vom.com

I’m hungover and I have no idea where I am. Shocker.

My head hurts worse than my bladder, but I desperately need to take care of the latter first. The cave I’ve made under the comforter is warm, but the ceiling fan looks like it’s about to come loose and fly away, and judging my sore throat, it’s been on full-speed all night. I consider crawling over the snoring shirtless guy next to me, but I’m afraid he’ll wake up and talk to me.

There's no way that I could open the can of lukewarm High Life on the nightstand right now, let alone be nice or refer to him by his name — which is probably Colby or Jacob or something. I peel the covers off of me and obnoxiously pile them onto homeboy before making my way through the pitch-black Latvian winter. 

I find the bathroom door and clumsily grope the wall for the light switch. I cower and wince at the light even though I knew it was coming and catch myself in the mirror. I’m not wearing anything but the look of disorientation. My disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes help me to resemble something out of Lord of the Rings.

I decide that Mordor Afterparty Chic isn’t a good look for me and I turn towards the toilet. And that’s when I see it. And as God as my witness, I’ve never seen anything like it before. Vomit. Everywhere. It's on the walls and the floor, stretching from the base of the tub to the sink, and covering every surface except the interior of the toilet bowl.

I am either:

A. Still sleeping. 

B. About to throw up, myself.
C. In a Lars von Trier movie.
D. About to stumble towards the vommity mess where I will piss before addressing this situation.

Answer: D for dumbass.

With everything slowly dissolving into focus, I feel the panic mounting inside of me. And although I’m almost positive that I would’ve remembered, I am faced with the big scary question: Did I do this? 

"Fuck that," I tell myself. We are not entertaining the possibility of this. So I jump to default and blame him. I wake him up and tell him that he puked everywhere and that it’s “really gross and scary.” He rolls over and the color drains out of my face. It’s the guy I’ve been dating for three weeks and his name isn't Colby. He pushes past me and into the bathroom where he closes the door behind him. He returns after what feels like ten minutes and flops back onto the bed without saying a word. And I spend the rest of the night dreaming about murder scenes.

I forgot to mention that this guy was a serious diabetic who required a MediPort in his stomach to deliver insulin. He tells me in the morning that the vomit was his reaction to the abnormal amount of Andygator coupled with the lack of medication in his system. I tell him not to sweat it and I go back to texting the real Colby. Because Colby is adult enough to manage his alcohol intake and Colby looks better in my gym shorts. 

And when Brittany Murphy and I go on our next date, I continuously point at his insulin port and ask him to pay attention to his beeper. Because I don’t want him to projectile vomit all me and my Mediterranean Hummus.

And because I’m an assbag.

A Background In Public Streaking

In addition to film production and journalism, I've also enjoyed an extraordinary career in stripping.

To be fair, my career was segmented into four isolated incidents that I've chosen to lump together into what I'm remembering as a full vocation. I don't care if that counts, but it's my life and I'll edit memories together if I feel like it.

1. San Antonio, TX, 2008- My exboyfriend and I are in town for a wedding. We go to the local gay bar on our first night and his friends enter me in the Shake Your Ass Contest. I come in third place, and then I'm immediately stripped of my title and kicked out when the emcee notices my underage hand markings. I decide that since I've shown Texas my shirtless torso and have been rewarded with a forceful escort out of Bonham Exchange, that I'll never live in that fucked-up Hicktown called Texas. And my position still stands. 

2. Baton Rouge, LA, 2007- I ditch the other Student Government deligates at dinner and head for George's Place. A group a girls from my favorite sorority are in town and need help navigating the Santa Gayby Christmas Party. Thirty minutes later, I'm up on the bar competing with a 50-something bear in a leather harness and Santa Claus hat for dollar bills. I'm so drunk that I have three girls help me down and usher me into the bathroom. I fish somewhere between 30 and 90 dollars out of my underwear and walk back to my haram. I feel a hand grab my collar and pull me through the crowd. It's my SGA President and he's pissed. He tells me on the ride home that my SGA polo was lost in the crowd and that he's not ordering me another. I feel bad so I make him pull into Jack In The Box where I buy everyone tacos and bacon cheeseburgers with my underwear money.

