Angry, Sad and Wanted

It was eight in the morning and I was on my way to class, not wanting to be up at such an ungodly hour. I just have to say whoever invented the 9 am class can they come talk to me? I have a few words to share with them. As I sat with my others classmates, those that actually remembered to come to class, and the time kept churning, my professor still hasn’t showed up. Soon it passed ten, and the teacher was now an hour late and I wanted to go home.

As we looked around, wondering what we should do, a classmate suggested we should take a selfie. She wanted a picture of us, as yesterday was our last day of class. We took said selfie and sent it to the teacher with a text saying, “We were here. See you later. Bye.”

With the prospects of a free day looming before us, we left. We went home. We read, watched movies and ate. We wanted a day to ourselves and we got it, until we each got an email saying class is resumed at one. That he wanted to give us some last parting advice.

I’m not sure why but the word wanted lingered in my mind. Wanted. Wanting. Can we say that wanted is a feeling? One as common as anger, sadness or happiness?

We all want to be wanted by someone. We want to be the first thing on their minds when they wake up, the last thing to think about before going to sleep. I texted a friend, because the new snapchat update confuses the hell out of me, and asked him “Have you ever wanted something?”

He answered back “Of course. I want a person who loves me for me. I want a guy that tells me I’m cute, even when im not. I want to be wanted, you know?”

Well, I didn’t know, and I didn’t answer him back because his answer took me by surprise. We not only want to be loved, but accepted, recognized and thought about. We want to famous, pretty and talented.

He texted back a little while later “I also want the new smart watch for my phone.”

I guess we also want any new electronics.

I just want a puppy. And some pizza. Maybe some honey buns. 

GayBoys: Vol 2

My twitter followers before the homo whisperer: 230.

My twitter followers after the homo whisperer: 339.

I had to take a look at what was going on. I wondered, “Could that many people read my stuff and like it? If so, how did they find me? Should I be worried? Why isn't anyone falling in love with me yet?!?! 

I looked through the last fifty or so and found that many of them are fellow writers, with a couple of publications under their belt. But many of them are, ladies and gentlemen brace yourselves, HOMOSEXUALS.

I looked through their pictures, read a few tweets and honestly I was quite shocked. And that coming from me is almost unheard of. They were all skinny, blonde and quite opinioned on every matter from new songs or fashion to world affairs. I wondered, “Has the closet made us angrier? Or better?

As I looked at the pictures, mind you with their shirts off and, in some cases pants, I couldn’t help but say out loud, “I could break these guys in half.”

I also wondered about myself. Could I be in a relationship with these guys? Can I be in a relationship with someone who is a clean freak? Skinny? Someone who likes to party and is the blondest of blondes?

I take a look around my apartment. Without my roommate the place is slowly going to shit. The kitchen sink is full, I haven’t taken the trash out and literally, I sit here as I type this, drinking out of a mountain dew bottle. Who uses cups anyway?

Lets not get started on the tweets. I read through a few and they basically screamed, “HAVE SEX WITH ME.” I’m telling you this right now; if I see one tweet asking or looking for sex you will not be following Joe Russo. I am not about that lifestyle. Not without dinner first, honey. 

There is one though, and his tweets are fabulous. He mixes sex and humor but also a little bit sadness, quite like my life. Single Gay life, if you haven’t, follow him.

Guess what, I just reached 340. Hope that doesn’t make me sound cocky.

A Fruple Connection

I’ve been moody lately but not in the normal ways, like today I wanted to read every book that has ever been written. Monday I wanted to break traffic rules, endangering others and myself around me. Yesterday I wanted to be the guidance counselor to a relationship that had literally just ended.

I say literally because the guy called me as he was driving home, crying his eyes out and ready to drive off a bridge. Here’s the story: it was the best fruple god has ever seen in his life. The only fruple I have ever seen in my life (its hard leaving the friend zone but he somehow managed) A “fruple” are friends that turn into a couple. They did everything together, listened to the same music and even drove the same car. I knew that if they broke up, I would never have a chance at a relationship in my life.

“Okay, okay stop crying. I can’t understand you,” I said.

“I have nothing left!”

“Okay maybe you should pullover.” I'm not sure if he did or not, but he soon cleared away his tears and told me the story.

He hasn’t felt a connection to her since they became a fruple. He said, “When we were friends I felt an emotional connection, I mean we told each other everything, but I haven’t felt a physical attraction to her…yet.”

“Okay… and that means…what…exactly?” what I really wanted to tell him was, “Well buddy it’s a little too late for that.”

