Meeko, the Robot Vacuum

Find yourself a man that will wave to your Roomba as he enters the room...

Now I do understand that anthropomorphizing can be unhealthy. Depending completely on the situation. I will let you decide on the level of this construct as I am deeply assigning attributes of human form or personality to a very inanimate object. But, heres the thing, the thing is not inanimate. It is very inanimate. It all starts with my very detailed understanding of my view of addiction.

I know that I can become overly attached to things. Like TV shows, foods, or that slut of an ex-boyfriend. This is why I never watch Game of Thrones or Glee. This is why when people ask if I want to smoke pot I say "no" because I know that within three days I'll be at the gas station buying my second pack of cigarettes in two days. I am in no way painting a picture of addiction. If you know me in real life you would know that I rarely drink; It's just that I know my personality. This probably is why I waited years to adopt  sorry, buy a Roomba.  The robotic vacuum cleaner.

Right out of his little kennel box I immediately started to give it a personality. I named it Meeko, from that horrific Pocahontas film. But its personality just matched the raccoon in the film. Now I catch myself at the work, I will signal him to go clean from my phones app, and then watch the security camera on my phone to see if he wanders through the camera's view. He's sooo cute when he finds dirt.

So, yeah. Anthropomorphize much? Although I have not forced the boyfriend to watch videos I have captured of Meeko in action; I did witness a troubling site yesterday. The Boyfriend entered my house and came into the living room, and upon spotting Meeko, he waved at it and said something like "aw cute, hello!" So either I am dating someone who knows how to humor a crazy person's delusions, or he also knows how to give human traits to a robotic vacuum cleaner.  Either way, he's a keeper. The boyfriend, that is.

Hockey Star turned Cop Finds a Yellow Lab

I am being haunted by mybad choices.

In the timeframe ofterminating my last relationship and my current dating my boyfriend status Imade some really bad choices. You can see this reflected in my lack of bloggingas well. It was a time of re-thinking and reflection of what made Steve, Steve.During this time I was also doing traveling for work, and I needed some-sort ofcomfort. Now, a more exotic man would have turned to drinking. Or, maybe aninvestment of a tattoo. As many people have demonstrated in life, getting inkinjected into their skin is a perfect way to come to terms with change in theirlives. If I would have been more cleaver, I would have inked a dragon onto my bulgingupper arm. Instead, it turned to something much worse and self-destructive.

Audiobooks.

Okay, not just yourstandard audiobooks; Gay. Romance. It pains me to even admit it here, but yes.I was addicted to Audible.com and their painfully wide selection of gay romancenovelas. I can’t really remember much about this time span. It was thankfully short-lived.I also cannot re-tell any plots, other than that they were painfully formulaic.It would typically be a straight identifying hockey player who owned a farm,or maybe a cop who had his wife die. Sometimes it would be a ranch owner, maybea ranch owning cop that played hockey in college. In these stories there was alsowas a buddy; maybe they played together on the college team, or went throughthe academy together. The buddy was always heterosexual identifying as well. Longstory short (pun intended) never knew…. feelings…. explore… implied betrayal…. reconciliation….adopting a stray yellow lab (so fake, like a yellow lab would ever be a stray) andthen the most perfect Christmas would happen. Anyway, these books taught me to loveagain. Blah.blah.blah.

I have recovered from mydays of dark habits. And have gone on to become a functioning member of society. But, it seems my choices will never befree of me. As I skim through my Audible account I am constantly reminded. See,with an Audible account you can delete books from your phone, or table, butthey will never be truly gone. They are always list under “Your Account Books”The only way to destroy any trace is to delete my account and start over. But,this means I will delete many good books. To remove The Truth as He Knows It I must also delete all of my AldousHuxley.

I would have kept this myprivate shame. But, then I borrowed my Boyfriends car. Well, he was out of townand I was driving it to get detailed. I synced by phone via Bluetooth to listento some tunes while driving. This meant that when he returned and wehopped into his car, months later. My phone somehow usurpted his phone. Myphone did not start playing Rammstein, no.  It decided to play chapter twelve of The Heart as He Hears It. A touchingscene of Chad coming to terms that a hockey player/cop can really love his bestfriend on many levels including a level based upon anal.

I have not heard the endof it. A constant reminder of how I have gay romance at my fingertips is fed to me on a daily dose from many friends.  It may have been easier if I hadjust covered my arms with ubiquitous and played-out tribal tattoos.

