Bold Roast

I’m sitting at a small table at a small coffee shop because I’m supposed to.

I’ve only been here twice before. The first time, I was with my parents, although I’m not too crystal on the details. On a Sunday morning, they’d popped in from New Orleans to have lunch with me, but I didn’t hear the knock at the door because I was four hours into a vodka-drenched coma. When I say that they popped in, I mean that they gave me two weeks’ notice and then reminded me every day following the announcement — I just got myself hammered and forgot that they were visiting. When I finally came to, they’d let themselves in and were pounding on my bedroom door. Fifteen minutes later, I was propped up at a table for three at Blue Dog Café, wearing someone’s Tulane University hoodie and a backwards cap. I suggested we come to this coffee house after lunch because I wanted a half hour to tap dance back into their good graces. And it worked. They left having forgotten that their eldest son put his drinking problem before them again, and I got to go home and upchuck crawfish and espresso gumbo before throwing myself onto the couch and sleeping through the VMAs.

So I’m sitting at a small table at a small coffee shop because I’m supposed to. This is what writers do when they want to write, right? This is supposed to be our mothership; our home base for creative incubating. Take in the aromas of Chilean blend and forced banter between couples on their first dates and write something beautiful. That’s what I’m trying to do, at least.

Let’s start with the things that I know for sure:

1. I am not suffering from writer’s block.
2. I have plenty to write about.
3. I am developing a fear of my own writing.
4. I have very mixed feelings about The Dark Knight Rises (TDKR), and that’s not helping. 

Now I’m sitting at a small table at a small coffee shop because I’m supposed to. I’ve come to the beacon by which great writers before me have found their way. I’ve come to sort through my thoughts and just type something for Christ’s sake. I’ve come here because I feel disorganized, and manic, and lazy.

I’m not going to say everything right now. But I will say that I’m going to try harder. I’m going to tell you stories about the second job I’ve acquired; bartending at a start-up gay bar. And I’m going to tell you about the guy I was dating until 12 hours ago when I stopped dating him. And I’m going to tell about my exboyfriends. And I’m going to tell you about myself.

The second time I came to this coffee shop was five days ago. I was being interviewed for a profile in the local newspaper, and I actually had to take a moment to think about where I was going before I left my office. During our conversation, the interviewer told me that she read my blog and thought I was talented. And I just looked down, bit my lip, and said “thank you.” She didn’t know that I’d been experiencing daily panic attacks, induced by my own ambivalence.

But then I looked up, flipped my imaginary mane of auburn hair, and said to her, "Actually, I'm working on something new."

Something He Should Know

I want the guy I’m dating to know certain things about me.

I want him to know that I won’t ever look him in the eyes when he’s kissing me, and I’ll never make a sound during foreplay. Because I think that it encourages him and I want him to be occupied with trying harder.

If he does something to upset me during sex, I’m going to wait until we finish, and then leave him alone in bed while I jump in the shower. If there were candles burning, I’ve already snuffed them out on my way to the bathroom. If he hasn’t tried to get in the shower with me by the time I re-enter the room, I’m going to strut around naked while he asks me if I’m okay. Because I’m trying to make him feel uncomfortable with my level of self-confidence. I won’t hurry to put clothes back on, and I will roll my shoulders back when I face away from him. Because I’m genuinely proud of my back. He will stare from my bed while I crack joints and pout lips and catch flattering lighting.

If he does something to upset me while we’re out somewhere, I’m going to get drunker. And when I know that he’s looking at me in the bar, I’ll already be texting someone else. And I won’t waste my smile until I’m certain that his eyes are on me. I’ll beam warmly at the small, glowing screen and he’ll assume that I’m texting another guy – someone who’s taller and older and doesn’t hurt my feelings. But I won’t be. It’ll probably be Joey or John or Amber or Rhett. But I don’t want him to know that. Because fuck him, right?

I want him to know that I can break his heart.

And when it’s time to end things, I won’t know. He's going to have to tell me. He'll say that I drink too much or that he needs to go back to the way he used to be – before us. But when he tells me that we're over, I'll want him to know that I only acted like a dick because I felt challenged. I'll want him to know that he was different. And that I'll eventually romanticize our relationship and remember him as a god. I was never worthy. And then he'll screw new people and I'll write a blog about us.

But right now I'm opening the door to my room and he's in my bed. So I adjust the towel around my waist and sit on the edge. He looks up at me and smiles. And I want him to know that I'm going to try my best.

Why I'm Always Going to Make the First Move

Reck a nize.

I have zero shame or fear.