He went into another explanation and I drifted off after the third word, knowing he would be fine after a day or two.

As we hung up, he reached home safely with a burrito from Taco Bell held under his arm, I wondered about connections. Which is better: a physical or emotional?

Are we physically attracted to someone or are we emotionally attracted to someone? I know the obvious answer is physically attracted, we see the body, hair and the way they hold themselves first. But once we get to know that person and the emotions start coming out, like I did when I was a senior, what happens then?

Can we be attracted to the way a person gets angry? Sad? Happy? Or is it knowing that they always have a shoulder to cry on? Someone to talk to, someone they can confide in?

Knowing both sides of this ex-relationship very well, I couldn’t say who was at fault. He was a pansy ass mama’s boy and she was the ex-cheerleader turned sorority girl.

I feel like lying down on the floor, reading my new library books.

A Friendly Zone

            It’s a rare occasion when I find myself eating the Doritos that came with my beefy- five-layer burrito. It’s an even rarer occasion when I find myself stepping onto a boat with seven teenagers.

            You see, my mom and I were invited to go boating with her boss. She didn’t say anything about her two kids, a son and daughter, and their friends. But, it turned out to be okay, because I would over-hear their conversations and silently giggle to myself. It got better when the rhythmic purring of the engine over powered their short whispers and they started screaming at each other.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

“I cant… he doesn’t like me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because its like obvious.”

            As she said this she looked over at the son, who was a senior in high school, blonde and already had a six-pack. She was in ninth grade, with three different hair colors. She was shy, covering her bathing suit with a jacket that she even went swimming in. At every chance she can get, she looked at the son. Her green eyes thinking, wondering and hoping that one day he’ll be hers.

            As the conversation shifted, my attention stayed on her last line. I got to thinking about the friend-zone, if we get in one, how hard is it to get out? Is the friend zone a hole or like place in the mall?  Is it furnished? Or do I have to bring my own shit, adding to my already shitty life?

            I wondered, even in this day and age, could we still die from a broken heart? With the technology and everything couldn’t we move on easier? With all these dating sites, apps and everything else couldn’t we find someone else to obsess about?

            I thought about newly single, who at every open chance, spoke about her ex-boyfriend. She told me she glances over at the passenger seat and seeing him not there kills her. I figured, that being in a friend zone is harder. You not only love the person you can’t be with but you have to see them love someone else. Which, in all reality, is the ultimate killer.

            And you can’t give up your friendship because then you’ll be seen as an asshole. Trust me, I tried.

            The best way to get out of a friend zone – well I wish had an answer.  But I did Google ‘Can a person die from a broken heart,’ the answer is yes. The heart has these little shit strings that can literally break in half.

            So kids, for those of you in a friend zone, break out the champagne or other suitable drinking material, put on those songs reserved for a rainy day and dance the zone away.

Brand Name: Italian, Gay, Fat and Single

The only saving grace from having dinner with my father’s side of the family was me moving three hours away. Being that I was home and able to attend Sunday dinner, I was wishing for something that could save me.

That something came in the form of a text. Will you go shopping with me? – Newly single. I jumped at the chance, standing up and saying, “I have to feed my dog. I’ll call you sometime next week?” I kissed her cheek. She packed me a bowl of pasta, some meat and a few homemade breadsticks and off I went.

Its not that I hate having Sunday dinner with that side of the family, Its just that I don’t know how to be myself around them. I also haven’t told them about my sexual orientation, in fear of the mafia coming after me. They are always so serious, talking about who died, who wishes they were dead or whose having a baby this week. 

On the road to meet newly single, I wondered why Italians were always “part of a mob.” Why blonde haired girls are always the dumb cheerleaders. Why gays are always the one to go to for fashion advice. Why are Asians always the good ones at math, science and reading?

Why are we always branding ourselves? Are these stereotypes even real? I wondered, for the briefest of moments, who even came up with those called ‘brandings.’ Because I have met a smart blonde… Okay she was dirty blonde. I had an Asian friend who wasn’t good at…. Well she didn’t know how to give directions. And my dad’s side of the family… well… I'm not allowed to talk about that.

As I pulled into a parking space near the front, homeboy doesn’t walk far distances, I found newly single sitting on a bench, eating a pretzel. Without even saying a hello, I asked her, “Why did you call me?” She seemed afraid, like I was going to hit her or place a mafia hit on her or something.

“I don’t know. Because. I guess… you were free?” I took that as the best answer and into the mall we walked. I’m still not sure why she called me, my fashion sense is not quite a sense but a feeling.

