12 DATING DEALBREAKERS GAY MEN NEED TO START ENFORCING:

As a corollary to my last post about deal breakers, and how enforcing them in our own lives helps us ALL out in the long run, here are 12 that I've identified in my immediate sphere of influence, some of which may not be immediately apparent as a "deal breaker" to some. I submit to you that yes, they are all huge problems, no matter what.

Some of these I have experienced directly. Some of these I've noticed in close proximity to me. Some of these I've even exhibited myself. And again - NONE of these things make someone a bad PERSON, but I do believe all of these necessarily exclude someone from being a good PARTNER...

1. HE'S HAD MORE THAN ONE ALL-DAY HANGOVER IN THE LAST MONTH.
Let's face it, my Gays, as a community, we drink a lot. There's the old adage of the first gay cruise, that left port stocked just as any other cruise ship would have been, and ran out of liquor in the first two days. None of us is surprised by this story. And I'm sure we all have a short list of friends in the community for whom we are silently writing their intervention letters in our heads.

At some point, as we grow older, our body does start to realize "hey, this is poisonous," and the ill-effects of alcohol are harder to escape. For me, the approach to Dirty Thirty saw my body become increasingly less tolerant of venomous booze. I've seen similar experiences echoed by many around me.

Mentally I didn't respond RIGHT away, and for a while I continued to try and party like it was 2009... and I was still thoroughly in my 20s. Finally, begrudgingly, I began to get the hint, and my overall party level has tapered off. There are still times I over-indulge, but I'm usually fine by 10am, and those can happen on one glass of wine without a large enough meal beforehand.

However, it takes a special kind of disregard for your body to overindulge to the point where you spend the entirety of the next day sick. And let's be honest - none of us is ever all that surprised when we get there. We typically know, sometimes we even plan in advance. This isn't really an accident so much as a subconscious choice.

We all do it *sometimes* - on holidays or other special occasions - but usually it's followed my a long period of "I never want to do THAT again..." when we are extra cautious to ensure we stay on the neat-and-tidy side of that fence. Then, many moons later, we forget how much it sucked, overindulge again, and are again reminded - "oh yeah. Drinking that much means one helluva bad day."

We've already established this is not an ACCIDENTAL behavior, so it stands to reason that someone who does this with any kind of frequency either A. does not have the wisdom to learn from past mistakes, or B. simply disregards their own health and well-being (and therefore the same of others) for the sake of immediate pleasure.

VERDICT: kick it to the curb. This kind of pattern binge drinking is a tell-tale sign of a highly addictive personality, and you'll never really be sure if you're dating the drunk or the sober version of that person.

2. HE'S BEEN "MONOGAMOUSLY COUPLED" WITH MORE THAN THREE PEOPLE IN THE LAST EIGHT MONTHS.
The term "serial monogamist" is bandied about quite a bit in our community. Typically it refers to someone who, rather than engaging in random sexual encounters with whomever, whenever it strikes their fancy, prefers to have sex with ONE person at a time, typically for a few months at a time.

Normal, every day "dating" in our world can often resemble this pattern since we don't usually have reservations about hopping in the sack early on. No risk of pregnancy? Let's fuck. Of course, we're all well aware of the myriad risks of promiscuity, so when we really like someone we want to protect them (and be protected in return) by choosing not to sleep around. As a result, many many gays choose to only "date" one person at a time, to a bevy of results.

More often than not this ends with an unrequited decision that "this isn't working out." After all, each of us will only have one relationship that lasts the rest of our lives. Then, both men move their separate ways, one usually a lot more wounded than the other.

The healthiest response to this is for both people to take a look at the situation and take stock of their role in it. The one who is left usually does this without needing to be told - often too harshly and for too long (yes, I speak from experience). But it behooves the one who is leaving to take a look at what they've just done and say "I just hurt someone. Could this have been avoided? Is there something I can do in the future so it's less likely to happen again?"

This necessarily requires some time for private reflection and introspection, something almost nobody can do when fascinated by the glamour of a new lover.

It makes perfect sense that sometimes, the right person comes along before the end of, or immediately after, the previous relationship. And who am I to tell anyone not to follow their heart? However, when it becomes a pattern, it betrays at best a fascination not with connection, but with butterflies in the tummy - and at worst, a callous disregard for the effect one's actions have on others.

VERDICT: Get out ma face. You're not falling in love with ME, you're falling in love with LOVE. Which has no pulse or identity... which means you have no idea what it is.

