Finding Mecca

This Saturday the Anthropology Department at my university is sponsoring a field trip to Houston, TX in order to see the Lucy exhibit at the museum. For those of you who don't know, Lucy is kind of a big deal to anthropologists. She's the skeleton of an early hominid, Australopithecus afarensis, one of the earliest ancestors of Homo sapiens. What's so remarkable about Lucy is that, while only about 40% of the skeleton was recovered, that 40% encompasses all of the primary body parts (i.e. there's an arm and a leg and a foot and a skull). So, Lucy is able to tell us an extraordinary amount, like the fact that she is about as tall as a kindergartener or the fact that she was bipedal (walked on two legs...VERY important to evolutionary biology).

Whether I'm going or not is still up in the air (although it unfortunately looks like I'm going to miss out), but what's so funny is nearly ALL the anthropology students are going. Seeing Lucy is a big deal to us; it's kind of like being able to talk to Adam Smith if you're an economist or smoke crack with Freud if you're a psychologist. Lucy is one of the cornerstones of our study of prehistory. For many of the students, she's a kind of Mecca.

The hardcore anthropologists have Lucy. The gay population has San Fransisco. Catholics have Vatican City, Jews have Israel, Muslims have...Mecca. But as I sit here, typing, it occurs to me that I don't really have a Mecca. I don't have some place that's so important to me that I have to see it before I die. I'm not too terribly concerned about seeing Lucy. I've been to San Fransisco and although admittedly I wasn't out yet I still the thought the city was ok. Just ok. It didn't inspire a religious-esque awakening or anything. Neither does Lucy. Or the Vatican City, New York, Israel, London, Cancun, or the People's Republic of China. I have nowehere that I want to go.

It feels to me like I'm still trying to find my Mecca, the place I want to go to, to be in. And maybe I even know what my Mecca is: a relationship with a guy that I can say "I love you" to, a man that I could fall asleep with every night with his arm wrapped around me. Cue the corny music, I know, but it is what it is. My Mecca is a happy, fruitful relationship, and I can't find it anywhere. How long do I have to journey before I reach my destination?

Thanks for listening.

Sincerely,
Your Spy

Good News....

I'm off the Dave Drug. And the good news is, this time, it may very well be for real.

I won't deny that if I'd ever get the chance I'd sleep with him in a heartbeat. I mean, he's still attractive and, more importantly, he has that voice. But now I don't feel bad about feeling rejected by him. Now I don't feel uncomfortable being around him, talking to him, joking with him. I don't want to hold off on other relationships just in case something between us might work out. You may ask, how could this be so? I'll tell you.

Dave is an asshole.

Four lovely little words release me from my awkward obligation. Dave is an asshole. And this isn't me at all. This is a third-party. This is his friend telling me this. This is objectivity. Dave is an asshole. He has an older, richer man, out of college, from out of town who buys him things. Yes, Dave has a sugardaddy. Dave hooks up with random people on Bourbon Street. Dave is narcissistic. I am not the first that he's led along. All according to his roommate, his friend. I'm telling you, I should have gotten this guy's screenname sooner.

Wow. I mean, I didn't think it would be this easy. I get crushes like a prostitute gets STDs, and generally it's a tapering off of emotion that signifies the end. But this? Bam, I'm done. I admit that I'm a little suspicious of it, but then again, it's nice to have this feeling. Now that it's on the table, I'm actually talking with a new boy...let us all offer a quick prayer that it's not another Jason and not another Dave. I'm tired of all these emotional things. A spy just wants to have fun.

Thanks for listening. It's nice to give good news every once in a while.

Sincerely,
Your Spy

Chipped Off

Things are still moving sluggishly for me here in the Red Stick. No word from Dave, but, good news, no word from Jason either (thank God for the block feature on AIM). I've still been feeling a little depressed lately and still having some trouble sleeping, but the funny, or sad, part is that when it comes to depression I'm a seasoned pro. It's absurdly easy to identify depressed thoughts and objectively remove them. Still, though, cognitive therapy takes more work than you would believe, so I've been moving around like a zombie lately. It doesn't help that still in waiting in limbo for a job to come through and for a class to come in.

