Sparks & Letdowns

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana
Just off the dining room is a small space we call “the computer room” because of the massive cherrywood armoire that houses a brand new HP Pavilion, fully loaded with Windows 98, dial-up Internet, and the CompuServe web browser. My little brother and sister would rather play outside and our parents don’t really understand how to use a computer, so it’s pretty much at my disposal. In lieu of doing homework or studying during the school year, I play on the Internet and chat with my friends from school with AOL Instant Messenger. My screen name is Froman0714 because I have a ginger afro and my birthday is July 14th.

2014 | Monroe, Louisiana

A cop pulled me over for speeding just outside Ball, Louisiana, and somehow I was able to talk my way down to a $25 seatbelt violation. I told him I was surprised to learn people actually lived in the middle of the state, which I’d always assumed was mostly forest and black bears and shit. He thought that was funny, which was good. It’s nighttime and I’ve never driven this far north up 165 before, so I’m a little disoriented and equally anxious to reach Destin — which [in this case] is the name of a person, not the town in Florida.

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana

When I’m not chatting on AIM, I’m perusing photos of celebrities and Far Side comics. Napster is gone now, so I’m using Kazaa to download music, which usually takes an hour depending on the length of the song. It’s summertime and I’m too old for camp, so I’m spending the day filling the hard drive with the collected works of Ja Rule, Placebo, Nikka Costa, Hole, Aimee Mann, The Vines, P.O.D., Damien Rice, Trapt, Rob Zombie, Mya, Urge Overkill, Poe, Eryka Badu, Liz Phair, and Jimmy Eat World. We don’t have a CD burner yet, but I’ll be prepared when we do.

2014 | Monroe, Louisiana

Destin and I are friends on Facebook and Instagram, although I’m not sure which one of us added the other. A few weeks ago, in the middle of the workday, he direct messaged me saying I was cute and he liked my blog. We’d never chatted before, so we talked about the usual things people who don’t know each other talk about: family, education, career, dick size, etc. At first, the things we like about each other are superficial because it’s in our nature. He likes my taste in music and I like his tattoos. We trade phone numbers and text like two people who are hungry to know one another, and eventually, he convinces me to visit him in Monroe for the weekend. Which is why I’m here.

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana

While waiting for a bunch of Phantom Planet songs to finish downloading, I open Internet Explorer and type www.gay.com, just to see if that’s a thing, which it is. I expected it to be porn, but it isn’t. Instead, it looks like a website where you can chat with other gay guys. Since I’m 13 years old, I’ve never spoken to another gay person before, unless you count my little sister’s friend Alex, who puts his hand on his hip when he talks. I’m excited by the prospect of talking to someone like me, so I sign up using the screen name DickGuyNola0714 because gays like dicks, I live in New Orleans, and my birthday is July 14th.

2014 | Monroe, Louisiana

It’s late when I pull up in front of Destin’s house. The porch light is on, and he and and a group of people are smoking cigarettes on the porch, which is surprising because I didn’t know he smoked. I’m anxious to see what he looks like in person, but I take my time getting down because I need a few more seconds to think about what I’m doing. Finally, I step out, swing my duffle over my shoulder, and stumble over my own feet, which causes an involuntary feminine screech to fly out of my mouth. They’re staring at me, so I readjust my backwards flatbill, saunter up the steps, and mumble, “Sup?” Destin smiles and hugs me. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says. He’s a lot taller than I pictured him, which distracts me from what he’s saying at the moment.

