The Franks Suck

I completely failed my History mid-term exam. Completely. Totally. I received my grade back and winced. 56%, that's an "F" no matter how you shake it.

I know why I received this grade. It's not because I spent the whole day before on a date in Boulder, although that didn't help. It was I studied the wrong things. I  didn't pick up on the subtle information laid down by the Professor on what would be on the test. For example; there was a map portion of the test,  a blank map of Europe was given and I would identify specific areas. Now, it had the possibility   of any era of medieval times.  From the tribal clans of the Gauls up to Charlemenge's empire.  I studied and memorized all realms, ages, territories, and changes to the European map throughout the decades.  All the way unto the last of the era of the Carolingian Empire; I forgot to study that. Guess what the map portion of the test was? Yep, the stupid late Carolingian Empire.

I sat there, glazed over. Attempting to remember how the empire was divided up after stupid Charlemenge died. Jerks. Naming their empires such stupid, hard to remember things.  I had to abandon that portion of the test. Which is why I got an "F" because of the stupid Franks. God I hate them, they just ruin everything.  Jerks.

So, that's how I got an "F" on my history exam. Not because I was spending time having fun on a date; it was the Charlemenge's fault for having so many sons that they split up the empire upon his death. 

Checking Monsters

I got home super late last night. One of those nights where you dump your belongings and drag yourself up the stairs. I dumped my countless number of bags inside the door and stripped naked as I ascended the stairs.  My only goal was to be horizontal within my 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Nothing was going to stop me. One thing did. 

I stopped and checked my closet for monsters. 

Monster in The Closet
by MoMoCookie

In my sleep deprived state, it hit me. I just checked my closet. I began to think; do I do this a lot? Yes, without even thinking of it. Every night I'm alone I open my closet door and flip on the light to ensure that there isn't anything evil lurking behind the Pumas. Hiding behind the flannel shirts.  I'm a fully fledged adult, and yet I check for monsters in my room. 


I'm sure this habit began when I was eight. My brother hid in my closet one evening to jump out and scare me. To this day it is my foundation in my belief that brothers are just simply assholes.  Ever since that night I have checked my closet. This habit has ingrained itself into just who I am for my entire life, so much so that I don't even remember or acknowledge doing it. 


In the movie 'The Dark Knight' The Joker says, “We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us." So maybe, that fact that I'm a full ground man and still checking behind the closet door every night, symbolizes  that I don't have a monster inside of me.  That evil is still an abstract. To be pushed away with one small ritual. 

Beard Challenge

There are 101 days until Wednesday January 28, 2015. That's three months and nine days from my 4th annual 40th Birthday. Which means three months and nine days until the end of my 2014 beard challenge.

I can't say I haven't been tempted to shave my beard growth off of my face. I've held the clippers in my hand on several occasions. But, right as I am close it seems a get an immediate complement from someone, either in real life or online. And sense it seems to be the only motivator on my face fur, the beard stays. For three months, and nine days.  The only negative feed back has been random trolls on Grindr, none of which have been remotely attractive. Oh, and Fuzzy,* he HATES my beard.  Like truly despises its presence in our lives. It is like Ebola, campaign adds, and people who don't move quickly enough through left turn lanes all rolled in one. The beard allows people to talk to me, a conversation starter. A "nice beard" said as tidal flows pull gays through a packed bar, is a great way to meet boys. With all its enemies and fans I still have my furry face.

Pre-fuzz

The latest fur
update.

Life

So... age old concern. My homework is cutting into my romantic life. At the end of next week I have an eight page paper due on whether the Irish monasteries of the twelfth century really did save the works of  great ancient philosophers, or the Humanists across Europe were the saviors; as the monks would not understood the meaning behind the works.... I know. I just fell asleep as well. Aristotle; such a funny guy.  During this time, I am acutely aware that there are guys to go kiss.

I am slowly coming to the conclusion that not only am I beginning my mid-life crisis, I am also attempting to re-live my early twenties. But, with a better credit score.

I find it strange and amusing that life has brought me to this place. A place of personal confidence, meaning finally feeling comfortable in my own skin, of being un-outcastable and truly strong in my personal beliefs, yet being in a social place of a twenty year old.