3. New Orleans, LA, 2010- I drunkenly compete with my boyfriend, Wit's End, and three other guys in a strip-off at Oz. Our relationship is awesomely fucked-up and I want to teach him a lesson about who wears the whorepants. I win the contest by a landslide for the sheer fact that I'm the only one wearing briefs and a backwards hat. As I exit the stage, I see my exboyfriend's best friend in the audience. I feel like I'm going to throw up. He's going to tell McBougie and then McBougie will have the post-break-up upper hand. I give the guy my first prize of some random ethnic porn DVD (because he's into that) and we bail. As predicted, McBougie calls five minutes later and says that I'm trashy. I tell him that he doesn't have parents so his point is invalid. He hangs up and I drive Wit's End home in stoney silence because I've forever ruined his ego. I smile at him and reach for his hand because I think that he's the cutest guy in the world. Even if a bar full of old queens thinks I'm cuter. Which they do. Because I won.

4. Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, 2009- It's our second night in Mexico and I've been drunk since breakfast. The five of us walk into the local gay bar and I head for the alcohol. I ask the bartender in Spanish if there will be any strippers this evening. He tells me that there's an Amy Winehouse-themed drag show, but no dancers, señor. I volunteer my services and tell him that I'll split my earnings with him. He agrees and pulls me onto the bar. I go to work for nearly three songs before I realize that everyone's staring, but no one is tipping. My friend, Jacque, flamboyantly slides pesos into my shorts, but the Wild Bunch isn't following suit. So, in a moment of Corona-soaked desperation, I decide to channel my inner Winehouse. I'm not going to go into detail, but I will say that I had a gorgeous purple bruise on my forehead the next morning from attempting something ballsy on the drag queen's swing. After my scream draws significant attention to our group, Joey and the other three forcibly remove me from the bar top while I shout for the bartender to save my underwear and serve me one more shot of tequila.

The Time I Sort Of Dated A Black Guy

The farthest I’ve come to losing my magnolia was when I dated a guy who was one half Native American. I like to think that I’m mostly an open mind, but I’ve traditionally only had an attraction to members of my own race. I blame my narcissism and maybe even my southern upbringing a little bit. It’s not that I’m opposed to exploring new things — I just love myself excessively and want to screw people that look like me.

Even down to the gingerness. Especially the gingerness.

I have an unnatural lust for white males with light hair. Don’t get me wrong. Most of my exboyfriends are brunettes. But then again, there’s a reason why I’m not dating them anymore. And Geronimo was no different.

I never asked him if he was Navajo, Mohawk, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure Mexican was closer to the truth. I started dating him out of boredom and then developed something of a fondness for him. He had olive skin, jet black hair, and one of the best bodies I’ve ever seen sans clothes. Geronimo was definitely one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever dated. But in the end, I couldn’t get past something.

We had unusually forceful and aggressive sex, but something about it was ambivalent. I avoided eye contact and moved my hand away when he reached for it. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not a cuddler by any means. I’m actually a pretty awful person to spend the night next to. I hog the covers, snore, talk, kick, and when I’m super drunk — pee on people and furniture. But even for me, spending intimate time with Geronimo was a chore. I hated the lack of interest I took in our sex and I hated sleeping next to him even more. Not to mention the bitch was barely literate and could hardly follow a conversation about Project Runway. To me, the two of us were paper dolls — joined by the hand, but without any drawn on expressions or support to keep us standing.

Although I’d never done it before, I broke up with Geronimo over the phone. Call me an insensitive bastard (because that’s my real name), but I never felt that we had anything genuine. Just because I said that he was my boyfriend didn’t make him mine. Having a significant other for the title was nothing without substance.

It’s a hard reality when you have to learn the lessons of Dating 101 as a graduate student. But in my defense, I'm sure he had his reservations as well.

Reservations. Get it?

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.