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana

I message a guy with the screen name BananaBopper because I like his name. “Hey,” I say. “Funny name.” “Thanks!” he says. “a/r/l?” I think for a moment, then I type, “19/white/New Orleans.” “Cool,” he says. “18/white/Philly.” So far so good. “May I see a pic?” I ask. He sends a picture of a tan, muscular guy who looks a lot like this counselor I had at 4H camp the summer before. “Cute!” I say. He doesn’t respond. I decide the exclamation point made me seem overeager. Finally, he asks if he can see a pic of me. I tell him my computer doesn’t have a webcam and that I’m sorry for that. “It’s cool,” he says. “I’m already hard anyway. Wanna play?” I get nervous. “How? Like cyber sex?” I ask. “If you want,” he says. “Or we could try phone sex…”

2014 | Monroe, Louisiana

I’d never spoken to Destin on the phone before, so meeting him in person was a gamble. I’d crafted his personality and voice based solely on text, so his entire mortal being is new to me. In the living room, he and his friends pass the pipe around. I’m too scared to get high around a group of new people because I know I’ll embarrass myself with observations about the wall décor and my theories about what’s going to happen next week on True Detective, so I don’t. Instead, I keep quiet and watch Destin — taking in the way he moves his hands around, the way he smirks, and the way looks at me when no one else was looking. Still, I feel disconnected like an outsider. I send a message to Nick and John in our group text that says “I think I’m going to bail.”

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana
I consider bailing. All I have to do is close the window and BananaBopper will be gone forever. Then suddenly, he says “I’ve never had phone sex before and I’d really like to try it out with you.” I’m home alone, but I look over my shoulder just to make sure no one else will catch me talking like this. “Yeah I guess,” I say. My parents promised me a cell phone when I start high school, put that’s not for another month, so I give him the house phone number. Then I run upstairs and make sure I look good in the mirror for some reason.

2014 | Monroe, Louisiana

I catch myself in the mirror at Club Pink and push the hair off my sweaty forehead with my palm. I thought we were going to stay home and get to know another, but Destin thought it would be a better idea for all of us to go out. Now I’m drunk, but content to be here. I walk over near the pool table where Destin is waiting for me. Even though we’ve texted for weeks, tonight feels like we’ve just met. He gets excited when he talks, which is my favorite thing about him. We look each other in the eyes when we talk and our laughs feel genuine. At the next bar, we split for a while but find each other again at last call. We go home and have sex before falling asleep, which is what I expected but not entirely.

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana
I don’t know what to expect, so I take my shirt off and start rehearsing what I’m going to say. The phone rings. When it stops, I still hear it echo throughout the house. I don’t have a cordless phone in my room, so I sprint into Rachel’s room and grab it on the third ring. There’s silence on the other end. I mumble, “Sup?”

2014 | Monroe, Louisiana
After two days and two nights with Destin, I don’t feel the spark. I think he’s wonderful and I enjoy getting to know him, but it’s just not there. It’s raining outside when he walks me to my car and we both have our hoods up. I turn to say goodbye and I kiss him, then I climb into my car and I head south for 165. For the first twenty minutes, I don’t think to play music. It’s quiet and I feel guilty. I wonder if it’s my fault for not giving him more time and I wonder if it’s always been my fault for bailing before sinking into whatever’s going to happen. I think about when I was a kid and I had all the time in the world to develop a threshold for falling in love. Way before I started dating and breaking up with other people. Way before I got all weird and dismissive and needed the spark. I’m thinking about this when my phone makes a bleep noise, meaning someone just messaged me on Facebook. “Hey man,” it says. “I just wanted to say I think your status updates are hilarious and maybe we could chill next time you’re in Baton Rouge.”

2001 | New Orleans, Louisiana
We finish in less than three minutes, which is an unbelievably long time to be on the phone with someone who is making grunting noises. I wipe my stomach with a towel and slip my shirt back on. Back downstairs, I clear the browsing history just as BananaBopper messages me. “That was really hot,” he says. “Is it cool if I show you something?” I tell him sure. He sends me a picture of a black guy with dreads who is easily 30 years old and wearing a blue Under Armour shirt. “This is the real me,” he says. “I hope we can be friends.” I close the window, clear history again, turn off the computer, shut the armoire doors, and pull the computer cord out of the wall before running into the kitchen and taking the phone off the hook so he can’t call back. My parents will be home in a few hours and I’m excited to see them through the eyes of a boy who is never going to have sex with another boy in his lifetime. Because this whole “gay thing” is clearly going to be disappointing, so I’m just going to stop now.

