I could say my shrink made me write this, but what the fook. He's encouraged me to simply write down and spew, get shit off my chest so that it doesn't gather, and in the gathering, gain power. So I'll do my damnedest to simply write this entry. Pretend I'm Jack Kerouac -- had the worst high school crush on him in, well, high school. C'mon, we know what went on between him and Cassaday.
Over the summer, I was involved with a guy. At first, he said he didn't want a long-term relationship (having just gotten out of a three-way LTR, and having an ex-wife made it clear to him, he said, that he didn't want such a thing). Three weeks later, he said he loved me and wanted me to collar him. He had a nickname I gave him inked across his shoulders, on his back. He was the only man I played with during that time; truly the only man I was interested in. He said he wanted a monogamous relationship, that he wanted to be the only man who got my load (in so many words).
We played rough. I whipped him, I pierced him, I shoved my hand deep in his pussy and made him shoot hard. I stuck sounds in his cock, I electrocuted parts of him, I made him bleed and got his blood on my chest and belly, and goddamn did I fook him. I fooked him with my cock and balls full up in him. I fooked him good and goddamn I fooken liked it.
I started noticing certain changes in myself. I'd find myself thinking of him and I'd cuss. I'd hear a song and think of him. I'd see a pair of shorts he gave me and think of him, and goddamn I'd cuss. I'd cuss him, but mostly I cussed me. Because I could feel an attraction to him increasing. I could feel my own feelings for him develop; I am not always comfortable with this.
With me, cussing is always a sign I'm letting my guard down. A buddy of mine once said, "The tenderest hearts have the toughest armor," and fook, there it was, coming down, opening up, piece by piece. And this man kept saying he wanted to be the only man in my life, the only one for me and I was right there with him. I wanted him to be the only one.
I set aside a time to tell him my feelings. I said when I wanted to see him, that I had to get something off my chest. He asked if it was anything bad; I said no, it's all good, that I just need to say some stuff and I want to do it to his face.
I am not always comfortable being a passionate man. I enlisted in the USMC cuz I needed a job; I ended up fighting beside my buddies because I fooken loved them, not for love of country or sense of patriotic duty. I would not stand to let them come to harm, either in the field or in the mundane world. Marines wear our hearts on our sleeves, for all the world to see, although the world usually does not like to see it.
The world prefers its icons to remain iconic.
Early Saturday morning, around 0400, a message came to me via yahoo messsenger. A URL, a newspaper story, in which I had been quoted. A reporter came to the tattoo place when the man was getting my nickname for him inked on his back; wanted to do a story about Marines and tattoos.
I fooken hate reporters. I fooken HATE reporters, probably cuz I've worked in journalism, but more likely because of another part of my history I will not discuss here. Suffice it to say, I know how reporters are: they will write what they will, they will cant the story how they will, no matter how much nuance and subtlety a source may give them. So I had no trouble giving him a fake name, and letting him believe a particular scar on my body was due to a roadside bomb. I told a story to a storyteller. What I happily gave him were insights into why Marines ink their bodies; how Marines are, contrary to the popular myth, very open about why they do what they do, open about their love of their brothers. How Marines are feeling men, passionate men. It may get sloppy -- I'm not denying that -- but it is undeniable.
Suddenly, to this man, this man who wanted to be the only man for me, who wanted to wear my collar, I was a liar. And this reflected poorly on him, for he had little kids, 10-year-olds, who looked up to him in martial arts classes. HE TRUSTED ME!!! he said. And I lied. He did not look at the situation; anything I said in my defense, even as I spoke my piece to him -- online, which I fooken hate doing because it seems cowardly -- did not matter. Nothing mattered to him except the vehemence of his own feelings. He said he no longer wanted to talk to me, ever.
Three days later, I got an email from him, in which he said he did not wish to burn bridges. While any opportunities for a deeper relationship were gone, he wished to be friends. I thanked him for his grace. He wrote back saying I shouldn't thank him, that it was a mutual friend of ours who convinced him to forgive me. And wasn't this mutual friend a "hot little fucker."
