Meanwhile, During A Blowjob

“There’s no way I'm getting fully hard. It’s too cold in here. Why the fuck did I leave the fan on? I should’ve kept my socks on at least. That’d be weird, though. Not really for him, but for me. A body clothed in only socks looks incomplete. I think straight guys like that look on girls, right? A chick wearing nothing but knee-high socks? I bet straight guys are all over that shit. Okay, push the image of sockwhore out of my head. No room for that at the moment. Focus on getting hard, Ryan.

I have to, right? I can’t just not get hard. This guy has the courage to put his mouth on my junk, the least I can do is meat him halfway. Meat him halfway. I should write that down before I forget. I’ll use that in a blog entry about this. But maybe it’s not courage that allows him to imbibe m’dong. What does, then? Want drives anyone to folate? I know why I do it: straight-up gratification. Sucking dick is intimate – more intimate than sex can be. You could face a wall or a TV during sex, but you can’t really look at anything beyond stubble with a mouthful of ding-a-ling. Giving head is like kissing; it can be clumsy and sloppy, but it happens on your face. Not down there. A level of personal investment is required. McBougie made fun of me when I explained my stance on the intimacy of smoking poll. Fuck him, though, right? He’s not getting head from a 20-year-old, closeted, dairy department manag—FUCK, TEETH! C’MON, GUY!

Was he just gnawing on it?! So far, he doesn’t seem to know his way around a wiener. But at least I’m hard - well, not super hard - it’s slightly bigger - nothing embarrassing. Oh God, he’s looking right in my eyes. Smile? No, close my eyes and roll my head back. I won’t moan, though. I don’t want to inflate his ego.

Why am I feeling so much pressure to react? Maybe because I’d want the same from him. Although my brand of 'semi-engaged, aloof sex partner' is making him try harder, I should throw him a bone every now and then so that he doesn’t feel like a failure. Throw him a bone. I really should be writing this down. I’m on a roll today.

Eventually, I’m going to have to cum. This could go on for hours. I wish he’d use his hand more, but I don’t think we’re at a place in our relationship where I can art direct his blowjobs. I mean, we’ve been texting for a few days now and I haven’t even saved his number. He seems like a nice guy, but nice is the bare minimum of what a guy should be. Calling a guy 'nice' is the same as calling a sandwich 'edible.' He’s in school, right? For computer animation, or health information systems, or something. I’m sure I’ll see him around. I won’t make this weird. I’m hungry. I want a sandwich.

Okay. Focus, Ryan. Eye on the prize. Let’s make this happen. Zac Efron. Mike from the wrestling team. Chris Hemsworth with short hair. Channing Tatum dancing. Brodie. Prince Harry. Brodie again. Reed from Facebook. Brady Jensen. Evan Peters. Derek Miller. The music of Phantogram. Matt Damon’s thighs in Invictuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuus."

Thanks guys. You did it again.

The Ex In Xmas

Dear MB,

As you may or may not have noticed, we only had sex one time in 2012. And that is a Christmas Fucking Miracle (CFM).

Bruh. We almost went an entire calendar year without doing it. Fucking A, right?! If you think I’m patronizing you, I’m not. I just never thought this would happen. I legitimately believed we were doomed to a perpetual cycle of hating and screwing one another until we died mid-fornication at the hands of a scorned boyfriend who one of us was cheating on. It was not the life I wanted, but it was the life I was prepared for. Now look at us! We haven’t seen each other’s ding-a-lings since February. I might even call my mama and tell her the good news.

Given our – let’s save some adjectives and just say rocky – relationship, I can’t believe we still live in the same city, let alone treat each other with conviviality when we bump into one another somewhere humiliating like Mel’s Diner or the tire department at Walmart. Maybe we’re growing up, and maybe we’re at a point where we can laugh about our shared past. Go on, laugh with me, bitchtits.

Yeah, we slipped. But Jesus Jet Skiing Christ, it was one time – the same number of times Amber D'Alessio made out with a hot dog! And if I’m being completely honest, I’m not 100 percent certain we even had sex-sex. I was blackout shattered. I vaguely remember shouting at you when you tried to introduce a cock ring into the mix, but I don’t remember explicit D in A. And if that’s true, then we definitely deserve a trophy or at least a gift card to Subway.

I’m proud of us, regardless. And like the enamel on my teeth, the pressure to practice self-control around you is gone. We don’t have to get into any “language of letting go” hoopla, but let’s instead just celebrate this little victory. Let’s drink to restraint, and progress, and maturity. We’re doing okay, kiddo, and although we still have couple weeks left in 2012, I think it's safe to label this The Year Of Barely Any Penetration.

And if I don’t see you again in 2013, I guess I’ll see you in hell.

Merry Christmas,
RR

A Surplus Of Cobalt Sweaters

I suffer from buyer's remorse.

I'll pull the cobalt Banana Republic sweater out of its bag, spread it across my bed, take a step back, and press my fingers against my lips. "It's too small. I need to try it on," I say to myself. So I slip it over my head and spin to face the mirror. "Fuck! It actually looks okay. Especially if I roll my shoulders back and look really bored. Arch one eyebrow and scowl. Right there." I'm almost at peace with my decision until the next thought trickles down my skull like a cracked egg: "You just paid $75 dollars for this." That's when I start to panic. "You don't have $75, remember? You still owe Joey for October utilities and Rhett's parking ticket you promised to pay because you made him park at a meter on Frenchman Street on a Saturday. Do you have any idea what you could have bought yourself with $75? Plus, it's not even that cute. You have too much blue in your closet and it will never get cold enough in South Louisiana to wear this. See if there's some daily app you can use to work on your self control. WHY ARE YOU STILL WEARING IT?! TAKE IT OFF!"

It's like this with everything. From groceries to gas, I reevaluate my decision until I'm convinced I made the wrong one. And it's all because I habitually act on impulse. I impulse buy, I impulse eat, and I impulse fuck. It's that last one that gets me into the most trouble. Mostly because there's no return policy for the people you sleep with. Instead, I'll look at my own list and take inventory of the cobalt sweaters that should've been overlooked when I was browsing:

The guy from my high school wrestling team.

Two of the three Ryans.

The Australian.

The guy on the Zuiderdam. Not the dancer. The one who worked in customer service.