I like getting older. When you’re in your twenties you’re really forging for your future. Things take shape later on. -Crispin Glover

This Grill is on Fire

On Saturday night I found myself out on a date. A date that ended up in a cozy booth at my favorite place to dine; The Denver Diner in downtown Denver. A ginger bearded boy and I sat in a corner booth dining on pancakes. A scene right out of a gay Rockwell painting. It was the perfect step on a great night out. We sat and judged the endless supply of parading women, drunk and spent from partying in their tiny skirts and 6" heels.  As I stared dreamily into my table mates deep blue eyes I heard screaming from the kitchen. "Get out!!!! Fire!!! Everyone out!!!!" I looked over to see the entire grill engulfed in flames. Leaving my pancakes, but grabbing my bearded boy, I attempted to beat out the murder of drunk girls, as I would assume they would be too slow in there cheap heels to make it to the door.*

As I escorted my date to the  front door, I did have the head about me to bust into a rendition of one of Alicia Keys' songs. I blurted out,

"it's just a grill and it's on fire!"

 "THIS GRILL IS ON FIRE!!!!"

There is

no more proud moment in my life.


*The news reported that no whoreish girls were harmed in the fire. My pancakes were; however, a total loss.

The news link is here...

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.

Castro in the Morning

We sat in the morning sun.

It was strange. I had been on Castro Street a countless number of times. Never, on an early Monday morning. I had been to this coffee shop a countless number of times. Never, like this before.

We sat upon the bench outside the coffee shop. We spoke quietly, as it seemed appropriate for this morning. Not because it was a quiet Monday morning in the Castro, the first I had ever experienced; but, because this is how one talks in a situation like this.

Quietly. Like the Castro on a Monday morning.

In a slow frenzy I attempted to soak it all in, the exact distance from my feet to the curb, the number of trash cans lined up across the street against the Bank of America building. The curve and feel of his hand in mine. I wanted to remember every detail. Every, fucking detail. I wouldn’t let it go. I must remember the feeling of sitting on a bench, outside a coffee shop, in the early morning light.  In the Castro… with him.

For him, it may of been just coffee on a Monday morning. A cool nonchalantness wafted about him like a smokey haze.

I was engrossed in memorizing every spec of paint splatter on his black framed glasses. Every blemish, every hair in his beard. Embarrassed by this, I would glance down at my venti sized coffee from the “bearbucks” and click my thumb upon the edge. I would force down the thoughts of Christmas tree shopping, of late night kisses after nightmares pulled him from sleep. Telling him he was safe. Ignore half-created images of long road trips and hikes up into unexplored mountains. Damn it! I counted the street signs.

We sat in the morning sun.

We spoke quietly. It seemed appropriate for this moment. We didn’t speak of future plans, other than abstract shapes and cloudy references. I memorized how many buses stopped across the street and how many people got on those buses; on their way to work on a sunny Monday morning in the Castro. I attempted to memorize every detail around me, so I would never forget. Never, fucking forget.

We sat on that bench, outside of that coffee shop.

I can now tell you how many trees line that street. As I held his hand. I cannot; tell you anything about us. 

Ghost on the Bridge

As I stood at the base of the south tower on the Golden Gate Bridge, I was mezmorized by the bay of San Francisco stretching out in front of me.  I watched the late afternoon fog toy with the city, darting in and out of the buildings and hills. Yet, I soon felt an unknown force pulling me away from the show. The approach up from the south side of the bridge was packed with tourists from around the globe. Everyone seemed to be in a family pod, stopping for photo ops on their journey over the bridge. What forced me to look away from the million-dollar view was one lone man. 

He looked out of place because he walked slowly up the bridge. He had a slight build even for his mid-twenties Asian frame. In place of a camera to snap pictures, like everyone else, there was a massive bouquet of very expensive flowers in his arms.  Maybe it was the explosion is color that caught my eye, amongst a sea of Golden Gate red, and Nautica black windbreakers. But, I don't think so. I was forced to watch this man.  All time stopped. Just him and me alone on the bridge. Even though we were alone, he never once noticed or acknowledged me. Like I was a ghost on a bridge.  