3. THERE IS ANYONE WITHIN THE COMMUNITY WITH WHOM HE WOULD HAVE AN ALTERCATION AT-SIGHT.
We do not live in a Disney cartoon. Sure, there are heroes and villains in our world, but things are not as clean cut as "he's the villain because he wants to hurt people." "She's the hero because she wants to help people." Things are more "wibbly-wobbly" and tenuous than that. Often times, the "villain" doesn't realize they are hurting people, or hurting *some* is justified by the good it does for *others*. Hitler didn't think he was a villain. Conversely, sometimes we hurt people by trying to help them. Ever pet-sit for a friend, only to have something bad happen to their pet on your watch? You never MEANT for that to happen, and yet...

So the idea of having an adversary is, at heart, ludicrous. Immature. That doesn't mean everyone has to like you - lord knows there are plenty of people who do NOT like me. But typically, a mature, healthy adult can simply put up a veil of silence and say "that is a persona non grata." And if silence doesn't suffice, there's always avoidance. Move to another room, go to another bar, etc. If that's even a challenge, there's direct communication: "please don't invite X because I don't want to see them," or "can we go somewhere else? X is usually there at that time, and I'd rather not put myself in that situation."

At extreme levels of immaturity, peace is not possibly, and then the pissing contest ensues. Yes, I've been there before, and it isn't pretty. It becomes a competition of who can be meaner or crueler to whom, and sometimes even turns into the possibility for physical violence.

If the simple act of going out on the town could result in either one of you being stabbed... there's a problem. First, why knowingly put yourself in an unsafe position? Second, what kind of a judge of character is he that he dates psychos? How MANY psychos has he dated? Does he attract psychos because he IS a psycho?

VERDICT: Even with Obamacare in effect, no man is worth a trip to the emergency room. Let him fly.

4. HIS "BESTIE" IS A CONSTANT SOURCE OF DRAMA.
One of the wisest pieces of advice I've ever received is "you learn the most from those with whom you spend the most time." It makes sense - our attitudes, opinions and behaviors are often the result of discussion and compromise with those we hold dear.

So it stands to reason, when we choose to let someone be close to us, it's because that's what we want. And looking at the people I know, I'd say it rings true - like often hangs with like.

So if his Bestie - the one who saw your picture before your first date, the one whose approval you secretly KNOW you must have, the one whose texts he'll answer on a date - is the type who attracts or follows drama... guess what? He's Drama.

And herein lies the rub: we all have the same amount of time to distribute to our loved ones. When he was single, the Bestie got first pick. Now that he's getting close to you, hopefully you'll start climbing those ranks. The first time you go head-to-head with the Bestie for a chunk of Him-Time, there's going to be a problem.

And remember: we've already established he likes drama. It's going to be way more dramatic to watch someone get hit by a bus than stage a level-headed compromise...

VERDICT: No. Sir. No more.

5. THERE'S A FORESEEABLE CHANCE HE'S MOVING AWAY WITHIN THE YEAR.
This one is particularly near and dear to me. It's especially important here in Denver, an area of the country that is full-to-bursting with college students and corporate training grounds where middle-managers spend the first year of their careers before going where they're REALLY supposed to be.

Here's the bottom line: he already knows his future isn't HERE. and because of that he's already one foot out the door. Sure, he wants intimacy and connection and love and sex for the next year of his life, but there's also a shiny, new city of unexplored possibilities waiting in his future, and you'd be an utter fool to think he's not aware of that. He might grow to truly care about you deeply, even love you, but is a year enough time to alter the direction of his life for you? Is a year enough time to alter the direction of your life for him?

Probably not. Maybe... but probably not.

And before you delude yourself with imaginary fixes like long-distance relationships, or commuter relationships remember: he doesn't necessarily know what he's going to find on the other end. There just may be a close enough approximation of you in Seattle. It doesn't mean he cares about you any less, but that close approximation sure is going to feel good to cuddle with when he misses you...

VERDICT: Not gonna say it's not the right kind of man, but it's not the right time. Do yourselves a favor and don't let it blossom. The further you let it get, the more it's going to hurt when he leaves.

6. HIS LIFE IS FLAWLESSLY ORGANIZED INTO AN ABSOLUTELY PERFECT ROUTINE.
He goes to bed at the same time every night. He knows exactly when he needs to leave to get to work on time. He has the exact same grocery list every week, and runs his errands at the same time every day. Everything in his apartment has its ideal place. In short: HE IS PUT. TOGETHER.

I'm not going to lie - I find this attractive. Especially because so much of my 20s was marked with chaos and uncertaintly, a man who knows exactly where he's going to be every second of every day is refreshingly... corporate. It reeks of stability.

