Americano

I once dated a guy who had an intense passion for Europeanism. My guess is that since he was born in a small town in Southwest Louisiana and raised on a farm in Wyoming, he’d seen parallel levels of American hell and dreamed of something more.

So he pranced around Lafayette wearing man capris and pronouncing fleur-de-lis with a strong “s” sound at the end. In fact, any word that appeared to have a French origin was delivered with the diction and inflexions of a Parisian waiter (which isn’t unusual for the area, but jarring when it comes out of a nineteen-year-old queen behind authentic D&G shades).

I admired how he could be moved and marveled by a culture whose refinement didn’t closely resemble his own — with all of its monster truck rallies and black rodeos — but his whole shtick made me want to grab him by the collar and tell him that if America is good enough for Sofia Vergara, then it’s good enough for him.

The whole thing got weirder when he started wearing neon-colored jockstraps from the very European and very homosexual Topman.com — claiming that he needed them because they “helped him avoid panty lines.” In my confusion and frustration, I would counter with statements like, “Your entire ass is now fully exposed to you jeans. I hope you wiped yourself, you whore” or “Panty lines? You’re nearly 200 pounds and carrying a dick between your legs. Stop giving me the willies, Tranny Oakley.”

We broke up shortly before he boarded a plane for his summer abroad, and soon after, I began dating someone else. When word got back to the states that he’d become the American slampiece for half of Barcelona’s gay scene, I didn’t even flinch. Prospects of expatriatism could give him a raging hard-on, so I could imagine how some muscle top named Salvatore could reduce him to leg-humping.

In the mean time, I was sleeping with a hick from West Texas who couldn’t identify Heidi Klum in a crowd of black men, let alone describe wine pairings or the difference between Louis Vuitton and Louboutin.

Instead of forcing me to miss sophisticated companionship, my new boyfriend only helped me to become more disillusioned. I went from being with someone who never fully embraced his nationalism to someone who would take a bullet for (and a dick from) Trace Adkins.

After him, I dated one guy after another until I was faced with something that I would consider a departure.

In Chuck Palaniuk’s Invisible Monsters, the narrators commands us to “find what [we’re] afraid of most and go live there.” So I did. I met a British guy named Sam. And after deciding that my exboyfriend’s affection for his type was something that I abhorred, I asked him if he wanted to date me exclusively.

Three months of concentrated fieldwork and this is what I learned about having a European boyfriend: he will refuse to surrender his man purse in public (even if you beg), the rumors about his irregular bathing are not only true, but horrifying, and most importantly — he can’t drink the things that you can. So challenge him. And beat him. And rub it in his face.

Because European guys are overrated. And American gays who are obsessed with them are in for a rude awakening when they find themselves tied to a sex swing on the 4th floor of some Italian bathhouse while twelve Silvio Berlusconi lookalikes wait their turn.

Consider this my love letter to America. La dolce vita.

vom.com

I’m hungover and I have no idea where I am. Shocker.

My head hurts worse than my bladder, but I desperately need to take care of the latter first. The cave I’ve made under the comforter is warm, but the ceiling fan looks like it’s about to come loose and fly away, and judging my sore throat, it’s been on full-speed all night. I consider crawling over the snoring shirtless guy next to me, but I’m afraid he’ll wake up and talk to me.

There's no way that I could open the can of lukewarm High Life on the nightstand right now, let alone be nice or refer to him by his name — which is probably Colby or Jacob or something. I peel the covers off of me and obnoxiously pile them onto homeboy before making my way through the pitch-black Latvian winter. 

I find the bathroom door and clumsily grope the wall for the light switch. I cower and wince at the light even though I knew it was coming and catch myself in the mirror. I’m not wearing anything but the look of disorientation. My disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes help me to resemble something out of Lord of the Rings.

I decide that Mordor Afterparty Chic isn’t a good look for me and I turn towards the toilet. And that’s when I see it. And as God as my witness, I’ve never seen anything like it before. Vomit. Everywhere. It's on the walls and the floor, stretching from the base of the tub to the sink, and covering every surface except the interior of the toilet bowl.

I am either:

A. Still sleeping. 

B. About to throw up, myself.
C. In a Lars von Trier movie.
D. About to stumble towards the vommity mess where I will piss before addressing this situation.

Answer: D for dumbass.

With everything slowly dissolving into focus, I feel the panic mounting inside of me. And although I’m almost positive that I would’ve remembered, I am faced with the big scary question: Did I do this? 

"Fuck that," I tell myself. We are not entertaining the possibility of this. So I jump to default and blame him. I wake him up and tell him that he puked everywhere and that it’s “really gross and scary.” He rolls over and the color drains out of my face. It’s the guy I’ve been dating for three weeks and his name isn't Colby. He pushes past me and into the bathroom where he closes the door behind him. He returns after what feels like ten minutes and flops back onto the bed without saying a word. And I spend the rest of the night dreaming about murder scenes.

I forgot to mention that this guy was a serious diabetic who required a MediPort in his stomach to deliver insulin. He tells me in the morning that the vomit was his reaction to the abnormal amount of Andygator coupled with the lack of medication in his system. I tell him not to sweat it and I go back to texting the real Colby. Because Colby is adult enough to manage his alcohol intake and Colby looks better in my gym shorts. 

And when Brittany Murphy and I go on our next date, I continuously point at his insulin port and ask him to pay attention to his beeper. Because I don’t want him to projectile vomit all me and my Mediterranean Hummus.

And because I’m an assbag.

A Background In Public Streaking

In addition to film production and journalism, I've also enjoyed an extraordinary career in stripping.

To be fair, my career was segmented into four isolated incidents that I've chosen to lump together into what I'm remembering as a full vocation. I don't care if that counts, but it's my life and I'll edit memories together if I feel like it.

1. San Antonio, TX, 2008- My exboyfriend and I are in town for a wedding. We go to the local gay bar on our first night and his friends enter me in the Shake Your Ass Contest. I come in third place, and then I'm immediately stripped of my title and kicked out when the emcee notices my underage hand markings. I decide that since I've shown Texas my shirtless torso and have been rewarded with a forceful escort out of Bonham Exchange, that I'll never live in that fucked-up Hicktown called Texas. And my position still stands. 

2. Baton Rouge, LA, 2007- I ditch the other Student Government deligates at dinner and head for George's Place. A group a girls from my favorite sorority are in town and need help navigating the Santa Gayby Christmas Party. Thirty minutes later, I'm up on the bar competing with a 50-something bear in a leather harness and Santa Claus hat for dollar bills. I'm so drunk that I have three girls help me down and usher me into the bathroom. I fish somewhere between 30 and 90 dollars out of my underwear and walk back to my haram. I feel a hand grab my collar and pull me through the crowd. It's my SGA President and he's pissed. He tells me on the ride home that my SGA polo was lost in the crowd and that he's not ordering me another. I feel bad so I make him pull into Jack In The Box where I buy everyone tacos and bacon cheeseburgers with my underwear money.

3. New Orleans, LA, 2010- I drunkenly compete with my boyfriend, Wit's End, and three other guys in a strip-off at Oz. Our relationship is awesomely fucked-up and I want to teach him a lesson about who wears the whorepants. I win the contest by a landslide for the sheer fact that I'm the only one wearing briefs and a backwards hat. As I exit the stage, I see my exboyfriend's best friend in the audience. I feel like I'm going to throw up. He's going to tell McBougie and then McBougie will have the post-break-up upper hand. I give the guy my first prize of some random ethnic porn DVD (because he's into that) and we bail. As predicted, McBougie calls five minutes later and says that I'm trashy. I tell him that he doesn't have parents so his point is invalid. He hangs up and I drive Wit's End home in stoney silence because I've forever ruined his ego. I smile at him and reach for his hand because I think that he's the cutest guy in the world. Even if a bar full of old queens thinks I'm cuter. Which they do. Because I won.

4. Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, 2009- It's our second night in Mexico and I've been drunk since breakfast. The five of us walk into the local gay bar and I head for the alcohol. I ask the bartender in Spanish if there will be any strippers this evening. He tells me that there's an Amy Winehouse-themed drag show, but no dancers, señor. I volunteer my services and tell him that I'll split my earnings with him. He agrees and pulls me onto the bar. I go to work for nearly three songs before I realize that everyone's staring, but no one is tipping. My friend, Jacque, flamboyantly slides pesos into my shorts, but the Wild Bunch isn't following suit. So, in a moment of Corona-soaked desperation, I decide to channel my inner Winehouse. I'm not going to go into detail, but I will say that I had a gorgeous purple bruise on my forehead the next morning from attempting something ballsy on the drag queen's swing. After my scream draws significant attention to our group, Joey and the other three forcibly remove me from the bar top while I shout for the bartender to save my underwear and serve me one more shot of tequila.

The Time I Sort Of Dated A Black Guy

The farthest I’ve come to losing my magnolia was when I dated a guy who was one half Native American. I like to think that I’m mostly an open mind, but I’ve traditionally only had an attraction to members of my own race. I blame my narcissism and maybe even my southern upbringing a little bit. It’s not that I’m opposed to exploring new things — I just love myself excessively and want to screw people that look like me.

Even down to the gingerness. Especially the gingerness.

I have an unnatural lust for white males with light hair. Don’t get me wrong. Most of my exboyfriends are brunettes. But then again, there’s a reason why I’m not dating them anymore. And Geronimo was no different.

I never asked him if he was Navajo, Mohawk, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure Mexican was closer to the truth. I started dating him out of boredom and then developed something of a fondness for him. He had olive skin, jet black hair, and one of the best bodies I’ve ever seen sans clothes. Geronimo was definitely one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever dated. But in the end, I couldn’t get past something.

We had unusually forceful and aggressive sex, but something about it was ambivalent. I avoided eye contact and moved my hand away when he reached for it. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not a cuddler by any means. I’m actually a pretty awful person to spend the night next to. I hog the covers, snore, talk, kick, and when I’m super drunk — pee on people and furniture. But even for me, spending intimate time with Geronimo was a chore. I hated the lack of interest I took in our sex and I hated sleeping next to him even more. Not to mention the bitch was barely literate and could hardly follow a conversation about Project Runway. To me, the two of us were paper dolls — joined by the hand, but without any drawn on expressions or support to keep us standing.

Although I’d never done it before, I broke up with Geronimo over the phone. Call me an insensitive bastard (because that’s my real name), but I never felt that we had anything genuine. Just because I said that he was my boyfriend didn’t make him mine. Having a significant other for the title was nothing without substance.

It’s a hard reality when you have to learn the lessons of Dating 101 as a graduate student. But in my defense, I'm sure he had his reservations as well.

Reservations. Get it?

Tricks From The Crypt!

In morbid self-discovery news: I equate breaking-up with dying.

After reading Joan Didion’s heartbreaking self-portrait, A Year of Magical Thinking, I decided that losing a husband is the same as being dumped by someone you love. Because I’m a drama queen slash douchebag. The author would describe her reactions to stumbling upon some of her husband’s old clothes or losing herself in a memory and I would think, “Joan…I’ve been where you are. It gets better.” I’d catch myself relating to the author and shake my head at the absurdity. These people had been married for several decades, whereas I consider three weeks with the same person “hanging in there.” And although I was completely aware of the disconnect between Miss Didion and myself, I found myself clutching my heart and letting single tears purposefully fall onto the pages.

The truth is, I’ve never really known anyone that has died. Well actually, my former Black History professor passed away two summers ago. By the grace of God, Mr. Orchid’s death is the closest that the concept of mortality has touched me. I’m very grateful to have spent 23 years on Earth without having a close family member or friend pass on. But it’s no wonder that a severe break-up or totaled car would be my emotional cataclysm.

Exboyfriends and the impressions they leave behind are my ghosts. Last night I was sifting through my hard drive, making space for new music, and I came across an mp3 that I’d never seen before. The song was a cover of that praise and worship song “I Can Only Imagine,” sung by a guy from Baton Rouge that I’d slept with only twice. I can honestly admit that I had never heard this song before, nor could I recall how I’d obtained the mp3. But as my former trick’s voice floated through my earbuds, I’d found myself smiling and thinking about the few times we spent together. But to me, he was dead now. A spirit of my early twenties.

There are three events that occur in the wake of losing someone you love:
1. Finding the body / The break-up
2. The funeral / The awkward closure conversation
3. The grieving period / The month you spend sleeping with strangers and dancing on top of things

But since I am myself, this process is expedited to a hasty degree. I value a clean break, and believe that tears are for Virgin Mary statues and gays reading Joan Didion memoirs. If I spent all my time smelling an exboyfriend’s t-shirt or writing letters that I’ll never send, how could I ever find out what’s next?

A resilient heart is more powerful than a tactful mind. And even though I’m haunted by my heart’s investments, I still find new life more attractive than old souls.

I Just Need To Dance

One time I broke-up with a guy because I wanted to paint more. Which is a lie.

Honestly, I ended things because I felt smothered and I didn't know how to gingerly break someone's heart yet. So I told him that I needed to find myself. My journey required that I go back to doing the things that I was passionate about. I told him that I didn't feel alive anymore and that I craved inspiration. I sat with him on the couch in the first post-dorm house and did my best to let him down easy. He and I had been dating for several months across the Texas-Louisiana border, and days after he moved back to his hometown of Lafayette, Louisiana, I wanted out. But I didn't know how to tell him. So I told him that I wanted to read, write, travel, paint, escape student activities, and invest more time in my family. I assured him that he had been an exceptional boyfriend and that my issue was with my lackluster soul. And as the words fell out of my mouth, I began to believe them.

The hardest part was when he asked why he couldn't be with me to do all of those things. And I looked away in my best impression of  Mischa Barton's character in The OC and said, "I have to do this alone."  

The saddest part is that I spent the next three days partying my ass off and making out with strangers in bars. And then on the fourth day after our break-up, I met a guy and dated him for the next two years.

I guess I'll start that painting now.

Best Supporting Queer in a Relationship Goes To...

Included in my plethora of insane dating idiosyncrasies is my need to slap labels on everyone and everything.

Example: I can look back at certain romantic relationships and fit each into a genre of film. My relationship with my only exgirlfriend, Muffin, was a coming-of-age love story that unquestionably resembled The Wonder Years…or maybe Let The Right One In. After that, I was cast opposite my first boyfriend, Ferriday, in a tragedy worthy of a Nicholas Sparks novel. He stopped taking his antidepressants and forgot why he was dating me in the first place. It was like The Notebook if everyone were chain-smoking and making out with random trade in the bathroom stall at Splash. After that, The Dean and I co-starred in our own quirky romantic comedy about maturity and the male gender. And no one bought tickets. Following that, McBougie and I gave Oscar-worthy performances in our own adaptation of Revolutionary Road; self-administered abortion included. Finally, I took a turn against my typecasting when I accepted a character opposite Wit’s End in a Coen Brothers-esk East Texas meets South Louisiana drama where the credits finally role and everyone looks at one another and wonders aloud, “What the fuck just happened!?” Most recently, I wrapped shooting on my latest project: an animated short with a guy from Lake Charles that I will henceforth refer to as “Geronimo.” Trailer release date TBA.

Apart from the expected comedy and drama performances, I’ve also done sci-fi and the occasional supernatural thriller. Meet a trick out in some trailer park in Cade, Louisiana, and you will understand what it feels like to be in a Lars von Trier movie. The fear will immerse you.