Two days after that, he told me he was flying cross-country to meet this other man face to face. One week after that, he wrote to tell me what a great time he had in the sack, what a wonderfully kinky little fucker this little fucker is.
As for me, my heart was broken each time he told me about this new guy. One week, he loved me, wanted to be the only man who got my cock, my load, my intimacy. The next, he was off and away. Had I even existed? He had previously complained of how his own ex put him in the position of being relationship counselor for the third who had entered their relationship; and here I was, being put in the same position. This new man was active-duty military. "My feelings tell me my husband has deployed and I may never see him again," not even three weeks after he had said he loved me, my hand buried up in him, up his ass, feeling his heartbeat with my fingers, my lips pressed against his, grease and mucous dripping on my tattooed arm, my own heart quickly falling after his.
And I'm supposed to be open. How do I get any more open? My feelings are there for all to see; whose fault is it when those who see them do not acknowledge them, do not recognize them?
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Emerging
At long last, it's winter. So I'm coming out of my little hiatus. Live in fear.
I've been busying myself reading this book, 'Party Monster'. It purports to be "a fabulous but true story of murder in Clubland". Hoo-boy, one can hardly wait.
Now, I enjoy a good melodramatic and steamy story as much as anyone. But there is a conceit these days with memoir: one must portray oneself as having some flaw in order to make oneself believable. And the author here, James St James, has flaws aplenty, and they're not confined to his writing and story-telling skills.
In short, it's the story of a young man with borderline personality disorder who, in the course of building his reputation and 'power', did a lot of drugs, excused any and all damaging behaviors around him, and killed a man. Very titillating, to be sure. But St James never sees the obvious; he begs us, as we read, to "understand" why his pals made the choices they did. And understanding means 'look at us, we're all fabulous and high on ketamine and heroin and crack and cocaine and we made such a splash, we put downtown New York ON THE MAP and, oh, did I mention we were fabulous?'
The reader is meant to open his heart to these poor drug-addled folk cuz, well, they're drug-addled and they just can't help themselves. They can't see themselves for the messes they are, and this is meant to evoke our pity. But hey, everyone was doing it (and they were fabulous, too).
Never at any time does St James apologize for his behavior. He writes, now and then, that he is ashamed of what he does, but clearly glories in his tales of debauchery. All along, he eschews any sort of judgment, any sort of attempt at real understanding of what he's involved with, just how damaging it is, not just for him but for the community around him. It is a book peopled with those who forgot they ever left high school. Indeed, revenge on his school tormentors seems to be part of the motivation for writing the book: 'Look who's the cool kid now!'
Curiously, this story was made into a movie twice, both times by the same producers. First it was a documentary, then it was a dramatization of St James' book. One wonders why the producers would feel so strongly about presenting the material twice: money? fame? success? glamor? the sheer ability to bring to the screen the same story twice, each within years of each other?
Why would one wish to 'understand' the exploits of a man with borderline personality disorder? There is no understanding to such a thing; it simply is. We've all had the boss from hell, the aggressively needy but somehow charming friend or parent. There's nothing new here, and yet it gets lavished with attention, even when it says it does not wish to call attention to itself.
And this, at long last, is our topic: the oft-quoted line that 'drag is the mask that tells the truth'. I submit it is not. Drag -- typically gay men dressing outlandishly in order to get away with obnoxious behavior they wouldn't ordinarily manifest, but anyone may dress or behave so -- calls attention to oneself, not one's ideas. One *wears* drag; one is *not* drag itself. It is in this way that gay men (okay, fags) and fundamentalist Christians find themselves in common practice: fundies say 'marriage is an institution which must remain unsullied', and fags say, 'drag is the mask that tells the truth', when the flaw both commit is reification. (Oh, look it up.) Essentially, they hold some thing in such esteem that it becomes something more than the thing itself, more than the concept itself. It is on some high pedestal, unreachable by mere mortals, having been put there by god himself.