It also reeks of coping mechanism. We are chaotic creatures - every single one of us, instinctively, with move toward disorder rather than order. There are plenty out there who have mastered the art of organization in a way that is completely healthy, but this kind of fastidiousness is dangerous. Because love - LOVE is messy.

At first, you'll find it thrilling to conform to his habits. How cute, we're going to bed together. How cute, we're leaving for work together. How cute, I'm perfectly able to help him keep his place clean. But then you won't be able to sleep one night, and your tossing and turning might keep him up. You won't be able to find your keys one morning, so he leaves five minutes late. You decide you've had enough Mexican food and want something different for lunch this weekend. You forget your bag on his chair and it's in his way when he gets home.

Slowly but surely, your imperfect assimilation to his schedule will erode his acceptance of you down, until you are a nuisance and a bother. And he will give you the boot.

VERDICT: If he has no room for mistakes in his life, he has no room for you. Seek your space somewhere else.

7. HE HAS A PROBLEM WITH DRAG QUEENS.
Mark my words: this is probably the most uncompromising, steadfast dealbreaker on this list. There is NO reason on EARTH to have an issue with drag queens... except internalized homophobia.

He doesn't have to wear wigs or makeup or high heels or dresses. But if he despises those who choose to do just that, it's because there's a part of him that hates himself for not being that brave. There IS. NO. OTHER. REASON. PERIOD.

I'm not saying he should be able to name every queen on every season of RuPaul's Drag Race in the order they were eliminated (like I can), but if he bristles at the idea of a drag show, or makes derogatory comments at boys who "look" or "act" like girls, there is self-hatred present, and given the chance he will grow to hate you just as much as he hates himself.

VERDICT: Get. The. Fuck. Out. He needs therapy, STAT.

8. HIS DRIVING LITERALLY MAKES YOU FEAR FOR YOUR LIFE.
When someone is riding in your car, they are your guest. It's just like when they're seated at your dinner table or sleeping under your roof. Just about every religion on the planet, every culture that has ever existed will agree that you TREAT YOUR GUESTS WELL. You may not be able to control everything about their experience, but that which you can control you want to be pleasant. You want to take good care of them. You want them to be happy and comfortable.

Some of the things you can control are how hard your foot is pressed to the gas pedal. How much you drink before offering to drive, or when you've already agreed to drive.

You are precious cargo, and if he's truly a man, he's going to treat you as such. If he's speeding, driving while impaired, or otherwise driving dangerously he's giving you a clear signal - I don't give a FUCK about you.

Listen to him when he says that. It quite literally could save your life.

VERDICT: it doesn't matter how enchanting the evening was, we all look the same being scraped off the pavement. Let him drive off into the sunset alone.

9. HE HAS RACE, BODY, OR "MASCULINITY" REQUIREMENTS FOR HIS PARTNERS THAT NEED TO BE STATED OUT LOUD.
Though I was raised in an idealistic, saccharine and utterly homogeneous society that would hotly debate me on this topic, my years in Los Angeles taught me something important: Everyone's racist. Everyone. It's part of our inborn survival instincts to mistrust things that are different. Dangerous situations are born of unfamiliar territory. Not to say that we should hate, or discriminate, but pre-judging situations and, yes, people, is an intrinsic part of being human.

This also means that we pre-judge potential mates. And especially as males - who are required to be attracted ENOUGH to their mate to hold an erection long enough to ejaculate - we pre-judge based on factors related solely to physical attraction. Body. Appearance. Behavior.

I'm not going to lie about it: I am more attracted to men of some races than others. I am not what I would consider a "body nazi" by any means, but I am attracted to men within a certain range of height-weight proportion.

Having these mate-seeking requirements isn't the issue. It's unavoidable - if you aren't physically attracted, you aren't physically attracted. It's the need to "cull the herd" by "weeding out" those who do not fit those requirements. When you broadcast that you're only attracted to "masculine white jocks WHO ACT LIKE MEN," what you're really saying is "if you don't fit the bill, don't waste my time."

But... that's a living, breathing human with experiences and thoughts all their own. They're no more a waste of someone's time than you are. You have plenty of friends and family members with whom you would not copulate even if given a chance, but they aren't a waste of your time, are they?

It's pure arrogance to assume you'll be so surrounded by masculine white jocks that you won't have any time to even notice anyone else, and it's pure ignorance to assume there simply could not be a black, large or effeminate man with enough strength, character and beauty to burrow into your heart. If you must judge - and we all must - have the grace to keep it to yourself.

VERDICT: It is ALWAYS an honor and a compliment when someone finds you beautiful, and it is an honor and a compliment that not everybody gets to hear all that often. Even if you wouldn't fuck them, be open to the idea that they still find you beautiful, and if they want to, let them tell you.