The LSU theatre major.

The waiter at that hibachi place.
The Brit.
The guy who I didn't know had aspergers, but when I met him in person I realized that he did have aspergers, but I still did it anyway.

The guy who was released from prison (Not jail. Prison.) the day before it happened.

The guy with the lip ring who I met at the Rabbit Hole.
The hairdresser from Baton Rouge.

The guy from Michigan who was wearing sweatpants in June.

The white rapper.
Ron. Not Ronnie.

The guy who has Hollister bags stapled to the walls of his bedroom. 

Vinny from Italy.
The strip club bouncer who worked at Barely Legal somewhere in North Louisiana.

The guy who slept with his pants on and keys in his pocket.

The guy who brought me home to meet his parents in New Roads.

My friend's ex-fiance.

The ballet dancer.
The guy who I used to work with at that Italian restaurant.

The guy whose parents were Christian Fundamentalists.
The guy with the insulin pump in his stomach.

One of my best friends.
The guy who stopped by on his way home from Austin City Limits.
Andrew. Not Andy.
The guy that I met at my Festival International After Party when I was on house arrest.
Every guy from Lake Charles. All of them. Without exception.

The first time I felt buyer's remorse after having sex with someone was the first time I realized I can't exchange every bad decision I make. And since I'm stuck with them, I'll label them as "takesies backsies" and hide them in a bag on the top shelf of my closet. And every now and then, I'll look inside and laugh my ass off, and cringe, and punch myself in the dick.

Because let's be honest. This is all my wiener's fault anyway.

Picture This

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my first date. Several hours after I posted it, the girl with whom I went on the date sent me a direct message on Facebook. And she attached this:

And, yes. Those cargo pants convert to cargo shorts.

Scents & Sensibility

When I was 13 years old, I stole a bottle of Bath & Body Work’s Warm Vanilla Sugar body lotion from my little sister’s vanity because I thought it smelled like sex.

Being a pre-pubescent micro homo (micro’mo?) with overprotective parents and no vision of the world outside of Cow & Chicken and Dexter’s Laboratory, I couldn’t grasp the concept of porking another human, let alone describe the scent it would give off. But I decided that warm vanilla sugar had to be in the ballpark. It was romantic and intoxicating and made my underwear tighter. So I took the bottle when Rachel wasn’t around, and hid it in my tin X-men lunch box between an unwrapped Ring Pop and several pictures of Erik von Detten that I’d printed out at school. Every now and then, when I was waiting for the bathroom to fill up with steam, I’d take the bottle out, hold it up to my nose and think, “This must be what falling in love smells like.” It smelled like that scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy opens the front door of her house in Munchkinland and everything goes gaytechnicolorfiesta. “Ahhhhh, this is lovely.”

Although the bottle of lotion would eventual play a major role in my sex life, my relationship with it never veered into self-gratification territory. Sure it smelled like an Aimee Mann song, but I certainly wasn’t going to rub it on my dick. This was captive romance – the sex we envision when we’re too young to understand it. Candles, and rose petals, and chocolate-dipped strawberries. No, no. This was not for jerking off. This was special. Sacred, almost.

On the evening of Brother Martin High School’s Eighth Grade Dance, I laced up my Doc Martens, walked through a cloud of Axe Body Spray, and smeared a tiny puddle of Warm Vanilla Sugar across my neck. Monica Carlisle’s parents were dropping her off at my house around 6:00, but I’d been ready since 4:30. This was going to be my first date, and Warm Vanilla Sugar was decidedly part of my A-game. I had zero interest in kissing this poor girl, but Monica was one of the prettier girls from my elementary school, and I knew that she would definitely elicit looks from the popular guys at my new high school. This makes me sound like I was using her, but trust me: gay guys and the girls who befriend them mutually benefit from the bond. Girls get a shopping buddy, gays get straight bait.

Needless to say, neither dinner at Bennigan's nor the hormonal, American Eagle-soaked fuckpit of my eighth grade dance resulted in a handy jay for either of us. But my sister’s lotion was now part of who I was when I braved the world.

From then on, I’d wear just a little bit whenever I went on a date. I thought of it as my secret weapon – the one thing you can’t put your finger on. I wasn’t wearing it the night I met my first girlfriend, but every time we hung out after that, I was. And when I graduated high school and moved to Lafayette, it came with me. 

Today, the same bottle of Warm Vanilla Sugar body lotion sits in my shaving kit among a handful of unused LifeStyles Tuxedo Black condoms and a lighter that reads, “Tease.” It only has about two ounces left in it, but I’ll make it lasts as long as possible. Sure I can go out and buy another (and eventually I will), but it’s got good juju attached to it, and it’s seen me through some weird and horny times. And if you’re wondering if I still wear it, I do. But only on first dates or when I’m 100-percent certain of penetration.

Looking back, it's charming how I used to confuse sex with love. Even more so that I believed either could be reduced to a song, or a scene from a movie, or a scent. But when we're young, and primed for fucking up, we see purity and we deserve it. We'll lose our virginity on prom night to the person we'll eventually marry, and then we'll see the world differently. In the mean time, we hold on to the items that will take us there. Some of us even hold on to them long after the fantasy is over; a reminder. A relic. As for me, I wouldn't even trade my secret bottle of lotion for a pair of ruby slippers.

Ruby combat boots? Let me think about it.

A Glitch In The Matrix

Whenever I experience déjà vu, I just assume that there's been a glitch in the Matrix.

This happens mostly when I'm hammered. I'll look at John or Nick with squinty, bloodshot eyes and ask, "We've been here before, haven't we?"

When I turned 20, I lost my ability to create memories on nights of heavy drinking – God's way of protecting me from myself. I'll blackout and wake up on the couch in my underwear, socks, and whatever shirt I wore out the night before. Most times, I'll be within grabbing distance of fast food remnants or a styrofoam box smeared with sauces and crumbs. On more than one occasion, I've actually had to peel a Taco Bell wrapper from my face. And then I'll go out again that night and wonder allowed why this feels so familiar. I’ll gaze into my cup of watered-down Absolut and focus on the mangled lime wedge that’s bobbing for air. I’ve had same drink in my hand before. These people are saying the same things over and over. There must a glitch in the Matrix.

