Damn Irish I Was Your Lover

If you see what I look like or talk to me for five minutes, you'll notice that I'm a textbook Irish-American 'mo with one missing component. Let's take a look and see if we can get to the bottom of this:

Reckless decision-making skills. Check.
Family history of alcoholism. Check.

History of alcoholism. Check.

Endurance for relentless pestilence. Check.

Red hair, fair skin, & freckles. Check, check, check.

Ability to repress emotion. Nope. None of that. 

Mmmmm. Pasty.

By the grace of God, I was created without the capacity to keep any sign of human sentiment off of my face or out of my mouth. To say that I "wear my heart on my sleeve," or that I'm "an open book" is a laughable understatement. I'm too starved for attention to keep things bottled up. My point being that sometimes I'm less like an Irish man and more like a Jewish woman.

Self-repression also helps with one's ability to keep a secret – which I cannot. I annually find the opportunity to blurt out what I bought everyone for Christmas while I'm carrying bags up the stairs. Saturday, I ran into an exboyfriend at Patty in the Park, Lafayette's St. Patrick's Day celebration, and was practically sprinting home to tell everyone about what happened. In short, I mistook him for a full-blown lesbian (thanks to the Tilda Swinton haircut and studded woman's t-shirt) then drunkenly stammered through small talk while trying to understand what I was looking at. The whole episode was a fuckmess and ended with a mortifying case of word vomit when I mentioned seeing his other exboyfriend that very morning (See Jewish Woman Syndrome). Fortunately, I can't remember specifics of our discussion because I'd broken my Lenten alcohol fast and was completely shithoused.

The worst part about having free-flowing emotions is dealing with the uncontainable eruptions that can take over – regardless of where I am or who's around. And as the double-edged sword of emotional autonomy works, I burst into tears on my walk home from Patty. It might have been the case of High Life, but seeing my ex made my belly hurt. I wasn't prepared to run into him and I felt betrayed that he'd lost a little weight  since I'd seen him last. So I did the sensible thing for a 23-year-old, hormonal gay to do: call his mama. 

My mom's an amazing person, but she's nearly broken from having three kids that refuse to let her be happy. On the plus side, this makes her undaunted by most things – like phone calls from her oldest son about his gay insecurities. Her maiden name is O'Reilly and she lives up to it by being an emotional cinder block. Unlike myself, she's a virtual locksmith of feelings – the ideal person to verbally bitch slap sense into me. And after an hour of her idioms that nearly always revolve around how temporary everything is, I stop sobbing and start cleaning up the living room. 

In the interest of peace of mind, I accept my Irish inheritance of flammable skin, sky-high alcohol tolerance, and Nathan Lane's emotional threshold. It's sexy for a guy to want to talk everything out. And fortunately, you never have to guess what I'm thinking. In fact, I've got a blog where I say every hostile, passive aggressive thing that crosses my mind.

My Walk of Shame Hall of Fame

I don't know about you, but for me, Sunday morning is the most wonderful time of the week. You overeat at brunch, get shitfaced to cope with your hangover, and best of all, you get to make new friends. Like the ones who you wake up next to.

And to top it all off, there's exercise! That brisk, staggered strut to your car where you smile to yourself and text your bestie to let him know that you won. If walking in shame were an Olympic sport, I'd be a gold medalist. But what I really want to compete in is WoS apparel. I live by the rule that one can never walk in shame if he or she is wearing cowboy boots. I also believe in other nonsensical rules that allow me get away with wearing dumb shit to Blue Dog Cafe on Sunday. And here are the top four worst/best of my WoS moments caught on film:

4. Leaving an exboyfriend's apartment the morning after a P. Diddy party, circa 2008. Notice the unhealthy bleached hair and self-loathing. I'm pissed that I spent the night with my actual boyfriend. How's that even fun?
What I was going for: Country Club Escort.

$4.99 French Market shades, child's size 18 Ralph Lauren polo, J. Crew shorts, sweater, bleached hair to match shorts.