Collaboration Crush II

In the tradition of Collaboration Crush, ExboyfriendMaterial presents its annual Valentine's Day card! This year's design was created by Ryan Cormier, a wonderful artist whose work I adore. Find more of his work at corm.carbonmade.com.

This year, we've made two cards: one for the exes you wish well, and one for the exes you wish were dead. Share them with someone you ****.

xoxo Ryan

Doing The Lord's Work

Sometime between “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and the first reading, I notice that Derek Rittner is sitting in the pew in front of us. He looks exactly the same as he did when we were in elementary school together, except now his skin is tanner and his shoulders are broader. I kind of want him to turn around and smile, but I mostly want to disappear. For a moment, I consider telling my dad and brother that I have to take a shit, then bolting out the front of the church and sprinting to playground behind the gym where I could smoke a cigarette in cold solitude. I haven’t seen Derek Rittner in nearly a decade, but looking at him makes me feel like I did when I was a kid: horny and panicked.

Now, my sweater is itchy and my clothes generally feel like they don’t fit. I feel stupid for wearing a blue pullover from Target with blue skinny pants, also from Target. The monochromatic outfit I’m wearing is unseasonal and I’m totally underdressed for Christmas mass. My hair is too long, my forehead is too oily, and my man-tits are bulging out above my potbelly. I feel lumpy and prickly and out-of-shape. I am basically a bag of oranges wrapped in cheap, hot fabric. And just four feet away sits Derek Rittner in a dark suit that looks like it was sewed onto his perfectly carved body. He’s facing forward, but I can still tell that his complexion is smooth and spotless — infallible as always. I don’t really care for his haircut, which I decide is called the “corporate pageboy.” When he turns to whisper something to his sister, I catch a flicker of his eyes; bitter emeralds that often possessed me do things to myself when I was alone in my room after school. Know what I mean? Dick stuff. Anyway, there he is in all his post-pubescent glory, licking his lips in the House of The Lord and here I am: pink and splotchy and full of self-loathing. Dear God, he’s beautiful.

Father Steve is talking about the real reason for the season and I’m sending Melanie a text that says, “I’m at St. Andrew and Derek Rittner is right in front of me!!!” Melanie and I grew up together and share a mutual attraction for the boys who never noticed us in grade school. Right on queue, Melanie texts me right back saying, “God, I wanted his nuts so bad.” I’m mildly surprised she hasn’t screwed Derek yet. Every now and then, I’ll strike up a conversation about one of the cute boys from St. Andrew and Melanie will say something like “Oh him? Yeah, I gave him a handy junior year” or “I let him finger me at a party once, but I haven’t seen him since.”

I always thought Melanie was pretty — I even took her to a Homecoming Dance once — but now she’s striking. She’s the type of girl who blossomed late in high school and flourished in college. She’s also the type of girl who grew up to have the looks and charisma to reach into the past and bang all the guys who wouldn’t bang her before. She’s living everyone’s dream, including my own.

Melanie and I circa 2003, and again on January 25, 2014.

Melanie got prettier, but prettier wouldn’t work for me because I’m a dude. Growing up gay is tough because every crush feels either risky or pointless. It’s brutal being a kid who’s attracted to people who can seemingly never like him back. But alas, I got older and now I’m pretty much slamming whatever I want. I’ve even had sex with a Colonel in the military! Never thought that would happen when I was eleven years old. That’s pretty cool, right? I guess it does get better.

I’ll never have a shot with any of the popular boys I grew up with, but I’m okay with that. I can just live through Melanie and all the dirty, dirty things she does with them. There are a lot of men out there and I’m doing my best with the ones who will have me. She’s got the rest covered. God bless her for that.

In the mean time, Derek Rittner is filing into line to receive the Eucharist. His ass is what I would call a champagne booty. The choir is singing “Silent Night” and my little brother is texting his girlfriend. I actually have to shit now, but I’m mortified by the idea of running into Derek in the men’s room after I’ve only presently dumped out. My dad makes eye contact with me and then nods in Derek’s direction. I look towards Derek, then back to my dad and shrug as if to say, what about him?  He purses his lips and gestures with his hand to Derek’s mom, who I haven’t noticed until just now. She is wearing a skintight cheetah-print wrap dress and a full face of porn star make-up, complete with pale pink lip-gloss. She shuffles in behind her son and they both process towards the altar, together prepared to receive God’s grace. 

