The Other Side Of The World – Part I

Last summer, on an Alaskan cruise, I slept with Dalton and Cade – but not at the same time.

Dalton was a member of the travel staff for the corporate group I traveled with. We stumbled back to his cabin on our first night on the ship, and I woke up the next morning so disoriented that I had to ask a Filipino lady on the Lido Deck where I was. She said, “I think we near Ketchikan. On the other side of the world. You okay, son? You lost?”

“I’m very lost.”

Cade was a dancer on the ms Zuiderdam (pronounced with a long "I" sound, as in “cider”). He was one of seven male dancers on the ship, and although he didn’t walk and talk as gay as someone like me, his behavior on stage was gayer than anything I’ve ever seen in my life – and I’ve been to a one-woman Amy Winehouse–themed drag show at a Mexican gay bar. I’m not joking. I watched a fat Mexican drag queen in a beehive prance around and lip-sync “Tears Dry On Their Own” and it was fathoms less gay than what Cade did on a nightly basis. The first time I watched him hump the air and flap around jazz hands in his glittery, hot pink bowler hat and suspenders to “The Pink Panther,” I laughed so hard that I literally pissed my pants and was late for dinner in the Upper Vista Dining Room.

From our second day at sea, Cade and I hung out nearly every day. We went on four dates, kissed in three different cities, and managed to hook up in just about every major local on the ship ­– my favorite being the stage on which Cade “performed.”

The actual stage.

Our romance was hasty and reckless and sloppy and I loved it. The electricity between us was tangible, and I felt like at any point, we could reach out and grab this thing that was materializing between us. I would look at him and feel starved and full at the same time. I wasn't sure if this was love, but I wanted to live in it.

On the last day before making port in Vancouver, I called Cade to confirm that we were still meeting in the Crow’s Nest for drinks, but he didn’t answer. Nor did he that night. Nor the following morning. And then I departed the Zuiderdam without having said goodbye. I teamed with the staggering herd of geriatrics and overweight children and Dalton who was poorly feigning interest in whatever was going on in his man purse and silently whispered to myself, “Don’t turn around. He’s not coming.”

The last time I saw Cade in person, he was stretched across my lap in dark recesses of the Vista Lounge Balcony.

“I’ve never felt this way about someone I just met,” he said to me.

Looking down, I smiled and pushed the collar of his shirt back to reveal the smoldering, spider web tattoo that sprawled around his shoulder like axis lines on a globe.

“Me neither. Let’s keep us this way.” I said.

The only picture of Cade and I, taken by my dad from our balcony.

By the time I touched down in Atlanta, I had one text and one voicemail from him. I didn’t bother to read the text, but his voicemail said that he was spending his second day in bed with the flu. And since the phone service was so erratic in open water, he wasn’t able to get through to me until it was too late. I deleted the message and shoved my phone into my backpack. Because fuck him.

Today, he’s my Facebook friend and that’s about it. We Skyped a few times after I returned home and after I forgave him – not just for standing me up on an epic scale, but for being irresponsible about letting me fall for him. But he had to stay. And I had to leave. And now, we like one another’s statuses, and I write smartass comments under his photos of whatever fruity dance costume he’s wearing this week.

Looking back, I think the Filipino lady on the Zuiderdam was right. We were on the other side of the world – somewhere between my normal life and a dreamscape. A place where I could marvel at my surroundings and feel things I’ve never felt before. I went away, I fell in love, I came back, and that was the end of it. 

Until it happened again.

Don’t Tell Me About What My Ex Is Doing

If you see my ex out somewhere, I don’t want to know about it. Because I’m the one that’s supposed to be out somewhere. He’s not allowed. He’s supposed to be alone in his apartment, alternating between emotional breakdowns and reorganizing the mounting stacks of Chili’s to-go boxes. If you tell me that you witnessed him in public, it only confirms that he’s still alive. And I just don’t need to know all that. I take comfort in the idea that he might be face down in a puddle of ranch dressing. Let me have that.

If you notice that my ex updated his status, or tweeted, or Instagrammed, keep it to yourself. He stopped being a sweet person with rational thoughts and ambition the moment that we broke up. Now, to me, he’s an asshole, and he doesn’t have anything to say, and he doesn’t do anything fun. So that picture that you saw of him skydiving in Interlaken was fucking doctored. And his hysterical tweet about Delcambre and its “shrimp wind” wasn’t even that funny. His whole image is smoke and mirrors, and like I said, he’s an asshole. He’s just doing it to get a rise out of me. So don’t help him.

If my ex decides to brave the world beyond the Rouse’s chip aisle and attend the same party as me, don’t warn me when you see him. If I know that a hurricane’s in the gulf, I can’t focus on work. And if I know that a former 1st tier slam piece is in the same room as me, I can’t concentrate on all the vodka I’m supposed to be shotgunning. Before leaving prematurely, I’ll spend the night staging laugh scenarios and stepping into flattering lighting. Let me see him on my own and I’ll handle it organically and gracefully.

Never mind. Tell me when that fucker walks in. I need a heads-up so that I can ensure the visibility of m’junk in these cut-offs.

But if you hear that my ex is dating someone else, keep me in the dark. After we stopped dating, his tiny sex organs fell onto the ground and were quickly snatched up by a Pomeranian. Plus, I choose to believe that I’m the last person he’ll ever do wiener stuff with before passing away of old age. But if some unfortunate, simple fruit falls for the charming way that he peppers normal conversation with mispronounced French expressions, or the look on his face when he's genuinely surprised, or the way he sleeps with an entire pillow over his eyes, I don’t think I need to know about it. It’s none of my business.

So let's all pretend that he's gone. He moved to Europe where he can finally practice his Italian and his bathhouse etiquette at the same time. He's in his apartment; forever pinned under a fallen tower of Chili's boxes, under which he survives on flecks of batter and sauce. He's just not here anymore, so we can all go about our business and we don't have to talk about what he's up to. I'm asking you nicely.

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.