 

 

Pulling a Differential

Last week I went with Becca, and the Boyfriend, Naveen, to get mani-pedis in beautiful downtown Boulder, Colorado.  This is a standing appointment we have as friends on a semi-monthly basis. As this time it was in Becca's town of Boulder we ate Indian and wandered over to the nail salon. Now, when we do this Becca gets her toes and hands done, Naveen gets a pedi and polish, and I get just a pedi. Every appointment I see the ritual play out. Becca and Naveen approach the polish wall and debate the best and cutest colors for their soon to be pampered fingers and toes. And every time I decline to join the fun.

 It is not that I am against men having polish, I am just against me having polish. Take yesterday as an example, in the gym’s locker room. Bright orange polished toes popped out of a work sock and my first thought was, “Really?” a grown man with painted toe nails. Not that I am attaching any feminine verses masculine traits. I do not believe that a painted nail is a feminine and should not be associated with manly-men. I just about standing out. Being a peafowl at my age. Twenty years ago I would do anything to make my uniqueness stand out. Bottles of Sun-in Hair Lightener Spray came to their end in my hands. But, now I content with eight versions of the same grey tee-shirt folded neatly in my dresser drawer. So it still shocks me daily since our last trip to mani-pediland. Yeah, know… since the bright orange toes are mine.

I tell the lucky people in the public realm that are exposed to my Safety-orange toes that I am just waiting for the polish to grow out. Like the polish was against my will. Like I was held down by mob of Vietnamese nail techs. When I was in the junkyard… pulling a rear differential from a ’73 Torino.  “They came out of nowhere and softened my cuticles and applied two gel coats before I could fight them off!” But, now that I think about it, Neither Becca, nor Naveen even mentioned me getting polish. I guess I wanted to be adorable.

Lady in Orange

A whirlwind of emotions swept over me. A cyclone of unattached feelings, settling on anger. No, rage. The lady in orange, was discussing something with my Mother. I didn’t understand anything they were talking about, other than that I wasn’t normal. They were trying to figure out the easiest way to fix me. My Mother worked nights, so a meeting like this, was interfering with her sleep. She seemed irritated that the lady in orange needed to explain how to handle the issue. Later, she would tell my Father that the “N*igg*r should have just done her job and not bothered us.”  The lady in orange explained all the details of my learning disabilities. The symptoms, of my falling behind in class was due to dyslexia. I watched as the two of them debated the problem. As I was a problem to be dealt with.

My rage grew as the lady flatly explained the new education program to deal with “special kids” like me. I kicked the metal legs of my chair. My Mother and the lady not hearing me, as I did not exist. They simply discussed the problem. My knuckles, white from gripping the metal chair, my rage finally snapped.  I bolted from my chair, running through the classroom door, and down my school’s main hallway. Only the cool air that hit my face upon exiting the front of the school, stopped tears from flowing.

A vise-like hand suddenly grabbed my arm, swing me around. “What the hell are you doing?!”  My Mother inches away from my face. The smell of Certs on her breath. “You are just talking about me like I don’t matter!” What I was trying to say was that decisions are being made for me, in front of me, but my opinion, my voice, never came to be heard. Her pure white nursing shoes squeaked on the tile as we marched back to the councilor’s office.

I have always avoided situations where it appears others are making decisions for me. Without, of course a simple acknowledgment to my human existence. I always feel as if I am on that cold metal chair my Mother slammed me into, barking a half-hearted apology to the lady in orange.   My rage always builds, and explodes…  wanting to run. Friendships have been tested, supervisors questioned, if the feeling of an arbitrary choice is made on my behalf.

It was the first really hot, summer day in Denver. We were enjoying a street fair in Downtown. The boyfriend and his best-friend wandered ahead of me. I chased the shady spots, as the boyfriend let the sun absorb into his caramel-brown skin. It was more golden. The way the rays of sun danced upon his broad shoulders. They enjoyed the chalk art drawn upon the sidewalks, I enjoyed this beautiful man, whom for some strange reason, chose me.

At the end of the street fair, they kept walking. I tuned in their conversation. Ideas of what to do next being debated. It was casually decided to end our time at the street fair and go grab drinks at a popular bar nearby. They quickened the pace, as my heartbeat sped up. I was eight years old again. Overhearing a plan where I had no say. My fists clenched. Knuckles turning white.  My vision narrowed. If I quickly turned the corner, would I be missed? I felt my Mother’s death grip on my arm. Rage boiled up, turning my face red. “I’m so sorry… what are we doing?” I purposely attempted to stop every word from being dipped in sarcasm.  Feeling like my anger immediately turns me into an uncontrollable, line-crossing asshole. I stopped - - exhaled. I didn’t hear the response that was given me. I instead began to question myself how I could go from worshiping this beautiful boy in front of me to dragging up, and inserting unresolved rage into the situation? It really is why they call it unresolved anger.