Ack.
Sure, we'll always have an abundance of intellectual rubbish. But dammit, this shit gets to me sometimes.
I've been busying myself reading this book, 'Party Monster'. It purports to be "a fabulous but true story of murder in Clubland". Hoo-boy, one can hardly wait.
Now, I enjoy a good melodramatic and steamy story as much as anyone. But there is a conceit these days with memoir: one must portray oneself as having some flaw in order to make oneself believable. And the author here, James St James, has flaws aplenty, and they're not confined to his writing and story-telling skills.
In short, it's the story of a young man with borderline personality disorder who, in the course of building his reputation and 'power', did a lot of drugs, excused any and all damaging behaviors around him, and killed a man. Very titillating, to be sure. But St James never sees the obvious; he begs us, as we read, to "understand" why his pals made the choices they did. And understanding means 'look at us, we're all fabulous and high on ketamine and heroin and crack and cocaine and we made such a splash, we put downtown New York ON THE MAP and, oh, did I mention we were fabulous?'
The reader is meant to open his heart to these poor drug-addled folk cuz, well, they're drug-addled and they just can't help themselves. They can't see themselves for the messes they are, and this is meant to evoke our pity. But hey, everyone was doing it (and they were fabulous, too).
Never at any time does St James apologize for his behavior. He writes, now and then, that he is ashamed of what he does, but clearly glories in his tales of debauchery. All along, he eschews any sort of judgment, any sort of attempt at real understanding of what he's involved with, just how damaging it is, not just for him but for the community around him. It is a book peopled with those who forgot they ever left high school. Indeed, revenge on his school tormentors seems to be part of the motivation for writing the book: 'Look who's the cool kid now!'
Curiously, this story was made into a movie twice, both times by the same producers. First it was a documentary, then it was a dramatization of St James' book. One wonders why the producers would feel so strongly about presenting the material twice: money? fame? success? glamor? the sheer ability to bring to the screen the same story twice, each within years of each other?
Why would one wish to 'understand' the exploits of a man with borderline personality disorder? There is no understanding to such a thing; it simply is. We've all had the boss from hell, the aggressively needy but somehow charming friend or parent. There's nothing new here, and yet it gets lavished with attention, even when it says it does not wish to call attention to itself.
And this, at long last, is our topic: the oft-quoted line that 'drag is the mask that tells the truth'. I submit it is not. Drag -- typically gay men dressing outlandishly in order to get away with obnoxious behavior they wouldn't ordinarily manifest, but anyone may dress or behave so -- calls attention to oneself, not one's ideas. One *wears* drag; one is *not* drag itself. It is in this way that gay men (okay, fags) and fundamentalist Christians find themselves in common practice: fundies say 'marriage is an institution which must remain unsullied', and fags say, 'drag is the mask that tells the truth', when the flaw both commit is reification. (Oh, look it up.) Essentially, they hold some thing in such esteem that it becomes something more than the thing itself, more than the concept itself. It is on some high pedestal, unreachable by mere mortals, having been put there by god himself.
Ack.
Sure, we'll always have an abundance of intellectual rubbish. But dammit, this shit gets to me sometimes.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Calling Dr Howard, Dr Fein, Dr Howard
dr._bear
Hi Guy, I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste. I would like to know about all of your tattoo's what they are and what they mean to you? If I could just say you have a great looking body and I like your hairy body and I like your tattoo's. Thanks and have a great day.
Roger
BigDumbDawg
Yours is the oddest message I've ever received.
dr._bear
Why because I didn't want to jump your bones and because I wanted to know about your tattoo's and that I like your muscles and hairy body why is that odd? My name is Roger what is yours?
Roger
BigDumbDawg
The weird part: that you opened with "I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste." It is not my place to tell you what is phenomenally off-putting in that remark, let alone its placement in your message to me. I'm astonished that a 57-year-old man actually believes it possible to make an apology that includes the word 'but'. You want my name? Read my profile.