In apartment news, I chipped a plate of Ashley's. I didn't think much of it at first...Amanda and I made sure to superglue the chipped part so it wouldn't scratch anyone/thing, but then Ashley came home and noticed. I don't think I've ever seen the girl more disappointed or passive aggressive in my life. The guilt train left the station and I was on board. I've spent at least an hour or two (it seems) searching the Internet for her stupid plate. But it's nowhere to be found. To make up for it and for eating some of her special king cake (which I didn't know was special), I bought her a brand new king cake from Whole Foods. Which, she can't eat because she doesn't like icing on her king cake. Hence, the special ordered one that I had previously taken a bite or two out of.

So, with lingering feelings of guilt, depression, and loneliness, I boldly face the new day. Don't worry, reader, I'm fine. Actually, Mardi Gras is coming up which will give me the perfect emotional lift. Every year my friends and I take a trip on Saturday to walk Bourbon and see the parades and come back to Baton Rouge late Sunday morning. Then maybe I'll go home and be pampered for a while. Yes, things will be looking up soon, and if they don't...well, I have that king cake in the kitchen to eat and a chipped plate to eat it on.

By the way, if you know of or have a soft square/square round white plate with the word mainstays on the bottom, I'd be willing to negotiate. Thanks.

Sincerely,
Your Spy

Bad Battery

Here in the Red Stick we've been having a typical Louisiana winter--a couple of warm days followed by a col streak. The only thing that's worse than the indecisive weather is what it does to my car. i use to think that col weather was bad for the car battery, period, but turns out that it's worse for the battery to be exposed to alternating warm and cold periods in quick succession. What does this mean? It means that at 8 o'clock this morning, my car wouldn't start.

It's actually been a real bad day for me anyway, not just because of the car. I got zero hours of sleep last night because of the incessant thoughts that went on in my head. It's Dave again. A single text message on Saturday night sent me back into the usual "does he? will he?" cycle. Hot, passionate scenarios followed by cold rationalization. That's what happened last night. Why won't he? Why does he? Is he just being friendly? Is he flirting? No, he's not flirting. Put that out of your head. You two hardly know each other. It's not like he's Anderson Cooper or something.

Hot, cold. Hot, cold. It wears down the battery in my car, and it wore down my mind until the world took on a monocolored hue. I lay in bed and stared at my ceiling for hours and arrived at the cold truth. Why was I obsessing about Dave? Why didn't I just be patient and wait for Mr. Right, as Amanda always suggests. See, the truth is, I'm lonely. I've never had a relationship...I've never even been to a restaurant for a date or anything like that. I lay in bed, feeling so lonely it almost hurt. And there wasn't an arm to comfort me...there wasn't even a response to a text message from Dave. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Jesus said the truth would set you free; he never said it would help you sleep.

The Lone Man on the Island

Oh, school. How best to describe it? It's like being a hamster, running in a wheel...no, scratch that. It's like being stuck under the hamster wheel, where the constant motion slowly peels the skin off your back one millimeter at a time. This year, the biggest wheel for me is English 2025: Fiction. Yuck. I thought I was done with English two years ago, when I still thought I was going to be an English major. I figured that I liked to read, so I would like to be an English major, right? Wrong.

So, this semester, I'm finishing up my English requirement with this fiction class. Our first book is Robinson Crusoe. Talk about a snooze fest. One British guy all alone on an island. He doesn't even masturbate. I mean, literally, nothing sexual at ALL. What's a horny little gay boy to do?