TMBBE

“I need to think up a nickname.” I said from the kitchen, directed to Mike, my eligible roommate, sitting on the Super-squishy-elle-shaped sofa of love. Mike cocked his head. “I mean when I blog. I’m sure I’ll be referring to The most beautiful boy ever more often… if all goes well.”  Sitting at the bar, the most beautiful boy ever raised his head from his MacBook. He gazed over at me. “I have a name…” I then had to explain my blogging history. How “Fuzzy” my Ex was called Fuzzy for blogging purposes. How the names get changed to protect the innocent. The most beautiful boy ever, continued to look blankly at me over his glasses. “What did you nickname the apparently long string of twenty-two year olds that came before me?” Mike, my eligible roommate, laughed from the couch.

I can tell when people have not read my blog entries. I usually prefer this; when people have not read my past blog posts. Nothing is worse than when I’m half-way through an exciting story in regard to the life and times of StevieB, when they correct me on a detail as they remember it from my on-line diary.  They most likely are correct, as my memory distorts as my dramatic retelling gets… dramatic.  Other times it is comforting. I don’t need to tell Patrick how ten grade was for me, he already knows. He read the transcript.

But, for the long string of twenty year olds, I honestly couldn’t tell, nor remember, if he read about them, along with nicknames, in my blog. I honestly don’t remember blogging about them… other than the Olympic Swimmer. The Lebanese wrestler, whom I was afraid to talk too… The Amazing Mexican. Oh, God.. The Ginger… Mike, my eligible roommate, noticed how I began to drift off in a haze of ex nicknames. He snapped me back, just in time for me to lock eyes with my most beautiful boy ever. Head turned a slight to the left pondering his choice in me. “You could call him The Indian?” Mike blurted. “That’s raciest” I snapped. I guess your nickname for the blog will have to be, The Most Beautiful Boy Ever. TMBBE?

When I was a Boy

My first car was a 1968 Ford Mustang. No. It was not brand new. I found this car in a ditch around 1991, and towed it home with the help of my brother-in-law. I spent every meager dime I had working to get that Mustang up and running.  When it did run, I was always out and about in this car, with its mis-matched fenders and wonky exhaust. Around this time I also seemed attracted too, and dated older guys. I bring up this point because, now that I'm over forty I am now returning the favor and started to embrace my inner-daddy. Yet, it seems times have changed in the Daddy/boy dating world.  Yes, this blog post is going to be themed "When I was a boy!"

As a gay waiter at the age of twenty-four, I met and dated guys in their late thirties. I had an apartment on my own,  generally paid my own way, and had a blast in the dating world. Now, the caveat emptor of this situation may be type of guy I'm finding, meeting them mostly on Grindr. But, it seems that all the guys I have chatted with, don't own cars and still live with their parents because they just can't afford a place of their own. So, the economic atmosphere in the US is severely cramping my sex life.

Student loans, high rental rates of apartments, and the lack of jobs for new college graduates,  is impeding my ability to find a nice twenty-six year old to tie up and do things. I blame the Republicans.  This entered my mind as I picked up a nice guy for a date, at his parents house, the sideways glances I received were epic when his mom deducted that her and I were the same age. In an attempt to avert the awkwardness I offered that I too had a mid-term to study for, as I'm in college as well. It didn't help.

When I was a boy, I guess life was easier. I pretty much built my own car, and lived on Capital Hill in a series of run-down skeezy apartments. Now that I've found myself  in the Daddy role,  it appears that guys are living at home for much longer. That, or I need to change my Grindr profile to read that I'm looking for guys that have their own car. That's right, StevieB, keep those standards high. Or..... I could keep my nose out of Grindr and in my history book.

The Lumberjack Horticulturist

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Have you ever locked eyes with a guy, maybe a smile is shared and then a strange feeling comes over you. The feeling that only comes to a person when they have stopped breathing. Not the hold your breath kind of stopped breathing, the kind that comes when the air is knocked out of you by something hitting your chest at top speed. Like one of those anvils from Wile E. Coyote.   In an instant you believe you could quite possibly die from this weight that has blindsided you.

This light-speed occurrence has happened a minuscule amount of times in my life. This is not to say that I have not fallen head-over-heals in love, yes I have. To quote John Green's new movie, The Fault in Our Stars,  you fall in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once, then get awaken at 3AM and sharply asked to taken the F*cking dog out. Well, John Green's quote goes something like that.