Just so we're clear on the concept, I inserted a warning in my profiles: if you say something ridiculous, it's likely to end up on my blog. Kinda detracts a little from the creepy Candid Camera-esque fun we like to have, but what the fook. Here, we have a textbook example of how to alienate someone you're interested in.
My favorite part: the apology that isn't an apology. An apology doesn't contain the words "if" or "but". And why the hell would anyone, in the hopes of catching the interest of another, say, "You only have yourself to blame for being disappointed in the caliber of potential mates." Yeah, I'm responsible for guys being jerks.
Ever onward.
Hi Guy, I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste. I would like to know about all of your tattoo's what they are and what they mean to you? If I could just say you have a great looking body and I like your hairy body and I like your tattoo's. Thanks and have a great day.
Roger
BigDumbDawg
Yours is the oddest message I've ever received.
dr._bear
Why because I didn't want to jump your bones and because I wanted to know about your tattoo's and that I like your muscles and hairy body why is that odd? My name is Roger what is yours?
Roger
BigDumbDawg
The weird part: that you opened with "I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste." It is not my place to tell you what is phenomenally off-putting in that remark, let alone its placement in your message to me. I'm astonished that a 57-year-old man actually believes it possible to make an apology that includes the word 'but'. You want my name? Read my profile.
Just so we're clear on the concept, I inserted a warning in my profiles: if you say something ridiculous, it's likely to end up on my blog. Kinda detracts a little from the creepy Candid Camera-esque fun we like to have, but what the fook. Here, we have a textbook example of how to alienate someone you're interested in.
My favorite part: the apology that isn't an apology. An apology doesn't contain the words "if" or "but". And why the hell would anyone, in the hopes of catching the interest of another, say, "You only have yourself to blame for being disappointed in the caliber of potential mates." Yeah, I'm responsible for guys being jerks.
Ever onward.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Today, I Join the Blogosphere
Paul Addis Senator Larry Craig Larry Harvey Karl Rove
And nappy-headed hoes. Nappy headed hos. Hos ho's.
Ranger Sasquatch
There's a new cussword buzzing on your teen's lips -- lebesion. We'll tell you what it means at eleven.
second superpower
democratizer
horse testicle cradler association
Mike Huckabee
And nappy-headed hoes. Nappy headed hos. Hos ho's.
Ranger Sasquatch
There's a new cussword buzzing on your teen's lips -- lebesion. We'll tell you what it means at eleven.
second superpower
democratizer
horse testicle cradler association
Mike Huckabee
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Requisition Me Some Compassion
This just in, from jlee4282
I agree with everything you say in your profile. Most people need to just shut the fook up and listen for a change...it's the consent blabbering of those uninformed cakeholes, misrepresenting the tid bit of fact they heard on the 11oclock news, that has lead to the destruction of once great nation. If people just shut up and critically looked at the world around them, they would see that their problems are minimal when compared to devastation that is occurring across the world and in this country on a daily basis.
But, with all that said, your profile comes off as you being angry at people who do not see things the way you do. The reality I have found is that most people do not fit the mold you have created. And getting angry with people, or at least coming off that way, does not help the situation either. It tends to push people who would fit the mold further away, as they perceive you to be a negative person, when in reality, and having read your whole profile i can kinda tell, you are not a negative person. But rather a buddy \ lil bro who knows when to shut up, take it like the man they are and enjoy the moment.
Don't really care if you agree with the above, it was just what came to mind after reading your profile. Maybe it'll get you to look at the whole profile things a lil differently, or maybe your goal was to weed out all the non thinkers. You tell me?
------------------
Sure, there are a couple times a year when all you can say is, "Get her." I chose instead a different statement: "What is the call to answer every passing fool according to his folly?"
I wanna know. I like to think I have some kind of sense that keeps me from getting involved in a pissing match. What I don't understand is why guys take it upon themselves to tell me what a "negative" man I am, based on what is an admittedly candid profile. It's pretty clear these guys don't react to that candor; they react to their own indignation upon encountering it.