But I admit, something in the book actually inspired me. Scary, huh? Abridged version of Robinson Crusoe: man wants money and adventure, goes on ship, storm on the ocean, stranded on island alone, finds footprint, cannibals that scare him, gets rescued, yada yada. And it made me think about the kids who use to tease me in high school. One, in particular. He was a horrible classmate (my age, but got held back so he was one class below me); always calling me queer and gay or at the very least making references to my face and behind my back. I was never scared of him, I don't believe, but I do think I might have been scared of the truth he was presenting to me. Did he know I was gay before I did? No, but I wasn't ready to come out, and I wasn't ready to be confronted with my homosexuality. The sad, and ironic, part is that I'm pretty sure he was, is, gay (or at the very very least bisexual, whatever that means). This seems a pretty common pattern throughout a lot of gay men's lives: the tormentors are the tormented. Nowadays, I think I pity him, but I'll also be the first to say that I'm still a wee bit angry at him.

So, what does all this have to do with Robinson Crusoe? Crusoe was tossed around on the ocean, isolated on an island, and fearful of his his neighbors ("invaders"). The life of my tormentor is comparable. Let us say I'm correct, which I am. I'll call my high school tormentor, Tort, to make things simple. Tort is so deep in the closet he's finding old Christmas presents. Suddenly, he experiences thoughts and emotions that confuse him, thoughts of attraction to other men (the tumultuous sea). Tort denies himself further and ends up in a place where he can never be happy (isolated on the deserted island). He is confronted by evidence of other homosexuals and homosexual activity; confusion and fear becomes anger at the constant intrusions onto his otherwise well structured life (the cannibals on the island). If he's lucky, one day he'll encounter someone to take him off the island and back to the Port of Queeria, but most likely it will never be that way. So many men are destined to be the Crusoe on the island for the rest of their lives, alienated from the one place they could be comfortable.

Wow. Did I get all of that from an English class? I'm kind of impressed...maybe I won't skip the next class, after all.

Sincerely,
Your Spy

The AIM Game

Dave and I are at it again.

By "it", I mean the harmless chit-chat on America Online's Instant Messenger, more commonly known as AIM. Light banter, small jokes, a little smiley now and then. Nothing too serious. Which, of course, is the problem.

AIM is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's the least intrusive way to communicate. A simple "hey" can be responded to at the other chatter's discretion. A screen name can even be blocked, if the instigator becomes annoying enough. It's pretty consequence-free, with small room for embarrassment. On the other hand, it's impersonal. Most importantly, you can't pick up inflection. Is he inviting me to watch movies with him and his friends of his own volition? Or does he feel pressured? Did he pick up a pity-me tone? Am I being paranoid? (the answer to that is always yes; but, in my defense, all spies are conditioned to be paranoid as a safety precaution).

So, nothing comes out of it. Unfortunately, I always end up telling myself that it's just harmless chit-chat. But now, writing this, I don't think it is. It just keeps giving me hope that one day he and I will hook-up. Which, in turn, makes me feel mildly to severely pathetic. Which starts a whole cycle of self-analysis and cross-examination that would make even the bravest psychologist twitch.

For now, I'll keep playing, hoping to come out a winner.

Sincerely,
Your Spy

Back in the Saddle

Time: 13:25
Location: The Red Stick

Well, it's back to the 'ole grind here in Baton Rouge. Classes have started up again, and while the majority of them seem interesting, you can rest assured that eventually I'll be up to my neck in assignments, papers, and student organization crap. No matter. For those of you who don't know, I'm a Anthropology/Sociology double major, so my classes aren't too hard. This also explains the general nature of my blog...I've read dozens upon dozens of accounts of culture or sociological theory, but when it comes to the Nation of Queeria the guidebook is hopelessly outdated (or it's never been written).

On that note, life is pretty dull. Dave, my crush, hasn't been talking to me as much lately, which I take to mean his roomates are back in the apartment and thus he has someone to talk to again. A former, how should I say this?......a former beau has been trying to hit me up again. For purposes of this blog, his name is Jason and I lost my virginity to him. This was a couple of months ago. Yes, I've been a virgin for 20 odd years, so sue me. I wished that things could have worked out between us, but the second time we did it I felt an emotion that could only be revulsion, and when you feel something that strongly it kind of takes the erection right out of you. I breathed a sigh of relief when he informed me that he now had a boyfriend (btw, total bitch move...he made sure to IM me all the time, "I'm with my boyfriend"), because it meant he could reject me and I could get away scott-free. Of course, they broke up after a month and now he's hounding me to come sleep with him. I've had to resort to blocking him on AIM.

