Same Sex Repellent

I’ve often marveled at the idea that certain heterosexuals have, that they can claim it’s easy to be gay because you should know your own sex quite well.  I’m not sure how scientific that might be, but I’m sure some think that way.  As they park their cars in the driveway of their caves, I wonder what is it about the same sex and why should I feel so unreasonably detached.  I can’t for the life of me figure them out.  There are so many tricks that men play, that women play.  There is a collective game in which we are all participants, that focuses on learning what makes  the other one tick, regardless of genitalia.  They’re must be some kind of language that is secret and Greek to me, that I should not know how to operate within the confines of my so called community.  I deign to fall under the femme category because I indeed smell and use no product in my hair and can also read.  I don’t smell all the time but when I do, it is reminiscent of the blue line at around three thirty in the morning.  I don’t fall under the masculine category, by far.  My neurotic hang ups and dainty gestures might strip me off almost entirely of my own gender card, or the conditions that we’ve been made to understand what a man is supposed to be by advertising and population decrease that hasn’t existed as a problem, I’m sure, since industrialization, or at least before the advent of color television.  What of this mass filled world we live in that makes it so hard yet so easy to tolerate or accept homosexuality as just another form of the human condition? And then I think that perhaps these questions and the energy put forth in asking them might be same sex repellent.  Not everyone, regardless of sexuality, needs to ask these questions or want to for that matter.  It might be a buzz kill to go all philosophical and what a turn off, but where can I find a man who isn’t afraid or bored at the prospect of pondering such vast options that the universe sets forth on our collective digital psyche? I suppose in independent film which is another boner shrinker.  Is pretension where the part of the brain where desire lives dies? I might be destined to make people feel awkward with my ludicrously obscure reference points but unfortunately I, too, hate that in people.  I’m also sure of the fact that other pretentious people hate pretension.  The mere notion of this whole essay stems from a deep rooted (and undeserved by far) elitism and entitlement that many a PBR drinker have gone through.  I’m not a hipster, but I do have hips.  So maybe this isn’t necessarily a question of how to regard your prospective suitors categorized by gender, but perhaps by a broader demographic.

The thing is, I am tired of the image I bring across.  I don’t know how people see me.  Perhaps as some good-for-nothing vagrant whose only claim to fame were some ridiculous outfits worn during puberty or a lackluster novelty that wore off the way of the color purple or, in the nearest of futures, twitter.  Although I don’t know, I’m sure I’m looked at, being made mock of and perceived as having a huge ambiguous ego, of which I’m not deserved of having.  The memory of that Supreme’s song “Someday we’ll be Together”, rings so vividly in my brain and not just because it’s playing at this late stage on my playlist.  Someday, that man, whoever he might be and for that matter if he even exists, and I will be together in a converted warehouse decorated with the latest thing, hot from the presses of a local art scene no one has any interest in besides a few sweaty, well read white people.  This is America, I mustn’t forget that.  Even though I live in Chicago, a worldly and cosmopolitan city, Fox news would regard it as part of that fake America and that there shouldn’t be people who share the same interests in modernity as I do.  Chicago is a notoriously no fuss capitol of the Midwest.  Indeed I am blue, for the fact that this Midwestern gem should be succumbed to living alongside peasants.  Granted I’m poor as a rag but these are uncultured peasants who regard domestic beer as the height of their absent sophistication.  I make no apologies for this statement.  If Ann Coulter can get away with unapologetically reprimanding those like me, the urban and the young and the liberated and the accepting and the willing why the fuck can I not vent my disappointment in the rest of America.  I may live in a city, but damnit it is a city in America.  The flesh is willing but the mind is jumbled up with falsely patriotic symbols akin to manifest destiny or anti socialism.  What American protesting anything the current administration does in poorly constructed picket signs can actually name a socialist or a socialist country or that can define the principles of said radicalism?  The decade of the sixties is one example of something seen strictly as American.  Because time only happens here, a country that has no recollection of any global matters save from the sun exploding or some back stabbing soccer player, his stick insect of a wife and his immigrant children who left wherever the hell it was they came from to come over here and not pronounce their R’s.  It’s okay for those cunts to come round and live over here, they’re white.  Back to the sixties, that legacy should be kept in the history books and those with actual power should just leave it behind and move on.  You know how people say America used to be such a great country and they wish it was the way it was before? America absolutely sucked before.  It was an incredibly racist, ethnocentric, homophobic, sexist country where freedom was allowed provided you were of the right color and socioeconomic class.  If you ask me, America is the same exact country it has always been.  All great democracies survive under that great façade of the promised land.  The only thing I can promise you is that nothing is as nice as it looks on television.

