This Is Woman's Work

We’ve seen Obama's “Hope for a brighter tomorrow” campaign before. Our very own Jimmy Carter was another idealistic Democrat who ran a campaign based on optimism and dreams for America’s future. Carter’s election was part of America’s recovery from Watergate- a complete changing of the guard in Washington. Carter didn’t play those political games. He was a plain-spoken peanut-lovin’ God-fearin’ sweet Southern gent who was gonna shake things up.
It didn’t work out that way. Those political games continued to be played, only he wasn’t qualified to participate. They handed him his ass and he was out of office in four years.
Idealism is all well and good, but we need someone who can do the damn job. I mean come on y’all, anyone who’s ever had fumbling, awkward sex with a virgin will tell you: experience does matter.
This year, we have the option of an experienced candidate: Senator Hillary Clinton.
Hillary has been stigmatized for her years of public service as First Lady. The comparison has been made that by Hillary’s standards, Laura Bush would be ready to lead our country on Day One. Well, no. Hillary used her position to further public policy, including broadening our reach internationally and her attempts to revolutionize the American health care industry. Laura has spent eight years sneaking Parliament Lights in the Rose Garden and perfecting an expression of glazed compliance Pat Nixon would have envied.
Hillary’s not perfect. No politician is. Hell, no person is. But she’s an advocate for us, and for so many other Americans who have spent the last eight years being completely ignored.
And then there’s Barack.
In one of the first Democratic debates, back when there were still like sixty people onstage vying for the nomination, the moderator brought up the subject of AIDS. Senator Joe Biden stressed the importance of everyone being tested, as both he and Barack Obama had done. Obama jumped in, clarifying that he had been tested for HIV with his wife, not with Senator Biden. Everyone onstage had a good chuckle at this, except for Hillary, whose face seemed to mirror my primary thought: “Was that really necessary, dickwad?” I mean, was there an actual risk of anyone thinking Barack and Joe had a little something kickin’ on the DL? Is it not okay for two straight guys to get tested together?
Oh, I get it. He was kidding. One of those little “gay panic” jokes which give people permission to laugh at us. I remember those from junior high. They’re an expression of fear and ignorance. Ha fucking ha.
Hillary Clinton has been the punch line of an endless number of dyke jokes over the years, and yet she doesn’t treat them as insults. Childish and pointless, but not hurtful. She still marches in our parades and defends our community. Plus, her fundraisers don’t include entertainment by a gospel singer who preaches about God delivering him from the “curse” of homosexuality, unlike Senator Obama’s tacit approval of Donnie McClurkin.
Like many of the straight people in her generation, Hillary’s still learning about us, and acknowledging mistakes of the past. Based on analysis from military advisors, her husband enacted the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy in our armed forces during his administration. The result was a disaster, and Senator Clinton is the first to admit it. It is far past time to honor the patriotism and sacrifice of gays and lesbians serving our country.

As Clinton herself said, “Soldiers need to shoot straight, not be straight.”
I don’t think Obama’s The Great Satan. I think he genuinely loves this country and has a lot of good ideas. But I fear that’s all they’ll ever be. We need a woman of action, with proof of her dedication.
Hillary fought to extend the Victims Compensation Fund to the partners of those who died in 9/11, an unprecedented act recognizing the lives we lead together have value. She piloted the mission to stop Republicans from writing discrimination into the Constitution. She intends to grant full federal benefits to same-sex couples (while leaving marriage laws up to individual states), and will assure nothing stands in the way of us adopting children in need.
She respects us. She represents us. And if all goes well, she’s got my vote.

Match Game

I’m sitting at my desk, on the phone with my sister Shannon.