The Exy Awards

Hello and welcome to the inaugural Exy Awards. We’re here to honor those brave men who made a significant impact on me [and my private parts] in 2013. Now please take your seats and stop eye-fucking one another. The least you can do is wait until the ceremony is over before you start rimming in the aisles. We don’t need the lovely Hilton staff who cleans the Peachtree Ballroom to discover your used condoms after we’ve all gone home, right? I’m just teasing. Condoms are for cowards.

[Hold for applause.]

Well let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Our first Exy of the evening is for Fastest Drive-By Hook-Up and that goes to Bald Guy With Pelvis Tattoo who was passing though Lafayette on his way to New Orleans after a weekend at Austin City Limits. You didn’t say a whole lot and then you bailed immediately after. Good job.

Most Drastic Grindr Picture/Real Life Discrepancy goes to Guy Who Picked Me Up From F&M’s That One Night. You looked nothing like your picture, but I was blackout hammered and queasy from eating cheese fries so I just wanted to sleep. Also, thank you for bringing me back home the next morning. Sorry I didn’t talk to you for the entire 45-minute drive.

The Oh C’mon Really? Exy goes to Guy Who Refused To Take Off His Spanx During Sex. Bruh, lighten up and burn that silly thing. I’m sure it’s not that bad underneath. And if it is that bad, start running around the block and stop eating chips.

Most Fumbly Threesome goes to Couple I Met After A David Sedaris Book Signing. I didn’t know what was going on and then you got in a huge fight about whose idea it was. No one enjoyed it, especially me. So I hid in the guest bedroom and fell asleep to the sounds of you both crying. This award should have gone to Horny Baton Rouge Couple, but they’ve got their system on lock. You could learn a thing or two from them. They really know how to bone a stranger together.

The Exy for Best Sex Playlist goes to Jewish Guy. Because nothing goes better with lounge chair intercourse than the sweet, melodious sounds of The Weepies.

Most Regrettable Hook-Up is a tie. The first recipient is Guy With Foot Fetish. I can overlook the fact that you smoke more weed than Rihanna at a planetarium. But I draw the line at foot-sucking. I fully support your right to sexual freedom, but that doesn’t make the bad memories go away. You share your award with White Guy With Black Baby Mama. We shouldn’t have done what we did. Now I’m always looking over my shoulder, terrified that someone is going to pull my hair.

The Exy for Douchiest Bro goes to Bisexual Divorce Attorney. You invited me to a party at your friend’s house and then you picked me last for your flip-cup team in front of everyone. Who does that?

Our next award is for Worst First Date and that goes to the 19-year-old Singer/Gymnast From Monroe whose grandmother had a heart attack while we were browsing an art opening. At first, I thought you were just lying to me because you wanted to leave, but turns out you were telling the truth. Sorry for your loss.

Best First Date goes to Unhappy Softball Player. You picked me up at home, we had dinner at Capdeville, and then we went to play in the Warehouse District — all of which you arranged. I kissed you in the street and it was like a scene from a movie where one person dies of terminal illness at the end. You and I would never have worked out, but I’m glad we can still be friends. Send me a nude. Cool?

The Exy for Best Name goes to Mike Jones, who wins by a cosmic margin.

Exboyfriend of the Year goes to Jacob. It was basically a race between you and Hairdresser from Lake Charles, but he went off the deep when we broke-up and yelled at me in front of Agave, so you win by default. One of the things I liked most about you, Jacob, is that I never had to amp up the masculinity around you like I might for another guy. The way I walked and talked was completely unaffected in your presence. From the moment we met it was instant comfort. We had very little in common, but we always had something to talk about. Plus, your skin smelled like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

And finally, the last Exy of the evening is The Sparky Award. The Sparky is given to the person who made me most profoundly feel that little spark that ignites in my chest, brain, and genitals. Maybe it’s love. Meh. That person is Tall Asshole From North Louisiana Who Had A Boyfriend The Whole Time. I’ll see you in hell.