This also happens when I’m dating someone. I’ll find myself propped up in a booth at P.F. Chang’s across from a guy I’m vaguely screwing and out of nowhere, a voice will whisper, “You’ve done this already.” And then I’ll recognize it: the guy, the stories, the haircut, the thing’s we’re avoiding, the sex, the looming break-up, the mounting pile of mistakes and red flags next to the lettuce wraps. This table for two feels habitual – almost ritualistic. He might not be a clone, but this experience has been replicated 100 times. And now we’re living in it, all thanks to our robot overlords changing a single aspect of our artificial reality. Bitches.

Sometimes I crave the feeling, a form of self-inflicted mind-fuckery. I’ll brave the deep waters of my Facebook pictures by scrolling backwards through 2010, then 2009, then 2008. I feel him coming as I edge closer and closer. Down in my stomach, something churns. I scroll. I close one eye and then I open it. My exboyfriend is right in front of me. It's a picture of the two of us together. And then the feeling bursts in my stomach, up my spine, and into the backs of my eyes. I've been here before; skinnier, and happier, and full of shit. And he looks beautiful; the best he's ever looked. It's not a comfortable place to be, but it registers. But it wouldn't be productive for me to stay here. It's been nice visiting, but I really must be going. Romanticizing a memory is the same as lying to yourself. And I lie
enough to myself these days. So goodbye. Miss you, kiss you.

Bye, nigga. It's been real. Well not entirely.

I wonder, could this be home – the place where I return for a feeling I can't explain? Or am I just monetarily suspended in my headspace – the victim of a mechanical animal poking around in my brain. Or maybe I just have a problem with drinking, men, and emotional cutting.

It's just more fun to blame the robots. 

The Other Side Of The World – Part II

"I’m writing this from seat 32E on the 4:15PM flight from Maui to Dallas. 

The time is either 6:30PM or 12:30AM, depending on where I wish I was, which changes by the minute. In my heart, I’m still with you. But in my head, I need to be home – undoing myself from us at a safe distance. 

I keep replaying our last conversation again and again in my head. In the moments before boarding the plane, I rolled my phone around in my hand like a hot coal until I finally dialed your number (which wasn’t saved). I’d waited until the last possible moment before I departed the island. If I told you I was leaving earlier, you would’ve tried to stop me. You would’ve tried to convince me to stay. And if I might have done it. 

But I want you to know that I meant what I said last night in La Perouse. I can still feel the cool leather on my neck as looked up at you from the backseat. The sun roof was open. Above us was the Maui night sky, littered with more stars than I’ve ever seen before. Listen to me. I sound like an asshole. Talking about night skies and stars and cool leather. You’d want me to be myself right now, wouldn’t you? You’d want me to say something honest. Something like, 'Fucking you wasn’t terrible. B+ work, champ.'" – Excerpt from my Maui Journal

Writing in my Maui Journal on the flight home.

I told my friends that I met Cullen at a luau, but that was a lie.

On my second day on Maui, I got blackout drunk and woke up in a shallow puddle of my own piss around eleven o’clock at night. I stumbled to the bathroom, peeled off my damp underwear, and sat on the toilet. When I returned to bed, I rolled onto my back and checked Grindr. In the grid of torsos, I noticed him. His name was Cullen and he lived on the other side of the island in Lahaina. We chatted for about an hour before he said that he’d be willing to meet me at my hotel in Wailea; a 45-minute drive from his house.

After showering, I ran downstairs to tell the valet that my cousin was on his way and ask if he could park his car in the unloading zone. I could tell that he knew I was full of shit, so I reached into the cargo pocket of my board shorts and pulled out a ten. He took it and I walked barefoot to the bar. My nerves were keeping my hangover at bay, but I still felt like it needed some nursing. I was halfway through my second Mai Tai when he walked into the lobby.

He was exactly my height and build and wore a familiar shade of mainlander pasty. Somewhere in the back of my mind, The xx’s “Heart Skipped A Beat” was playing. And I must have been smiling when he looked my way. "Hey, cousin!” he said with a smirk as he swung the strap on his backpack from one shoulder to the other.

He walked with me down to the beach and sat to my left on the edge of the water. He told me that he was from Rancho Cucamonga, California and he'd moved to Maui a year ago to work at the Ritz Carlton Kapalua. And like most young transplants, he was bored with Hawaii, which was unfathomable to me. We spent hours asking each other questions and trying to be the most distilled versions of ourselves, wrapped in masculinity and sex appeal. At some point, we stopped trying and everything kept spinning, so we kissed.

He held my hand on the walk back to the hotel. “I’m not tired yet,” I said. “You want to go for a ride? I can take you halfway to Hana,” he replied. “Just so you know, I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” I said in a voice loud enough for the valet to hear. “Sure you are,” he said without looking at me. “You’re already in love with me.”

When I climbed into his red BMW at 2:30AM, I didn’t even know his middle name. Just magnets and butterflies and the fact that I had five more days of Hawaii and an open road that led halfway to Hana ahead of me.

"You were wrong the first night. I wasn't 'already in love with you.' I just thought you were handsome and funny and adventurous. And I was drunk on rum and Maui. But I want to remind you that you said 'I love you' first, asshole. Somewhere between the first time you saw me in the lobby of the Grand Wailea and last night, you fell in love with me. 

The time is irrelevant because I need to be back in New Orleans. And now the flight attendant is inching closer with the beverage cart and I'm in serious need of a Mai Tai. 

Because you're not here. And that's the next best thing."

Sunrise over Maui.

A Good Ol' Fashion Cock Ring Story

In February, my exboyfriend asked me if I'd like to have drinks with him after work. We met at Marley's around sunset and drank our way through a bottle of Absolut over the course of several hours. Sometime after one a.m., Miranda Kellen, a girl from my undergrad advertising class who was still in college at the time, stumbled over, swung her arms around me, and vomited into my lap.

Outside in the street, my ex and I walked hand-in-hand and laughed about happier, less vomit-covered times, and he drove us back to his place. His apartment hadn't changed at all. On the wall near his bed, the frames that used to host pictures of us were empty. It had been one year and several new boyfriends since we broke up, but he still hadn't replace our pictures with anything.