I was at Cherry Creek Mall early one January morning. I was there early because I had to deposit a check into the ATM because my bank for some satanic reason doesn't have a single branch in the state. Just ATMs. As I stood at the ATM I started to think about the kind of people who call these machines, ATM machines. As in Automated Teller Machine machines.  I decided right then that I hated those people. As I made my way to the mall exit, sporting my dirtiest of dirty sweats; I wondered if these people also use a PIN number in the ATM machine. As this was running through my mind, I saw a blur of beard and flannel move to my right. That is when I saw him.

He was sporting a real flannel shirt. Red on black. His beard was the perfect length between manly and hipster. He wore glasses. All these personal aspects highlighted the dead Kalanchoe blossfeldiana in his hand.  I knew it was a Kalanchoe because as I teenager I had a job watering plants in a greenhouse and I killed many standard houseplants.  This led me to believe he may have been the mall's Horticulturist.  Standing there before him, the early morning mall florescent lighting reflexed the gravy stains in my shirt. I was in love. Deeply, deeply in love. I croaked out something like, "What? That Kalanchoe is dead to you?" He smiled and said in equal jest, "Do you want it?"  Do I want it.... yes! I wanted it all, I wanted him. Every fiber of his lumberjacky shirt. Every hair on his face. Yes, I wanted him. Instead, I kept walking.... and now I think of him often. 

Oscar Pistorius Stumbles and Falls

In what seems a lifetime ago, I lived in a stone house along the Appian Way. During this brief time in my life I dated a Flying Dutchman.  Named this because he was Dutch and an airline pilot. Although I always suspected he was a flight attendant. As after sex he would always attempt to give we warm towels.

One time, after a nice warm towel, and supplying me with a soda, although never giving me the whole can, he asked me who my heroes were. I was dumbfounded. I quietly realized that I didn’t have heroes to follow and use as guideposts though my life.  From that night onward in the stone house along the Appian Way, I would always have some sort of hero or role model in my life to strive to be as good as and emulate.

Upon becoming addicted to watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Summer Olympics, I watched a small story about a South African sprint runner struggling to even participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint. Upon Oscar Pistorius competing in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee, and the controversy died down about his cutting-edge prostheses giving him an unfair advantage over able-bodied runners, I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about going for runs, I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

On my birthday, I even turned into a crazy fan girl and asked via Twitter for a birthday wish from Pistorius:

So my other role models are a fictitious British 

TV character and a You Tube Vlogger. What’s to ya?

 Quickly Pistorius replied via Twitter:

When he replied, I squeed. My running deity, whom I worshiped daily; and motivated me to be a better athlete, wished me a great birthday…. This buzzed lasted me until yesterday morning. When changing at the gym to go for a run I hear my heroes name on the locker room’s TV. “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

I stood in my UA undies in stunned silence watching a video of Pistorius holding his head in his hands weeping openly in a courtroom as prosecutors said they would purse a charge of murder against the paralympic superstar.

Thinking back to being asked about heroes by the Flying Dutchman, in that house, on a street in Dallas, TX ironically named after the most important Roman roads of the ancient republic, I realize now how strategically important that turn in my own Appian Way was. To accomplish anything in life you need role models. Sometimes… dare I say, most of the time, your deity will fall.  

The Down Comfort

On my Christmas list I had several things, the first thing I added was, “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.”  This was not because I thought that my lifetime companion-partner would cheap out and buy an inexpensive down comforter, it was that after seven years, I know how he would feel walking into the bedding department of the local Bed, Bath, and Beyond store. Scratching his head through his Hemi engine themed ball cap he would like to just point to my scribble of “high end” and the salesperson would get the hint.

I desired a new down comforter because the one on the bed was fourteen years old. It had traveled in my move to Dallas, then back again. It saw every life event in the last fourteen years and was now just a shadow of its former self.  In the last year, if you moved it just the wrong way a cannon of feathers would shoot out. A cascade or tickertape parade of down that would cover the dog an anything else the multiple holes were aimed towards. Parts of the ghost comforter where completely empty of down, just sad yellowing cotton held together by my determination.

I was odd how easily the request topped my Christmas list, as the ghost comforter did; at one point; mean the world to me. 

In the fall of 1996 I was planning to set up house for my first, real relationship. We had decided to move in together and were scurrying like happy, gay crabs to collect things for our first home. Both his and my leases happened to end at the same time, until then we would shop for what we would need. Growing up with out the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets, I loved that our first purchase together was “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.” The future seemed so bright snuggling warmly under that down comforter.