So, to all of the prospective men that I may not have the pleasure to meet and who I have completely put off after reading the uncoordinated ramblings of the desperately drunk and single, I implore you to at least try to have a decent conversation when out.  Or at least to finish said conversation.  Too many times I’ve had a great time with a boy who ultimately turned his head, saw someone more-attractive-than-thou and easy and goes in for the kill.  Also, it’s presented almost as if I should understand:  “I need to get laid tonight, so I’m glad we had that conversation about the rising prices of foodstuffs that are basic and essential to the poorly constructed diet of those in impoverished nations but this guy has his shirt off.” I guess there are peasants everywhere and they are waiting to give you intellectual and political blue balls.

Vulgar Misconceptions

Whatever sex and the concept behind the orgasm meant to me before is completely different to what it means to me now. It’s the fast paced structure of the music that we listen too, the books we don’t read and the shows that apparently people of our age group do not watch, at least not on television.  It’s become an all too dramatic disposition and conundrum we’ve inherited from the liberal nineties and the restrictive and puritanical decade.  Sex for the young adult has been increasingly titillating, with people up for newer things and starving for the next big thing to sexually define the decade. But who knows what could become of sex.  During the formative stages of glistening adolescence, I saw sex as a way to express myself non verbally.  Good date, bad sex was met with controlled disappointment.  Bad date and even worse sex would be met at the barrel of a gun or the end of a pack of cigarettes.   But once I’d get that once in a million good date, great sex combo, I‘d grow suspicious.  The thought had donned on me that even though dates were dates and that it was only puberty and that they were basically just infomercials to sell me the concept of them getting into my pants, it made no sense to beat myself up about it.  Indeed it was just pubescent plunders, and as I bed more men, I began to long for a true relationship.  The relationships I had were with crazy sex driven men without a cent of class or ingenuity.  There was the guy who used to steal from my condom stash, the freak who like to roleplay Leopold and Loeb, the seemingly normal prospective yuppie with a rim job fixation, among others.  All of these strange, wild, crazy creeps totally turned me off on the concept that there were any reasonable gay men left out there.  I even tried to at least have sex with a woman: unpleasent.  It’s amazing to even look back and think how desperate, naïve and willing I was.  Nowadays, if a guy even tries to hit on me at a party I’d either retort with, “I’m a dude” or, “gosh, this rash is itching me.”  I’m so choosy now and I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t settle,  I won’t.  He’s out there, I know he is, but you’ve got to think, I’ve been doing this dating thing for a while.  With a history of bad dates and affairs to forget that could fill up a whole wing at Fort Knox (information that should stay there I might add), it’s enough to just give up on the whole deal.  But I won’t, for two reasons: 1) I’m sick of being single.  I’m at a point in my life where it feels really sad not to have a man who cares for me.  Sure I have my guy friends, but they’re my friends and they’re animals.  I love them and I suspect they feel the same but it’s completely platonic: yellow roses.  I need to find a man who won’t just hold my hair while I’m throwing up, but one who’d kiss me afterward. That’s love: red roses.