"You should take a shower," he said. "You smell like Dina Lohan." I climbed into the shower, he followed, and then the theme music from Oz came on.

At some point, he slipped on a cock ring. I didn't even notice until I saw something shiny around his balls. I jumped out of bed, flicked on the lamp, and stood there staring at it, naked and panting. This was not your normal, run-of-the-mill cock ring. It was metal, and thick, and heavy, and looked like it could've been engraved with a Latin prayer. In all seriousness, one could seriously injure a person by throwing it at them.

Me: "THE FUCK IS THAT?!"
Him: "This? What does it look like?"
Me: "When did you start...using those?"
Him: "Stop freaking out. It's no big deal."
Me: "Why? Why do you need that?"
Him: "Fucking chill. It just helps me go longer."
Me: "You're 22! Why do you need help going longer?!"
Him: "Do you want to wear it?"
Me: "You've lost your fucking marbles. Is sex not enough for you anymore? I saw this coming when you left for study abroad in Paris. You're desensitized to normal sex!"
Him: "You're crazy."
Me: "I feel sorry for you. Toss me my underwear, please."

We fell asleep shortly after. And in the morning, we barely spoke on the ride home. I couldn't look at him. He used to be my boyfriend. Now he's a guy who wears cock rings.

A few months later, I dated a guy who aggressively liked for his nuts to be pulled. The first couple of times, it wasn't that weird. Then he started breaking out the toys – something that looked like a Koosh ball on a stick and an aluminum lobster cracker. The last thing I said to him was, "I'm just having a hard time accepting you as a person. It has everything to do with the ball-yanking thing."

Part of me feels like my role as a gay man should include advocating tolerance if not acceptance of personal sexual practices. But I still get skittish and uneasy when I discover that someone I like is into device-assisted sex. It's not for me. And looking back on my ex and his cock ring, I feel like I unfairly wigged out on him. He wasn't hurting anyone if you don't count his poor scrotum. Maybe I didn't like the cock ring because of what it stood for; discomfort and defiance. Or maybe it's something more metaphoric like the dichotomy of release by constriction.

Or maybe I'm a judgmental bitch who thinks rings and vices and butt plugs and Koosh balls are silly. And that my whore exboyfriend and the guy who likes his nuts crushed are craving something that clearly no human alone can fulfill and they're just begging for an ER visit.

Perhaps one day, I'll be walking down the utensil aisle at Target and come upon a lobster cracker. I might smile and think to myself, "Well hello, mister. You'd look good around my scrote."

No! Pick me! I tickle!

But for now, I'll stick with my child-size underwear and skinny jeans. My sperm aren't going to kill themselves. 

The Rash In Irrational

Most things give me anxiety, but fewer things actually scare me.

I've never had a fear of danger, or failure, or dying alone. Instead, most of my fears are completely irrational and involve dudes screwing with me.

For starters, I'm afraid that my date isn't going to return from the restroom. Whoever he is, wherever we are, when he wipes his mouth and excuses himself, I distract myself with texting and nail biting until he sits back down. Being abandoned in the middle of somewhere miserable like Texas Roadhouse is the most mortifying thing I can think of.

I'm afraid that someone I banged might try to frame me. Even in the movies, clearing your name after someone sets you up for a crime seems really difficult. I wouldn't have the wherewithal to turn the tables and I certainly don't have the moxie of Harrison Ford or Ashley Judd. Plus, I'm an aggressive arguer and I feel like the SVU cops would bash my head against the two-way mirror after five seconds of my screeching "this is a fucking crucifixion!" And like everyone, I'm petrified of jail. Not just the obvious rape angst, but the isolation. I was on house arrest for nearly two weeks after my DUI, and being tethered by law begets overwhelming hopelessness. I don't want that again on any scale, please.

Extortion also scares me. I have this vision of a guy tossing an envelope full of naked pictures of me across a table and demanding good or favors in exchange for their destruction. That scenario wigs me out mostly because I think I'd tell him to get bent. My impulses tend to get me into long-term problems, and hastily denying negations in a blackmailing situation seems like something I'd do.

One of my biggest fears is seeing someone I've dated doing porn. I think it's okay for everyone to be paranoid about this one. If I date or sleep with you, please don't let someone film you fucking. Because once I see the video, I will struggle of what to do next. Do I finish? Do I post it on Facebook? Do I finish and then posit it on Facebook? I just feel like it would present a moral dilemma that I'm not sure I could handle. Given my dating history, this scenario is by far the most likely. It hasn’t happened yet, but it probably will. But at the end of the day, I just want to go about my business and watch a bunch of people doing it without having to worry about seeing my ex getting plowed by a guy in a harness. Is that so much to ask?

So if you're thinking about framing me, or blackmailing me, or taking that nice gentleman from CockyBoys.com up on his offer, or ditching me at Texas Roadhouse with all those potato skins that I will finish in your absence, please don't.

I know I'm an asshole. But I'm an asshole to everyone. You weren't treated any differently.

A One-Way Conversation With My Ex's Facebook

Hey, stud. 

It's been a few months since we've talked; the last time being on your birthday when I sent you that special birthday text that said "Hope you're dead. See you in hell."

But that wasn't really talking. That was more like me texting bitchy things from a safe distance. Talking would require an exchange. You were absent. Or better yet — dead.

I just wanted to drop by and tell you some good news. Turns out, I can creep your Facebook and not feel anything for you. I can see that you've been around the world, and that you've gotten your teeth fixed, and that you look happy. And I feel nothing for you. Truly. You look good. Your new boyfriend looks normal. He's got a super cute hunchback. Apparently, ringing those bells is doing wonders for his traps.

It's been a while since I could look at you and not see all those guys from London and San Francisco and Dallas taking turns on you in an imaginary bathhouse. A hellish host of the men you slept with before, during, and after me just hammering you into submission while the smaller guys watched from darker corners, waiting their turns. It's all I could see when I looked at you after we broke up — an orgy of not me.

But that's in the past. 