As life sometimes happens, he became ill. We, and life abandoned our plans to live together. Soon his family stepped in to help.

On a sunny day in June, 1998 I wandered through a garage sale. It was on a well-manicured driveway of the sister who stepped in to help six months earlier. The items were nothing exciting, just your average garage sale stuff. The kind owned by single man who had succumb to a non-disclosed disease. Maybe cancer. As I walked through the discarded household items, I could feel the weight of the entire family burn into me. When the sister had organized the clean out of his house, my cries that some of the items belonged to me and somewhere jointly purchased, had fallen on deaf ears.  After filling a bag with my own clothes I picked up a down comforter lying on the cement.  I quietly shelled out $50 borrowed dollars and walked down the drive to my truck. Even though it was June, I wrapped my newly acquired blanked around me and hopped into the cab and drove away. 

For the next fourteen years that cotton bag of goose down was my remembrance of what had been and what could have been. It was a memory filled and my prized possession. As life sometimes happens, the cotton turned yellow as it aged, and holes tore in the fabric and my memory.  Holding on like a gay Miss Havisham I clung to the comforter as if it actually held the memories of my long dead relationship.

Material items cannot possess another’s memory. If you fall prey to this fallacy you create your own Great Expectations. I will always have my first love whether I cling onto an old blanket, or have the possibility to make new memories cuddled up in bed with my new down comforter, with someone I love.  

Corvette Gets Married

You get to a point in your life where have seen your high school friends get married, have families, and pretty much just grow up.

I understand that my situation was atypical for my generation, openly dating my first boyfriend during my senior year of high school after dating other boys in school.  Today it seems that it is just part of everyday high school life. Your first love, however is universal. The person you waited for after class, eating in the lunchroom together, making out in the student parking lot before school.  The horribly written love poems where I tried to compare his beauty to Pete Burns. You never forget your first love. But, you graduate, grow up, and somehow stop writing horribly written love poems.

I believe it would be cathartic for anyone to watch a high school sweetheart get married. To see them amazingly happy on the day designed to celebrate finding the love they sought. Your high school love is the person who first broke your heart, or you theirs,  yet taught you that broken hearts helped you grow up into who you are now.

I believe it a little strange; however, when your high school sweetheart’s marriage ceremony shows ups on the gay society column of Towelroad.com, a premier gay news blog.

View the link and video here:

 http://www.towleroad.com/2012/02/gwvaaroncorvette.html

And before you ask… yes, his name is Corvette. In the video he was in the blue tux… and…the red dress.

Yes. It is cathartic to watch your high school sweet heart get married. It reminds me of the kid I was in high school. The type of unguarded and immature love we have in our high school years. Maybe I should go write some horrible love poems.  

Tina Louise will Never Forget Saab

Saab Automotive has declared bankruptcy. Those selfish Swedish jerks. What are upper-middle class gay Homos going to drive now?

There was a time when you would walk down Cedar Spring Avenue in Dallas, Texas and you would find the streets lined with Saab Convertibles. Row after row of boxy, vapor-locking convertibles. The running joke at that time was the easiest place to pick-up a sun tanned gay boy wasn’t the baths, but the Saab service waiting area.

My realization that there was a tendency for the Mo’s to drive this unique vehicle came after my first date of the third guy I dated upon moving to Dallas. As he pulled up I realized that he was sporting exactly the same car as the last blind date. And the same car, in a different color as the one before him. Like a gay boy’s Groundhog Day.

Strangely, the three Saab dates were as photocopied as their cars. On the last, I sat in the leather covered passenger seat trying to retain my ingénue aloofness as the early evening humidity enter-twined with gas fumes and circled around us. A quick joke about every gay man in Dallas having bleached blonde highlights to match their bright yellow Saabs was still lingering between the seats. To change the subject I ask about his hobbies, outside of highlighting his surfer blonde hair. His remark about loving Tina caught me with surprise.

As we turned onto the highway, I started to dissect his statement about Tina over and over in my head. I found myself turning into James Lipton, if he were to interview an actor in an open-top on a busy beltway. Why would this guy be so adamant over his love for Tina Louise? Sure we all loved her as Ginger on Gilligan’s Island, and when I adamantly agreed with how much joy Tiny had brought into my life, my date responded as if he’s found a kindred spirit. I just didn’t understand what this guy saw in an aging television actress.