In addition to film parallels, I’ve also developed a cataloguing system based on recording artist credits. Norah Jones released an album a few years ago called “…Featuring Norah Jones,” in which every track credited Jones as either the primary artist or the featured artist. Inspired by this format, I decided that at the end of each committed relationship, I would look back and declare myself deserving of majority credit, or the doom of living between parenthesis. In the interest of full disclosure, I offer this statement:

As selfish and self-centered as I can be, I’m even more of an attention whore. I’ve accepted the fact that I am an embarrassingly shameless gay stereotype, and my peace is with God.

Translation: I don’t like being some slampiece’s fucking sidekick. Look, I understand that every relationship is a partnership, but frankly, I have enough anxiety than to deal with without the baggage of closure. Let me decide if I’m T-Pain or John Mayer. I sleep better at night knowing that Geronimo carried most of the weight of our short relationship while I simply paid for drinks and dinner.

The bottom line: My brain is too saturated in pop culture to not create my reality with its influence. Sometimes it makes more sense to frame certain events as movies I’ve seen; people become synonymous with certain songs I’ve heard. Life — and dating more specifically — can overwhelm. But remembering someone as Young Jezzy can make it a little more bearable.

Reggie George is flawless

Even though I’ve been known to play the role of the villain in my relationships, I’d like to think of myself as a relatively decent person. I’m polite to the checkout girls at Rouse’s and I’m generally kind to strangers — especially when they’re really cute, male, and standing within groping distance. I may be a godless daywalker, thanks to my red hair, freckles, and fair skin, but I’ve got a heart, dammit. Ginger or not, I can be a regular youth minister sometimes. You figure out what that means.

Now that I’ve presented my defense for having a soul swimming around inside me, I’d like to clarify that it’s not much of one. My bad nature dominates most of my demeanor and makes me an excellent candidate for an all-male Mean Girls reinterpretation. I’d play Regina George. But maybe in this production, I’d be named Reggie to better identify my gender. I’d be Reggie George, King of the Plastics. Except my power wouldn’t come from my superficial ideals. I would just be the meanest douche in all of my mostly white, co-ed public high school.

And all I would need for my audition would me a list of mean things I’d said before. Maybe it’s a list of the bitchiest things that I’ve said to guys. Or better yet, exboyfriends! I’d prepare a quick, effortless monologue lifted from an actual argument I’d had with a past boyfriend and punctuate it with one of my most callous comments on the list. I would sit in the hallway while the other guys pranced in and out of the auditorium and list the 20 bitchiest things that I’ve actually said to men that I’ve dated, and then I'd number them according to level of cruelty. And the list would look something like:

20. I'd rather go to a Nickelback concert than relive this date with you.
19. At least people want to have sex with me. Can't say the same for you, jackass.
18. You're new boyfriend is obviously cheating on you and it's probably worth it for him.
17. Everything about you looks like a muppet.
16. You've slept with more people than me. That makes you Emperor of Whores.
15. You fucking deserve this.
14. It's like a penis, only smaller.
13. I'm sure the trailer park you grew up in was beautiful.
12. You're the fattest person to ever speak to me that way.
11. You're just bad at sex because you were a virgin when we met and there's nothing I can do to fix you.
10. You're crazy like your mother.
9. I hope one of those guys in Europe fucked up your immune system.
8. I can't hear you through those fucked up teeth.
7. As a matter of fact, I'm not really sure who gave me these scratches.
6. You went to public school. Fucking gross.
5. You are the fucking Antichrist.
4. Well, if your dad wasn't facedown in some halfway house, I'm sure he'd be very disappointed in you.
3. I'd rather shoot myself in the dick than marry you.
2. Yeah, well at least I have parents.
1. No one will ever fuck you and love you at the same time.

And when I scream “No one will ever fuck you and love you at the same time!” at my invisible boyfriend under the gelled stage lights, the producers would collectively gasp and shutter in their high-backed chairs. And one would whisper to another, “I think we’ve found our Reggie!” And I would humbly smile as if I hadn’t heard him, thank them for the opportunity, and briskly strut towards stage left, disappearing behind the curtain and silently expressing gratitude for the guys who’ve dated me and lived to talk about it.

Sincerely Over It

Every morning I leave my apartment, lock the door behind me, and trot down the stairs until I land on a concrete slab. I round my building, and depending on the shoes I’m wearing, I either take the sidewalk or cut through the grass. My Jeep is on the opposite side of my building and I usually have to walk about thirty steps from my front door to reach the driver’s side handle. On my stroll through grass or sidewalk, my eyes look for the windshield of my car. And I don’t break my stare until I can establish whether or not there’s a piece of paper under the windshield wiper. Once I know that there isn’t a note, I’m free to look anywhere and my mind to return to un-paranoia.

One of my exboyfriends has a habit of leaving notes on my car. It started when we were dating. I would be in a University Program Council meeting and unable to accept his calls for several hours, and when I’d return to my car in the evening, there’d be a note. The messages were always sugary and never consisted of more than five or so words. A year has passed since our break-up and he still leaves little reminders that he’s alive. The last note said “Cross your heart. Cross it!” and ended with a heart and his signature. He wrote this message on back of a Gulf Coast Bank statement, and on the reverse, he’d scratched out his account information with a ballpoint pen. Which was really charming.

I wish I’d saved some of his notes from break-up box hell. I’d make a collage of his sweet poetry and mail it back to him with my own love letter. I’d write the words in black ink on simple, wide ruled paper and each letter would be as big as my middle finger. And then when he’d open the FedEx box and sift through the styrofoam packaging peanuts, and he’d find my note taped to a framed mosaic of paper-mache heartbeats. And the note would read,

“Write me off. Sincerely over it.”

And then the camera would cut to me walking in slow motion down a busy Manhattan sidewalk while my boobs and hair leisurely bounce and “The Blower’s Daughter” plays in the background. And I wouldn’t look behind me. Just right into the camera. Fade to black. Roll credits.

Look Dad, No Shame!

Growing up in New Orleans, my dad dragged me red afro-first into every organized sport that Terrytown Playground offered. Between the ages of five and thirteen, I alternated seasons between baseball, soccer, basketball, and football. Once high school began, I used my conditioning skills and knowledge of sportsman-like conduct to take up wrestling. I wasn’t any good, but I was a part of a state-winning team two years in a row and earned my varsity letterman jacket after three years. In college I swam, ran, and practiced yoga. This discipline to always be engaged in some sort of physical activity is attributed one hundred percent to my father.

My dad coached me in every sport. Even when I was wrestling, he could coach me from our living room on my form and technique, even though he’d never set foot on a mat. My dad is the absolute definition of athleticism. Even today at 56, he can outrun, outswim, and outperform me or my little brother without even taking off his Brass Boot loafers. He is what most men would call “a badass.”

Dad taught me many things about the relationship between becoming a man and athletics, but the most important (and probably misguided) lesson that I live by is this:

You either win or you don’t win.

Let me clarify: Not winning doesn’t equal losing. It just means that you didn’t win. Which is worse.

I was at a party the other night and around the part when everyone was gathering their escalating hammered-ness and heading downtown, the drunkest girl in the room got a text from her exboyfriend. She began screaming and fist-pumping her phone in exaltation, while all of us looked on with confusion and annoyance. She twirled in a circle and yelled “I won! I won!” until finally someone asked her what was going on. Apparently she and her boyfriend had broken up several months before, and he’d just texted her to see how things were going. She said that they hadn’t spoken since Christmas and that this was the first contact that either one of them had attempted. This, she equated with “winning.”

Drunk Girl’s exhibition may have appeared bananas to some of the party guests, but I knew where she was coming from. You see, Drunk Girl and I both come from a background in athletics where you either win or you don’t win. After a nearly four-month Mexican stand-off, her exboyfriend contacted her, and in accordance with the laws of dating, she won the break-up. After watching Drunk Girl gleefully bounce around the room and chug her White Zinfandel from a plastic cup, I gave her a hug and congratulated her on the victory. I’d been in her shoes many times before, and I wanted her to know that her patience had paid off and she deserved to celebrate.