There was another ghost he was focused upon. As I can't always see ghosts I just asumed this was who he was talking too as he leaned against the rail. He spoke out loud for a minute, but I couldn't hear a word, with me being a ghost and all. He then hurled the massve bouquet of flowers over the edge of the bridge and in a spinning whirl all the tourists appeared again as they gasped and screamed the something had gone over the bridge side. The crowed peared over to watch the falling flowers. I, on the other hand, watched as a human soul went through a catharsis. A cleansing. Only shared unknowingly with me. 

Still locked into place, at the base of the south tower, I watch as this person quickly sped down the bridge.  He was just a dot in the crowd when I came back to life. 

You've Been Here Four Hours

Today as morning greeted San Fransico, I was thankful that the hotel is across the street from two essentials.  A 24 Hour Fiitness gym, and a Starbucks. Once the roommates finially awoke; we headed to the Castro for breakfast. This meal was followed by a quick trip to Mr. S Leather for a shopping trip. A quick trip.  A shopping trip that ended up lasting four hours.  Four hours in a leather supermarket. Trying on everything. 

It was odd, I ran into an amazing amount of fellow bloggers, twittererers, and fellow  Instagramers. And, after a credit card charge around $400 and four hours I was spent. Literally and figuratively. 

I slowly entered the hotel lobby in the late afternoon. Weighed down by the bags of clothes and new toys. Ready for a long nap.  After a trip to China Town for some "authentic" cuisine, and a little light bar time, bed called my name.  Good night, San Fransico.  See you tomorrow.  

StevieB in the Holy Land

Alright, I made it to San Fransico. I quickly realized that I should always vacation with a corporate HRish like Lesbian.  As three gay men on vacation it has always falling on me to make reservations, figure out subways, you know... general herding of cats sort of thng. This trip is completely different. The power lesbian has made the reservations, booked the room using points,(luxury Marriott on the sixteenth floor... Insane view of the city) even seeking out information when the subway ticket kiosks have turned sentient and are having bad hair days. This is the first trip where I can put away my alfa-male, Papa Bearness and really relax. From now on, I will only travel with a lesbian. 

That being said, yesterday I made it to the Castro. I had been away too long. I've said for ages that I want my ashes scattered in front of the bear Starbucks. I feel a deep conecton on that street, even though I don't know why. It's the way that, I'm sure, others feel when walking inside a church or temple. As part of my holy sacrament, I bought new Pumas. Trust me, it was an act of gay transubstantiation. 

Today beings a pilgrimage to Mr. S Leathers. Because, Papa Bear needs a reward. Of some sort.  

StevieB is Huge in Russia

Inside the Blogger.com site, where I write this abomination of a blog, there is a handy page that gives me a ton of interesting data. Like how many people have visited my blog. And with bloggers leaving the blog world in droves, It's interesting to see who reads blogs anymore. Yet, this handy page lets me know that 207 viewers clicked upon my Stevie-blog today. So..... thanks for that. Some times I feel that blogging has gone the way of iPods without phones in them.

The analytics page of my blog also calculates what sites are referring traffic to my blog. Just a Jeep Guy is always the number one site, followed by Patrick and Homer. So.... thanks guys.  A fun bit  is how search engines were used to find my blog, the number one search people use to find me is:  "Gay Muscle Worship" I'm not really sure why? Every time I attempt to research the Google search, I get sucked down a gay muscle worship rabbit hole and forget what I was doing.

The very best analytic is Traffic Sources. This breaks down where in the world my blog traffic comes from. Number two on the list fluctuates between Germany and Russia. Around three hundred views weekly come from either one of these countries.  And, as much as I'd like to think that I'm huge in Russia (Привет , я хотел бы тереть мои огромные пенис на ваш плотный, мускулистый живот.)  I fear it's actually just web crawlers, looking for data.

I think this mostly because of the massive amounts of spam comments I receive. Most read like this...

Its like you learn my mind! You appear to grasp so much approximately this, like you wrote the e book in it or something. I think that you simply can do with a few percent to force the message house a bit, but instead of that, this is fantastic blog. A fantastic read. I'll certainly be back.... 