Now, I scan your Facebook likes and see that you're a fan of Jason Mraz and Modern Family and you almost seem, well, vanilla. Gone are your days as the horny frat boy who posts shirtless pictures of himself with captions like, "Dinosaur go RAWR ;-}." Today, your most recent pictures show you cuddled between a curtain of nicely processed gays in sensible, work appropriate polos. You look...elevated. I picture you at home with the Hunchback; him nestled on the couch and you peering through the kitchen's serving hatch into the living room. You're chopping something (probably celery because you're trying to take care of those new bitchtits), and you both chuckle at how hysterical Cam and Mitchell are. "Uh-oh! Those two have NO IDEA how to boogie board, do they?!"

Your status updates are still riddled with misspellings and grammatical errors. You never could form a sentence in person or on the page. It was endearing at first, but after months of this, I wanted to hit you with my car. I thought you were stupider than Dina Lohan. But right now, at this juncture, it doesn't bother me at all. That's who you are. Less educated homos might even think it's cute. But sweetie, please stop using conversate for fuck's sake.

The point is, I'm proud of both of us.

I won't say that I'm happy for you, but I will say that your perceived success doesn't annoy me. Scratch that. I am happy for you. If I were to run into you on the street, I'd hug you and I'd mean it. And I'm confident that I wouldn't hit you in the face. 

Because I've matured.

I can't promise that I wouldn't get semi, though.

Good talk, champ.

Just A Little Kiss

It’s somewhere between eight o'clock and eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and I’m driving a trick back across town to his friend’s apartment.

And I’d prefer if he didn’t try to kiss me before exiting the car.

It’s not because he isn’t cute. He’s very cute. A little too skinny for my taste, but universally, people would call him handsome. And the sex wasn’t terrible. A solid B+, actually. He even surprised me with a little over-the-shoulder action, which didn’t piss me off. But given the choice between kissing him and not kissing him right now, I’d prefer not. It’s just not a good time for me.

I didn’t brush my teeth this morning and my lips are cracked and parched. The area around my mouth is burned from stubble abuse and I’m splotchy because I think he had cat hair on his shorts and I’m deathly allergic to cats.

Cats are usually a deal breaker for me. Not just because cat dander can kill me, but because men who own cats give me the willies. I feel the same way about male cat-owners as I do about men who take baths. It just doesn’t sit right with me. There’s something about the image of guy and his cat that makes me the opposite of horny. Just get a fucking dog, bruh. You and I both know that it’s God’s will.

But even if the rogue cat hair on his clothes didn’t send me into an asthmatic’s waking nightmare, I’d prefer if he didn’t try to kiss me right now.

You see, I’m not a cuddler. I don’t have the need to be held after sex – or ever, really. My parents were very affectionate and no one’s ever beat me with a switch. But still, I don’t think I crave physical contact in the way that some of my friends confess to pining for – at least not post-fornication, anyway. Plus, I give off a lot of body heat and I don’t want to incubate with someone pressed up against me. I only cuddle in extreme cases. And If I kiss this guy right now, it’ll be like cuddling under false pretenses. Sorry, sport. I think I'm done.

But he is a nice guy. And his flight back to Minnesota departs in six hours. He might want one more kiss before he’s subjected to TSA manhandling and wine nap interruptions from Curtis the Flight Attendant.

Just a quick peck. We’ll meet in the middle, over the armrest, and we’ll barely touch lips. Boom. Done.

But that wouldn't be real. It would be frivolous. That's the word. For him to kiss me would be frivolous. And by the nature of frivolous things, I wouldn't need it. Much like cats and cuddling and Curtis the Flight Attendant.

And now we're nearing his friend's apartment on the other side of town and he's pointing me around curves and painted lines on the pavement. And now I'm stopped. And now he's looking at me. And now the radio's singing "Consolation Prizes" because the music of Phoenix is palatable at best, but at least he won't think I'm trying too hard.

And then he says "Later," and he leaves.

It’s somewhere between eight-thirty and nine o'clock on a Sunday morning and I’m driving back home. And I'm thinking that an ice cream sandwich would be delicious right now.

Ice cream sandwiches don't make things weird. They don't leave. You just eat them.

The Other Side Of The World – Part I

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

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

“I’m very lost.”

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

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

The actual stage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until it happened again.

Don’t Tell Me About What My Ex Is Doing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bold Roast

I’m sitting at a small table at a small coffee shop because I’m supposed to.

I’ve only been here twice before. The first time, I was with my parents, although I’m not too crystal on the details. On a Sunday morning, they’d popped in from New Orleans to have lunch with me, but I didn’t hear the knock at the door because I was four hours into a vodka-drenched coma. When I say that they popped in, I mean that they gave me two weeks’ notice and then reminded me every day following the announcement — I just got myself hammered and forgot that they were visiting. When I finally came to, they’d let themselves in and were pounding on my bedroom door. Fifteen minutes later, I was propped up at a table for three at Blue Dog Café, wearing someone’s Tulane University hoodie and a backwards cap. I suggested we come to this coffee house after lunch because I wanted a half hour to tap dance back into their good graces. And it worked. They left having forgotten that their eldest son put his drinking problem before them again, and I got to go home and upchuck crawfish and espresso gumbo before throwing myself onto the couch and sleeping through the VMAs.

So I’m sitting at a small table at a small coffee shop because I’m supposed to. This is what writers do when they want to write, right? This is supposed to be our mothership; our home base for creative incubating. Take in the aromas of Chilean blend and forced banter between couples on their first dates and write something beautiful. That’s what I’m trying to do, at least.

Let’s start with the things that I know for sure:

1. I am not suffering from writer’s block.
2. I have plenty to write about.
3. I am developing a fear of my own writing.
4. I have very mixed feelings about The Dark Knight Rises (TDKR), and that’s not helping. 

Now I’m sitting at a small table at a small coffee shop because I’m supposed to. I’ve come to the beacon by which great writers before me have found their way. I’ve come to sort through my thoughts and just type something for Christ’s sake. I’ve come here because I feel disorganized, and manic, and lazy.

I’m not going to say everything right now. But I will say that I’m going to try harder. I’m going to tell you stories about the second job I’ve acquired; bartending at a start-up gay bar. And I’m going to tell you about the guy I was dating until 12 hours ago when I stopped dating him. And I’m going to tell about my exboyfriends. And I’m going to tell you about myself.