The second reason I won’t give up on my search is that I truly believe that I’m worth it.  I’m worth having a guy, nay, a man who appreciates me, who loves me, who above all things takes care of me while letting me make decisions on my own.  That’s almost impossible to find in any sort of dating scene.  Try finding a nice, safe guy in the gay community.  There is no romance, no disguised requests for approval.  It’s all very shallow, out-there and unforgiving and the guys who could actually hold up an intellectual conversation are, for lack of a better term, ugly.  I haven’t met one decent looking guy who I can discuss and debate on a serious issue without him trying to make a move, agree with me mercilessly or not have a damned clue about whatever the hell I was talking about.  Which leads me to believe that I might be ugly, then.  I try not to think about it, which is actually a lie because the mere mention of attractive people walking by and I begin to cover my face, stomach and thighs in shame.  I might be cute in that metropolitan, brainy kind of way but emo good looks will only get you so far as a backstage pass and I hate side bangs.  I mustn’t be as attractive as I suspected I might have been.  One must remember though, confidence is glory and I try to exude that whenever an interesting prospect comes around.  It’s been so long since said Disney prince/Cartoon pilot’s been round that I’m starting to think I might freeze down there or it might be wilt for men.  I’ve had sex but I haven’t had more than sex, at least i’m not sure if suitor felt the same.  That moment when you sleep with someone and you look into their eyes and you see their satisfaction almost makes me believe in that stupid superstition concerning how much better giving is than receiving.  I’ve seen satisfaction, it’s just been allover a bedspread.  Hell, try car interiors or pavement.  Even if I’m not willing to settle for something less than exact, I can’t think of even how i will come to attaining it.  Perhaps things would be better if I were like all the other gay men in their earliest of twenties.  Rainbow beaded bracelets, pink A&F polos, skinny jeans and all.  If I were that, It would be so much easier.  However, if ever I’m summoned to become that, you the reader should find me and shoot me.  Twice in the stomach and just let me die slowly for I should suffer the sin of conforming to the unconformably queer and vacant style.  What is it going to take for a man to sweep me off of my feet who isn’t a total loser, swinger or short.  There are very few intellectuals left; or perhaps they’ve been avoiding me.  It’s always the guy I’ve already had and/or don’t want that undyingly would prefer me.  What about me screams stupid whore? Is it the hair? Because the volume just elongates the face.  Forget what you heard about big hair.  The higher the hair, the bigger the hole is a vulgar misconception that I take to the deepest elbows of offense.

So, what gives? Am I destined to a life of either going to bed alone or not going to bed at all? I assume so.  I’m never getting married, I know that for a fact.  I assume so at least, if congress and the voting American public have anything to shit about it and  I don’t give a shit if it’s never going to be legalized, that’s not what this is about.  Sadly, I know no one would ever (seriously) propose to me and I could never do that.  I’d rather have all of the hair shaved off of me and swung vertically down a slip-n-slide.  It’s not like I believe in marriage anyway.  It would feel so nice to not end up alone.  I fear that, I really do.  It’s not something to be taken lightly and it’s not just some stupidly trivial or emotionally driven fear exposed to me during my extreme youth at the hands of shows concering thirty something year old white people and their two ethnic friends. It’s no impulse; if I could find a man to love me and take care of me, I would more than reciprocate.  I don’t live to cater, but if the right man came along I’d be grateful.  I wouldn’t even expect you-know-what back.  And that’s not an advertisement, it’s a fact.  I assume that I’m still a bit immature and idealistic but if I’m anything, I’m angry, bitchy and fed up.  Where the hell are you, you selfish bastard? Do you even exist? And if you do, what’s taking you so fucking long? I guess my biggest fear is that we’ve already met and I either blew you or blew you off.  In any case, I’m here.  I’ve been here.  Even when I was with man, I’ve been here.  I’m not necessarily waiting, but I’m available.  And for that matter fuck marriage, straight up.  Just because I can’t be happy, doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.  But, I guess my anger lies in the fact that, I’ve just had about enough fun as it is.