Then they go on to link their creepy website about psychic love readings or something.  The joke is on them as there were fifty of these comments on my blog post, The Lumberjack Horticulturist where I whined about seeing the cutest Otter-boy ever just to let his flannel clan hotness slip way. So the commenter is correct, I do grasp so much approximately to this topic. 

Five hours for Ginger

It just may have happened. That Autumn just might have arrived to my city. Yes, I'm aware that it's only the second week of September; but, last night we had snow.

Okay, it was not real snow. Just a bit if sleet turning from rain as I drove on the highway. For five hours last night after work. Observing my fellow highway travelers freak-out over the snowy substance and braking their cars down to a perceived safe fifteen MPH. On the highway, during peak rush hour.

I had gotten off of work at a reasonable four o'clock, and that morning I had looked forward to a long Stevie-centric gym time. That was until I checked my phone and a guy I have been chatting up  proposed dinner. "No way!" I thought, it's rainy. And since I'd been fighting off a cold, I have missed a lot of quality gym time.  This was around the time that mentioned that he was located in Colorado Springs, Colorado, seventy-one miles away. "No, thank you!"  Then he dropped that he is staying at the US Swim Team's dorm, located within the US Olympic training center.... That he would be sneaking out.  "Uh..... I'll be right there."

The drive normally is around one hour for mere mortals, 45 minutes for me.  Yet, the added bonus of our weather change had me pulling up outside of America's high altitude Olympic training center, in two and a half hours.  Visions of Greg Luganus, Michael Phelps, and most importantly Tom Daley ran through my head in that two and a half hour slow-rolling traffic.  The visions were correct. Tom Daley, better. Ginger.

Dinner was amazing. There was a promise of cross training; he would teach me about Game of Thrones, and I'd educate on Doctor Who.  After dinner, and a little roadmance, we returned to the Olympic dorms. And, after my joke about a gay version of the Munich massacre wasn't acknowledged, I dropped him off around the corner with my Jeep's lights off.

My life as it has been lived with dignity.

Two hours and forty minutes later my dog greeted me at the door. Wondering where the hell I'd been. I wondered the same thing.

Escape to SF

I am just ten days away from my much desired vacation to San Francisco. An escape from the beginning of Autumn in Colorado, and the real world, to amazing SF. This does not mean an escape from school. As my online class still calls for homework to be done, I may pointed out as the idiot in the middle of the Folsom Street Fair, on a laptop writing upon Rome's power structure during the Medieval era.  But, if I do have to do homework, it might as well be in the middle of a gay street festival.

It truly is my body's policy, that within ten days before any vacation I must get a terrible head cold.  I feel as if there are fifty tiny chickens attempting to peck their way out of my head. It's my body's way of making REALLY appreciate my vacations. Every time I have a hotel booked, I get sick two weeks before my check in date.

With battling the tiny chickens, and the due dates for school swirling around me; I am still determined to have a great vacation. 

Deadlines in a Leather Bar

I'm not quite sure how I missed it. It was on the syllabus since day one, along with all the other assignment due dates.  "Saturday, September 6th. Outline for the big research project." Due at midnight, Saturday night. As this is for my online history class, I had logged in several times over the last couple of days to complete other assignments, yet somehow missed this deadline. Until noon Saturday, right as I left for work. In a panic I emailed the professor to tell him that I would miss the deadline. That, however didn't sit well with me. I grabbed my computer bag and headed into the office, knowing that I wouldn't be done until ten that night.

If all went well, I would be able to kick the kids out of work at ten. Knowing that all coffee houses within the tri-county area close way before ten on a Saturday I would show up at Jim's bar and use his office for a study hall. This was for his wifi and his comfy recliner. I chose this because I knew that if went home to write an entire paper in two hours it would never work, dogs to be walked, doughnuts to eat. If I were to pull off his major cue of ignoring a paper, then cramming it into the very last second, I'd need seclusion.

At ten the plan started to move. I hopped into the Jeep and headed to Denver's finest leather bar. At 10:20pm I walked through a field of leathermen in a Polo shirt ( I blended perfectly with my school bag and khakis) to make my way to the office. Right at 10:30pm, behind schedule, I cracked open the MacBook. A proposal for my history research project fell onto the computer screen. The topic will be how Catholic monks saved classic Greek philosopher's works be transcribing them and saving them from obscurity.