After that date, I made a pack with myself to never date another guy who drove a Saab convertible. My third date in a new city and I was already judging men by the cars they drove. For quite a while I was hard on myself for being shallow, that not associating with Saab owners and Tina Louise fans was just me not opening my horizons. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that the date with the Saabs had taught me countless lessons. Less about the type of cars that people drive, and more about people who are desperately in love and hopelessly devoted to Tina Louise. And, yes. It was a full three years later that I learned that Tina was slang for crystal methamphetamine.

Luke Evans Breaks my Heart

I love Greek and Roman mythology. Upon hearing about the new film, Immortals being released this month I was counting down the days until the release. To top off the story of Roman gods at war with humanity, was the fact that Luke Evans, my pretend British boyfriend, was cast in the role of Zeus.

I admired this actor’s ability to be honest with his life, even role model a successful working actor who is out and proudly gay. In September, 2002 Evans was interviewed by The Advocate:

“ Well it was something I'd spoken to a lot of people about, including my boyfriend at the time - we've broken up now - but at the time when I just got Taboo, I knew that even though my part was a straight character, everybody knew me as a gay man and, in my life in London, I never tried to hide it. I knew I was going to have to do interviews with gay magazines, so I thought, ‘Well, I’m going to have to be open’. It’s who I am. And if people don’t like it, then I don’t want their jobs. I've never been a very good liar, which is another thing...” *

Now apparently, upon landing larger roles his, “out and proud” has been squelched for a larger paycheck. See the Advocate article here, and Queerty's article here.

I think I’ll stay home and not go see Immortals. I really have to stop letting these Welshmen break my heart.

* The Advocate.com

'TIL TUESDAY

Every New Yorker coming to town says the same thing. “Take me to a Mexican restaurant!” Corvette, my first boyfriend (yes, that’s his name) said that with the enthusiasm of a kid walking into Disney land with the goal of meeting Mickey.

We met at La Loma in the Highland; he sauntered in swinging a Louis Vuitton overnight bag and wearing combat boots. He hadn’t changed one bit. We then spent hours telling the tales of our lives since high school. He was involved with the real story behind the movie Party Monster, lived above a fisting club and at some point, as you do, started working for Madonna. The typical NY dream.

After eating an enchilada plate smothered in green chili and dropping Corvette off at a local vinyl record store it was just enough time to have a run in the park then meet Jim from Jim’s Stuff blog for dinner. However, the report I thought I had completed for work last week came back to haunt me. No run or nice dinner with Jim. Today will be spent indoors slaving over a hot spreadsheet. The wonderful weekend of meeting and cavorting with good friends as just a memory.

DREAM DATE STEVE

If you ask the reigning and former boyfriends you get a unanimous report. I give very bad first dates.

Picture it, Dallas. 2000. Agreeing to have dinner with a muscled blond boy, we met for dinner and a movie. Most of dinner I was so focused on not blowing my nose on the tablecloth or stuttering like Elmer J. Fudd I wasn’t paying attention and assumed he was talking about his ex-boyfriend when I asked about the hot sex they had. “I’m sure he had fun oiling and rubbing those hot muscles…” It turned out that he had been speaking about his Dad.

I'm on the left.

We didn’t make it to the movie.

Picture it, Dallas. 2003. I met Dalton the week prior and we agreed to meet for dinner at Marco’s Italian eatery on Throckmorton. I then spent the next two hours downing garlic rolls. This was perfect later when I went in for the kiss.

Or there’s the confusing part where I can never tell if I’m on a date or just a trick. I’ll never straighten that concept out. I should probably were a sign around my neck.

If I had to define a “dream date” it would most likely be filled with something active to pull the self-conciseness out of the situation. Snowshoeing would be great. Then if I start to stammer or have verbal diarrhea I can just pretend to fall into a snow drift.

 
 
 
 
Impressed with other bloggers taking up the writing challenge, I have decided to take the blog writing challenge. See all sixty-four challenges here. This was question forty-one.

WELCOME TO DALLAS

I moved to Dallas, Texas in the fall of 2000. I made my partner of four years an Ex, tossed the dog into the truck and head back to Texas. I was excited because this would be the time for Steve to stand or fall on his own. That and three and a half years of cheating, drugging, and pure crazy was finally coming to an end.

I moved into a former high-end apartment complex built around a former Dallas mansion at 4810 Cedar Springs Road and quickly took my place drinking coffee and cruising on Cedar Springs, the center point for the Dallas Gayborhood.