3. The morning after I spent the night with a guy who's last name is Dudley, but who's first name I can't remember. This is the ensemble I threw on before hopping in the car and getting FourLoco hammered with Nick and Joey at 9:00AM.
What I was going for: Samantha Ronson Meets A Gay Jack-O-Lantern.

Wayfarers, tank top, infinity scarf, cut-off shorts, Nick Rodriguez, FourLoco.

2. I bailed on the trick in my best friend's apartment so that I could go to Shoney's breakfast buffet and abuse my body even further. From 2006-2009, this is an outfit that I would deem appropriate for any outing, including church or class.
What I was going for: General Studies Major.

Camouflage Ragin' Cajuns hat, African American Culture Committee t-shirt, modified Hollister sweat pants, glittery women's flip flops from an exboyfriend.

1. November 1, 2010: The Day After Halloween. With eyeliner still caked on, I grabbed half of my costume off of the floor and headed out the door. Some friends and I were late for a pool part at John's house and apparently my goal was to hijack the spotlight. This picture represents my favorite Walk of Shame moment because of how much shame isn't evident. You see, I was dressed as Ke$ha for Halloween (wig and all), and was still able to find a new friend that my mom would never meet. I groggily put this outfit together in front of him while he was still waking up and couldn't have been more proud of myself. No shame, no gain.
What I was going for: Rihanna Goes to Rehab.

Blue wayfarers that I borrowed from Joey, assorted necklaces from Charming Charlie and Hot Topic, modified shirt from Hot Topic, and my little brother's skinny jeans.

Hear Me Out

Contrary to many gay stereotypes, I generally love my body. In fact, here a list of the top 5 things that I'm thankful for:

1. My skin
2. My frame and build
3. The way my facial features are arranged
4. My inability to grow body hair
5. My butt

Don't get me wrong, I've got wild insecurities – like my weight and my silly, feminine arms – but I'm pretty much on board with the hypothetical concept of having sex with myself based on my appearance. 

What worries me, though, is that the one thing that I would change about my physical presence is the one thing that I can't change. Because if there’s one thing that I hate about myself, it’s my voice. I cannot stand to hear the sound of it. When I speak, I sound like a young, female chihuahua. In person, it’s bad. But on the telephone or on tape, I sound like Kim Cattrall with a mouth full of balls.

In terms of anatomy, my tongue is too big for my mouth – not lengthwise, but widthwise. So it's harder for me to execute most fricatives and dental sounds. Plus I'm a big 'mo, so that doesn't help anything. Long ago, I'd forsaken my heirloom Westbank accent for a gay one. I'm not particularly observant, but even at a very young age, I recognized that gay men spoke with an authority that sounded worldly and educated, whereas the people that I grew up around in Gretna, Louisiana spoke like Gambit from X-Men. So I jumped ship, which meant annunciating "-er" and being conscious about not running words together. I learned to transition from "Imma beet cha'ass," into "I'm going to beat your asssstttt." I saw it as a different kind of tribute to my New Orleans heritage – less Marrero and more Mid-City. 

You would think that someone who runs out of the room screaming when he hears a 1992 home movie of himself singing “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid would hate his voice in all forms, but I don’t. I’m actually a really loud and mean person, and when I get Kwanzaa drunk, I ruin everyone’s night with my talking. My booze confidence makes me believe that I sound like Alec Fucking Baldwin. And everyone needs to hear how melodious I sound. So I sing, and I rant, and relentlessly hit on strange men. That last one is the worst, because watching a grown man mistake his shrill, annoying voice with something that's sultry and alluring can be like watching a penguin try to fly. It's sad because it's true.

But I accept the fact that my voice is grating and forces people out of windows. I can't change it. I also want to go back in time and save Aaliyah from getting on that plane – but it's not going to happen. Like voice augmentation, it's a pipe dream. So I'll just have to rely on other physical characteristics to trick guys into dating me.

I mean, who needs a personality when you've got kissable, pasty skin like this?