I’ve won more break-ups than I’ve not won, and I feel like a few are still in play. But winning doesn’t just mean that you hold out until they text you. After a certain point, if neither party contacts the other, other factors need to be considered in determining a winner. For me, I consider the following: changes in appearances since break-up, current relationship status, quality of new relationship versus old relationship, progression of self, and finally, happiness. If they outscore me on their evaluation, then I concede defeat and congratulate them quietly on a good game. Not really. I jog around the block until I dry heave, and then I feel too skinny to cry about it.

I’m sure my father would feel less than excited to see how his first born son has unraveled the wisdom he’s tried so desperately to instill in him. Other lessons that I’ve completely misinterpreted:

Date around a little before you decide to settle down. Cut to me with three boyfriends in the same city.

Grey Goose is the standard of vodka. Drink it on ice with two olives. Cut to me waking up in my car on a weekday with a puddle of urine at my feet.

Fuck what people think when you’re on vacation. You’ll never have to see them again. Cut to me on a bar in Playa del Carmen without pants.

I love my dad and I love our system of win/no win. It works for us, and most importantly, it helps cut out the gray area that that tends to bog most people down. And in the cloudy, hemorrhoid-inducing world of boy-on-boy dating, it helps to have a system that works.

Welcome to Ferriday

I met my first boyfriend at a gay bar on Bourbon Street. What do you want from me? I'm not running for Jesus, here.

Like most of life's milestones, it was a complete chance encounter that happened as a series of events unexpectedly came together. I wasn't even supposed to go out that night.

I was on my way home from a long night of waiting tables when my friend Lesly called me to meet her at Oz. I told her probably not, but then reconsidered when I came home to an empty house. I was under the strobe lights within twenty minutes.

We were sitting at a two-person table near an opening in the wall that overlooked the dancefloor when I saw him.

I remember saying something like, "Jesus, the dude looks shitfaced." He was the only guy in sea of shirtless men who 1.) was younger than 30 and 2.) had all of his clothes on. He was also the cutest guy I'd seen in real life. His little blonde mop top was shooting around like a pinball from shirtless bearded man to shirtless bearded man. The look on his face said "I've had multiple handgrenades and I'm having trouble living right now."

By the time I was trashed enough to start dancing, I'd stopped keeping tabs on his whereabouts. And then he bumped into me.

He looked me dead in the eyes and said, " Can you please pretend to be my boyfriend so this fucking weirdo will stop grabbing on me?" He motioned to the six foot tall bear behind him and grabbed my hand with his. I pulled him close to me, smiled, and started grinding until Fuzzy McGee got the hint and pranced away.

He asked me to be his real-life boyfriend a week later.

I started calling him Ferriday, his hometown and source of his thick, Central Louisiana twang. Our relationship only lasted a few months, but it stressed me out more than the time I thought Wit's End gave me gonorrhea. It also taught me everything I'd ever need to know about my boundaries and my threshold for patience.

Our relationship may or may not have completely wasted me for all the men that followed, but he helped me become the lovable chauvinist with a heart of gold that writes a blog about being a shitty boyfriend.

...and now he's the fiancé of a 49 year-old lawyer in Lake Charles. Everyone wins.

Why I'm Awesome/An Asshole

I was seeing this guy for a few weeks before he left the country for spring break with some friends. His plane hadn’t even touched down in Mexico before I was in Andy’s bed.

Andrew Oppenheimer stood about 5 feet 4 inches and looked like a miniature version of the guy I was currently dating. I saw him dancing wildly like one of those hippies at Jazzfest under the flashing lights of the bar. I immediately glanced at my group of friends, pointed with two fingers at the crazy little man with the white mohawk, and screamed “DIBS!”

I asked a mutual friend to introduce us, and he did. I was dressed in my standard going-out/living uniform: Ralph Lauren button down, backwards camouflage Texas A&M hat, colored J.Crew chino shorts, and auburn loafers. Some queers would call it “straightboy drag,” but I’ve been dressing like some sloppy fratboy since I was old enough pair khaki with seafoam. I blame my father. It’s not really a “look” so much as it is “laziness.” Fratboy chic is like the tofu of guy fashion. I can wear this shit to a bar, or church, or work. Sometimes in that order without washing anything.

Meanwhile, I was certain that I was going to screw Andy within the first few minutes of meeting him. But for the sake of making this as “organic” as possible, I flirted and made him laugh as much as I could. I was committed to making this happen whether he liked it or not. And I’m pretty sure he did. Because we were making out on wall near the door before I had time to shake his and had and say “Nice to meet you. My name [sloppy kissing noises].”

I scammed him into letting me and six friends stay at his apartment so that we didn’t have to drive back home hammered. I wore his San Antonio High School gym shorts without a shirt, and he wore a matching set of UT Austin pajamas. Remember that time I said I tend to ignore big red flags? Case in point: matching set of UT Austin pajamas. Before we slept together the first time, I told him that I was sort-of talking to someone. He said that it was ultimately my decision that I would have to live with. So I put on some clothes, rustled up my friends (most of which had brought other strange men to Andy’s apartment), and drove back home smiling with my head held high. And that’s how I began my life of in the clergy.

After me and my clan of horny misfits left in the morning, I gave Andy my number and we continued to talk and meet up at my place or his for the next few weeks. Then one Saturday while I was in New Orleans, I got trashed and tried calling and texting him to let me come over. He didn’t respond, so I did the logical thing — barge in on him. Unfortunately, the front gate at his complex was locked, so I hopped the iron fence and landed on my ass in a mud puddle. I picked myself up, mounted the stairs to his apartment, and began to pound (not knock) on the door. After standing there covered in mud-sweat and swaying with extreme obliteration for a solid five minutes, I got tired and drove home. 

Andy texted me the next night to chastise me for showing up unannounced. And when I told him that a simple response to my texts would have prevented me from showing up, he told me that he couldn’t text me when he was his boyfriend. I stood in my living room with the phone next to my ear for several seconds before hanging up.

“Cheating asshole,” I thought as I tossed my phone onto my bed and walked into the other room where my boyfriend was watching TV.

It's cool. We go way back.

The Lord works in tragic, effed-up ways. I feel like he’s a big ‘ol drag queen with a pension for being a big messy spectacle. But like a drag queen with a mean streak, God has sense of humor. How else could you explain YouTube videos of monkeys riding miniature horses or Ke$ha? Fortunately for God, I have a sense of humor, too. Especially when the joke is on me. Prime example: within the last 24 hours, I've talked to McBougie, Wit's End, and The Dean. Didn't think I knew when the joke was on me? Do better next time.

First off, my encounter with McBougie is so beyond fucked up that I'm currently unable to recount the story because of it's too-soon-ness. I promise to come back to it one day, but it's so disturbing that I'm uncomfortable even mentioning that anything happened. I blame all the wonderfully shameless canned margaritas that I perpetually shotgunned over the weekend. Damn you Festival! Any event that causes your exboyfriend to dunk text you about how much he loves/misses you & your family is a product of terrorism. You beat me again, Festival. And worst of all, you made me hook up with my least favorite ex. Frowny face with a greater than symbol before the colon for angry eyebrows.

Now that you're both bewildered and desperate for details, I'll move on and pretend that the proceeding paragraph never happened. Winky face.

I spontaneously decided to do some apartment purging when I got home from work yesterday. My parents spent Saturday night at my apartment, and in preparation for their arrival, I had to hide everything incriminating. Which meant the only things mom and dad saw when they walked into my bedroom were a mattress and some exposed wires hanging out of a hole in the ceiling. After they left the next day, I realized that some of this shit had to go. Now.

