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of accounts of culture or sociological theory, but when it comes to the Nation of Queeria the guidebook is hopelessly outdated (or it's never been written).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.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
The Truth About Fantasy
Time: 21:58
Location: The Sticks
When I was still in high school (aka when I was still WAY behind enemy lines), I would indulge my sexual appetite by playing out certain scenarios in my head. The boys of my high school would be repulsed, no doubt, to discover that they ALL a part of my twisted world where every boy was gay and indulged in sexual activites of varying degrees of homosexuality for my sheer amusement and pleasure. When I say all, I mean all: two grades above me and two grades below me. Keep in mind that there were less than a 100 people in my high school; that's the entire high school. The football jocks received their just desserts for any indiscretion towards me by playing out my tiniest fantasy. At the time, it wasn't about a sense of revenge. It was about survival.
Why are so many gay men creative? Is it some genetic, inherent trait, or do we, as a community, share this bond because of a share experience. Most, if not all, spend some portion of their life in the closet. I know of no one who popped out of the uterus belting out verses from Cher, but correct me if I'm wrong. Spending that time as a spy in the RoH taught me a valuable thing about my imagination: I needed it. There was no one sympathetic to Queeria's causes. No other gay boy to experiment with. Experimentation didn't come until college. To this day, I've only been out on two dates. I've never had a boyfriend. Why is this litany of woe important? It explains why I needed my imagination, my fantasies. It was the only way to express myself, even if it was only to myself. It was survival.
You read or hear stories about war veterans who were prisonsers of war, how they did what they had to in order to survive. They usually don't like to talk about it and are quick to change the subject unless pressed by a reporter or the blank page of a manuscript. You do what you have to do. I feel, in some small part, the same. And while I did what I had to do, I still retain a certain sense of embarassment and shame that I used the boys I knew the way I did. They may not realize it, but they led double lives. The life they lived in school and on the field and with friends and family, and the life that went on inside my head. Was I doing that on purpose? Bringing them to my "level", as it were? I don't think so...that sounds a little too Freudian to me, and if Ashley has taught me anything, it's that no psychologist takes much credit with Freud anymore.
I wonder, though. Did my exercises in imagination prove fruitful? Did I ever really hurt anyone? And, most importantly, didn't I deserve a little catharsis? The citizens of the Republic, especially those of the Male Party, may find no justice in my actions. But I think my fellows in Queeria would. I think, just maybe, it's a bond we share...maybe not the in depth sexual fantasies, but the use of our imaginations to survive for as long as we did amidst the enemy with no one to comfot us but ourselves.
Location: The Sticks
When I was still in high school (aka when I was still WAY behind enemy lines), I would indulge my sexual appetite by playing out certain scenarios in my head. The boys of my high school would be repulsed, no doubt, to discover that they ALL a part of my twisted world where every boy was gay and indulged in sexual activites of varying degrees of homosexuality for my sheer amusement and pleasure. When I say all, I mean all: two grades above me and two grades below me. Keep in mind that there were less than a 100 people in my high school; that's the entire high school. The football jocks received their just desserts for any indiscretion towards me by playing out my tiniest fantasy. At the time, it wasn't about a sense of revenge. It was about survival.
Why are so many gay men creative? Is it some genetic, inherent trait, or do we, as a community, share this bond because of a share experience. Most, if not all, spend some portion of their life in the closet. I know of no one who popped out of the uterus belting out verses from Cher, but correct me if I'm wrong. Spending that time as a spy in the RoH taught me a valuable thing about my imagination: I needed it. There was no one sympathetic to Queeria's causes. No other gay boy to experiment with. Experimentation didn't come until college. To this day, I've only been out on two dates. I've never had a boyfriend. Why is this litany of woe important? It explains why I needed my imagination, my fantasies. It was the only way to express myself, even if it was only to myself. It was survival.
You read or hear stories about war veterans who were prisonsers of war, how they did what they had to in order to survive. They usually don't like to talk about it and are quick to change the subject unless pressed by a reporter or the blank page of a manuscript. You do what you have to do. I feel, in some small part, the same. And while I did what I had to do, I still retain a certain sense of embarassment and shame that I used the boys I knew the way I did. They may not realize it, but they led double lives. The life they lived in school and on the field and with friends and family, and the life that went on inside my head. Was I doing that on purpose? Bringing them to my "level", as it were? I don't think so...that sounds a little too Freudian to me, and if Ashley has taught me anything, it's that no psychologist takes much credit with Freud anymore.
I wonder, though. Did my exercises in imagination prove fruitful? Did I ever really hurt anyone? And, most importantly, didn't I deserve a little catharsis? The citizens of the Republic, especially those of the Male Party, may find no justice in my actions. But I think my fellows in Queeria would. I think, just maybe, it's a bond we share...maybe not the in depth sexual fantasies, but the use of our imaginations to survive for as long as we did amidst the enemy with no one to comfot us but ourselves.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
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
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
Friday, January 4, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Is There Such a Thing As a Gay Banker?
Time: 16:19
Location: The Sticks
I'm still in exile in The Sticks. While here, I've been working at the local bank, answering the phones and stuffing envelopes. It's pretty boring stuff, really. But it's just a temp job. What's stranger to me is the fact that people do this kind of thing for a living. It just seems lke the women around me had to settle to do this job. Does anyone grow up wanting to be a banker?
Well, I don't know about growing up, but both my parents were Finance Majors. My sister was a finance major. My grandfather was CEO of a bank. Obviously, they chose these kinds of jobs. But I never could. I'm an Anthropology major myself; my greatest ambition, next to writing, is becoming a forensic anthropologist. A far cry from banking. But it wasn't until I was talking with Ashley that my sexuality even came up as a reason for my liberal art's degree.