10. HIS FRIENDS SHOW LITTLE-TO-NO INTEREST IN YOU.
If you wanna know more about him without asking questions, look no further than his friends. Through years of being around one another, my friends and I interact and relate in ways that are uniquely tailored to one another, and an observant person would learn a lot about me simply by watching my friends when we're together.

I'm fairly certain this is true for all of us.

His friends, without even meaning to, will give you deep, DEEP insight into where he has been, and where they think he is going. If they show a genuine interest in you, are excited to meet you, and are eager to welcome you into the fold, it probably means he makes good choices and they're excited to see the wonderful man he's found.

If, on the other hand, they can't remember your name, would rather not talk to you, and barely hold eye contact, it probably means they're sick of meeting his disastrous dates, and don't expect you to be around for long.

VERDICT: They may be too close to say it out loud, but their non-verbal communication will tell you loud and clear what kind of man you've found.

11. YOU "GET ALONG SO WELL" THAT THE TWO OF YOU "NEVER FIGHT."
This one just got me into trouble. And it's something at which I've always rolled my eyes when touted by others. Hopefully I've now learned my lesson.

The lack of conflict doesn't mean you two agree. It means one or both of you doesn't know how to communicate if they suspect conflict will arise. There will always be needs that aren't met. There will always be small disappointments and misunderstandings that warrant some notice or discussion. It doesn't have to cause an all-out ROW, but there should at least be ripples.

VERDICT: Still waters run deep... what's he thinking down there, where he thinks no light can penetrate?

12. THERE ARE PEOPLE IN HIS LIFE THAT CANNOT KNOW ABOUT YOU.
Yes, this is *mostly* targeted at those of the community who have not yet come out of the closet. I know there are multiple schools of thought on this, and this may be an opinionated thing to say, but I don't think you are any good to the community at all if you cannot bring yourself to be honest about who you are.

For so many reasons, this is a big NO-NO, DON'T DATE IT. Either he has a relationship he's going against - which means you're perpetrating an act of evil whether you know it or not - or he's perfectly fine with lying to those around him (which WILL bite you in the ass some day, mark my words). Or, as with the Drag Queen Hater, he's harboring some deep self-hatred and shame and he'd rather not deal with it.

VERDICT: You deserve someone who is enthusiastic about the possibility of being in one anothers' lives. If he is trying to keep you secret, what else is he trying to keep secret?

Dating Dealbreakers: Why They're Important

As gay men, we provide a great disservice to one another in the form of "dating." We are not a large community - it can feel like it sometimes, but compared to heterosexuals our dating pool is MUCH more limited. Also, in Hetero-World, the existence of two genders in the dating pool reduces the amount of "overlap" you experience - perhaps you have common exes with your friends, but you definitely don't have common exes with your partner. In gay world, it is pretty much impossible to find someone who hasn't dated at least one of your friends or exes (especially when you have "socially active" friends and exes like I do.)

So ostensibly, we trade around until we find the piece of the puzzle that "best fits" the space we have open. This guy was too skinny for Steve, but John likes skinny guys, so John can have him. I'll take the guy John didn't like because they were both bottoms (and I'm fine with either). No... wait, he can't stand my dog. Well Kyle is allergic to dogs anyway, so HE can have the powerbottom, I'll take the guy who lives too far away from Mike... et cetera, et cetera.

Since the vast majority of us had no directly relatable model for same-sex dating/mating (which is, in my opinion, irreconcilable to its heterosexual counterpart), we all learn on the fly. Which means, then, that we discover what is "attractive" and "unattractive" to the people we date based on how they react to us. So in essence, we vet potential partners for one another. As a cohesive group, we teach one another how to attract and treat a mate.

This is problematic. The larger the pool of experience and wisdom we're all sharing with one another, the wiser and more experienced we all become. Conversely, the smaller the community, the quicker this whole pattern jumps the tracks.

Add to this the fact that our community, perhaps more than others, worships its youth. The minute a 21-year-old shows up at the bar they are surrounded, regardless of the fact that they probably don't know what they want, how to be a good man, and how to treat a good man. By the time that 21 year old is 27, he is suddenly a LOT less interesting to the community as a whole, and has likely spent the last six years with people who don't care if he knows how to be or how to treat a good man. So in those six years, he has probably grown to appreciate his own bad habits and damaging behaviors as "REWARDING," because hey - he's never had a problem finding a mate before!

I may be more introspective than most, but I'm willing to admit that through much of my twenties I was not a good boyfriend. Mostly because - YES - I didn't understand what it took to be a "good man," nor did I know how to recognize one, and if I happened upon one, I didn't know how to treat him. I look back on the things my boyfriends through that time put up with and think to myself "he shouldn't have stayed as long as he did." And to be perfectly fair to me, too, I look back on the things I put up with from them and think to myself "I shouldn't have stayed as long as I did."