In fact, I'll see all of you in hell. Congratulations!

XXXboyfriend Material

I just started reading Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem, wherein the author closes her preface by saying that “writers are always selling somebody out.” That being said, I would like for everyone to know that my best friend — John Fournier — talks to himself when he watches porn.

As besties, John and I are shameless when discussing any number of personal topics, including: penis size, political party affiliation, personal hygiene, irrational fears, regional tricking patterns, body image, stool abnormalities, annual salary, weight, Taco Bell orders, current top/bottom preference, lube toots, and masturbatory habits, among others.

“What exactly do you say?” I wondered. “Do you like command them to do stuff or just narrate?” He chuckled and shrugged, saying “I just kind of cheer on the performance.” I screwed up my face like I was creeped out, which I really wasn’t. I was more intrigued than anything. “Like, what do you say? Give me an example.” He rolled his eyes and suddenly seemed self-aware. “I don’t know,” he said. He made a fist and mimed jacking-off. “Something like, ‘Aww yeah, pound that little bitch. He likes that.’” I stared at him with my mouth open. “Oh dear,” I said. “Do you say it in your normal voice, or do you make yourself sound all deep and rough to intimidate everybody?” He rocked his head back and laughed a little. “Deep voice.”

Full disclosure: I have my own weirdness when it comes to porn viewership. First off, I have a deep, severe fear that I will see someone I used to date in a video. Although I’m not really doing anything to avoid it, it’s usually in the back of my mind. On the other hand, if an actor looks enough like an exboyfriend, I’ll stick with it and project all my unresolved issues onto him — imaging that my surrogate ex fell on hard times and has resorted to bareback on-camera fornication so he can pay for hair school. The only way this works is by knowing it’s not really him. If it really was him, I’m not sure if my brain or my dick could handle it. But I’m pretty sure I would just beat-off anyway.

While John vocalizes his experiences, I internalize them. I watch people have sex and I wonder who they are in real life. And I find it difficult to focus on anything else. I question their motivations and what their loved ones think about it, if their loved ones know at all. It's more about the angles and less about the morality. For me, theorizing about who the actor really is gives the viewing experience some dimension.

I few years back, on a trip to Dallas, I hooked-up with an up-and-coming porn star. I didn’t know he did porn at the time, but I learned shortly after when he told me so. These days, he’s kind of unbelievably famous — like one of the most famous gay porn stars on the planet. The kicker is that he and I are Facebook friends, which complicates things for me because I’ve seen him do unspeakable things with an immeasurable amount of people and I’ve also seen him at his cousin’s birthday party and taking selfies with his grandmother in the hospital. His Facebook says he works at Olan Mills Portrait Studio and every time I come across one of his adult videos, I imagine him picking up Subway on his lunch break before hurrying back to work to find the appropriate lighting for a newborn and show some stuck-up high school senior a bunch of glossy proofs. His Facebook also says he attends the University of Texas at Arlington, which forces me to picture him in some big lecture hall surrounded by a hundred or so bored General Studies majors who are also ignoring the lecture. Do they know that he has more than 30,000 Twitter followers? Do they know he caused a stir at the 2012 Grabby Award for blowing someone on stage? And if so, do they talk amongst themselves about him? Do they have difficulty not picturing him naked? Are they mean to him? Also, what's his family like? I mean, I've seen pictures of them, but I want more. I want to know if his mom really knows where he goes when he jets off to Los Angeles for the weekend. I want to know how far his money is going and if he keeps his job at Olan Mills simply for appearances. And I often wonder if anyone in his family has found the courage to Google his name.

It's got to be difficult to get the image of someone familiar having sex out of your mind once you've witnessed it. I bet it's tough to see anything else when you look at him or her. I'm only speculating, of course. It just fascinates me. In the same why I'm enamored by Fundamentalist Mormons and people who wear Tweety Bird jean jackets, so am I with the personal lives of adult film stars. I doubt I'll ever find out for myself what it's like firsthand, but you never know. Plus, tax season is upon us and I'm pretty sure I'm going to owe something outrageous so I plan on keeping my income options open, and if need be, other things too.

