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.*

Songs That Remind Me of You

A few weeks ago, I ran the Crescent City Classic 10k in 55 minutes. That's not exactly Kenyan time, but in my mind, I ran like fucking Maurice Greene.* It was one of the proudest moments of my life and true vindication for my adolescence as the asthmatic fat kid. And even though I've been a runner since I was 19, I owe much of my recent success to the Pub Running Club.

The club serves as my weekly opportunity to impersonate a sleek, graceful gazelle – sprinting and darting around downtown pedestrians with the herd. And then, at every mile, I take a shot. The shots feed my violent alcoholism and the club itself feeds my ego. I run seven days a week, but the Running Club lets me show off. I've been getting faster and faster and didn't think anyone noticed until another runner said something.

Guy In My Running Club: "How the shit did you get your pace down to 7.2 minutes?!"
Me: "Well, I'm listening to a playlist of like 30 songs that remind me of people I've dated. It gives me something to run away from."
[Pause.]
Guy: "I really like your shoes, man."

I weirded him out, but I wasn't joking. One of the first things I did after setting up my Spotify account last November was create a Songs That Remind Me of You playlist. Because it combines my two favorite things: romanticized memories about people that I used to like and now fucking detest and fun mixtapes. The playlist walks the line between sentimental testament to my love life and self-mutilation, but I love it and I listen to it all the time – especially when I'm running.

Linger – The Cranberries

Wonderwall – Oasis

Somewhere Only We Know – Keane

Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams

Nothing Left To Lose – Mat Kearney

Listen – Beyonce

Naive Orleans – Anberlin

I Wanna Dance With Somebody – Whitney Houston

When You're Gone – Avril Lavigne

A-Punk – Vampire Weekend

At The Stars – Better Than Ezra

Lolli Lolli – Three 6 Mafia

I Love My Bitch – Busta Rhymes

At Last – Etta James

Crush – David Archuleta

The Promise – Tracy Chapman

Sullivan Street – Counting Crows 

I Heard Love Is Blind – Amy Winehouse

My Friends Over You – New Found Glory

Hey, Soul Sister – Train

Bulletproof – La Roux

Mine – Taylor Swift

Whatever It Is – Zac Brown Band

Collide – Rachael Yamagata

Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not – Thompson Square

Xxxo – M.I.A.

I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend – Discovery

Crown On The Ground – Sleigh Bells

Tongue Tied – Grouplove 

True Affection – The Blow

Cosmic Love – Florence + The Machine

Don't Stop (Color On The Wall) – Foster The People

The tracks are listed chronologically, beginning with my first girlfriend. But in terms of being inclusive, the playlist is slim. That isn't to say that only legitimate boyfriends and girlfriends are honored. Quite the contrary. I Heard Love Is Blind  reminds me of a trick who looked exactly like another guy I was dating at the time (See Why I'm Awesome/An Asshole). And Don't Stop (Color On The Wall) is a recent addition thanks to a peachy fellow named Walker from Athens, Georgia.

Also, some of the songs carry more weight than others. Linger was literally playing in the background when I lost my virginity, while Lolli Lolli was McBougie's ringtone when we met back in 2008. Come Pick Me Up was on the radio when my first boyfriend dropped me off after our last fight, and I'll always remember laying by the pool and listening to Collide the day that Wit's End moved back to Houston.

So why even create something like this? Because sometimes I feel like a callous prick when it comes to dealing with [most] of my exes, and this keeps me in check. It's kind of hard to feel like a badass when a David Archuleta song can make you flustered and semi.

But I'll just run with it.

*In 2000, my dad hung a poster in our garage from the 1999 World Championships in Athletics that featured Maurice Greene, Marion Jones, and some other black guy. And it still hangs there today. Which is why I can easily pull Greene's name out of my ass and appear interesting and well-versed on historical American athletics. Psych ya.

A Beginner's Guide to Prospect Rejection Protocol

Everyone needs something to believe in. And I believe in keeping my options open.

And with that responsibility, I have to be realistic about how my spreadaround attention is going to come back to me. Which forces me to be open to things just not working out. Having more than one prospect in rotation is an art mastered by such great leaders as Ryan Gosling. But even "The Goss" knows that having many irons in the fire leads to scorched fingers. So one must develop a system for handling burns.

In fact, I have my own protocol for dealing with prospect rejection. I call it my Prospect Rejection Protocol. And it goes a little something like this: 

Prospect Rejection Protocol (PRP)

When a guy that I'm casually talking to ends things with me, the first thing I do is turn red and lose my breathe for a second. I then give my head a quick shake and acknowledge that I am both red and short of breath. Then I close my eyes and say to myself, "It's ok. You've been getting too comfortable anyway." And then I respond with something vague and/or passive aggressive. Finally, I move on. It sounds bleak in back and white, but it's proven to be the most effective way for me to deal with getting brushed off. 

Here's PRP in action:

1. Get dumped. Turn red. Possibly faint. 

2. Shake it out. Breathe. 

3. Say something like, "It's cool" or "Sweet. I'm banging your friends now!"

4. On to the next one.

PRP is an advanced procedure for individuals who have dealt with sticky, heartbreaking, and life-altering break-ups. It's for the jaded and the bitter and the awesomely badass. It's for those who've built up a thick skin and aren't afraid of change. And If you're like me, it's for those who have trouble keeping all of your appendages eggs in one basket. And if you fall into any of these categories, some might call you:

A. A player
B. A C-Unit

or
C. Optimistic, but open to things just not working out

But being a player requires organization and grace – neither with which I was blessed. And although I might play the part of an icy bitch on TV, I'm generally sensitive when it comes to managing affection.

I'm just kidding. I'm a mean, obnoxious, pain in the dick boots. 

Also, I just discovered the cross-out tool, so I'll be using lots of that in the future.