Note: NONE of this is to say my exes are bad men or bad people. A couple of them are very close friends now whom I still love very much. But we were not a good match, and in most cases one or both of us weren't in a state to be a good match to ANYONE at the time.

In the last five years or so, I've narrowed in on what I consider to be the qualities of a good man, and I've figured out how to recognize those in others, and make those behaviors a part of who I am. Just like everyone else, brutal, ongoing trial and error taught me much. I've been a bad date, I've had bad dates. I've been a bad boyfriend, I've had bad boyfriends. I've been a bad ex, I've had bad exes. Each step of the process has taught me more and more, and though I'm still far from perfect, compared to where I was five years ago I'd say I'm much further along in my understanding of the life cycle of romantic relationships.

Unfortunately, being able to RECOGNIZE the traits of a good man does not always translate to REQUIRING those traits to be present. The thing I struggle with the most is having enough respect for myself and my heart to listen to the little voices that pop up to warn me about red flags. And I frequently see it in my friends, too - I watch a situation that I am fairly certain will end badly, but nobody else seems to notice... or care. Men are also good at lying to get what they want, and we are all experts at hiding the bulk of our flaws until someone is too emotionally invested to simply walk away... even when they should.

The overall result of all this is that our romantic relationships, as a whole, do not appear to be as solid as those of our heterosexual peers. I said it, and I believe it, and I'm not sorry about it. Not to say there aren't ROCK-SOLID romances in our community, but I think those stories are so much rarer and more elusive to us than they are to the rest of society.

As a service to the rest of my community, I am pledging to start listening to that little voice that tells me "this isn't good. There is behavior here that is unacceptable." These are often termed "Dealbreakers," and there are some damn-near universal ones that I have no problem enforcing: rude to servers? No ass for you. You hit/punch/slap when you fight? No ass for you. You're elbow-deep in an addiction? No ass for you. But there are a few that I've managed to identify that are RAMPANT in our community, that we all need to commit to annihilating if we're ever going to strengthen the quality of our relationships, and have them be seen as equal to everyone else's.

Chivalry, Bravery: Part II

I still hold Chivalry in high regard. I always have. Even after the ominous warning from Lynne all those years ago, it's something upon which I've placed a premium. In myself, not necessarily in others... or so the history of my interpersonal relationships would suggest. And yes, frankly, it has caused me a great deal of frustration and pain in the intervening years - probably more than its been worth - and yet I still endeavor to make it a part of my daily life and behavior.

It's not just about opening doors, or serving others before you serve yourself - such behaviors are easily mimicked and co-opted by those without a shred of Chivarly in their heart. It's about actually CONSIDERING others before yourself. It's things like remembering to say goodbye to the people you enjoyed talking to all night, regardless of how quickly the person dragging you out of the party would like to make their exit.

I don't want to be that sad, sad Sally that says Chivalry is dead... but it's wounded and lost somewhere in the woods. It's certainly not something you see often anymore. Yes, part of that is because these insufferable Millenials have started to stake their claim on the world-at-large, and myopic self-fulfillment is quickly becoming de rigueur. I think it's also because a misled generation of shrill, hypervigilant harpies (male AND female) decided that "Chivalry" was code for "sexist," and ruined a good thing for EVERYONE.

"as if I NEED you to do that FOR me."

No, bitch. No. I did it because I wanted to, and in doing so I have taken NOTHING from you and instead OFFERED you something you didn't have before. It's an act of kindness, not of oppression, and if you fail to see the difference then excuse me but you're not fit to be a parent, a lover, or - frankly - in public.

It saddens me that general acts of decency don't seem to garner any notice or import anymore. And I'm not talking in an old-fashioned, morally subjective way. Show some ankle - hell, show some cleavage for all I care - and be proud of who you are. BUT, show some love for the people around you, too.

THIS is part of why I feel like a fucking alien anymore.

This weekend I acted as Emcee for Boulder Pridefest. I was a last-minute replacement, many things changed drastically in the days - hell, even HOURS - before the show. I ran with it as best I could, was professional as I could muster, and even had a lot of fun doing it. Pridefest, in and of itself, was a great success and very fun. My sole reward was a VIP ticket to the After-Party... an event which I would have been better off avoiding.