I feel like looking like a homeless drug junkie and I hope I don’t meet my boyfriend today.

Turns out that my help wasn’t really needed. She didn’t buy anything and we chatted for most of the trip about her impending addiction to alcohol. “Because I have nothing left.”  Maybe sarcastically. Maybe not.

Dinner Catastrophe

Having dinner with an ex-boyfriend: disastrous. Having dinner with two ex-boyfriends, their new boyfriends and a newly single best friend: catastrophic. As the ex-boyfriends introduced the new boyfriends, the table talk turned from “What are you doing?” to “Who are you REALLY doing.”  From boyfriends to penis’s, our only break coming from the waitress, delivering our food to shut us up.

“My boyfriend and I haven’t had sex since…. Oh, I don’t know,” newly single said.

“Well sweetie… that’s why you broke up!” I said.

“What do you know? You haven’t had even had it….” The table got silent. I'm sure the risky table talk was silenced right then and there. It didn’t help that I was staring at the ex and his new BF, who played volleyball at the college level. Like I gave a crap.

“He didn’t know he was gay—"

“Well I knew, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Honey, the only balls you play with are your own. I mean, you shower with other men for gods sake,” newly single said. She still had quite an attitude at her asshole boyfriend, who left without a word. Well actually a text.

“Chels, have you talked to him?” I asked, stepping on soft ground.

“Of course not. Why should I? I worked my ass off in this relationship, and he did shit.”

“Maybe it was the sex,” ex-boyfriend one suggested.

As the table talk, one again, turned sexual, I wondered, “Is there really nothing else to say?” Why is it that we always turn to talking about sex or relationships? Is it because everything else is too boring? That maybe talking about sex will make us stronger friends?

“What do you do with it? Like it just hangs there, like do flick it or something?” new boyfriend asked the table.

“No, we dress it up. Call it cinderdick.” Newly single said. You have to hand it to her, when she’s pissed she’s funny. When she’s funny she’s blatantly sexual.

But, like every good thing, the conversation expired. We ran out of things to say, to make fun of and our plates were wiped clean. As we left the restaurant, an ex-boyfriend said something, which elicited a last laugh, “I’m thinking about getting a tattoo of a compass on my left shoulder.”

“GAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.”

The Bedazzled Vagina

An eighty year old woman bought an outdoor lagoon style pool. She swims her twelve laps early in the morning and spends her afternoon reading poolside. On Tuesday, she swam her laps and instead of reading by the poolside, she had a visitor. Her eighty-year old male neighbor had come over wanting a swim in the lagoon style pool. After about three laps, he got out, dropped his pants and asked the eighty year old woman for a skinny dip. She yelled at him to put his pants back on, and kicked him out of her house.

We all looked at her with wide eyes. We sat in a circle, her stories drowning out the noise of the eighty’s tribute band. She started laughing and said, “Ohhh, I have a ton more.” And in all honesty we wanted more. This woman had a better sex life than I did. She looked and moved better than I did as well. She wore a white suit, black pumps and drank at least a bottle of wine by herself.

As she started another story, I got to thinking about idols. The people we look up to, maybe even want to be. I wondered why we look up to them, when deep down inside, they’re just like us.

Here’s another story: a woman my mom works with bedazzled her vagina. She saw it online. I’m not sure if she just googled it or something but she found Jennifer Love Hewitt and her bedazzled who-who. She instantly wanted to do it, even finding a store near her who carried bedazzled vag-jewels. She got home and I can only guess, put each jewel on her…vagina…

It’s safe to say that both of these women are my idols. They took action, control and managed to stay true to themselves. Yes, I have other idols, gaga, my mother and many, many others. Cupcakes, donuts and the people who think they look good at the beach, wearing those god-awful one- pieces while smoking are a few more.

But I also got to thinking; can we be our own idols? Why are we always idolizing famous people when we have people right here, down to earth and able to talk to. We have ourselves, even though many of us don’t feel like an idol to ourselves, but you are an idol to someone else.

My idols are the ones reading this. You took the time to read, talk or even share this with your friends or family. You give me material to write, things to see and places to go.

Thank you. 

Spring Breakmance

We all dream of a perfect spring break. One where the sun shine’s, the roads are empty and the people are always willing to party, every minute of everyday. We all dream of having a perfect romance during spring break, which I TM’d Spring Breakmance.

Depending on when your spring break is, usually the end of March, these things will come naturally. My spring break happens at the end of April, which means none of these have happened… yet. I still have a whole week and many, many things can happen. Right?