While cleaning out my side table, I came across old undergraduate papers, unused scantrons, and some things that caused me stop what I was doing and take a seat on the couch. On the coffee table before me were laid out the follow three items:

1.) A large white binder that The Dean had passed down to me when I inherited his position as a student activities chair at UL.

2.) A collection of poetry that McBougie had given me for our first Christmas together.

3.) A homemade book made from construction paper, tape, photos printed at Walgreen’s, and words that were clipped from magazines.

The childish, homemade construction paper book was a gift from Wit's End. He made it for me the day after he told me he was moving back to Houston. My consolation prize.

I immediately called The Dean to ask if he wanted his binder back (for sentimental reasons). He sounded annoyed and told me chuck it. Fantastic, I thought. I congratulated myself for bring such a considerate exboyfriend and shoved that bastard into the trash bag.

Being that I'd just had such a stimulating conversation with The Dean, and an empowering, magical "get together" with McBougie the day before, I decided to go for the hat trick and give Wit's End a call.

Oh, by the way, yesterday was May 2, 2011 — the one-year anniversary of my break-up with McBougie...and the day I met Wit's End. No joke. Same day, 4 hours apart. Sorry to bury the lead like this.

Considering this special date and the unusual circumstances, (just finding 3 books in my nightstand that seemed to be perfect metaphors for the men that had gifted them to me) I knew this had to be a sign from Gaga.

Wit's End and I talked for about fifteen minutes. And after we hung up, I felt like things were suddenly a lot less fuzzy. Wit's End wasn't poisonous like McBougie or complacent like The Dean. He's slutty, simple, sketchy, and a bad liar. But he is arguably my favorite. And he is still mine in some alternate universe. And I bet we're happy there.

I decided to keep the other two books after tossing The Dean's away as per his request. They'd escaped break-up box inferno and they would live another day.

I moved my copy of Tina Fey's Bossypants from on top of my comforter before flopping onto my bed and putting in my earbuds. I listened to some Rilo Kiley and Matt & Kim, and quietly wondered if Wit's End had made it home from the tanning salon yet.

And then my phone buzzed twice and lit up.

My Douchebaggery is Selfless, Really

My list of blocked users on Facebook contain the following 8 individuals:

1. Wit’s End
2. McBougie
3. McBougie’s cousin
4. This asshole who told my boyfriend that I was messaging him and trying to hook-up (which I seriously wasn’t)
5. A random Baton Rouge trick that my best friend (not me) slept with
6. McBougie’s new boyfriend (who I caught sneaking out of the apartment behind my office a few days ago)
7. Wit’s End’s “straight” profile

And 8. Some guy that called me faggot on my wall after I expressed my feelings about the Project Runway season 3 finally.

This is the list in its entirety. Two exes (well, three if you count both of Wit’s End’s accounts) and a bunch of haphazard dipshits who annoyed me at some point. All the other exes and random guys I’ve hooked up with are still friends with unlimited access to my profile info. Even if I don’t particularly care for the guy, I don’t see the point in keeping a mile-long, documented shit list. That having been said, I don’t really do a good job of ending things on what’s called “good terms.” I tend to set fire to the bridge and walk away in slow motion. I’m not one of those people who can be friends with their ex. Mostly because I piss them off by doing something dumb like prancing into the bar with some other random guy the day after the break-up. I also have a really bad habit of getting busted being places where I’m not supposed to be. I’ll be dancing with some girl at City Bar and I’ll feel a tap on my shoulder. And it’s always the guy I’m currently talking to. And he always looks at me with a confused/irritated gaze and says, “I thought you said you were going to your grandma’s house in Breaux Bridge?”

Okay, first of all, although both of my grandmothers are still alive, they both live in New Orleans with every other member of my family. Secondly, I’m not sure why, but most of the lies I tell take place in one of two places: Gramercy or Breaux Bridge. I’ve never once been to Gramercy, and I’ve only been to Breaux Bridge to have lunch or shop for a Mother’s Day gift. But it’s just been my experience that no one will ever question your business in either of these places. No matter how dumb the lie is.

I’m not a bad person, though. Part of me feels like I’m such a fantastic Christian boy deep down that I’d rather the other guy feel like the hero instead of moping around, feeling like the victim and blaming themselves. My douchebaggery is selfless, really. I’ll be the villain as long as you can sleep at night.

My ratio of friends to blocked users is 1581 to 8. I like that. It tells me that I tolerate more people than I detest. I might fuck up our post-relationship friendship, but I’ll see you from across the room, quietly smile to myself, and wish you luck with the new guy.

That’s just the kind of badass I am.

I'm Gay! I Need To Talk About Myself Too!

Do you know how hard it is to be gay and not be able to talk about yourself all the time? Gays need two things to survive: tanning salons and attention. And since I’m pastier than Casper the Friendly Homo, I require twice the attention. So when I’m robbed of my need to tell my friends about what I ate for lunch or walk them through my experience at AutoZone where the cute greasemonkey mechanic turned out to be a big fruit who gave me his number, I wilt a little bit inside.

Such is the case with this guy I was talking to. Besides every gay male I’ve ever met, this guy talked about himself more than anyone. And he didn’t just recount his day or tell me about his interests. This guy was a one-upper to the max. Even worse, he consistently felt the need to work a comment about some random achievement that happened four years ago into every conversation. Example: “I made a C on my biochem test today, but that’s okay. I was the youngest person ever to work for the number one research lab in all of Tennessee. When I was eleven! I pretty much ran the place. They gave me my own ID badge and when I went down to Human Resources, they guy was like ‘Oh, so you’re the kid everyone’s been talking about.’ That’s just how I’ve always been.” — pause for bong hit — “I’ve just really been into setting goals for myself and then achieving them blah blah blah herpa derp derp.”

And the worst part: It was NEVER about me. One time I asked him his middle name, he said Thomas or whatever and then started telling me about some dumb story that I didn’t hear because I was too busy inside my head screaming, “I HAVE A MIDDLE NAME, TOO, DOUCHEBAG! IT’S ANTHONY! YOU WOULD KNOW THAT IF YOU WOULD’VE JUST RESPONDED WITH, ‘MY MIDDLE NAME’S THOMAS. WHAT’S YOURS?’ BUT NO. THIS STORY ABOUT YOUR CAT OR WHATEVER IS MUCH MORE INTERESTING THEN WHAT MY PARENTS CHOSE TO CALL ME AT BIRTH! GOD, YOU SUCK!”

I called to let him know how my meeting went this morning and he immediately launched into a real-time narration of his walk to class. He actually stopped and talked to people along the way while I sat on the other end, wondering when he was going to take a breath. He was in mid-sentence about his plan to rearrange his bedroom when I hung up. It took him over 50 seconds to realize that I was on the other end and call me back. And I let it ring. And after I’d started writing the first paragraph, he called a second time. And I let it ring again.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy learning about him. I’ve just been in enough relationships to know that sharing who you are with someone is just as important as figuring them out. It’s a two-way street in every way.

Until they annoy you to death. And then it's on to the next one.

Burn Victims

Wit’s End was at work the day that I decided to burn McBougie’s break-up box. He’d been gone a few hours and I knew I’d have some time to myself before he pulled back into the driveway. I reached under my bed and drew out the red and white heart-shaped package with both hands. It was about the size of a donut box and as heavy as a case of Coca-cola. After I slid the box into in the middle of the bedroom, I reached back under my bed to pull out several large sheets of paper and a few oversized objects that were too big for the box. I gathered the heap into my arms and carried it out the screen door. In the back yard, I let the pile fall to the ground and began searching for the gas can. I found it inside the door of the shed and shook it to make sure it was full. Then I checked the ashes of the fire pit to make sure there wasn’t any strange debris and began to unpack everything.