"Sure, you hate it cause you're gay."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, have you ever heard of a gay banker?"
I haven't. Obviously, common sense says that out there, somewhere, there is a gay man who works in a bank. It's the same kind of sense that says there must be gay Republicans. It's just a matter of numbers. But you have to admit, gay men are often stereotyped as working in more liberal or creative settings. It's the natural assumption of the Broadway Theory. Basically, it goes like this: a lifetime of being repressed and anonymous and secretive (in the closet) results in an almost pathological need to assert your individuality and creativity in as much as a public space as possible (a Broadway stage).
The problem is, do we start to assume that we're better because we're in these kind of jobs? I think the answer is yes. Which doesn't make me very comfortable. Because when you start looking close enough, you see that isn't necessarily true. The ladies at the bank have to engage customers on an almost minute basis in a very social setting. The loan officers have to figure out creative ways to move their client's money or the bank's money to get the best deal possible. And none of them feel the need to assert their creativity...they let it come out naturally as part of their job.
Is there such a thing as a gay banker? I can only hope so.
Sincerely,
Your Spy
Location: The Sticks
I'm still in exile in The Sticks. While here, I've been working at the local bank, answering the phones and stuffing envelopes. It's pretty boring stuff, really. But it's just a temp job. What's stranger to me is the fact that people do this kind of thing for a living. It just seems lke the women around me had to settle to do this job. Does anyone grow up wanting to be a banker?
Well, I don't know about growing up, but both my parents were Finance Majors. My sister was a finance major. My grandfather was CEO of a bank. Obviously, they chose these kinds of jobs. But I never could. I'm an Anthropology major myself; my greatest ambition, next to writing, is becoming a forensic anthropologist. A far cry from banking. But it wasn't until I was talking with Ashley that my sexuality even came up as a reason for my liberal art's degree.
"Sure, you hate it cause you're gay."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, have you ever heard of a gay banker?"
I haven't. Obviously, common sense says that out there, somewhere, there is a gay man who works in a bank. It's the same kind of sense that says there must be gay Republicans. It's just a matter of numbers. But you have to admit, gay men are often stereotyped as working in more liberal or creative settings. It's the natural assumption of the Broadway Theory. Basically, it goes like this: a lifetime of being repressed and anonymous and secretive (in the closet) results in an almost pathological need to assert your individuality and creativity in as much as a public space as possible (a Broadway stage).
The problem is, do we start to assume that we're better because we're in these kind of jobs? I think the answer is yes. Which doesn't make me very comfortable. Because when you start looking close enough, you see that isn't necessarily true. The ladies at the bank have to engage customers on an almost minute basis in a very social setting. The loan officers have to figure out creative ways to move their client's money or the bank's money to get the best deal possible. And none of them feel the need to assert their creativity...they let it come out naturally as part of their job.
Is there such a thing as a gay banker? I can only hope so.
Sincerely,
Your Spy
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Out of the Closet, Into the Utility Room
Time: 21:26
Location: The Sticks
This is the week I come out to my parents. To be even more precise, this Thursday is the day I do it. I've been thinking a lot about my life as a gay man; it's funny, but I can't help but feel that I'm losing a part of me. I am losing the closeted gay man. What a lot of people don't get about closets is: they can be pretty comfortable. Many gay men live their lives in the kind of closets you see on MTV's Cribs. There is also an important disctinction to make between full disclosure, the closet, and the utility room. A person in the closet is in denial, even from himself or herself. A person who has fully disclosed their sexuality does not care who knows and does their best to make it public knowledge. The utility room is reserved for men like me. Men who share their sexuality with a close circle of friends or perhaps certain family members but doesn't wish to spread the knowledge to certain circles or peoples.
The utility room has been nice, but I suppose the time has come to explore the rest of the house. There's no denying that I'm nervous, maybe even scared. But this is the important thing to realize. I never, never, want to go back to being completelyh closeted. It seems like a waste to me, as though I have not been a whole person for most of my life. Maybe one day I will look back on this time and think the same thing. Ultimately, my line of thinking comes down to this: I am gay, it's not going to c hange, so I should alert my parents to this facet of my life. I can't lie or hold back the truth for ever. Part of loving someonse is being honest with them.
For now, I'll enjoy the quiet before the storm by sitting with my parents and watching the SEC show America why our football is different from your football....or so I'm told.
Sincerely,
Your Spy
Location: The Sticks
This is the week I come out to my parents. To be even more precise, this Thursday is the day I do it. I've been thinking a lot about my life as a gay man; it's funny, but I can't help but feel that I'm losing a part of me. I am losing the closeted gay man. What a lot of people don't get about closets is: they can be pretty comfortable. Many gay men live their lives in the kind of closets you see on MTV's Cribs. There is also an important disctinction to make between full disclosure, the closet, and the utility room. A person in the closet is in denial, even from himself or herself. A person who has fully disclosed their sexuality does not care who knows and does their best to make it public knowledge. The utility room is reserved for men like me. Men who share their sexuality with a close circle of friends or perhaps certain family members but doesn't wish to spread the knowledge to certain circles or peoples.
The utility room has been nice, but I suppose the time has come to explore the rest of the house. There's no denying that I'm nervous, maybe even scared. But this is the important thing to realize. I never, never, want to go back to being completelyh closeted. It seems like a waste to me, as though I have not been a whole person for most of my life. Maybe one day I will look back on this time and think the same thing. Ultimately, my line of thinking comes down to this: I am gay, it's not going to c hange, so I should alert my parents to this facet of my life. I can't lie or hold back the truth for ever. Part of loving someonse is being honest with them.
For now, I'll enjoy the quiet before the storm by sitting with my parents and watching the SEC show America why our football is different from your football....or so I'm told.
Sincerely,
Your Spy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