As the security cameras displayed the Saturday night craziness of a leather bar ramping up to full swing, I clicked away. Attempting to ignore the party going on right out side the office door. Until 11:55pm when I  clicked SUBMIT on my paper outline. I was in the Professor's dropbox before the deadline.

Flirt Grenade

Yesterday was one of those days where I had to be at work at five a.m. A new phone system was being installed and apparently only Steve speaks IT nerd. I really don't, but I'm the only manager that can sooth the creepy IT guy by agreeing to his twisted theory that the Doctor Who episode  Terminus was the real Big Bang that started the universe, therefore the Doctor created himself.  Now.... I know, you're not following this, but it got the phone system installed with extra care.

The important point to grasp was that I was at work at five. Followed by chest day at the gym; then a small romance with a Wendy's Asian salad afterwards. Class brought a "surprise quiz" which I aced because three of the questions were the same question about Cultural Relativism. No, not three questions on the same topic, the three questions happened to be the same question repeated three times. The strange part was the stunned look on the Professor's face when I bought it up to him.

Needless to say, after all that I was ready for dinner. This is why I wandered into a chain restaurant called Tokyo Joe's looking like a sweaty homeless person. If they wore fifty dollar Under Armour gym shorts.  Even in my sleep deprived state I couldn't help noticing the amazingly hot dude working the counter. I stared at his skin-tight tee-shirt as I ordered. Then, as he handed back my HRC credit card he caught my eyes and said he had the same card.  I mumbled something about "every bit helps the HRC" and turned to waddle off to the soda machine.

It was like a flirt grenade. Three....Two....One....Boom! Fuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The hot muscle-bound twenty-something hit on me?! No. Yes. No. Yes?

Okay, I am now changing all my online profiles to read that I exclusively date guys who look like they work at Tokyo Joe's.

Waiting In The Concourse

The issue with dating again, if there is just one issue, is the complex dance of ritual required. These movements to attract just the right individual; this being a complete painfully long blog post of its own,  just to begin the hallowed and celebrated rites of gay mating.

First off, is the sorting of the guys pinging you on Grindr.  Are they coming in for a hard landing on the trick tarmac, or deplaning into the potential dateable concourse. That was a horrible analogy; let's forget I attempted to compare dating to air travel. But... they both require a whole body scan to look for foreign substances, and there's the joy of having your luggage searched by a stranger wearing rubber gloves. They both have very long lines, sometimes delayed for hours before take off. And, they both have the distinct possibility of falling from the sky in a mangled mass of bloody flesh and twisted steel.

Yet, my argument does hold merit. That a lot of energy is expelled in the messaging back and forth. On the positive side, I can easily sort out the around five-thousand guys who have the "NSA, right now" philosophy.  Not because I object with the philosophy, it's just that Daddy has stuff to do, and my day is too planned out to drop everything and meet up with a blonde with shows me his bunnywabbit pink anus.  As I write this, I have five hundred words due on the Arab-Byzantine wars, I don't have a free moment to bring Nasty home for a holiday. Also, I'm an old fashioned girl.

That being said, the planned outings are very nice. Getting a new shirt, freshening  up the haircut,  putting a new layer of Just For Men in the beard. And.... in case you're listening to other bloggers out of the streets, my beard looks completely natural when it's dyed. I asked my Mother and my Pastor, and out of anyone they wouldn't lie to me. With all that being said, I'm VERY new to the whole dating thing. The last "first date" I had, occurred on the same day that the first iPhone was launched,  June 29, 2007.  I am, and the world, is a different place in the years that have passed, We're on the verge of iPhone 6, and Steve 4S.  It doesn't help that the few guys I've had this strange "first date" experience with were seventeen when the iPhone launched. Yet, it seems they have been out on more dates.

It's a strange gay dating world out there in Denver, Co. Yet, I plan on diving into the dating pool.

Damn Convention

Damn conventionalists. Damn convention. The weather outside seemed a tiny bit different this morning. A change had happened. When approaching my morning routine of walking the dog, there was a difference in the air. It was chilly. Now, it wasn't cold mind you. It was just a couple of degrees towards Autumn and away from summer.