Within a month I had been “Reno-vated” Texas style. It was early spring when sitting either in The RoundUp Saloon wearing a perfectly starched and creased pair of Wranglers or in JR’s wearing a perfectly starched rugby shirt that I met Brian. A tall lean mass of muscle. tight abs, large forearms and a look that was either part Asian or part Swedish. Either way he filled out his wife-beater in a way that made me want to strap on my climbing gear.

A native Texan he reeled me in with his cool low southern drawl. We had a date planned. Steve’s first real date in over four years.

I ran home a put his card on the middle of the dining room table….. Then I put a rock on it. So it wouldn’t blow away…. After the appropriate “God I’m not needy” number of days, I called Mr. Brian and listened to his drawwwl as we planned our night out. Which came to pass the next week as we met in the parking lot of my former high-end apartment complex. Brian’s pearl snaps strained under the pressure of his chest as we climbed up into his F-250.

Just as I got settled in a way that the skin tight Wranglers to not cut off blood to my feet, I turned to see Brian pick up a small hose attached to a tube coming from a blinking black box wired to the dash of his over sized truck.

Time stopped. I turned my head sideways like your cat as she’s watches intently and tries to decipher why you’re shoving stuff up your butt. That look. He stopped in mid-blow. “Yeah, It’s something my parole officer makes me do.” He calmly rolled out like James Dean in Giant.

If I would have had my IPhone with me on that cool spring evening of 2001 I would of Googled “blow into device before car will start” and found out it was a court mandated alcohol monitoring device used after a DUI conviction. Several DUI convictions. Those Swedish Asians can drink.

STEVIEB'S GHOST STORY

One of my first jobs during college was as a manager of a funky coffee house in an old Victorian on Colfax Avenue. The house was built on Denver’s grand boulevard in the late 1880s but, with the city changing and after the patriarch of the family shot the driver for knocking-up his daughter, the family soon moved out of the grand manor house. It changed hands only a couple of times, most of its life was a Denver’s premier Furrier at the corner of Colfax and Franklin Street.

That was a long time ago and by the time I was a manager of the gay coffee house the mansion had seen much better days. It took me around a month to understand that the huge fur storage vault door was swinging open not due to normal reasons. Or when I would turn off every light in the entire building, seeing the second floor bedrooms illuminated. Even after I removed the light bulbs. At two am I had friends join me one night to watch the windows flash on and off. Oooing and Awwwing like they were fireworks.

My last night closing I had my boyfriend at the time stay with me so I wouldn’t be alone. But soon I forgot about the “owner” of the house as my thoughts turned to my boyfriend’s carnal desires. This did not last long before I flew across the dining room.

I found a new job the next day.

After you get physically assaulted by someone you can’t see I could understand why you would get into the paranormal. I didn’t, just something to talk about. I saw it that I had it coming for being a bad guest.

On my birthday in 1998 I sat in my living room struggling to write. I was trying to get down into words that just six days earlier I had lost my best-friend, Randy Jorgensen. Taken away because of losing his hard fought battle with AIDS. How do you deliver a eulogy to a room full on his family, his relatives that don’t want to hear how he died? They didn’t want to hear how he loved men. They didn’t care about the love that we shared and definitely didn’t want anything to do with how and what took him from them.

I was writing for a hostile audience to say the least.

As I crumbled up draft after draft I kept getting annoyed at my dog because he wouldn’t stop whining. That’s when I finally looked up and realized that my house lights were going berserk. Blinking wildly, on and off blink, blink, blink. That’s when I got hit with the phrase, “Fuck them! Write about us!”

So I did.

I'm Still Here

Last Friday I met the boys out at a British pub and finally found a great Shepard’s pie since the vegetarian restaurant where I was a gay waiter back in college. After watching some rugby and cleaning our plates at the British Bulldog, we walked next door to a bar that I had never been in and yet knew every inch of its dark layout.I turned twenty-one on January 28^th, 1993. On the day of this major event through the birthday breakfasts, the beers bought by family and friends there was only one thing on my mind. The Denver Triangle.

The Denver Triangle was Denver’s the tri-state region’s premiere... and well only men’s leather bar.  I had snuck into a lot of bars before turning twenty-one, knowing a whole routine to get into The Ripcord in Houston, Texas. But, this night I was going to walk in as a man. Not a boy having to promise sexual favors to anyone letting me step foot on its hollow ground.

I believe like a Bat Mitzvah or leaving for your first mission gay men have their own rights of passage. There’s realizing that they don’t have to be effeminate to be gay, learning how to give an amazing blow job and walking into their first gay bar with their head held high, proud of who and what they are.

My twenty-first birthday was that night.

