Just My Type

You know when you see a crew of inmates picking up litter by the side of the road and there's always that one white guy with vaguely bleached hair and a neck tattoo? That's my type.

Danger. That’s what I’m after.

I may have been raised in the wrong part of New Orleans, but my subdivision had a fucking bird sanctuary in it for Christ’s sake. So when I try to establish street equity by saying “I’m from the Westbank,” there’s really no need to feel threatened. My family had box seats at The Saenger.

I can defend myself, though. I wrestled varsity in high school and one time I got thrown out of a bar for fighting. But to be fair, it was a gay bar. At a foam party. And by thrown out, I mean the bartender smacked his bottle opener against the bar and screamed, “STOP SLAPPING HER!”

I’m a huge pussy when it comes to manual labor and basically anything that might be slightly uncomfortable. Since I was little boy, I avoided anything that couldn’t be performed without air conditioning. One time, I told my mom that playing Wave Race on N64 counted as a sport because it made my heart beat fast and improved my reflexes. Even now, at the age of 25, I get anxious and sweaty just thinking about mowing the yard. Which is why I pay someone to do it for me. Most days, I just want to lie on the couch and have nachos and Double Doozies crammed into my mouth. And then I want to watch several hours of RuPaul’s Drag Race while I shotgun champagne. And then I want to fly off into the night sky on a Hippogriff and never lift a finger again. Some men dream of becoming President. I dream of exploring new fathoms of laziness, wrapped inside a down comforter.

I have asthma and I drive a bright green Ford Fiesta. I’m the opposite of dangerous — skittish even. Which is why dangerous men appeal to me. That chiseled inmate with half a cigarillo hanging out his mouth doing litter abatement? He’s got what I want.

Well, not necessarily him. The idea of him. The real him is frightening and I’m sure he’d be mean and call me “Twinkie dick” or something. I guess the synthetic version is what I like. Think: Ryan Gosling in The Place Beyond The Pines. Oh, let me tell you; when homeboy appeared on-screen with that store-bought dye job and all those jagged, homemade tattoos, I could practically hear my boner against the bag of popcorn. Yeah, that’s my type: A non-threatening bad boy who makes his own rules and also has a neck tattoo. Someone imaginary and impractical.

Instead, I have Andy who is basically a big goofy stuffed animal whose idea of bad behavior is walking around in his underwear in his own room. Maybe one night I'll be out with Andy and some drunk prick will walk over and hit on him. Maybe then I'll have to inform this prick that Andy's with me. Maybe things will escalate and I'll drop into a staggered stance before tackling his ass to the ground and jamming my elbow into the back of his neck. Maybe then I'll have to spend the night in jail.

And that's where I'll meet the man of my dreams. 

*popcorn boner*

Figgy Goat Cheese

Andy,

I thought there’d be more like letters.

Turns out, there won’t be because our situation has advanced.

Instead, I have to do something different — something like this. I don’t ever want to write you a love letter because love letters are for pining, and pining is also something Christmas trees do, and I am not a Christmas tree.

If you haven’t realized it yet, I’m always trying to make you laugh. You and I both know I’m hilarious, but it makes my chest feel dense and fluffy at the same time [like the inside of a mattress] when my hilarity is rewarded with one of your hiccupy, Disney animal friend laughs. And sometimes, when I’m not feeling particularly funny, I just ask you to laugh for me, just so I can hear your fake laugh. It’s thrilling to think the rest of my life could be full of your laughter, peppered by a few fake ones here and there. I especially like the idea of the fake ones, because to me, synthetic laughter is conscious appeasement. And who doesn’t want to be consciously appeased?

That’s like love but with effort.

I get the same dense-fluffy-inside-of-a-mattress feeling when you say things like, “Oh, we can just pick up one of those supper to-go bags from Whole Foods whenever we don’t feel like eating out or doing any heavy cooking.” We haven’t had the opportunity to buy one of those bags yet because we’re too busy eating in restaurants or undertaking some complicated at-home dinner menu, but I like knowing we have the option. Even better, I like that you give us the option.

I never think too far ahead, but you do. You’re planning for a day when we might need a heat and serve prepared dinner for the grocery store, and that’s astonishing to me. Why? Because you might want to have dinner with me again in the future, and you already have a back-up plan.

It doesn’t even bother me that you call it “supper” and not “dinner” like a normal person.

I was going to write much more, but you just pulled up outside my office window and yanked me away from my computer — just to see me before heading home. Readers will think I’m trying to be poignant and convenient, but you seriously just drove off. Now, after you’ve gone, I feel inspired to say something that’s freshly minted in the wake of your absence, but all I can think of are phrases I’ve already heard. There’s no fate worse for a writer than becoming a cliché. But all I can come up with are lines from books and movies. See? That sentence itself is cliché, and I’m doing my damn best to sound original!