I noticed it right away. This made me squee on the inside. This tiny almost unnoticeable change gave me a reason to pull my Man Uggs from the very back of the closet. I sighed as I slipped the sheepy softness onto my feet.

Now, it wasn't cold enough to put pants on. So tonight for class you'll see Stevieb rocking his Man Uggs and shorts.

Damn the conventionalists. Damn convention.

I guess I'm ready for Autumn. 

Monday Flannel

Changes

So as many of you have noticed and sent in questions to the blog; yes, I am dating. Or, to say I'm on the hunt for a quality boy to date. This doesn't mean that Fuzzy and I have ended our eight year run, in fact just the opposite. We're stronger than ever. 

Our tastes have just evolved. He now has a boyfriend and for all intents and purposes, we are in a triad. This means I get two Christmas presents and two birthday presents. Jim, Fuzzy's boy, came along with us on the big gay cruise, and fits perfectly into our lives. 

This also means that I have been exploring the dating scene. I would call it dating; but, really the act entails hunting down and pouncing on unsuspecting twenty year olds. 

What the future holds is anyone's guess. Fuzzy, Jim, and I have started house shopping, but with the understanding that my inner chicken hawk will eventually bring a boy into the happy home. Or, some other situation will dictate the needs of all. 

Countdown to Folsom

There are 30 days until my trip to San Francisco's Folsom Street Fair. A trip that is required in the gay scriptures as needing to happen at least once in a devoted homos lifetime. This trip to Mecca dictates circling this street fair five times to prove your devotion to all things gay-holy. 

This year is my year to prostrate myself to all thing gay and leathery. I can't say what I'm most excited about. I am jumping out of my skin to see SF again, a city I'd call home in a heart beat. I'm excited to see friends and hang out with and make new friends. I'm like a kid waiting for Christmas to go to Folsom. I am only perplexed with what treads I should wear. As you can imagine Folsom has a strict dress code. No, normal on the street clothes should be worn. Hummmmm... so should I break open my cobweb covered leather closet, wrestling gear, just a jock? I could go native? Where does one put their iPhone when naked on a city street? 

These are important questions one needs to ask. What to wear to the fair? Maybe I'll go dressed as a dog catcher. See if I can net up a rubber puppy. 

Monday Flannel

...the Universe and Everything

Ever have one of those "Lone Wolf" weekends? A weekend where it just works out that all the friends are either out of town or attending miscellaneous life events. This weekend is one of those.

I do enjoy the freedom to do whatever and do it whenever I choose. Go see a biopic on Yves Saint Laurent? I certainly don't have to share my popcorn. VooDoo doughnut run at 4am? Sure. No line. Last night I ended up at Denver's cleanest gay bath house. The Denver Swim Club. Now, I know what you are thinking, "Is Steve really blogging about going to a bath house?"  Well, yes. But, not because of what you are assuming. This gentleman's establishment (if you have never been) happens to have an outdoor pool with water the temperature of bath water. I have been obsessed with this pool all summer long. Not during the day when other naked gays are around, no. When the pitter-patter of naked tax attorneys, semi-erect semi-retired car sales men, and struggling college students can no longer be heard pool-side. In the middle of the night. When it's just me, naked under the stars.

It is commonly believed that the expanding universe has no edge. That the universe is continually  expanding into endless nothingness. Isaac Newton argued that the universe was infinite in size. Yet, as there was no way for humans to imagine its dimension, Newton wasn't really content with this idea. I however, am content to float naked in a bathhouse's out door pool watching it speed past. I stay still as possible letting the ripples of pool water slowly subside. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark sky as the non-stop thump-thump of the gay disco fades away in my mind. This is when the stars and galaxies begin to introduce themselves to me. Shy and timid at first, then like a vale being pulled away.

Eventually something pulls me out of this state. Most of the time it's an insurance broker with a Viagra induced stiffy that seems to think I need his brand of nasty, hopping into the pool.  Some times  it's a bus on the other side of the fence that noisily rattles along the street. Sometimes, even with the whole universe churning and whirling in front of me, just for me,  I get lonely and go inside. 