I’m not sure where McBougie found this box, but I remember how he'd given it to me. It was my Valentine’s Day gift the year before. McBougie had baked sugar cookies, each one with a different compliment written in runny icing on top. Thing’s like “You’re cute,” “You’re a good cuddlier,” etc. And on the outside of the box He’d written in red sharpie “I Love You Because…” He’d painted the box in red and white acrylic and left it on my bed for me to find on the evening of February fourteenth. The cookies were nibbled on over the next few days, with the box itself becoming the most significant gift. I knew the second I saw in sitting atop my camouflage comforter that McBougie had just given me his own break-up box. It was pure poetry.

Throughout the following year, everything material position that concerned our union went into the box. Photographs, ticket stubs, receipts, Christmas cards, dried flowers, a souvenir foam clown nose from a Cirque du Soleil performance, and countless notes written on post-its, loose-leaf, and bar napkins. I kept the giant heart under my bed with a small stack of t-shirts and three or four prints by textbook artists that he’d given me. All waiting for the day that one of us would leave the other one and I would have to torch them. I’ve accepted that the practice of keeping a break-up box is the definition of pessimistic, but I’d rather think of it as organized sensibility. I mean, who wants to find an old ticket stub to Wall-E in the cargo pocket of your shorts three months after the break-up? Not me. And not in cargo shorts, for that matter.

I was halfway through stoking a Georgia O’Keefe print and smother the matching t-shirts that we’d worn to a Harry Potter midnight premier when Wit’s End drove up. “You’re not supposed to be home, yet” I said without lifting my eyes from the fire. He stumbled over to me with a stupid grin and asked if he could help. I told him it wouldn’t feel right if he did. He’d seen the box before and often wondered why it was taking me so long to burn it. And I’d always turn red and dodge the question. He took out his iPhone and snapped a picture of the smoldering chaos. The face of a large white heart with flames licking the edges of it. “I’m making this my background. Just letting you know,” he stuttered with his Texan twang as he fiddled with his phone, adjusting the picture to the right size. “Oh, here and I got this for you.” He said and handed me a sky blue envelope. The card pictured two orange cats sitting at a candle-lit table and staring lovingly at one another. Inside it read, “Happy Three Months, Squirrel. I love you lots and lots. Xoxo.” I kissed him on the cheek and waited for the last of my history with McBougie to stop smoking before grabbing his hand and leading him back inside.

Wit’s End crept into the bathroom for a quick shower and change, and I was left alone on my bed. There, I listened for the water to start running before I opened my closet door, pulled down a TOMS shoe box from the top shelf, and slipped the sky blue envelope inside of it. I yanked a bulky hoodie over the box and returned to my bed where I stared blankly at the ceiling and wondered if the can of gas in the backyard would still have enough fuel in it to burn Wit’s End’s box by the time that he was no longer sleeping next to me and using up all the hot water.

I Might Have Said Something Dumb...

One time I went on a date with this guy, got hammered, and then after we hooked up I told him that I wasn’t interested. Then the next morning I’d forgotten all about it and asked him if he wanted to go get food and he was all like, “I don’t think so.” So I spent the whole day trash-talking him to my friends for being such a douche. And then I talked to him and he told me about what a belligerent drunk I’d been and how I told him that “this wasn’t going to work” right before passing out on the floor. So I turned bright red, told him that my mom was beeping in, and hung up forever.

To this day, I’m not really sure why I told him that I wasn’t interested to his face like that. I mean, it wasn’t the worst date ever. I actually had a lot of fun. Part of me believes that the drunk me was looking out for sober me’s best interests. Maybe I’d already made up my mind somewhere that I’d never be able to date this guy, so I cut the cord with booze-soaked scissors. Another part of me thinks it was a bluff to see what his reaction would be. After being so passive and lame all night, maybe I wanted to see a little fire in him. Most realistically, I was a drunken mess and I said something dumb.

He studied architecture at Loyola and the only thing we had in common was the same first name.

Like many gay relationships, our motions were in reverse. We’d met on Facebook, then began texting, then came the phone calls, and eventually the meet-up and pre-determined physical activity. This is Blueprint #1 for finding a boyfriend in Britneyland. Blueprint #2 begins with the meeting first, then sex, and then actually learning about one another. The architect and I were following the first pattern, which is easily the road less traveled.

Our story ends with him going to the bathroom the next morning after shooting my lunch invitation down. As soon as the door closed behind him, I began digging through a pile of his clothes. I have a really bad habit of keeping the t-shirts and gym shorts that are left at my place. Even if they don’t really fit, I like the keepsake itself. Not for any bizarre reason; I just like trophies. But since this was an away game, I made an executive decision to look for a souvenir. The architect was 1.) a student of Loyola University and 2.) in a fraternity at said University. So I had my heart set on a Loyola t-shirt or gym shorts with his fraternity letters. I threw things around and lifted up garments for inspection. I was almost breaking into a sweat when I heard his footsteps coming back down the hallway. I jump back into bed before the door opened and pretended to be just waking up.

Trophy-less, half naked, and still slightly hammered, I made my way out of the house and into the 8:00AM morning. It wouldn’t be until later that day when the architect and I would speak and he would tell me about the mess I’d created the night before. And this is the part where I turn bright red, tell him that my mom is beeping in, and hang up forever.

After New Year’s Day, I began packing my things in preparation for my return home. I dumped out the contents of my duffle bag and began cramming my new Christmas gifts into it. That’s when I noticed something alien. There, atop my massive heap of clothes sat a small, balled-up piece of maroon mesh. Apparently I’d slept in his Loyola gym shorts the night before and hadn’t noticed wearing them home or taking them off when I got to my room. At the sight of them, I felt immediately sad that the architect and I never really had a chance. I’d effed it up, and there was no going back.

But I had new gym shorts to remember him by. And they fit perfectly.

You're Questionable. Let's Date!

Since I was old enough to understand exactly what I was doing, I’ve been faking asthma attacks to get out of doing things that I didn’t want to do. I can recall three times in recent memory where I was pulled over for speeding and subsequently feigned respiratory distress. You’d be surprised how panicked an officer of the law will get when a 22-year-old gay male turns blue and starts freaking out. “Ineed my—inhaler—and Ijustneed to get to myhouse, [big inhale this time] officer.”

In addition to speeding tickets, I’ve used asthma attacks to get out of wrestling practice, school projects, sexual intercourse, and this one time where I really didn’t want to cut the grass.

The only thing that I’ve done that’s more reckless than faking an asthma attack to avoid buying my grandmother a birthday present is my perpetual disregard for red flags. If I think a guy is attractive and/or the least bit into me, I’m pretty much oblivious to his flaws from jump. Don’t try to tell me that he stabbed his father with a box cutter or that he’s actually two midgets stacked on top of one another, because I won’t hear you. And the cuter the guy is, the less I’ll care or notice. 

Sometimes I’ll write a little memo to myself if the guy takes a call at the dinner table or doesn’t open the door for me, but otherwise, I let the hot guy slide. It isn’t until things really start to go awry that I notice the bouquet of red flags he’s been holding behind his back the whole time.

Muffin’s red flag was her disability. She was female. McBougie’s red flags were all over the place: violent outbursts, eating candy on the toilet, chatting with other guys on Yahoo! Messenger like it’s 2002. But, being the upstanding citizen that he wasn't, Wit’s End’s red flags were probably the most disturbing.

He told me over lunch one day that he used to be engaged to this girl named Ashely. And in my head, a small little red flag popped up. Still trying to wrap my mind around this homosexual’s engagement to a woman, I asked why they’d split up. He told me that he’d cheated on her and that she’d done some snooping and found out about it. And then a second little red flag popped up. When I asked him to explain the cheating, he told me that when he worked for the airport, he’d taken a flight to Dallas one weekend to stay with a “friend.” According to Wit’s End, this friend of his had a boyfriend, and over the course of 3 days, Wit’s End had slept with both of them, together and separately, multiple times. And then my head exploded and tiny red flags flew out and landed in sushi rolls and glasses of iced tea.