We’re both reading personal ads on the internet.
“Ooh! This one sounds perfect,” says Shannon. “Stephanie likes NPR, Red Stripe, and Gators games.”
“The Gators are football, right?”
“Yes, you big mo, Gators are football. I like Stephanie. Go look at her picture.”
I click on Stephanie’s picture. She has 80s mall bangs, like Joan Cusack in Working Girl.
“Shannon, I refuse to consider any woman whose bangs require a round brush and a half hour of Aqua Net application. Just on principle.”
“I think you’re being too picky.”
“I liked Monica better,” I say. “She’s a single mother. That means lots of dates at her house. And Stephanie doesn’t smoke. Nelson smokes.”
“Wait, let me go back and see if anyone responded to our flirt messages.”
My cousin Nelson, who lives with my boyfriend Preppy and me, has been treading water in the dating pool for the last few months. I’m not sure what happens when he goes to a bar by himself, but lemme tell ya what doesn’t happen: fucking. Preppy and I figured that since all of our gay friends have at least one straight girl on speed dial, we’d have Nelson paired off with a hot chick in no time, but no such luck. So Nelson’s been spending a lot of time at home going stir-crazy, asking Preppy what he’s doing every thirty-five seconds and preparing elaborate sushi dinners at nine in the morning.
It’s not his fault. He went to an all-boy’s school, which my buddy Zack says sounds just heavenly, but did little to improve his game with the ladies. He’s a nice guy who happens to struggle with the initial approach.
So, inspired by my Aunt Trish’s recent foray into online dating, Shannon and I have opened a personal ad in our cousin Nelson’s name. I know I’ve said I’m against matchmaking, but the situation called for desperate measures. We answered the questionnaire as honestly as possible, determining how Nelson would describe himself, and then improving that statement ever-so-slightly. I also edited his profile pic in Adobe Photoshop. Nothing on the Mariah Carey scale, I just fixed the lighting a bit and gave him a tan.
A few nights later, I report our efforts while I’m out having drinks with the boys.
“Hi, my name is Topher,” says my buddy George. “And I have serious control issues.”
“I do not! I’m trying to help him meet people! Preppy will tell you, Nelson needs to get out more.”
“It’s true, he does,” says Preppy. “But not if he’s gonna be hanging out with chain-smoking single mothers from E-Harmony just so we can have a night alone. And what will these girls do when they find out all the great e-mails they’ve been getting are really from you and your sister?”
“We’ll work it out. It’ll be like Cyrano.”
“Darling,” George concludes. “You can’t assign a plotline to Nelson’s life.”
“Damn it George, I’m not assigning a plotline. I’m just introducing new characters.”
Back at the house, as I inspect the desperately eager faces of the girls who’ve responded to our carefully-constructed personal ad, I begin to feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe Nelson should be getting a girl on his own, even if it takes a little longer and I’m apprehensive about the results. Plus, if I remember correctly, both of the guys in Cyrano wound up dead at the end of the story, and that’s not promising.
Unless…
What if I found him a girl, and TOLD her that we’d created a fake profile for him? And then I could introduce her to him as some friend of mine, whom I’ve never mentioned before for a reason I can’t determine just yet.
“Dear Stephanie,” I write. “I know this will sound strange, but I’m not the man whose picture is posted on this profile. I’m his cousin. But you seemed really nice…”

Like a Prayer

For about four months in sixth grade, I was in the school band. I played the clarinet. Badly. I was encouraged/forced to join the band because I didn’t participate in sports, and my parents felt it was important I be part of some sort of extracurricular. I eventually stopped going to band practice, and spent that period sitting in Mrs. LeVert’s classroom, writing stories. That was the real bitch of it all: I actually had an outside interest, it was just one that involved me sitting by myself and transcribing the voices in my head.
After the failed band experiment, I was led to the school chorus, which was made up entirely of students who had displayed no ability with musical instruments or athletics.

Our first concert was held at the same church where my sister would marry a gay man just a few short years later.

During a medley of Disney’s movie hits, I fainted. Marie Osmond passing out on Dancing with the Stars may have led you to believe that everyone gracefully wilts to the floor when they lose consciousness. Not so. My thirteen-year old pudgy body fell face-forward in to a display of potted mums. It was broadcast on local cable access, so I was able to relive it several times.
Having exhausted all after-school activities with humiliating results, I turned my attention to the Methodist Church. I did Sunday School, Wednesday night fellowship, mission trips, youth retreats to exotic locales like Camp Lake Stephens and Biloxi, and pretty much anything else they were up to when the doors were open. First Methodist was MY church. I’d explored every inch of it and knew where everything was, so if I ever needed a snack I’d help myself to the grape juice and tasty wafers they kept in the downstairs kitchen for communion.