Steve Seeks His Soul Mate

I have lived, pretty much, in the same gay coffee house since it opened in the early nineties.  Other than a multi-year life in Dallas in which I spent all my free time drinking coffee at Crossroads, a real gay coffee shop and homo-themed book shop; The gay coffee shop on 9th and Downing on Denver's Capitol Hill was my second home. Every paper for school had been plagerized written within its walls.  First dates met and judged. Friends spending hours in quality dishing and chattering time.

Now it seems that time has moved on and this second home is gone. I mean, the business is still there, but its soul is gone. Sold to the highest bidder. This leaves me to find a new home. A new place to spend my time,  attending college, arranging first dates, and hanging out with friends.  So coffee house courtship begins. God, I hate dating. I mean when it doesn't matter, like guys, it's easy, but this hunt for a coffee shop is important.  I am seeking the type of soul mate that matches on the level of a coffee shop. It's important stuff here.


So here's my list: It must be hip/gay...ish, have munchies along with coffee, close to the gay area of town, have a decent area (with power outlets) to chill out and write, and have a continual flow of good-looking guys. And most importantly, not try to kick me out after six hours of writing. You would be amazed how hard it is to find a place like this.

I have begun my search today by writing this entry at a new place on 13th and Downing called Capitol Hill Roastery with the hip vibe of a bigger city, it held promise. The cute and bearded barista was adorable.  However; the power outlets were pretty much nonexistent.  So I fear I have not found my soul-coffeeshop.

I have this fear that I'm just a dinosaur. A gay that's left over from an earlier age when hanging out in coffee shops was cool. Now, maybe there is no need. I don't want to think I live in the wrong city. That I have a mindset of writing in a coffee shop like a New Yorker, or a bearded gay in Seattle. Denver, please prove me wrong on both counts. All I want was is a coffee shop somewhere; with a comfy chair... next to a power outlet.

Monday Flannel

Steve in The Box

I have been attempting to eat in a healthier manner. This is a far cry from the back-lash of my stuff-everything-into-my-face-hole policy I employed after the Speedo clad cruise in February. There has been an increase of dinning on the Caesar salad at restaurants, and finding myself heading to vegetarian / Vegan place to dine. On my own. And enjoying it.

This is of course not calculating my dark, deep secret. My addiction.

I have been hiding this addiction from my friends and family. My complete chemical addiction to Jack in The Box. An addiction that I am powerless to conquer. As an example, I'll will give you last Friday: For lunch I ate my healthy prepared salad to get me through evening. I then left work after ten p.m. and made a straight path for Jack in The Box for a teriyaki bowl and three egg rolls. Which, I ate sitting in my Jeep in the parking lot of my gym.  After happy egg roll time, I did go have a massively great work out, so there is that. After the gym I headed to the bar which I then closed. As I'm friends with the entire staff, I hung out after closing to watch a series of strange events, including a round of  "foreskin shots. " Better if you don't ask. I was neither the shot glass, nor the drinker.  But, I finally, in my life, feel cheated in that I don't have a built in shot glass.

Around four a.m. I headed towards the ranch. On my way I stopped off at... you guested it, Jack inThe Box. Consuming a front seat full of horrible, tasty items like a bear eating a small goat. If the bear drove a well-apointed, yet dented Jeep.

So my secret is out. I require my friends to help me kick this self-destructive habit. A habit I'm powerless to stop.  Jack. I'm braking up with you.  I know you bring me instant happiness. I know how much you love me, yet it's a calorie filled empty love. You're just no good for me. 

Monday Flannel

Summer Squeeze

The problem with summer, if there are any real problems other than the fear of not fitting into your Speedo that you rocked after weeks of crash dieting for a cruise, is that you attempt to cram all the gusto of enjoyment for the season into a short amount of time.

I have, for the most, pushed the limits of sane and sensible fun-ness that one gay man should partake in summertide. There has also been some bumps. Literally. As you know, due to my ad nauseam Instagram photo stream (instagram.com/nice2cstevieb) I bought a Jeep in June. A Jeep that was then quickly christened by a retired pharmacist whilst running a red light. My own personal Andrea Doria. No vehicles were lost, yet my heart sank. This will lead to two weeks in August of Stevie in a rental car while the Steve-Jeep gets “work done”. Now, how am I going to impress the Bro’s in a rental car??  Seriously cramping my style.  Cruising the gym parking lot in a Camry.