The worst part: He narrated the story without any remorse or shame. It was all very matter-of-fact. “Oh, yeah, my female fiancé found out that I was having gay threesomes out of town, and dumped my ass. Can you pass the soy sauce?”

Even worse than that: I continued to date this guy! What a catch, right? I bought his “I’m glad it happened, because now I know how damaging infidelity can be” mumbo jumbo. Because he had a cute face, I looked past the flashing red siren on top of his head that said “DON’T DATE ME! I LIKE NASCAR AND I’LL SLEEP WITH ANYTHING THAT RESPONDS TO MY AD ON CRAIGSLIST!”

And alas, the joke was on me.

But having dealt with boyfriends with mental illness, sexual dysfunction, and an alarming amount of daddy issues, I’ve learned to spot red flags from a mile away. The cute guy with the Twilight quote on his profile page won’t get past security anymore! 

And if one more douchebag pulls out his phone during the first date or tries to tell me about how much his ex-boyfriend makes him want to “kill himself,” I’m faking the most dramatic asthma attack possible and sprinting out the front door. Deuces. 

Wit's End's Epilogue

There were two good things to come out of my 9 month, on-again, off-again relationship with Wit's End. The first was my James Avery engagement ring. The second was my Banana Republic Spouse Discount Card.

He'd bought the ring after the first three months of our relationship, but it wasn't given to me until six months after that. We'd broken up after his impromptu move to Houston, but then tried to work it out over the course of several weeks. He is the first and only person with whom I've entertained the thought of marriage. And he felt the same way about me. Wit's End told me when he bought the ring, but he never let me see it. He would keep it in his pocket most of the time, knowing that I'd go snooping around if he wasn't guarding it on his person.

After a draining, disorienting few months of  struggling with the five hours of distance between us, things began to fall apart. And then he made a choice that would brake me.

Wit's End moved from Houston to Portland in November of last year. With three time zones between us, we could no longer function as boyfriends. I broke up with him over the phone so I didn't have to look at his face via Skype, and prepared myself  to never look back. During our break-up compromise, (you don't call me and I won't hate you) he told me through tears that he'd put something in the mail that morning and that it was going to break my heart. He wasn't the smartest or most creative hillbilly, so I figured that his present would be a torn-out coloring book page at best. And when I hung up the phone that night, I began the process of falling out of love with Wit's End.

I was at work when the envelope arrived at my apartment. My roommate had taken in the mail and sent me a picture message of the parcel when he noticed Wit's End's name and return address. I asked a co-worker to cover my tables and sprinted out the door of the restaurant without even asking my manager if it was okay for me to leave. When I walked in the door, I saw the envelope sitting on the dining room table. And I knew what was in it before I reached for it.

I slipped the ring onto my finger and kept it there for the next few days. After that, I hid it in the bottom of my my toiletry bag and haven't seen it since. Wit's End's break-up box was ritualistically burned months ago, but the ring wasn't inside it when I soaked the box in gasoline and sparked the lighter. I'm still not really sure what to do with the little fucker. I tried sending it into OutOfYourLife.com, but it was deemed "inappropriate" break-up jewelry. So I'll keep it for now, and maybe sporadically take it out to admire the shiny silver exterior and the engraving of Wit's End's last message to his first boyfriend and future fiance, "THE FIRST. THE LAST."

During the short amount of time that we lived in the same city, Wit's End worked at the Banana Republic in our local mall. The job granted him dual discount cards; one for himself and the other for his domestic partner. I rarely ever use my card, but I had a party to go to last weekend and I desperately needed a new outfit. Knowing that it had probably been long-canceled, I decided to try my luck. You can imagine my amusement when the sales girl looked up from her computer with and gave me the expression of someone who was about to deliver devastating news. "Your Spouse Card has been canceled, sir," she stammered. I smiled and told her that it was fine and she could dispose of the card in the trash can behind the counter. And for the first time since our break-up, I felt like Wit's End's ex-boyfriend. His chapter in my book had ended, and this scene was the epilogue.

I could see it playing out in my head as I walked out of the front room at Banana Republic and into the crowded, uncomfortable walkway of the Dillard's wing of the mall. In Wit's End's epilogue, this would be the part that wraps everything up, mentions the ring and the sales girl one more time for the reader to relate everything back to the main point, and then finally comes to a close with two words that let you know that the story is really over. THE END.

Don't Hate Me for Leaving

This morning I woke up to find a text that read "It was awesome laying next to you last night. Couldn't sleep. Don't hate me for leaving. xoxox."

The first emotion that I felt was disappointment. Not for the fact that I'd hooked up with a complete stranger, but because he didn't have the decency to leave a hand-written note before he'd slipped out. Instead, he sent a text at 4:30AM. Homeboy didn't even notice the dry erase board I keep by my door for the exact purpose of collecting trick autographs and witty goodbye messages. Some notes on the board say things like "John was here 1/19/2011" or "You're bed is so comfy -JEREMY XOXO." Standard dumb phrases that you joke about the next morning as they guy's collecting his clothes.

The dry erase board was my solution to the pile of ripped-out notebook pages that I'd collected over the years from various boyfriends. These were serious, heartfelt rambling about how much I was loved and how special I was. Some were just torn quarter-pages that said ":-*" or "Love you baby." Then after we'd break up, I take the notes along with other items in my break-up box and torch them. The paper notes I'd keep from the boys I'd seriously date would linger and call to me from inside my bedside cabinet until I'd set them afire. But the words on my dry erase board can disappear forever with a forceful swipe of my hand. Poof.

But for now I like my small collection. I was never emotionally attached to any of these people, so it doesn't bother me that their words are on display. The idea of the looseleaf love note is as romantic as it gets for me. But it's a temporary souvenir. It only serves a purpose in the context of the current relationship. After that, it becomes a relic of failure. Use my pink mini dry erase pen to tell me something dumb and unforgettable and please leave.

Meanwhile: I was still upset of the lazy text message when lunch was delivered this afternoon. I never expected to see him again, but I as least deserved the validation of a written excuse for leaving in the night. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe the hand written note in the morning to be the perfect currency for sleeping with someone random.

I didn't hear from him until later this evening. I asked him where'd he'd been all day and then joking wondered why he'd been out of touch. And surprising he gave an honest answer. He told me that before he'd gotten into bed with me he'd noticed a crumpled, green wrapper on the floor where the bedskirt meets the carpet. Apparently freshly torn condom wrappers don't scream modesty.  He said he was "put off" and decided this wasn't the place for him to be. So he left after I feel asleep.

Embarrassed to the point of a bright red face, I drew the conversation to a close and hung up. "Well, that was fun while it lasted," I told myself. The wrapper itself was taken out of context. I'll just say that it wasn't for the obvious reason. Stop judging me.

My only silver lining with the thanksgiving that he hadn't noticed the pink, blue, and green notes from other men that littered my dry erase board as he fumbled out the doorway.

While I'm pretty sure it's possible to explain a used condom wrapper, I'm certain there's no talking your way out of your questionable behavior when a guy has taken the time to hand-write a note on your wall that says, "Thanks for the ride...and also the lift home in the morning."

Ex, Oh. Ex, Oh.

Yesterday, two of my coworkers and I headed to Baton Rouge after leaving the office. Two of us were speaking on a panel for the some student design thing at LSU and I decided to tag along at the last minute. Honestly, I just wanted P.F. Chang's and the opportunity to possibly scope out some of the LSU design 'moes. But supporting my co-workers was priority #1, followed by Singapore Street Noodles.

But before leaving, I had to hurry up and get out of a date. I called The Dean from my desk and told him that something had come up and I had to cancel dinner plans. I was honest with him except for saying that I "just found out that I had to go." First off, I'd known about this panel for about a month now. Second, I had zero obligations to attendance. He said that he understood and then asked if I'd like to be his date to some charity event on Saturday. I politely declined, said good-bye, and hung up.