Yes, I used to snack on the Body of Christ.
Church was the only place I really felt comfortable being myself. I believed in what I was told and found solace in the acceptance of God and The Church. As a teen I considered the possibility of one day becoming a pastor, if I could get over that passing-out-in-front-of-crowds thing. I loved the idea of spending my days helping people love and support each other. Aside from those stolen communion wafers, I’d thought I was on pretty good terms with God.
So color me surprised when I found out I’d grown up to be a sinner, or at least a tragic error. Don’t get me wrong- I was never actively dismissed from my hometown church, and still maintain close ties with a few people there. But I could never be fully embraced, because their doctrine made it quite clear that who I feel compelled to be is just plain wrong. My boyfriend Preppy had the same experience with his Southern Baptist congregation (where he was, I kid you not, the head of their puppet ministry), and we both made the same decision:

Love the sinner, hate the sin was not good enough. We walked away.
So for the last ten years, it’s just been God and me. It’s a more casual relationship, and much like the other people in my life I can go long periods without communicating. But since I proposed to Preppy, I’ve had church on the brain again.
“I want a real minister for our wedding,” I said the other night. “Not somebody ordained on the internet, I mean a real live person of the cloth who visits sick people in hospitals and stuff.”
“We can do that,” said Preppy. “I can Google gay-inclusive churches.”
Preppy just got a new laptop computer. Now he likes to Google everything.
“You know, if you find one that looks interesting, we could go to a service. Put on our Sunday best and check it out.”
“Aw, darlin. You wanna go back to church?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Old feelings begin to stir- that hope of belonging to a community again. It feels a little like a homecoming.
God, I hope I don’t pass out.

Leader of the Pack

The first problem is just the mere fact that I’m driving, which always leads to trouble. My brain isn’t wired to process information while traveling at high speeds. I was meant to experience the world on foot. But here I am, driving Preppy’s car, completely lost in Buckhead on a Sunday morning.

My parents have one of those GPS thingys that tells you where your next turn is and how close you are to a Piccadilly, which they refer to as “The Woman”. Driving with them is really entertaining since “The Woman” entered their relationship, as my mother views her as an ally, and my father believes the disembodied vaguely British voice is in cahoots with his wife to undermine his authority.
“Cleve, take the next exit,” Mama will say. “The Woman said there’s road construction on I-55.”
“Will you just let me drive? I know what I’m doing. (long pause) Well, damn.”
“We told you, Cleve. Why won’t you listen to The Woman?”
“Hush up, both of you.”
I could sure use The Woman right now. Barring that, I go with my next best option and call my pal Slutty Mandy.
“For God’s sake,” she says. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Topher, there’s a little something single people enjoy called Saturday nights. Think back and you’ll remember.”
“I’m lost in Buckhead, and I’m gonna be late for a birthday party. Can you MapQuest an address for me?”
“If you must know, I’m not even at my house. Just follow Peachtree ‘til it turns into something else, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I can’t be late. It’s an eleven year-old girl I used to babysit, and a bunch of girls from Morningside Elementary got bumped from the guest list so I could be there. And if I don’t find it soon, all the Jesus People are gonna clog up the road and I’m screwed.”
Slutty Mandy heaves a great sigh.
“Preppy really shouldn’t let you drive alone. Tell me the next intersection you see.”
With Slutty Mandy’s reluctant assistance, I make my way to Atlanta Rocks, an indoor rock-climbing facility nestled in the back of an office park. I enter to the strains of a dozen squealing preteen girls rappelling from the ceiling, which is really quite startling if you haven’t braced yourself for it.
“Mister Topher!” says the guest of honor. “You’re gonna climb, aren’t you?”
I’m fitted for my harness, and take my place in line, looking quite conspicuous amongst my fellow party guests. The pecking order within the bunch is quickly obvious- all the girls are following edicts issued by a red-headed girl named Brantley. She keeps casting me furtive looks as she whispers to the other girls. I think she’s wearing lip gloss. I instantly dislike her.
One of her minions runs over to me.
“IS YOUR NAME GOPHER?”
“No. It’s Topher. Mister Topher.”
“Brantley said your name is GOPHER.”
“Sweetie. Don’t listen to Brantley. In fact, just make that a rule for living.”
She goes back to report this encounter to her queen. I knew a Brantley when I was eleven- the girl who always had the latest clothes and was French kissing boys in Junior High before she hit her teens. Theirs is a much more indirect form of bullying- a quiet, calculated delight in other people’s misery combined with an unerring sense of stylish superiority. What the Brantleys of the schoolyard fail to realize is that the sissies they make fun of are carefully studying their behavior, in order to emulate it in gay bars a decade later.
I couldn’t stand those little girls when I was a kid, and I don’t much care for the bar bitches they inspired. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m always dubious of the leader of the pack, seeing as I’m the son of a man who doubts the wisdom of his GPS navigator. But there’s a lot to be said for breaking rank and following your own path.
“You’re only supposed to climb on the red ones!” Brantley shouts at the birthday girl as she scales the wall.
“Shut up, Brantley, I like the yellow ones!” she hollers back, and continues climbing.