But why tell me about it? It won't get 'em laid. It won't get 'em dates. Do they think I'm Rush Limbaugh, with an ear at the ready, ever vigilent for the next twitter-pated muttonhead to call and agree with me? Sigh.
I agree with everything you say in your profile. Most people need to just shut the fook up and listen for a change...it's the consent blabbering of those uninformed cakeholes, misrepresenting the tid bit of fact they heard on the 11oclock news, that has lead to the destruction of once great nation. If people just shut up and critically looked at the world around them, they would see that their problems are minimal when compared to devastation that is occurring across the world and in this country on a daily basis.
But, with all that said, your profile comes off as you being angry at people who do not see things the way you do. The reality I have found is that most people do not fit the mold you have created. And getting angry with people, or at least coming off that way, does not help the situation either. It tends to push people who would fit the mold further away, as they perceive you to be a negative person, when in reality, and having read your whole profile i can kinda tell, you are not a negative person. But rather a buddy \ lil bro who knows when to shut up, take it like the man they are and enjoy the moment.
Don't really care if you agree with the above, it was just what came to mind after reading your profile. Maybe it'll get you to look at the whole profile things a lil differently, or maybe your goal was to weed out all the non thinkers. You tell me?
------------------
Sure, there are a couple times a year when all you can say is, "Get her." I chose instead a different statement: "What is the call to answer every passing fool according to his folly?"
I wanna know. I like to think I have some kind of sense that keeps me from getting involved in a pissing match. What I don't understand is why guys take it upon themselves to tell me what a "negative" man I am, based on what is an admittedly candid profile. It's pretty clear these guys don't react to that candor; they react to their own indignation upon encountering it.
But why tell me about it? It won't get 'em laid. It won't get 'em dates. Do they think I'm Rush Limbaugh, with an ear at the ready, ever vigilent for the next twitter-pated muttonhead to call and agree with me? Sigh.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Only Thing That Will Cure Me Is A Miracle
arpeejay
Based on the criterion you set forth I think you could have skipped the tatts. You're a beautiful man, inside and out. And, just so you'll know, there's nothing sexier than fur on muscle (IMHO) and you have plenty of both! All the best & xoxo
Huh?
Based on what I say, I shouldn't have tattooed myself. But that's okay, I'm beautiful inside and out. Love and kisses, some stranger.
Or maybe
You don't apply your standards to yourself, but that's okay cuz you're sexy as fook, luvity luv luv luv, a dork in Florida.
Possibly
You gorgeous hypocrite! Give me your knucklepuppies, kiss kiss kiss, another schmuck who lives in America's wang.
Could be
I'm a pompous weiner with a thinly-veiled yet morbid fear of obesity that keeps me from knowing who I am, sexy sexy sexy sexy sex, I'm in Ft Lauderdale and will eat your sperm, yummy.
Norman, coordinate. Norman, coordinate...
Based on the criterion you set forth I think you could have skipped the tatts. You're a beautiful man, inside and out. And, just so you'll know, there's nothing sexier than fur on muscle (IMHO) and you have plenty of both! All the best & xoxo
Huh?
Based on what I say, I shouldn't have tattooed myself. But that's okay, I'm beautiful inside and out. Love and kisses, some stranger.
Or maybe
You don't apply your standards to yourself, but that's okay cuz you're sexy as fook, luvity luv luv luv, a dork in Florida.
Possibly
You gorgeous hypocrite! Give me your knucklepuppies, kiss kiss kiss, another schmuck who lives in America's wang.
Could be
I'm a pompous weiner with a thinly-veiled yet morbid fear of obesity that keeps me from knowing who I am, sexy sexy sexy sexy sex, I'm in Ft Lauderdale and will eat your sperm, yummy.
Norman, coordinate. Norman, coordinate...
Monday, August 20, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)