So, to recap, I have a boy chasing after me that I don't want, a boy I'm chasing after who doesn't want me, a mouse infestation in the archaeology lab where I work, homework ALREADY, and student organization crap that's already got me in hot water. I think I'm getting saddle burn already.

P.S. Expect regular updates from now on. I'm also going to start pushing the advertising button, using a few tricks that I've got up my sleeve. A guy's gotta make a living.

After the BCS Bowl

Time: 14:24
Location: The Red Stick

I just returned from a two-day hiatus in New Orleans. Ashley was kind enough to open her home to us, so we drove in on Sunday night ot avoid the traffic and hung out on Monday until it was time to watch the game. After the Tigers won (and really, who thought they wouldn't?) we drifted on down to Bourbon Street.

It was about three or so hours into the night when Dave showed up. Confession: I am insanely attracted to Dave. Insanely. He has these great eyes and nice face and ok body...but what really drives me wild is the voice. It's deep and soft, and I just want to wrap myself in it like a comfy old blanket. The good news is, he's gay. The bad news is, he isn't attracted to me at all.

Is there anything worse? I look at Dave and I see potential boyfriend material, not just a quick hookup (although I wouldn't be opposed to that either!). But no matter how coy I play or how desperate I am, it doesn't matter. He is immune to my charms. And my drunken text messages. And my drunken AIM conversations. In a way, really, I almost feel bad for him. I've told him that I'm attracted to him. I've asked him out on a date. He knows this. But due to mutual friends, we still maintain contact with one another. The craziest thing is that at times it feels like we're ex-boyfriends and everybody is avoiding the pink elephant in the room.

The saddest part of this is that I feel to blame. I've tried. I've deleted his AIM screename from my buddy list, taken off his phone number from my cell, everything I could think. Then, shortly before the Bowl, he initiated contact again. And I was hooked.

Awkward feelings and a pounding headache don't do wonders for one's attitude, so Amanda and I left Bourbon around 3:30, which for, those of you who don't know, is early. Sometimes I think I should try to be straight; boys seem to be so much trouble. Then I listen to my girlfriends, and realize that women are crazy, as a species, and only a straight man would try to touch that with a ten foot pole.

The Cowardly Lion

I didn't come out to my parents as planned. A part was my own cowardice, another part was that it never felt like the right time. The right time. I should put that in quotations from now on. I have this fantasy running in my mind of a time when my parents and I are sitting at the dinner table, with the TV on in the other room, and we hear a news report about gays in the military or gays in the school systems or gays in Boy Scouts. My father and mother would comment, and before they could say anything too bad I would jump in and say: "Wait, Mom and Dad, before you say something you would later regret! I'm gay." They would stare flabbergasted, then both would burst into tears and hug me and offer me $1,000.00 in cash to spend at The Pub in New Orleans.

Right.

Enter the cowardice. There were several times throughout the alloted two days that I could have said, "Mom, Dad, can I talk to you two for a minute?" But I couldn't bring myself to do it. For one thing, it's hard to come out to your parents when they're watching an episode of Andy Griffith. It was Ashley who made me think of the Cowardly Lion, when she told me that I was making excuses. What gave the Cowardly Lion courage? It was when the Wizard gave him medals: evidence of his courage. It occurs to me that I have no evidence of courage. I have never done anything paticularly courageous. I wish they gave out medals for coming out, so I would know that I could get something out of it.

How materialistic is that? But, on some level, it's my reasoning. The result of the conversation is an unknown. What do I have after that's sure? The support of my friends? Hah. Will my friends help me pay my rent, my car note, my taxes, my groceries, my gas? I am being materialistic, but it's because I rely on my parents for all my materials. Taking stock, I've truly begun to realize just how extensive their support is, how much I gain to lose. I know that it's shallow, but it's a shallow world we live in. I'm a full-time college student trying to get into grad school.