I beam with pride.

Smart girl. I’ve taught her well.

Playing Cupid

My Aunt Trish recently shed three hundred pounds in a single day. She got rid of her absolutely worthless husband. And by “got rid of”, I mean she divorced the son of a bitch, not that she killed him. Although if she had killed him, I would have happily driven to Mississippi with a shovel and a tarp to take care of that body.
You know those people you really, really hate, but you have to be polite because they’re married to someone you love? Well, her husband wasn’t one of those people. He was an ass, and I was never shy about making certain he knew that. He’s one of those straight guys who are so completely terrified of gay people that it has festered into a powerful hatred. I knew this, and I delighted in and took advantage of his fear whenever possible.

Ours was a relationship of mutual distaste.
And now, like a bad dream, or a bout with Chlamydia, he’s gone. Poof! Ding Dong! Every time I think about this, I do a little dance inside. It will take a while to completely erase him from my memory, but I’m more than happy to work at it.
Aunt Trish called this week because, suddenly sixty and single but still sassy, she’s decided to delve into the world of internet dating. After discovering most men won’t talk to a woman without a photo to offer, she enlisted my aid.
“I wish I could put a picture of Sigourney Weaver. She’s very attractive,” she said.
“True, but it’d be awkward explaining that when you actually meet.”
“Well, do you have any good pictures from Christmas? Something where I look young? The men my age all date women in their forties. I guess I’m supposed to date men in their eighties. They won’t be any fun.”
“It’s a Viagra world now. Everyone can still be fun.”
“Well, I don’t the bastard to die on me before I’m finished.”
Isn’t it neat when you’re grown up and you find out which of your relatives talk dirty?
Trish has turned to the internet because she has no interest in the widowers and divorced men her Mississippi matron friends have been suggesting. I’m always doubtful of people playing Cupid. Matchmaking is inefficient because we’re all unwilling to admit whatever it is we’re REALLY looking for in a mate. My sister Shannon was attracted to her husband because he seemed like a jerk on the outside, but turned out to be a big softie. She wanted a man who was unafraid to tell her “No,” and she’d respect enough to listen. But how do you tell that to a friend? “Jennifer, go find me an asshole who bosses me around.” I liked Preppy instantly because he knew what he wanted (in that case, me), and was direct in getting it- we kissed before even exchanging names. But if you told me you had a friend for me, and that was how he introduced himself, my inner Julia Sugarbaker would be appalled by his lack of social decorum.
Maybe you want a spineless type who will fulfill your demands without question, or a fella who’s a little less attractive than you so you’ll always feel pretty. These are not the traits you’re going to list when a friend asks, “What kind of guy are you looking for?” And that’s why matchmaking usually doesn’t work.
But in Aunt Trish’s case, we have a glorious opportunity. There’s no risk involved in being forthright on an internet chat, and none of your friends have to know what you’re into. I tell her she should go ahead and be very clear on what she’s looking for when she writes her profile.
“Very clear in what way?”
“Well,” I say. “I’d definitely put it out there that you expect them to survive sleeping with you. If there’s doubt there, you’d wanna know.”
“Oh! That might intrigue them, let them know I’m a hellcat.”
That’s something she’s unlikely to share with the Mississippi matrons. I like her style: Just throw some dirty talk out there and see if any healthy boys bite. Sometimes the tried and true methods really are best.