The second time I came to this coffee shop was five days ago. I was being interviewed for a profile in the local newspaper, and I actually had to take a moment to think about where I was going before I left my office. During our conversation, the interviewer told me that she read my blog and thought I was talented. And I just looked down, bit my lip, and said “thank you.” She didn’t know that I’d been experiencing daily panic attacks, induced by my own ambivalence.

But then I looked up, flipped my imaginary mane of auburn hair, and said to her, "Actually, I'm working on something new."

Something He Should Know

I want the guy I’m dating to know certain things about me.

I want him to know that I won’t ever look him in the eyes when he’s kissing me, and I’ll never make a sound during foreplay. Because I think that it encourages him and I want him to be occupied with trying harder.

If he does something to upset me during sex, I’m going to wait until we finish, and then leave him alone in bed while I jump in the shower. If there were candles burning, I’ve already snuffed them out on my way to the bathroom. If he hasn’t tried to get in the shower with me by the time I re-enter the room, I’m going to strut around naked while he asks me if I’m okay. Because I’m trying to make him feel uncomfortable with my level of self-confidence. I won’t hurry to put clothes back on, and I will roll my shoulders back when I face away from him. Because I’m genuinely proud of my back. He will stare from my bed while I crack joints and pout lips and catch flattering lighting.

If he does something to upset me while we’re out somewhere, I’m going to get drunker. And when I know that he’s looking at me in the bar, I’ll already be texting someone else. And I won’t waste my smile until I’m certain that his eyes are on me. I’ll beam warmly at the small, glowing screen and he’ll assume that I’m texting another guy – someone who’s taller and older and doesn’t hurt my feelings. But I won’t be. It’ll probably be Joey or John or Amber or Rhett. But I don’t want him to know that. Because fuck him, right?

I want him to know that I can break his heart.

And when it’s time to end things, I won’t know. He's going to have to tell me. He'll say that I drink too much or that he needs to go back to the way he used to be – before us. But when he tells me that we're over, I'll want him to know that I only acted like a dick because I felt challenged. I'll want him to know that he was different. And that I'll eventually romanticize our relationship and remember him as a god. I was never worthy. And then he'll screw new people and I'll write a blog about us.

But right now I'm opening the door to my room and he's in my bed. So I adjust the towel around my waist and sit on the edge. He looks up at me and smiles. And I want him to know that I'm going to try my best.

Why I'm Always Going to Make the First Move

Reck a nize.

I have zero shame or fear.

Along with the part of the brain that recognizes loneliness and that part of the stomach that says, "Stop ramming burritos into your mouth, you're hurting me!" I was born without shame or rational fears. My willingness to put myself out there and/or embarrass myself knows no boundaries. One time I even karaoked 99 Problems to a room full of gay black gentlemen at George’s Place in Baton Rouge. Please don't confuse this behavior with confidence – it's just blatant disregard for what's going to happen next. I don't care if I make an idiot of myself. Or if you're not interested. Or if you've already got a boyfriend. I'm still going to do it. Because why the fuck not? What's life without risk? And chances are I’ll say something about dicks or break into the Tootsie Roll to get your attention. You might as well humor me and let me steamroll you with my hilariousness. I’m not saying that you’re making a good decision, but it’s easier than fighting it.

I'm too impatient.

My patience is limited to drinking at the bar while we wait for the hostess to tell us that our table is ready. Otherwise, it’s hard for me to wait for anything. It hurts my soul to sit on hold with Apple, and I would rather a swift kick to the balls than have to visit the DMV. Most of the time, I’m going to make the first move because I’m not going to wait for you.

I'm feeling empowered and I need to channel it.

Sometimes it’s not even about you. Sometimes I’m just competing in my own private Olympics. Certain variables can make me feel brave enough to just go for it. That Karmin song “Brokenhearted” or a table tap of Andygator can give me just enough boost to throw caution to the wind. There’s a genuine power that comes from the ability to impress one’s self. I want to go there. And then I want to nod my head and think, “Jesus. I can’t believe that went so well.” It’s my version of win-win.

I'm better at it than you are.

I run more game than President Snow. This is my wheelhouse. Imma do me. 

My daddy told me to.

I learned at a very young age that things were not going to come easy for me. Being born with a fluffy red afro and a walk like Christina Hendricks was the beginning of an uphill battle for this little homo that could. So I trained myself to be assertive so that I could take the things that I wanted. And thanks to my father, I learned that girls are no different than elections or attention – they are acquired by those who want them. He taught me that no woman was out of my league, which was both noble and stupid. His confidence was a double-edge sword, though, and was often mistaken for misogyny, which my mother detested and I thought was hysterical. I can remember watching this dude handle the check-out lady at Walgreens and thinking that he was gifted with more charisma than George Clooney. And even though I had to adapt my dad’s heirloom advice toward members of my own sex, I do my best to honor him. So if you see me relentlessly flirting with a guy who’s clearly some Czech tennis player/underwear model, it’s because I have a dad who taught me that I could do anything. So I’m going to try.

Ryan and the Wolf

Fiona Apple’s first album in seven years, “The Idler Wheel…” will finally be available next Tuesday. But that doesn’t matter because NPR started streaming it earlier this week, and it’s the only thing I’ve listened to for the last three days. And let me tell you, it’s a carousel of torture. Bitch brings the break-up album to a new level. Alanis Morissette could choke on it, and Adele can bow the fuck down. Miss Apple puts them to shame. And I will eat shit if it isn't nominated for Album of the Year or at least the perched atop a dozen Best of 2012 lists.

Miss thing serving up squid hat realness.

My favorite track is “Werewolf,” a song where Apple compares her lover to a werewolf, a chemical, and a shark only to turn around take the blame for making him that way.

"I could liken you to a werewolf the way you left me for dead,
But I admit that I provided a full moon.
And I could liken you to a shark the way you bit off my head,
But then again I was waving around a bleeding an open wound."

I think my affection for the song comes from its mystery. Is she taking the stance of a Lifetime movie protagonist with the “he hits me because I deserve it” mindset or is she taking ownership of her own toxicity? Of course I’d like to believe the later. Mostly because this whole sentiment hits close to home, and I’d like to count myself in the company of Fiona Apple.

I’ve been there. And sometimes I feel like I’m still waist deep in it. That revelation that everyone has the power to poison — even you.

Especially you.