Still, I can continue to squeeze summer out of summer in a rental car…

Under My Skin

This weekend found me yearning to get out of town. That's probably why Friday evening you would of spotted my Jeep speeding through Boulder, Colorado on an escape to the Rocky Mountains.  My first road trip in the new monster Jeep, and I have to say it was amazing. Switch backs and two lane roads as mountain passes came and went. Finally.

As I grow older I am finding that I  can only really think when I'm on an open highway. Cranking up the new sound system and digging obscure tracks off the bottom of my iPod. An adventure was had, just me and my trusty Jeep, a new steed.

It was this freedom that opened up my head to mull over tiny specs of brain lint. Like... should I move to the Pacific North-West. Or, since I'm over 40 is it time to stop seeking out every trendy haircut. Can a guy my age really pull off sporting untied high tops? I did; however, come to terms with finally settling on a tattoo. Yes I still plan on getting a Latin phrase inked vertically upon my
side. Now, most dude these days have something in either Latin, Italian or "old"English tattooed upon their sides. they choose this or the logo for Cadillac. Typically the phrase is a motto the dude lives by, like "know thy self" or "Only god can judge." I was seeking a motto that defined me. But, who was I? Upon this road trip, through the high cliffs of the Rocky Mountains I found my life's motto. An epigram for my purpose in life. That short shibboleth sentence that would define me. My version of Holden's Red Hunting Hat. Right upon a hair-pin turn that I took too fast it hit me; my slogan to permanently ink into my skin....


lectisternia angustum est vita vilis

Road Trip

It is amazing to me to wake up and realize that I only have one month left of summer. Well, until school starts again, anyway. This fall semester I am getting my feet wet by taking an on-line course.  I am unsure how I'll respond to self directed learning, with my ADD. But really, the massive amounts of time spent at the coffee shop on the corner of 9th and Downing won't change any. I will just be reading about the Migration Period, you know, the period of intensified human migration in Europe from 376 to 800 AD during the transition from Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages. Read and studied as I undress every 20 year old that walks into the coffee shop. I will just be focused on the Early Middle Ages, instead of my usual time killing wanderings on line.

I am; However, blown away that class starts in mid August. I can report that I am checking things off my "Summer Stuff To Do" check list. I have eaten as many meals as I can in the park, bicycled around the city, read some good books, hung out naked in a pool, and explored Denver's summer culture. I have not as of yet, gone for a road trip, or gone camping. The latter may not happen as I don't have a good camping crew motivated. But, the road trip NEEDS to happen. Especially in the new Jeep.

So, here is my one month challenge. Steve needs a road trip...  

The Day Off

I have found that the easiest way to wash my bike after a day out, is to leave it strapped to the back of my Jeep and simply drive it through the car wash. This; however, does not stand well with the managers of said car wash.  They tend to stand just outside the wash and wait for the water jets to rip the bike from its mooring.  Which has never happened. Yet.  I speed away before I get lectured.

This was Tuesday. I had taken the day off to complete some well overdue chores. The first on my long list was a dentist appointment. I recorded the time wrong and showed up an hour late. I rescheduled for early August. The next was heading to Costco to look for whole bean hazelnut coffee.   In the recent past, I have tossed out my pod brewer coffee machine and switched back to a regular coffee maker. I never really adapted to the lack of taste in the pod brewers. Since then, I have been looking for a whole bean coffee, preferably in hazelnut. What I'm finding is that there is a scary lack of whole bean coffees for sale in my town. Guess I'll resort to buying it on line.


After the errands were.... well... not completed,  I zipped home to meet the DirectTV guy. I have broken off my parasitic relationship with cable and rushed back into the arms of DirectTV.  It was a surprisingly easy installation.  Not once did the HOA version of the SS Gestapo come running to check my documents. I'm now the proud owner of a DVR that can record eight shows at once and play them in any room in the house. Epic.

This easy installation gave me just enough time to take the bike out and find some mud puddles. And after the bike's bath, I was able to enjoy the amazing summer evening on the patio of my local Leather Bar.

I do love a day off.