How about this: You’ve become my favorite thing to find on the receiving end of my awkward, prolonged stares.

No, not that.

How about: Thinking about you is like delicious figgy goat cheese for my heart.

Yeah. That’s the one. I know no one else will get that, but I don’t care because you do.

And that’s just about perfect.

Love,
Ryan

Some Unpornographic Backstory

Spotted Dicks – Part II

I couldn’t exactly watch gay porn when my mom and dad were home, so I started printing out pictures and hiding them upstairs in my room. These were painfully low-res images of dudes self-gratifying or engaging in partnered activities, many of which appeared to be shot in someone’s living room in the Czech Republic.

For the most part, these guys were stocky, blonde, and uncircumcised — a highly targeted group I believed to be engineered by God to make my privates tingle. To make the experience more intimate, I’d give each guy a name and a very unpornographic backstory. There was Hans who made jewelry out of scrap copper wire. Derek, a former game show model. Tripp, a shy insurance salesmen. Luigi, a mobster’s son. And then there was Hamilton, who had pecs like two skillets and blue eyes that saw past my acne and red hair. I imaged that Hamilton worked nights at a steel mill and used the money earned from porn to chip away at the mounting hospital bills from his little brother’s leukemia treatment. He was kind to animals and brought his own canvas bags to the Latvian Whole Foods Market. Plus, his dick was like plop.

With anywhere between four and twelve of these gentlemen spread out on the floor of my room, I’d prop myself up on one elbow and get to work with my free hand. When I was finished, I’d fold each picture eight ways before cramming them into a tin X-Men lunchbox I kept behind the bottom drawer of my dresser. No one came into my room anyway, but I just wanted to be cautious. And just short of a Harry Potter concealing charm, my private stash was pretty well-hidden.

In the summer of 2002, I attended a weeklong wrestling camp at Appalachian State University, returning home to find my bedroom slightly modified. TV shows like Trading Spaces, Surprise By Design, and While You Were Out were really big at the time and I’m guessing my parents thought they could pull off a covert redesign without the aid of a professional team or a budget. So they tried and they failed. They opted for a Japanese motif — complete with globular paper lanterns and a Buddha statue with the barcode from World Market still on the bottom. Gone were the bunk beds, replaced with a black futon, and on the walls hung gesture drawings from my freshman art class in cheap plastic frames. My bedroom was now devoid of natural light because my father, who I’d never even seen hold a hammer, built a “privacy screen” out of muslin and plywood and retrofitted it into my window frame. I tried to ask my parents questions like Why does my room look like a prison cell in sushi jail? and Do you guys dislike me? But all that came out was “Hey, this is pretty cool.”

They looked proud of themselves so I gave them each a hug and mentally made plans to move things bit-by-bit to the trashcan in my backpack, beginning the next day. My dad turned and left, leaving my mom and me alone. I threw my suitcase onto my bed and told her I was exhausted. She said, “Okay. Also, I found that lunchbox under your dresser and looked at all the pictures in it. I almost threw up in the toilet.” And without even waiting for me to look up, she left the room.

A few weeks later, I checked to see if she’d taken the lunchbox, which she didn’t. But I never had the courage to open the latch and look inside it. All because I couldn’t ever see those Czech guys — mostly Hamilton — the same way again.

"But I miss you!"
The actual Hamilton circa 2002

Spotted Dicks

Spotted Dicks - Part I

I’ve seen enough dicks in my lifetime to die happy.

Maybe happy isn’t the right word. Satisfied, I guess. I could be on my deathbed 60 years from now without having seen a single wiener in that timespan and tell my adult children I have no regrets in the dick department. Actually, that sounds awesome and I hope it happens just so I can see the looks on everyone’s faces when I say “dick department” right before I croak.

Part flesh and part digital, my collection of spotted dicks really covers the bases of what a penis can look like. It begins with my own and ends with the three I saw on my lunchbreak today courtesy of the hardworking whores over at Men.com. Like most little boys, the first penis I ever saw in the wild was my dad’s, which only seems fair because he saw my baby dick pretty much all the time I’m guessing. After that, I saw the penis of a fellow first-grader named Demetri Costich when he waved it at me from a neighboring urinal. The only reason I remember this is because the little fucker told our teacher I was looking at his wiener in the bathroom and then that bitch called my parents. That night, I was given a stern talking to about the dangers of looking at wieners, and I hated everyone involved for the injustice I was being served. That’s why I just used Demetri Costich’s real name. He got me in trouble when I was six years old and I hope he’s dead.