The After-Party began when the Boulder Pridefest crowd was shooed onto Pearl Street Mall for an hour while the crew worked to transform the theatre into a nightclub. Having been on stage for the past six hours, I decided to rest understage in the Green Room, where the headlining band and their friends handily ignored my attempts to be friendly. Shortly thereafter (but still more than 15 minutes late for their "call") the Andrew Christian performers arrived. They proceeded to loudly complain about the lack of a private bathroom and seemed entirely too eager to break into the alcohol that was apparently demanded in the rider of their contract, except that the ice in which their bottles were chilling and the stemware provided were both sub-par and that was, apparently, highly vexing.

After hissing a venomous warning that I was a fellow performer and NOT their servant, I decided to pack up my things, put all my valuables in my pockets, and flee to the relative safety of the upstairs - let the headliners deal with the naked divas.

From the vantage point I had in the VIP "lounge" (a cordoned off section with a table of food), I watched a perplexing array of 18 year olds, homeless people, and stripper groupies stumble through the doors and into the room. A constant stream of "Now THAT'S what I call Music #47-69" blared through the speakers, sending everyone into a vibrating, gyrating, humping, twerking FRENZY that, if submerged, would have made a great episode of River Monsters. Then, after the first 90 minutes, the older, richer crowd started to show up. This is when the real "party" began.

The rest of the night is remembered to me as a thick, flavorful stream of bile waxing and waning in the back of my throat. There were numerous young heterosexual couples dancing in scandalous ways - one dude leaned so far back to rest the back of his head on the apron of the stage that his stomach and private parts literally provided a table on which his girlfriend could gyrate. The Andrew Christian performers circled around the place, making eye contact with the unwashed masses only long enough to say the name of the event and/or encourage people to drink more, then participate in the contests coming up later.

The contests were two-fold. The first contest involved proving to one of the "models" that you were not wearing underwear. The prize was... underwear. The second contest was - I shit you not - a twerking contest. The eight entrants were all cis-gendered, thin-to-emaciated white people under the age of 21 (with one 30-something man in nothing but high tops and sport briefs). The prize here was also... underwear.

While all this feverish amorousness raged on at the stage, the Wealthy Elite gazed on, ravenous and enraptured, from the sidelines. They sipped their $10 cocktails and licked their lips at the visual feast laid out in front of them. A couple of them were friends of mine - friends who seemed genuinely pained to have to choose between the warring pleasures of interacting with friends and staring obsessively at the clearly-visible outlines of private parts being squashed by elastic fabrics.

I tried dancing a couple of times. I fell flat on my ass because part of the dance floor was soaking wet with some fucknut's drink (and a single, tiny, wadded-up napkin). Then I got smacked in the face by a haphazard hand so hard I drove home later that night with a headache. I still don't know who hit me - they didn't bother to notice or apologize. Considering my options for "strike three" (an instant case of the herp? Someone's high heel in my ear?), I decided to heed the warnings of the Universe and stay the fuck outta there.

Around 11 o'clock I realized that I quite literally wanted to scream. What the FUCK did all this have to do with the spirit of the event? How the FUCK did twerking and strippers - yes, STRIPPERS I don't give a fuck whose name is embroidered in the waistband of their panties - get mentioned in the same sentence as PRIDE?!?!?! Don't straight girls get to shamelessly bounce on the barely-contained erections of their sires in EVERY OTHER CLUB ON THE FUCKING PLANET? Don't skinny people with dubious dancing skills get to win free shit EVERY OTHER FUCKING DAY OF THE YEAR?! And hold the FUCKING phone - did the guy in this rap song really just use a fucking GAY SLUR?!!? WHY THE FUCK IS THIS BEING PLAYED AT PRIDE?!?!

I... lost my mind a little bit, and actually contemplated the pros and cons of puking my guts out right where I stood, but decided a better display of my distaste would be to leave. I slunk understage - was stopped by the fucking "security douche" the strippers brought with them to protect all their NO CLOTHES they were storing down there - and wasn't going to be allowed to access my stuff until one of the theatre staff who had seen me there for the last TEN MOTHERFUCKING HOURS told the guy I was allowed past that point. I grabbed my stuff (which had obviously been rifled through - luckily I had the foresight to hide my valuables) and booked it the fuck out of there.

I spent the drive home nursing the aforementioned headache and my sense of personal outrage. This... this is NOT the community for whom I've shed my own blood, sweat and tears. What happened this night had NOTHING to do with the world I helped build. These were not the people for whom I fought. These are not the rights for which I continue to fight.

It occurred to me as well that almost no eye contact was had. No exchange of names, of information, of affirmation. This "pride" party had been reduced to a series of deafening thumps that weren't so much "heard" as "sensed" through the vibrations that traveled in the collected transfats of my body.