If you’ve even been in love, then you understand what a slippery slope manipulation can be. You learn where a person’s buttons are and then you have to tell yourself not to push. Once you find a chink in their armor or a way under their skin, it’s hard to forget where it is.

Human decency is only as good as your refusal to exploit others. That sounds like the theme of a Coen Brothers movie, but it’s the bleak reality. And now I’m starting to feel like Gretchen Weiners during her “we should totally just stab Caesar” rant. I have no idea how I made the leap from Fiona Apple to here. Fuck it. I made some vaguely intelligent observations and managed to sound brooding and introspective. Psych ya.

Go Get 'Em, Champ.

I’ve never seen a girl eat nachos like Amber Champion.

She’s sitting across from me at a bar on Magazine Street. The place with the beer tap fountain in the courtyard and the fat girl in floral print short shorts on the bar stool. Amber and I are on our second pitcher of Purple Haze and our first and only order of $18 nachos with everything on them. I’ve excused myself to the restroom three times now because I don’t want her to know that I’m texting. Actually, I’m not really texting at all. I’m hastily jotting down notes from our conversation. I’m feeling the grip of my beloved beer buzz, so I want to get this all down while I’m still lucid. Plus, I’m trying to be polite by not texting in front of her. She’s eating nachos like it’s the end of days and we’re talking and it would be rude of me to put my phone between us. And that’s when I realize that I’ve never done this before.

The first time I met her, I thought she was lying to me. Amber Champion isn’t a real name I told her. It’s a stripper’s name. And it might actually be the fakest-sounding stripper’s name of all time. But she was able to convince me without ever pulling out her ID. She can convince anyone of anything. One of her many talents.

Amber wipes her lips with a napkin and tussles her mane of perfect, auburn hair. We’re discussing the reasons why anyone would be nice to their ex — a topic of which I’m a motherfucking sensei. I slap my hands on the table when I tell her that one of my exes would call me when he [rightfully] suspected that his new boyfriend was cheating on him. He would ask me to come over and he would cry and we would have sex and then I would leave and check on him later to see how he was feeling. Other times, he would call me when he was having trouble with his marketing homework. And I would drop what I was doing and write his entire marketing report from thin air. And that was my mistake. Because he didn’t care. When I would leave his apartment, he would immediately go back to screwing his other exes and saying weird, passive aggressive things to me whenever I saw him out. And no one went off to live in Narnia. And he’ll always be an ass. And being a good friend to him will never change that.

Now I’m all wound up and my face is redder than usual. I shotgun my beer and pour myself another, which I drink half of. Amber’s thinking. She says that if her exboyfriend called her and needed something, she’d still be there for him. Because he’s a person. And you should be there for people. Because they’re people. And it’s just that easy.

I want to tell her that what she’s describing is a rabbit hole, but I can’t. She’s gone through the ringer and come out on the other side of a long, painstaking relationship to say nice things like that. But who the fuck am I to correct her? She’s probably right. Maybe it’s just that easy.

The thing about Amber is that I don’t have to look hard to see the best in her. She inspires me to care more about the people in my life. And even though she’s sitting across from me with her cheeks full of tortilla chips and cheese, she’s still one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen in person. And it’s impossible not to feel good when I’m around her. And if there’s one thing I want to tell her, it’s this:

I don’t know what to say when you hold up two dresses and ask me to choose. Because I’m always going to pick the sluttier one. Because that’s the one I would wear if I were you. Because a sluttier dress improves your chances of getting layed. And how else are you going to know if someone likes you unless they’re having sex with you? I have no idea what women want and you’re making me feel like I’m not being a very good gay when you put me in this position.

I'd say this and she'd smile. And that's all I'd need from her.

A. Champ & a champ.

32 Gay Things That Give Me Anxiety

24. Kelly Clarkson's pot roast arms

1. Being asked by a girl to go shopping with her
2. Any sort of "pride event" where I might run into someone I know
3. Southern Decadence Festival
4. The Logo network and its programming
5. The pressure to buy designer underwear
6. Foam parties
7. That vulgar "p-word" for female genitals. The genitals give me anxiety as well, but strangely not as much as someone saying the "p-word" in company
8. Pray The Gay Away camps
9. The reality that one day Oprah will die
10. Memoirs
11. Cooking demonstrations
12. Second tier opinion leading status behind Japanese girls
13. Halloween
14. Being asked if I like the musical Rent
15. The gym
16. Scarves
17. The way that all drag queens are bossy and rude
18. Drag bingo
19. Drag anything
20. RuPaul's three decades of fame
21. The pressure to have an opinion on Chik-fil-A
22. Tank top tan lines [or severe burns in my case]
23. Manscaping
24. Kelly Clarkson's giant pot roast arms and her relentless mission to show them off with sleeveless JC Penney tops
25. Christina Aguilera's questionable taste [in everything]
26. Debra Messing's career
27. Chaz Bono
28. Chit chat before/after tricking
29. Diet pills
30. Tying a bow tie
31. Butt stuff
32. Bieber Fever

Instagramming My Way To Hell

I'm no Tammy Trendsetter, but when it comes to certain things, I'm way ahead of the curve. And when I say "certain," I mean oddly specific. Movie posters for instance. As of three minutes ago, I've seen every international one sheet that's been created for a current or upcoming major motion picture. Boom.

I'm also creepily into singles that are destined for future ubiquity ("No Lie" by 2 Chainz will be a summer 2012 anthem), and impending women's fashion trends (keep an eye out for batshit Louboutin shoes this fall).

That's all you, Viola Davis.

However, I do feel extremely 2000-and-late on the whole Instagramdemic. I fought it and fought it until I finally gave in and drank the Tool-Aid. Even though I knew I was far behind, I embraced it with the fire of a Alabama book burnin'.

If you're not familiar, Instagram is an app that allows you capture images and then add filters and effects before sharing them with your friends, followers, and contacts. Simple, yes. Prudent, not exactly. The thing about Instagram is that the rules for censorship aren't as tight defined as Facebook. I've actually seen someone's ladybusiness (tastefully overlaid with a Kelvin filter and a water drop), but still.

Shortly after witnessing full-on underpants hamster, I felt myself begin to loosen up about what I posted. And although I wasn't sharing shots of m'junk, I posted things that a FB audience might deem inappropriate. And for the sake of credibility, here are my last three Instagrams.