For Mom And Dad

When it comes to traveling, my mother hates two things: airplanes and any destination that doesn’t offer waffles in the shape of Mickey Mouse. This generally sucks for the rest of us, but on more than one occasion, it’s worked in my favor.

A few years back, I took my mom’s place on a seven-day Alaskan cruise for two that my father booked through his company. It was just Dad and I, and we spent the entire week on Holland America’s Zuiderdam enjoying what we considered to be luxuries compared to the hellscape of the Carnival Holiday — a budget cruise ship that carried our entire family to Cozumel and back nearly a decade before. The Holiday was our only basis for comparison, so we found the Zuiderdam to be a lot nicer in just about every way — most notably the grade of passenger. While the Holiday was a showcase for obesity and the varying results of what happens when people from Alabama fuck each other, the Zuiderdam was basically a slow-moving retirement home where geriatrics in scratchy sweaters shuffled from one buffet line to another and never used their outside voices.

During our fourth sunset at sea, Dad and I had drinks in a bar with panoramic views of the glacial landscape named "The Crow’s Nest." Dressed in dark suits without ties, we sat in plush maroon lounge chairs, sipping our drinks and gawking at the sky; a majestic explosion of purples and oranges. I was making a mental note to write about the sky later and use the word “majestic” to do so when a cocktail waitress swept by and asked if we needed anything. We looked at each another and shook our matching tumblers of Grey Goose on the rocks; our shared drink-of-choice. “Nah, we're good,” said Dad. “Hold on,” I said, cocking my head in his direction. “By the time she comes back with a new one, I’ll be ready for it.” He rolled his eyes. “So order another, smelly. It’s not like you have to drive anywhere later.” I looked back to the waitress. “If you would, please bring me another one of these,” I said. “Fuck it. I'll take one as well,” said Dad. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I groaned. The waitress tossed her head back and service-industry-laughed before touching my shoulder and heading back towards the bar. We gulped from our glasses in unison, and without looking at me, my dad said, “Man. I think she thinks we’re a couple.” I readjusted my jacket and crossed my right ankle over my left. “She doesn’t think that,” I said. “I might be a lot younger than you, but I’m clearly out of your league.” And without missing a beat, my father said, “Please. I could do way better than you.” A few seconds of silence passed between us, and then I said, “Whatever, man. I wouldn’t even let you buy my drinks.” Dad raised one eyebrow and leaned across the arm of his chair, clinking his tumbler against mine. Then he said, “But you already are.”

The thing that’s always fascinated me about my parents is how much they shouldn’t be like they are. My dad is a hyper-masculine lifelong athlete and food and beverage salesman who prides himself on his dual abilities to intimidate and charm. By contrast, my mom has spent her entire life working for small cardiology practices on the Westbank and avoiding any trip across the river at all costs. By all accounts, they shouldn't be as open-minded about the gay thing as they turned out to be.

Throughout my childhood, my father coached me in baseball, soccer, and basketball. But when he noticed I wasn’t taking to sports like the other boys, he brought me to the library on weekends and purchased tickets to every Broadway touring production that passed through New Orleans. And when I was in fourth grade — at the height of my Spice Girls obsession — he checked me out of school early so that I’d be the first kid in my class to see Spice World at the movie theatre. Mom wasn’t as proactive about fostering my “unique” interests as Dad was. She thought buying me the Young Magician’s 50-Trick Magic Set for Christmas was weird, but she got it for me in a heartbeat when she noticed the next item on my list: a My Size Barbie. Then one day, when I was a sophomore in high school, my mom came home from work and asked for my username and password to the home computer. I refused, a Mexican stand-off ensued, and I ran upstairs to my room to wait for my dad to come home. I never gave my parents the password, but I did admit to watching gay porn, which in my option was a lot less mortifying than having them look through the search history for themselves.