Dean and I had dated for about 7 months in 2008. He was in graduate school at Texas A&M and I was a sophomore in undergrad. Long-distance relationships aren't really my thing, plus I have a very bad habit of wanted to have my cake and eating four other ones at the same time. During our 7 months of "dating," I was less than well behaved. Long story short, Dean moved back to Louisiana after graduation and I decided that living in the same city as my boyfriend wasn't going to work. Like seriously. How did he expect me to bring guys home with if he was always on my couch?

Over the next several months after our break-up, everything started to come out in the wash. Dean had done a little research and found out that I wasn't the innocent 19-year-old angel that he though he'd been dating. Let's just say he was...disappointed. I've forgotten to mention that I was Dean's first boyfriend...and first kiss...and first everything. He was 6 years older than I was, and a super-late bloomer. So for Dean, this news was not only unwelcome; it was devastating.

Years passed and The Dean and I never spoke. He wouldn't even look at me when I walked arm-in-arm with my best friends into Jules. But I didn't blame him. How could I? When friends or new boyfriends would try to get the scoop on our break-up or question my reasons for sleeping around on my boyfriend, I would always blame the dumbest shit. "What did you expect me to do? He lived in Texas!" or "I was 19. I needed to make those mistakes." The truth was that I did it because I wanted to. I had a problem and wanted to explore it. And the worst part: I didn't care about the consequences. But being the bigger person that he is, Dean eventually forgave me and we were able to at least say hello when occasionally running into one another. 

And then I woke up in his bed Sunday morning. 

I don't really understand/care how this happened, so I just accepted it and rolled over to face the wall and hog the covers. After waking up and splitting a 20-piece order of McNuggets, I kissed him on the forehead and strutted out the door. We made plans via text to hang out again Wednesday evening. 

Until the opportunity to eat Chinese food and meet skinny, granola art students came along. 

So Dean gave me yet another chance. Maybe this weekend we'll go to dinner and I'll tell him about my evening in Baton Rouge. And maybe I'll leave some parts out. Like the part where we drove past Campus Crossing and I regaled Blake and Amanda with a story about the time I  drunk-tricked with a guy in that exact building after jumping the fence and landing ass-first in a puddle of mud.

The Dean wouldn't like that story very much. He knows that I had a boyfriend at the time...

Less Fun Than Nut Cancer

So I had the pleasure of running into McBougie and his new boyfriend last Sunday.

Allow me to list the stand-out details of our run-in:

1. My face turning bright red

2. The new boyfriend avoiding eye contact

3. Me staring at the new boyfriend's feet and hairline

4. The conversation about my recently totaled car

5. My fixation on everyone's (including my own) weight

6. Thoughts about the inevitable status update that I'd be posting within minutes

7. The lady behind the counter conducting dual conversations with the both of us

8. Someone farting

and finally...

9. The hello and goodbye handshaking

On the drive home, I posted that shit on Facebook as fast as I could. The status read, "You know what's more fun than running into one of your exes and his new boyfriend in the auto department at Walmart? Nut cancer." Funny, right? Well he didn't think so.

Homeboy called me last night, [hammered]. He asked why I'd been ignoring his texts, then he asked why I stood him up for lunch over two weeks ago...and then he said that several of his friends had called and told him about the status. I facepalmed myself so hard that my nose almost started hemorrhaging.

If our Walmart run-in wasn't torture enough, this conversation was sending me over the edge. It was like being beaten over the head with a stapler. I was in the middle of explaining how I felt he'd crossed a line by texting/calling me when the call was dropped. I rolled my eyes, grunted, and then walked back inside.

Nothing since.

The whole incident was awkward and confusing, and I'd rather sit through an entire Katy Perry concert than relive it. But it's going to happen again. Lafayette isn't a big city. There aren't very many other places to hide. Next time I'll just have to smile a little sweeter and be a little bit more natural when I talk about my little brother's recent ejection from a lacrosse game. And maybe remember to do a little housecleaning with my list of Facebook friends in the mean time. Traitors.

Also, can we all agree that Walmart's "auto department" is the least sexual place on Earth? Ugh, just punch me in the crotch. Toothless ladies in moo-moos aside, I'm super grateful that our encounter happened here and not City Bar or Jules. That would've been a booze-soaked trainwreck.

But we can always hope for next time...

McBougie Eats Bathroom Candy

McBougie and I had been dating for about four months before I found candy wrappers in the bathroom trashcan.

I was running a shower and undressing while the water warmed when I looked down into the wastecan next to the toilet. Atop used tissue and cardboard toilerpaper rolls was a small pile of gold candy wrappers. I'm not certain what particular type of candy the wrappers belonged to, but I do remember that they were miniature somethings.

I kept the shower running as I pulled a towel around my waist and stormed into the living room. was standing in the kitchen of his three-bedroom condo when I entered half naked and disoriented. I waited for him to look up and then stammered, "Were you eating fuckng candy on the toilet?!"

I'm not really sure what the outcome of this ridiculous confrontation was, but it was whack enough for me and my friends to still reference this incident at least once a week. I can rarely spend any extended time in the bathroom without Joey texting me to ask if I'm eating candy on the toilet.

McBougie was less than a year younger, two grade levels behind, and half a foot taller than me. Everything he did either annoyed me or made me feel like I had to compete with him. Our relationship was a constant struggle that exhausted both of us beyond the point of recovery. And until two weeks ago, our saga that began in the summer of 2008 was still  kicking my ass. I walked away from McBougie a long time ago, but our baggage still sits at the foot of my bed.  Only recently have I begun to live in a world where I don't have to take a second look around the parking lot for his car before entering a restaurant. But I still take one look over my shoulder anyway.

That's the thing about being one half of a pair of star cross'd lovers; the odds will always be stacked against you. Your only hope is to try your best to fully understand that person. Let the little things slide every now and then and don't go looking for a reason to be in control.

And if you ever find a Reese's wrapper or a Doritios bag in the trash can next to the toilet, just let it go.

...Unless you happen to find a hot pocket sleeve in there. If that ever happens, you have my full permission to tell all of your friends and update your Facebook status to say something like "Just found evidence to suggest that Corey is eating hot pockets on the toilet. Please text him and reprimand him for this behavior."

New Material

There are five people that have irreversibly impacted my sense of intimacy. Though they are not the only ones to make this impact, they have the exclusivity of being called my "exes". The first ex is Muffin. Then Ferriday and The Dean. Next comes McBougie. And finally, there's Wit's End.

If were to see this group of four guys and a girl standing next to one another, you'd swear that you were looking at the cast of Bravo's newest  reality series, "Different Pokes: When Gay Cultures Collide." That's how different these people are. There is not one single attribute that binds any two members of this group...besides the fact that at some point, they've each dated me.

As far as exes go, they aren't so bad. Although I don't keep in regular contact with any of them, and three of the five have me blocked on Facebook, I'm still very grateful to have a brief history with each one.

As relics of my past, my ex-boyfriends (and girlfriend) still serve an important purpose in my everyday life. They didn't just teach me about boundaries, self-respect, and all that other crap that you figure out in the wake of the break-up. They provide me with some of the most hysterical and heartbreaking stories imaginable. I try my best to make lemonade with every lemon that drops onto my crotch.

 

In addition to the five platinum-level members of my fan club, there are several gold-level members, a handful of silvers, and an army of bronzers. What can I say? I'm a stud with a knack for learning things the hard way.

My history in both short and long-term relationships governs most of my identity. I'm conflicted about how this makes me feel; the fact that others can so easily influence me. But I'm confident enough to understand that influence and inspiration have got to come from outside as well as within. I'm just more of an outdoorsy type I guess.

My failed (and continuing) relationships have made me wiser. But more importantly, they've given me excellent material to work with. And if I hadn't lived it, I'm certain that I wouldn't believe a word of it.

But I hope you'll at least keep an open mind.