I pulled him close to me, smiled, and started grinding until Fuzzy McGee got the hint and pranced away.

He asked me to be his real-life boyfriend a week later.

I started calling him Ferriday, his hometown and source of his thick, Central Louisiana twang. Our relationship only lasted a few months, but it stressed me out more than the time I thought Wit's End gave me gonorrhea. It also taught me everything I'd ever need to know about my boundaries and my threshold for patience.

Our relationship may or may not have completely wasted me for all the men that followed, but he helped me become the lovable chauvinist with a heart of gold that writes a blog about being a shitty boyfriend.

...and now he's the fiancé of a 49 year-old lawyer in Lake Charles. Everyone wins.