I didn’t officially “come out” to my parents until my 19th birthday, when I told them I was "bisexual." As expected, they got annoyed and said, "We've known you your whole life and you're definitely not bisexual. You're clearly a gay person.” Since then, they’ve met six boyfriends and never questioned anything on my Christmas list. Last year, I asked for a knit infinity scarf from 21Men.com, and on Christmas morning, there it was on top of my pile of presents. I yanked the scarf around my neck and from across the room I heard my dad scream, “OH, THANK JESUS IT’S A SCARF! We thought that was some sort of girl’s tube top sweater! It still looks ridiculous, but Christ Almighty!”

Even though they’re wonderfully accepting, that shallow trench of intolerance is where I like to mess with them. I get an immeasurable amount of pleasure from making them uncomfortable with my sexuality. Every so often, I’ll show up at my parent’s house, unannounced and wearing something overtly homosexual. One time, I snuck up on my mom in the kitchen wearing a deep V-neck under a thigh-length button-down, with cut-off shorts and cowboy boots, and she wouldn’t even look at me. Now, I like to threaten her with potentially fruity outfits just to watch her squirm. The day before Thanksgiving this year, I repeatedly told her I had something "really special" planned for dinner and the only clue I gave her was "Two words: sexy pilgrim." For the remaining 24 hours, I watched her bite her nails off and wordlessly shake her head at me like she was waiting for the impending murder in a horror movie.

I give her a hard time, but my mom is an endless source of support and guidance when it comes to my dating…I don’t know what you’d call them. Ventures? She doesn’t get invested in a person until I tell her it’s safe, and otherwise, she just tactfully dispenses advice and asks non-prying questions. I can tell she worries about me, though. She worries that I’m not taking my relationships seriously and that I’m burning bridges along the way. She worries that I don’t want a family and that I’m going to spend the rest of my life bouncing from one guy to another. She worries about whether I’m being safe and if I’m getting enough sleep. She worries if people are laughing at me and if my boots are heavy. She worries, but she doesn’t have to because I’m doing my best to make her proud.

My blog notwithstanding.

I won the parent lottery, really. And not just because they're generally great parents, but because they’re great parents for me. I have a father who encourages my behavior and a mother who frets over it. A dad who cheers and mom who shushes. He gives me rope and my mom worries it’s long enough for me to hang myself. And when I write my first book, I plan on dedicating it to the both of them. Not just because it seems like the poignant thing for a person who writes a book to do, but because dedicating a book to my parents would piss them off immensely.

Because if there’s one thing my parents share, it’s the fear that I’m going to write about them.

Sorry bout it.

A Visual Companion To Rick Ross

So I dropped my phone in the toilet on Thanksgiving because I was drinking chardonnay like I was running for Junior League President and my mom was like, "Welp, I guess now you're going to the Apple Store at Lakeside Mall on Black Friday. Good luck with that." And I was like, "Hand me that box of Uncle Ben's Rice. You're upsetting me." So I kept my phone in rice for a few hours and when I pulled it out, it was fine. Then I went to the sink to brush my teeth, left the water running, turned my back for five seconds, and when I turned back around, the sink was overflowing and my phone was floating in a puddle next to it. It was okay [again], but upon further inspection I noticed that a grain of rice had lodged itself in the charger port. And that's when I started to cry.

Anyway, the whole ordeal must've shaken something loose, because I kept getting "Not Enough Free Space" notifications, so I deleted a bunch of apps before turning to my camera roll. That's when I came across this. It's a video I recorded back in February, and I can't tell if I did it consciously or not. Apparently, I'd met someone at a bar and thought it would be interesting to take photos and capture a video of the car ride back to my place. The funny thing is, I'd actually written about this experience before in a blog post called Rick Ross, and now I have a visual companion to accompany the text.

More importantly, I actually got to witness myself talking to another guy in the wild as an observer. And as you'll see for yourself, it's pretty mortifying.

Here is a photo of "Rick Ross" from the back:

And here are the two of us in his truck, both drunk and attempting to run game:

Well, how did it go? you might ask. Well, here's a picture taken the following morning:

And now everyone knows this about me. Happy Holidays!