But, like many great things, all things must come to end. This statement got me wondering, “Why?” Why do all great things have an expiration date?

My mother and I drove up to town, in a search for an extra income. During the short drive, we got to talking about Grace Kelly. Actress turned princess turned tragic death case. Which I know is semi-resolved. She had an amazing career, winning an Oscar for one of her movies. She married a prince and moved to one of the most beautiful countries in the world.

This idea of expiring held my attention as my mother walked into her interview. Which was in a nursing home. As I looked around, the women being pushed in wheelchairs, the men, being pushed by their wives. One couple stood out in particular. She was asking her husband who visited him lately. He stared at her in a blank way. She wanted to know who gave him Easter flowers. And he couldn’t remember. It’s like the memory of the last few days, expired the minute she asked him.

I thought to school. The projects we stressed about, the people we met all sooner or later went away. Summer break has to be one of the fastest three months, I’ve ever experienced. The reason why things expire, or the only one I can come up with, is to make us love that thing with all that we have. Even if the thing that expires is milk or, god forbid, people.

We left the interview with another paycheck coming in. Mom starts Monday. My spring break started today.

Side Effect:Gay

The blood drive came through school today and as usual people lined up with the promise of two free movie tickets in their eyes. I was never one for giving blood, fainting at even the smallest drop of it. And I mean, it’s my blood, selfish I know, but what’s mine is mine right?

As I looked on at the hoard of people, someone called my name. First, I didn’t know people even know my name and second I was surprised he even remembered it. The guy calling my name met me at a GSA meeting, which stands for gay-straight alliance, like we’re banding together to start a war or something. I walked over to him, I didn’t have class for another ten minutes and haven’t seen him since the meeting.

I asked him if he donated blood. He shook his head no and said, “They wouldn’t let me because I had sexual contact with another man.” This took me by surprise. I didn’t think they would turn away a person who was willing to donate free blood, gay or not gay. O positive or not O positive.

“Yeah, but you don’t have….” I ventured to ask, even though I had no idea.

“Nope. But I could…I guess. Its whatever, they don’t want this fabulous blood then screw them.”

“But anyone can get aids… Its not just gay men.” I told him. He shrugged his shoulders, striding away from the bus.

As I walked away from the blood bus, I wondered, “Is being gay a curse?” One where we have to hide our true feelings for someone. One where we can’t get married or donate blood. Will we have to wear rainbow colored signs announcing our sexuality? I couldn’t help but wonder, “Are we the knew segregation?”

I know that the blood bus nurses were only trying to be safe. But why not test him anyway? Were they afraid the curse will spread? Or were they trying to stop it? Or were they just doing their jobs? I mean, there was a sign hanging from the door that listed the Do’s and Don’ts of donating.

Be careful everyone, I heard the GAY is going around. Protect yourselves. Your children. We’re taking over.

"Can I get your nudes?"

The only way to deal with an eight hour is to have a teacher who is quite the looker and cracks great jokes. This is a rare find, as many teachers are deemed old and cranky, but since I don’t go to a normal school anything is possible. I said quite the looker because he is extremely cute, even with his balding hair and hipster clothing. It’s his personality that I find even more attractive.

Today, he told us a story about his old high school. I forgot to mention he is nearing his late thirties, but age is just a number right? His old band teacher, who will be unnamed, was caught digitally penetrating a young female student.

Digitally penetrating?  What the fuck does that mean? Did he take a picture of his ding-ding and send it to her? Did she take of picture of the picture he sent her? How? WHO IN THE HELL COMES UP WITH THIS SHIT?

As class raged on, my mind only thought about these questions. Is multimedia the new sex? Is the question, “Can I get your nudes?” replacing, “Can I get your number?”

I asked my friends about sexting during a break. We all went around the table, and generally said the same thing, “Its okay if you’re in a committed relationship. If not creepy and fucked up.”

“I had a friend, her boyfriend sent her a dick pic over snapchat.”  We all looked at this girl, the one who stayed quiet during class. Snapchat is a good way of sending nudey pics; its there for seven seconds and disappears forever.

“Unless someone screenshots it.”

But still, my thoughts went unanswered. Why are we doing this? Is it to always be immortalized? I thought to celebrities. When they post a nude, if they even do, people will always remember them as being that celeb that posted a nude. The same with politicians.  Or angsty teenagers.

As I left class, my thoughts came up with an answer. We do it because we can. We have the tools right at our fingertips. And maybe, it makes us feel free. Or some shit like that.

I googled what digital penetration was. Its what you think it is, except it involves gloves.