Caption: "My glass calls it likes he sees it."

Caption: "Possible side effects."

Caption: "Conquered & claimed."

My point: I don't always fairly represent myself. I looked back after testing the lax boundaries and "intimate" audience of Instagram and didn't see any pictures of me holding puppies or teaching dyslexic kids how to read without fucking up. Just me, booze, and home incarceration ankle bracelets. If you only knew me through Instagram, you might assume that was just some drunk trollop; running around town like a cat in heat.

I was going to close this out with a smart quip about "not seeing the whole picture," but I decided that I would be lying to you. That's me. It's all me. In really classy filters that highlight my best features. So instead, I'm going to close with the most valuable takeaway from this whole thing: Ladybusiness.

*Drops mic. Walks away.*

Songs That Remind Me of You

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

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

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

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

Linger – The Cranberries

Wonderwall – Oasis

Somewhere Only We Know – Keane

Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams

Nothing Left To Lose – Mat Kearney

Listen – Beyonce

Naive Orleans – Anberlin

I Wanna Dance With Somebody – Whitney Houston

When You're Gone – Avril Lavigne

A-Punk – Vampire Weekend

At The Stars – Better Than Ezra

Lolli Lolli – Three 6 Mafia

I Love My Bitch – Busta Rhymes

At Last – Etta James

Crush – David Archuleta

The Promise – Tracy Chapman

Sullivan Street – Counting Crows 

I Heard Love Is Blind – Amy Winehouse

My Friends Over You – New Found Glory

Hey, Soul Sister – Train

Bulletproof – La Roux

Mine – Taylor Swift

Whatever It Is – Zac Brown Band

Collide – Rachael Yamagata

Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not – Thompson Square

Xxxo – M.I.A.

I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend – Discovery

Crown On The Ground – Sleigh Bells

Tongue Tied – Grouplove 

True Affection – The Blow

Cosmic Love – Florence + The Machine

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

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

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

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

But I'll just run with it.

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

A Beginner's Guide to Prospect Rejection Protocol

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

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

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

Prospect Rejection Protocol (PRP)

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

Here's PRP in action:

1. Get dumped. Turn red. Possibly faint. 

2. Shake it out. Breathe. 

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

4. On to the next one.

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

A. A player
B. A C-Unit

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

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

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

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

Grindr 'Til You Findr

I tried my damnedest to put this elegantly, but I can't. So here it is:

When I was out of town a few weeks ago, I downloaded Grindr. And then hilarity ensued. 

For those of you who aren't familiar with Grindr, Google it. Because I don't have the language to explain it. I would would inevitably make it seem like something it's not. Plus, I'd just end up sounding like A.) a desperate pincushion of a man-tramp or B.) a hypocritical closet ho. There's no option C. because horny and fake are pretty much the only pigeonholes for me to fall into here and I'm already dealing with both labels (I'm horny and fake if you didn't catch that). 

The mark of the beast.

For those of you on my level, please congratulate yourselves. You're just as gross as me. High-five. 

Like most users, I have weird love-hate relationship with Grindr. In fact, I was Grindr-free from last November until my recent foreign excursion. It’s not that I’m too good to use it while I’m at home in Lafayette. It’s that I’m WAYYY [with three Ys] too FUCKING [and then the F word] good to use it while I’m at home in Lafayette. 

I’m not a very ostentatious person, but when it comes to certain things (like getting a haircut at the mall or eating at The Golden Corral Buffet), I have a limit of what I’m willing to put myself through – Grinding in my city of residence being one of them. There’s too much potential for something dicey to happen. But as you’ve probably figured out by now, my abstinence from The Daily Grind is suspended when I cross state or country lines. Which serves as the backdrop to my last trip to San Antonio. 

The trip itself was pretty phenomenal and yielded the following stand-out Grindr moments:

1. My friends and I got lost on our way to a Mexican restaurant, so I asked a dude on Grindr for help with directions. You know. Because he’s a local. Turns out, the little bastard led us further from our destination and then asked me if I was free to hang out later. Some people’s children, right?
2. It’s night No. 2 and my brain is practically floating in High Life. I’d been talking to a certain guy throughout the day, and I have zero intention of anything actually happening. But I’ve just given away my location, and luckily for me, he’s right across the street at another bar. So on my way to the car, I message him back and say, “Hey, run outside and I’ll catch you on our way to the hotel.” I intentionally used the phrase “catch you” because I wanted to leave things open-ended depending on what he looked like in person. “Catch you” could either mean wave to you from a moving vehicle or physically drag you back home with me because you were so incredibly good-looking that I could not live without you. And as we slowly careered to a stop in front of his bar, I saw him walk out onto the sidewalk. And that’s when I screeched, “Gun it!” and frantically waved out the window. The last message I received from him read: “I told you the wrong bar. Have you left yet?”
3. I’d started talking to a guy within the first few hours of my arrival, and continued the conversation for the following three days. On the fourth morning, I was sitting at a table with three of my friends, enjoying the delicious waffle sandwiches with which the Hampton Inn had provided the instruments to create, and this guy walks up to the table. I look up. He looks at me. And he says, "Ryan? My name's C.J. It's nice to finally meet you in person." And then, I felt like I was going to have diarrhea. The two girls at the table looked absolutely bewildered, and the other gay guys were visibly fighting the urge to explode. I, on the other had, was mortified. So I stood up, shook his hand, and walked him away from the table and down the hall. We made plans to hang out in the evening, which I regrettably had to break a few hours later, and I hugged him goodbye. Then we meandered in separate directions and I never saw C.J. again. Upon my return to the table, I was met with looks of confusion and hysteria. So I did the sensible thing and shoved half of my waffle sandwich into my mouth to buy a few more seconds before anyone could ask questions.

I hadn’t been to San Antonio since 2008 when The Dean took me to the wedding of some graduate school colleagues. I was ready to make this city my bitch again, one trick at a time. And with Grindr in hand, I made my way through the most audacious and annoying state in the union. This was a great plan and it probably would've worked if I hadn't been shithoused the entire time. To clarify: even though my Grindr self-restrictions had been disbanded, I never did a single sexual anything the entire trip.

Let's see M. Night Shimmynomanom write a twist ending like that.