I didn’t see another dick until seven years later, and then it was like dicks were crawling out the woodwork to find me. Just poking their little heads out the woodwork and singing at me through their peeholes, “Ryannnnn. Look at meeeee…” That’s what high school was like: Dancing little singing-peehole wieners just cooing and squirming for my attention.

I went to an all-boys Catholic school and I was on the wrestling team, so my opportunity to see a dick or two was greater than most people’s by a cosmic margin. Not only were vaginas completely out of the mix from the get-go, but then I went ahead joined an athletic team, which meant two things: a soul-crushing inadequacy complex that would leach itself onto me forever and mandatory group showers.

When I tell people I wrestled varsity in high school, their first response is something like, “Oh, I bet you liked that.” To which I’ll respond, “Yeah, practicing for three hours a day just to have my ass handed to me tournament-after-tournament was a fuggin blast. I’m really chubbing up right now just thinking about all the concussions I suffered, not to mention that one time a girl from a public school beat the shit out of me.” Let me be clear about something: my three years on the wrestling team were underscored by no gay motivations whatsoever. The guys were ruthless, psychotic, and always angry from cutting weight. Plus, they were mean to me because I sucked and I carried my inhaler with me everywhere. I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me, so I found it very difficult to find any of them sexually attractive. Sure, I had that fantasy of wanting one guy to “bully” me into “forced” sex, but that went away after a very tense game of British Bulldog where he cross-faced me — breaking my nose.

Over the course of three years, I saw a bunch of dicks in the locker room stolen through side-eye glances and flagrant ogling. But I wasn’t necessarily running home to melt pearls on my belly over it. These guys were my teammates. And although there was a rift between them and me, covertly using them to jack-off felt like betrayal. But, honestly, I didn’t need those guys anyway. Because when it came to spank bank material, I had a brand new perpetually replenishing source at home.

Just off the dining room was a small space we called “the computer room” because of the massive cherrywood armoire that housed a HP Pavilion, fully loaded with Windows 98, dial-up Internet, and the CompuServe web browser. And this was my gateway to a new frontier, covered in sweeping planes of dicks that bobbed on a mid-afternoon breeze before coming to rest in a collective sigh; a steady hum that sounded like someone calling my name.

Like Letter #1

Andy,

You can relax. I’m not going to say anything I haven’t already said. But I’m putting it in writing so I can remember how this started.

Last night you said, “Ask me a question.” I squirmed in the dark and moaned, “Why? I’m about to crash.” You said, “Because I want to know you better.” So I sighed into the pillow and mumbled, “Okay.” Then we volleyed questions and answers back and forth until we drifted off to sleep. That’s all I can think about this morning. It’s a little vignette I can roll around in my head and smirk over. And even though it happened in the darkness of your bedroom around midnight and my eyes were closed the entire time, the memory is colorful. I want to keep it vivid and spectacular and I want to see it from every angle. I might have been tired, but in those few minutes before sleep, I had just enough energy to appreciate how we got here.

You needed a website for your mom and dad’s company, so you contacted my agency and set up a consultation. My co-worker Aaron asked if I wanted to sit-in on a potential new business meeting, so I snatched up my padfolio and sauntered over to the conference room. That’s where I first saw you. You were tall and skinny, and not my type. Still, I found it difficult to look you in the eyes. I felt compelled to make you like me, so I seized every available opportunity to make you laugh. And when the meeting came to a close, I handed you my card and shook your hand. Then, I returned to my desk and waited for your email requesting a follow-up meeting. Two hours later, my phone bleeped and I saw a text message from an unknown number that read, “It was nice meeting you.”

Halfway though our first date, I felt the spark. I felt it in my stomach and on my skin. It was the kind of feeling you hear the Best Man describe at a rehearsal diner. The sensation that — when you listen to someone else explain — sounds mythic and elusive. But there it was; circulating through me while I watched you try to smile with half a shrimp poboy hanging out your mouth. Full disclosure: I’ve felt the spark before. But it didn’t feel like that one. And the sentiment was only muffled by the voice in my head saying, So this is what it’s like and He’s the guy.

I’ve experienced whirlwind romances before. They’re all ego, and reckless behavior, and insecurity, and white-hot passion that needs to be kept over a flame or else it frosts over. This isn’t like that.

It’s different. You’re different. And not just because you have that weird thumb deformity.

You’re too good to be true, and I would never say that to someone or put it out there for the entire world to see, but this isn’t just a story for my blog. Speaking of my blog: I will continue writing about my dick, and other peoples’ dicks, and stories that make good stories, because I don’t take any behavioral meds and I don’t go to therapy, and this seems to work for me.

My best friends are waiting for me to get bored and my mom is crossing her fingers and lighting a St. Jude candle on her nightstand. As for me, I like you. But the like is deep and roomy, with enough space for you to teach me to speak French and for me to teach you how to dance.