There was no love for those with whom each was surrounded. There was no consideration of those who were neighboring. There was only the pursuit of immediate pleasure, noise, and body parts.

In that moment, in that space... Chivalry was not only dead, but its corpse was being used as a disco ball. An ugly disco ball, covered in acne and soiled (but expensive) panties. No... no wait. I'm thinking of the strippers again...

Chivalry, Bravery: Part I

I remember a time from my childhood when my mother, myself, and one of her close friends went out to dinner. I had to have been around 11 years old - not yet out of the closet, but  it was obvious to anyone with any combination of two of the five senses that I was gay. I was precocious, sensitive, misunderstood... my best friend in the world was my mother, followed by my cat. I would have days where I would forget I was a boy. I would have days where I wished I wasn't a boy. I would have days where I didn't believe I was a boy. Not because I felt dysphoric about my gender - I have always appreciated and adored having a penis - but because me being a boy didn't make sense in the worldview of my peers, and my male friends often treated me like I was the "token female" who was cool enough to love video games but not cool enough to collect XMen cards.

Before the car accident that changed her entire personality, my mother was the epitome of what I call "Beautiful Feminism" (for reasons I hint at but won't entirely go into here). She had been a tomboy in her youth, just a year younger than her very raucous brother, and had picked up what were considered "male" personality traits. She was brash, extremely confident, impetuous but with wisdom. The very incarnation of courage. She was also utterly comfortable with her sexuality, and recognized that, so long as SHE was the one holding the reigns, it could be a powerful tool and sometimes a powerful weapon. She had been an excellent provider my entire life - even when we were destitute in my very early years, she NEVER stopped running the machinery of our family. But she was also gloriously "female," an effortless chiaroscuro of gender. Her motherhood was pure, unbroken warmth and love - I was 15 before I ever for a second doubted that my mother loved me entirely and I her. Her capacity for sacrifice remains unparalleled by anything I've ever experienced from any other being. And she was a KNOCKOUT beauty.

In case you were offended by that last paragraph, let me just make it perfectly plain: yes, the pictures I painted of male and female, the traits which I "assigned" to each, were intentionally ironic.

Lynne was - and pretty much still is - her closest friend. In those days Lynne was on the other end of Feminism: Militant. Men are controlling pigs. Voracious rapists. Oppressive idiots with only enough blood to run a dick or a brain but not both. But Lynne was also possessed of a magnetism you simply could not escape. Her humor was erudite, ubiquitous, and deadly sharp. She was impossible to quiet, impossible to forget, impossible to outshine. She'd drink, smoke, and captivate a room like a Mercury or a Tyler or a Jagger - the closest I've ever been to a real, in-the-flesh, Arena Rock LEGEND, and the first time in my life I identified with the feelings other people had toward God: I at once feared her and wanted her approval.

As far as I ever knew, Lynne LOVED me... probably not entirely independent from the fact that my sexuality was starting to become apparent and the only thing with which I'd be raping sorority girls was my incendiary fashion advice. She mistrusted me because of my unfortunate pre-existing penis, but she loved me as much as she could love any man or boy.

My mother and Lynne knew one another from working at CU Boulder together. My mother was a high level admin, her friend a Professor whose impending tenure had threatened an until-then-entirely-white-male regime in her department. It was entirely the actions and courage of my mother that won Lynne her tenure, and for that Lynne always felt utterly beholden. And for a gorgeous few years we were the three amigos - or they were and I was the tagalong, though neither of them ever made me feel that way.

We showed up to the restaurant in my mother's car - with Lynne's propensity for the drink, my mother knew better than to trust her with keys. I got out of the back seat and held Lynne's door open for her, and I noticed her make a very confusing facial expression, but she got out of the car anyway. I saw the same look on her face when my water glass got filled last. And by the end of the night she'd had enough wine that when her 11-year-old escort opened her car door to let her back into the car, she finally let it out:

Don't. Fucking. DO. That. Like I can't DO that MYSELF. Like I NEED a MAN to DO that FOR me. You and that waiter BOTH treating me like some DELICATE ROBOT who can't be bothered with HEAVY THINGS.

I may not remember her words verbatim, but I can never forget my mother's face as we all got into the car. She could see I was thunderstruck and totally humiliated, and was coiling around herself like a cobra trying to decide the best way to flash a danger warning without committing to a kill. But then again, part of the beauty of her maternal instincts was to let me stand up for myself when I felt I needed to. So she gave me right-of-way, and stayed coiled.