Along with the part of the brain that recognizes loneliness and that part of the stomach that says, "Stop ramming burritos into your mouth, you're hurting me!" I was born without shame or rational fears. My willingness to put myself out there and/or embarrass myself knows no boundaries. One time I even karaoked 99 Problems to a room full of gay black gentlemen at George’s Place in Baton Rouge. Please don't confuse this behavior with confidence – it's just blatant disregard for what's going to happen next. I don't care if I make an idiot of myself. Or if you're not interested. Or if you've already got a boyfriend. I'm still going to do it. Because why the fuck not? What's life without risk? And chances are I’ll say something about dicks or break into the Tootsie Roll to get your attention. You might as well humor me and let me steamroll you with my hilariousness. I’m not saying that you’re making a good decision, but it’s easier than fighting it.

I'm too impatient.

My patience is limited to drinking at the bar while we wait for the hostess to tell us that our table is ready. Otherwise, it’s hard for me to wait for anything. It hurts my soul to sit on hold with Apple, and I would rather a swift kick to the balls than have to visit the DMV. Most of the time, I’m going to make the first move because I’m not going to wait for you.

I'm feeling empowered and I need to channel it.

Sometimes it’s not even about you. Sometimes I’m just competing in my own private Olympics. Certain variables can make me feel brave enough to just go for it. That Karmin song “Brokenhearted” or a table tap of Andygator can give me just enough boost to throw caution to the wind. There’s a genuine power that comes from the ability to impress one’s self. I want to go there. And then I want to nod my head and think, “Jesus. I can’t believe that went so well.” It’s my version of win-win.

I'm better at it than you are.

I run more game than President Snow. This is my wheelhouse. Imma do me. 

My daddy told me to.

I learned at a very young age that things were not going to come easy for me. Being born with a fluffy red afro and a walk like Christina Hendricks was the beginning of an uphill battle for this little homo that could. So I trained myself to be assertive so that I could take the things that I wanted. And thanks to my father, I learned that girls are no different than elections or attention – they are acquired by those who want them. He taught me that no woman was out of my league, which was both noble and stupid. His confidence was a double-edge sword, though, and was often mistaken for misogyny, which my mother detested and I thought was hysterical. I can remember watching this dude handle the check-out lady at Walgreens and thinking that he was gifted with more charisma than George Clooney. And even though I had to adapt my dad’s heirloom advice toward members of my own sex, I do my best to honor him. So if you see me relentlessly flirting with a guy who’s clearly some Czech tennis player/underwear model, it’s because I have a dad who taught me that I could do anything. So I’m going to try.

Ryan and the Wolf

Fiona Apple’s first album in seven years, “The Idler Wheel…” will finally be available next Tuesday. But that doesn’t matter because NPR started streaming it earlier this week, and it’s the only thing I’ve listened to for the last three days. And let me tell you, it’s a carousel of torture. Bitch brings the break-up album to a new level. Alanis Morissette could choke on it, and Adele can bow the fuck down. Miss Apple puts them to shame. And I will eat shit if it isn't nominated for Album of the Year or at least the perched atop a dozen Best of 2012 lists.

Miss thing serving up squid hat realness.

My favorite track is “Werewolf,” a song where Apple compares her lover to a werewolf, a chemical, and a shark only to turn around take the blame for making him that way.

"I could liken you to a werewolf the way you left me for dead,
But I admit that I provided a full moon.
And I could liken you to a shark the way you bit off my head,
But then again I was waving around a bleeding an open wound."

I think my affection for the song comes from its mystery. Is she taking the stance of a Lifetime movie protagonist with the “he hits me because I deserve it” mindset or is she taking ownership of her own toxicity? Of course I’d like to believe the later. Mostly because this whole sentiment hits close to home, and I’d like to count myself in the company of Fiona Apple.

I’ve been there. And sometimes I feel like I’m still waist deep in it. That revelation that everyone has the power to poison — even you.

Especially you.

If you’ve even been in love, then you understand what a slippery slope manipulation can be. You learn where a person’s buttons are and then you have to tell yourself not to push. Once you find a chink in their armor or a way under their skin, it’s hard to forget where it is.

Human decency is only as good as your refusal to exploit others. That sounds like the theme of a Coen Brothers movie, but it’s the bleak reality. And now I’m starting to feel like Gretchen Weiners during her “we should totally just stab Caesar” rant. I have no idea how I made the leap from Fiona Apple to here. Fuck it. I made some vaguely intelligent observations and managed to sound brooding and introspective. Psych ya.

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.

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

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.*