Like,
Ryan

Let's Talk About Straight Guys Who Want Gay Guys To Blow Them

Last night, I was sitting on the couch watching RuPaul's Drag Race and enjoying a lovely Michelob Ultra when I received the following direct messages on Facebook from a complete stranger:

Now don't get me wrong; I'm super flattered by this. And even though I made the choice to protect this person's identity, let me tell you that he is a fucking knockout. He's massive and juiced up, and he's extremely attractive if you like meat heads. He's the type of guy most of us would call gross, but then totally fuck if we could guarantee no one would ever find out about it.

THAT BEING SAID: What an asshole, right?!

Him: "Hey, I heard faggots like to suck off straight guys, and I'm willing to give you the opportunity because I'm hammered."

Me: "Oh, golly! You mean it? Jeez, what an advocate you are. My people really can't get enough straight dick, and I'm glad you're stepping out of your comfort zone to take one for the other team. Really, I don't know how we'd function as a community without heterosexual men looking to get their rocks off. As if there aren't enough dicks to go around between us. They should build a statue in your likeness and stick it next to the bust of Harvey Milk. This isn't audacious or insulting at all, though I'm happy to hear you're sorry. But there's really no need for that. I'm sure it was just a drunken lapse of judgement. You seem like a sweet guy that any girl would be lucky to have. Oh, and next time you have a '1 time offer,' just take moment to consider all the people you've lied to your entire life. Especially yourself. And thanks again for throwing us a bone. Ha! Get it? Dick joke."

I feel like a lot of people might have questions about this straight male/gay male misunderstanding and its implications, and I'd be glad to discuss it with you. If you'd like to talk about it, direct message me at facebook.com/ryananthonyrogers.

And no, I'm not going to tell you who he is.

And no, I'm not going to blow you.

Here's What You Do

Meet him at a place you won’t be ashamed of when you tell the story later.

My friend met his boyfriend on Grindr, but he tells everyone they met at a coffee shop.

Don’t be like him.

Instead, go to places that don’t embarrass you.

Better yet, just avoid places that don’t fit the way you picture it.

You might not think you have control over how you meet people, but you do.

And when you meet him, you’ll know you’re supposed to be meeting him.

Maybe you’ll feel it on your skin, or in your dick, or in your stomach.

But somehow, someway, you’ll know this is happening for a reason.

And don’t lie to him.

Pamela Meyer taught me “strangers lie to each other three times within the first ten minutes of meeting each other,” so try not to do that when you meet him.

You don’t have to be clever or charming right now, so just focus on telling the truth.

And if you feel like asking him out, do so.

When you go on your first date, ask him questions.

Speak respectfully of your parents and be humble about your success.

Don’t get hammered.

Also, don’t fuck him.

Also, don’t even kiss him.

If you want to text him the next day or see him again, do so.

Over time, take notice of the way he talks about others and the way he treats members of his family.

His family might not seem important in the beginning, but his family is very important.

And when you’re with him, you’ll know you’re supposed to be with him.

Remember that feeling on your skin, or in your dick, or in your stomach?

That’s going to keep happening.

It might make you feel woozy or a little nauseated, but don’t freak out.

This isn’t a feeling you can just conjure up at will, so just ride it when it’s inside you.

When you’re ready to say “I love you,” do so.

Then say it every day after that. Even if you only say it to him while he’s asleep.

Buy him presents for no reason.

Learn to cook the things he likes.

Every now and then, put on music and slow dance with him in the living room.

Get to know his sense of humor and make him laugh often.

Make a big deal out of anniversaries.

When the two of you are at party, look at him from across the room and wink.

Draw pictures for him.

Write bad poetry for him.

Create a paper trail of your relationship.

Read and reread everything.

Your friends will always be there for you, so don’t take a big stance about how important your friends are for the sake of making him feel like he’s second-tier.

Don’t put your relationship on display. It’s only for the two of you.

Also, don’t fuck other people.

Also, don’t even kiss other people.

Forgive him when he pisses you off.

Trust him.

Don’t plan on breaking-up.

But if none of this works out, don’t ever say mean things about him to other people.

The world does not need to know how angry and disappointed you are.

Years later, after you’ve dated and fucked and made new memories with other men, remember him fondly.

Tell him you love him, even if it’s across time and space.

Whisper, “I love you,” and let it travel backwards over the days and months that rose up like mountains between the two of you in another lifetime.

And when you’re ready, write a list of the things you should have done differently.

Go back to the start.

Go back to where you first met him.

Give your younger self a checklist of items that might lead to a future in which he is still yours.

Because somewhere, you haven’t found him yet.

But you will.

You will find him again and again.