"It wasn't like that" was what I finally managed to blurt into the silent car.
"You don't think that's how you meant it, but it's always like that" came Lynne's slurred reply.
"Lynne, he's just a boy" my mother finally spoke up, voice thick with restraint.
"Boys become men, Patti. And Boys who don't respect women become MEN who don't respect women."
"I was just trying to be a gentleman, Lynne. I thought that's how I was supposed to do it." And she looked back at me and smiled her huge smile.
"WHY would you want to be a GENTLEMAN? All it will ever do is hurt you."
"Don't tell him stuff like that. Some women appreciate chivalry."

That was the last word on it. I sat in the back seat with a belly full of icy rattlesnakes because, as she turned back around, Lynne's facial expression was unmistakable: "Oh Patti. That's not going to help him at all."

Every Story Has a Beginning. I'm Choosing to Make This Mine.

I keep thinking to myself: "Have I really become that person?"

 There's this blank, white field on a website on my computer screen. The cursor blinks at me, clearly annoyed at being summoned only to have its time wasted. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and I’d receive a new journal as a present – I was into that kind of thing – and I’d open it and stare at that first page for what seemed like forever, agonizing over WHAT could POSSIBLY be worthy of its innocence. I’d keep it somewhere handy, for when that delicious tidbit of wisdom would arrive and I could cement it into existence forever and the book would be proud to be a part of history. And then someone would buy me a new one, that would supplant its predecessor, and the whole process would start again.

 I still have dozens of journals from that era – empty tomes I’ve trucked from place to place in the intervening years, having never found the perfect words to deflower them. As books tend to do, they’ve amassed to a considerable weight, yet it never even crosses my mind to get rid of them. Like a monk whose vow of silence encompasses EVERYTHING. And though I never wanted to admit it – and probably still wouldn’t admit it out loud – the symbolism of their emptiness has transformed for me. I no longer see them as innocent and virginal. I see them as undeniable proof that I’m afraid I have nothing to say.

 And that’s why, staring at the angry cursor in the blank text field, my thoughts are “have I really become that person?” rather than “I can’t wait to put this out there.” We live in a world where one of the most popular websites simply superimposes babytalk over mundane pictures of housecats. A lady in a teddybear onesie humping a foam finger generates four days of nonstop news coverage. Our culture hangs on the words of an overweight, under-educated 7-year-old beauty queen, going so far as to have them emblazoned on clothes.

 And I’m afraid I have nothing to say.

 I’m a 30 year old gay man. I am a Gemini, and whether you believe in that stuff or not I fit the description so well I probably did it on purpose, if subconsciously. I am owned by a dog. I eat too much. Sometimes, I drink too much. Often, I masturbate too much. I curse a lot (FUCK. See?) I think BOOBS is the funniest word in the English language, followed closely by TITTIES and TWAT. I have almost 700 Facebook friends. I do my laundry regularly, but fold it once in a blue moon. I sing: very well. I have four novels and six screenplays in my head. I’m terrified of death. And I have something to say.

 I’m statistically the “most intelligent” person in a room of 10,000 people, but it thrills me when people think I’m dumb. I talk twice as much as I should, read half as much as I should, and very legitimately have squandered an astonishing amount of my adult life NOT doing the things I’m OBVIOUSLY meant to be doing. And I have something to say.

 Currently my heart is broken. At night I’m terrified that it will never feel whole again and I will die alone and bitter in obscurity. During the day I pat myself on the back for how well I seem to be doing and how adult I am being about the whole thing. There are minutes when I want to die. There are hours when I marvel at how beautiful life is. There has never been a second when I hated him for breaking my heart, but there have been plenty of seconds when I hated myself for “losing him.” And I’m self-aware enough to know those last two words deserve their quotation marks. And I have something to say.

 I’ve developed a razor sharp wit that I can summon at the speed of light, and it has earned me a reputation that arrives in a room an hour before I do. People around me seek my approval because they fear my judgement. I am at once pleased and horrified by this. I affectionately refer to it as my “Dragon Complex,” hence the name of this… collection of thoughts. Okay, blog. I fucking said it. I’m becoming “that person.” I’m starting a… a blog. I fucking HATE the word “blog” and I’m starting one.

 I want people to read this. I want to be so interesting that they make a movie out of my blog and Meryl Streep will be in it somehow and everyone will love her part of the story but hate my part of the story and wish it were all about her. I want to go viral, to have my posts shared bazillions of times on the internet and have 16-year-old rappers advertise their shitty singles in the comments section of websites that exist merely for the purpose of sharing blogs like mine. I want fat Christian moms and vengeful twenty-somethings to disapprove of me while pre-pubescent transsexuals and elderly cancer patients find inspiration in me. And despite the fear that nobody will read this and that I have nothing to say… I want people to know that I DO have something to say…


 Boobs. Fuck. Boobs.