There I go again, making excuses. I guess I'm just afraid to tell the truth. Jesus said the truth would set us free. But does it? I mean, look where it got him!

Maybe I've just gotten too comfortable behind enemy lines. It's not in the nature of a spy to reveal himself. Can diplomacy work? Can the enemy become the ally? I've never been good with words or social situations. Maybe my diplomacy isn't up to task.

For now, I'll just spend time with my friends. We're going to New Orleans for the BCS Bowl, and there's a boy. There always is. Until then....

Sincerely,
Your Spy

Coming Out Is The Hardest Part

When I came out to my friends, it was an ambush plotted by Drunk Me. He waited until I had had a half bottle of tequila in my system before unleashing the truth upon my friends. It was so bad, they didn't even know whether to mention it the day after for fear I wouldn't remember. But, Sober Me was happy, thankful even to Drunk Me. I had kept the secret inside me too long; secrets are like milk really, in that both have an expiring date. And I was way past due on mine.

I feel the same way today. I have the horrible and yet entirely too happpy that when my mom comes into the house today, I may quite literally give her a hug and say "I'm gay" before she even has time to put her purse down. I had planned to tell both my parents, sitting down at dinner, but I'm way too much of a coward for that. I've decided that it's going to be Drunk Me's way or the highway. Time to blurt out word-vomit. Maybe that's the only way. Just blurt out the truth and clean up after the word-vomit.

What is it that's so scary about coming out of the closet ot my parents, to parents in general? Of course part is the fear of rejection and of, for the first time, having to live on my own wihtou finanical help from my parents. But I think there's another side to it. I'm afriad that my parents won't react as parents. They will react as people. As people with opinions and prejudices. I've lived with my parents all my life. I haven't lived with two individual people. Kind of scary, to think about it that way.

Is telling them seperately the way to go? Probably not, but it's the only way a cowardly guy like me can do it. I've always found it easier to tell my mother something than my father. I have a deep respect for my father; if any of the pair will reject me, it's him. That's the hard truth. Which would kill me, of course. My mom will always love me and be on my side. I believe that. I suppose I also believe that mothers in general are more disposed to stick by their children's side. So, it may be cowardice, but it has to be done. If this is the way I'm going to do it, then it's the way I'm going to do it.

Wish me luck.

Sincerely,
Your Spy

What It Means To Be A Bad Spy....

"What you need to do is write a letter addressed to your younger self. That will help you deal with these unresolved issues."

My therapist, Mrs. Freud, was usually filled with good advice, but this one had me biting at the reins. Why write a letter to younger self? I didn't even know how to find my younger self...it had always traveled incognito.

At this point, I should be telling you my name, introducing myself. But then I wouldn't be much of a spy, would I?

I can tell you that I am a 21 year old gay man, who lives ina little place called Baton Rouge, Louisiana aka The Red Stick. But for 20 years, I was a man in enemy territory. I was a spy in a country I like to call the Republic of Heterosexuality. It was almost a year ago that I came out of the closet and immigrated to the Nation of Queeria, a land filled with gays, lesbians, and those lovable transsexuals.

But I still have to act the spy. I haven't come out to my parents, yet, or to my home community. Of course, the home community thing probably isn't going to happen anytime soon. I grew up in a place that I'll just call The Sticks. A backwoods, rural community where the word 'gay' was only heard from highschool jocks making fun of others and each other or the bare snipets you would catch on Will & Grace before the parents would change the channel and wonder out loud what TV was coming to.

The problem was, I was never a good spy. Even now, I'm pretty sure my parent's suspect that I'm gay. Apparently, as reported by my best friends, I was never good at hiding it. From obvious peeks in the boys' locker room to an overwhelming interest in Broadway musicals and Kathy Griffin, I have been acting gay as long as I can remember. Just took me a little while to find out.

This blog is dedicated to that younger me, in the hopes of resolving issues I apparently have. But fear, not, for this blog is also committed to being my observations of the Straight World, a world in constant turmoil and in whose company I participate all too often. I am your insider; I just hope I'm not as bad as they say...

Sincerely,
Your Spy