To tell you the truth I was scared shitless, I don’t know why but I was. My friends quickly spread to the bar that I was fresh meat.  This actually helped me meet a lot of great guys that I remained friends with for years.  This also helped me not forget the passage into manhood by not being able to sit down for a week. [insert giggle here] 

The Denver Triangle is long gone.

Last Friday after dinner we walked next door to a bar that I’ve never been to and yet knew every inch of its dark layout.  I knew every inch of this hipster beat-box bar, I giggled to myself as I showed my ID to a twenty-five year old hip-cat door man.

As I walked to the back of the bar it was if I was  desending the staircase of the Titanic. the atmosphere was thick with rust. It was lost forever but I’m still here. 

Ray

The first man I ever loved is dead. Okay, he died in 2004 and I’ve known about his death since last fall. I hadn’t seen his face since June of 1990 and never told him that I loved him. But I did. I did love him.

I started messing around with boys at an early age. In Houston my Mom worked nights and as soon as she left the house I would sneak out and head to Montrose Avenue and the Ripcord. I’d stand outside waiting to be noticed. Thinking about it now I’m surprised I didn’t get killed.

When I started high school I quickly met him. Ray. He was seriously and literally from the other side of the tracks. But, It didn’t take long before the friendship we had to turn to lust then desire. Even though I had been with a lot of men, I had never stayed awake watching a boy sleep in my arms. He was from Louisiana; his thick accent covered everything he did. We soon found every free moment to be at his house in middle of his teenage boy bed, listening to his heart thump quicker and quicker as I ran my frame over his.

It being high school it didn’t last long. We moved on and just never kept in touch. Right after the graduation ceremony completed and I was walking towards my family Ray stopped me. He wanted to tell me he was going into the Marines. To fight in Desert Storm. That was the last time I saw him. I watched just for a moment as he turned to run towards his family.

Ray did go into the Marines. He had what I’ve been told an exceptional career. Until he came down with the flu, then had to take a discharge for medical reasons. In the fall of 2004 Ray died of complications from HIV.

David, the friend who broke the news to me last fall sent me an e-mail containing the plot and row where Ray’s headstone sits at Fort Logan National Cemetery. It now sits in my e-mail inbox. Waiting.

Why am I writing about this now? He’s been dead since ’04 and I’ve had this information since October. Let’s just say it takes me awhile to tell people that I love them. This week I decided it might be time to print out the e-mail and go search for a headstone.

FB

I’m finding that Facebook is a weird little land. You can quickly connect with people from your past that just pop up into your friend request box. Refresh you page and suddenly there’s your roommate from 1997.

I am now FB friends with my first and only girlfriend Tammy, I escorted her to the Junior High School prom. Don’t worry, I was a perfect gentleman. She’s now in a triad living near Boulder, CO. I then had a friend request from a random Nicole. I had no idea who the heck she was, upon further review I found out that we went to High School together, One of the three I went to. After looking at her profile I had no clue who she was, and since she had the tack to not identifying herself I just responded back say that I wanted to take this opportunity to apologize for ditching her at the prom but, she was really drunk and embarrassing me. She hasn’t responded back.

On the flip side I reconnected with the only guy to plow me in at Ford Mustang. Picture it Denver, 1988. Dave now lives with his longtime companion in Kansas. Is doing amazingly well and has some great video blogs, or vlogs posted.

A month ago I would have said that the only real purpose of Facebook was to find your old classmates and judge how fat they’ve gotten. That and to cyber stock other bloggers but, no there really is better purpose. That being, to find the folks in your life that you should of not ignored whilst you were trying to figure out who you were.

RICK RUBIN

I guess my little monkey brain decided to not shut off last night,as I did not sleep a wink. You know the nights, when you lay there staring at the ceiling listening to the Shar-pei have puppy dreams. Around 2:45AM my thoughts turned to Rick Rubin.

Rick Rubin was my first real, out of high school boyfriend. Among other things like fellatio, he taught me how to drive a stick shift (load your pun here) in his 1990 Ford Ranger. I shortened the life of his clutch, but he smiled the entire time. So, I’d like to somewhat publicly thank Rick Rubin for teaching me how to hill start, that and he perfectly flavored my taste for the non-gentile kind of man love.

I would have not remembered this sleepless, middle of the night pondering was it not for the commute this morning. In my pre-coffee drive in to the parking garage I thought I was in gear and rolled into the parking garage gate. Oy.


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UPDATE:
If you Google Rick Rubin, you'll get a huge bearded guy from the music industry. Please note that this is not the non-Christmas tree buying gentleman that taught me how to "handle a stick."