As You Like It

Preppy and I are dining out, having a fine time. He’s having pasta. I went for the duck. As I’m going on about the week in celebrity tragedies, I notice he keeps glancing at my plate.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Remember that time we went to Piedmont Park and fed the ducks? Remember how cute they were?”
“Eat your pasta.”
“I’m just sayin’. You think your dinner knew those ducks? Maybe they were friends.”
“I wonder if his friends are this savory and delicious.”
I return to my meal. Until Preppy starts throwing pieces of bread at it.
“Quaaaack.”
I threaten him with my fork. We return to the meal.
When I first met my boyfriend, he described himself as a “pretty much vegetarian.” I found this compelling, as I was unaware there were varying degrees. I thought it was like being “pretty much pregnant.” That is to say, you either are or you ain’t. But Preppy explained that after many years of being unable to order anything at fast food restaurants, he’d amended his vegetarianism to allow for creatures of the sea. So these days, he just doesn’t eat anything with feet.
Years of working in restaurants left me mystified by people’s requests. When I was a server, I’d get the occasional vegan asking what their options were on the menu. I’d offer them a refreshing glass of water. Or people asking if there’s dairy in the mashed potatoes. Of course there is. Why on earth would you think otherwise? No self-respecting potato below the Mason-Dixon Line would allow itself to be mashed without copious amounts of butter and milk. And swear I never even heard of anyone allergic to gluten until the mid-nineties. Is that a new thing? How do you create a new allergy? Gluten’s been around as long as there’s been food. Why the sudden trouble?
This is why I wasn’t a very good waiter.

Because when I’d encounter such people, I was unable to suppress my need to know more, and I’d ask them to explain themselves. And then I’d offend them by saying something like, “Why does it matter where the chicken was raised? It’s a little late to worry about its quality of life now,” and they’d get offended, my manager would have to give them a free dessert, and I’d get a stern lecture about not interrogating the customers.
Preppy’s diet left me deeply troubled when we were first dating. Why fish and not pork? Is it because it’s easier to picture a mammal having a personality? I saw “Finding Nemo.” Fish are very droll and observant creatures with extraordinarily eventful lives. And for that matter, look at those “Veggie Tales” characters I keep seeing on posters at bus stops. You can anthropomorphize anything if you put a pair of googly eyes on it and give it a few witty lines of dialogue; I see no reason to let that ruin your dinner.
Living with him has been a really healthy development for me in this arena. My attachment to Preppy forces me to defend his self-imposed dietary restrictions, despite the fact that were it anyone else, I would consider it patently absurd. When I first explained it to my mother, who would kill a cow with her bare hands if it was the only way she could make brisket for Sunday dinner, it just blew her damn mind.
“But why?” she kept asking, and no explanation would suffice.
“Because that’s what he likes, Mama,” I said finally, and she had no argument for that.
Actually, “Because I like it,” is a pretty solid justification in any awkward scenario. Picture it: “Why do you only eat raw food?” “Why do you smoke?” “Why did you paint this room orange?” “Why do you have sex with other dudes?”
“Because I like it.”
Sure, they could exhaust themselves with inquiry or implore you to change your mind, but when it comes down to it, if you stand firm with that simple explanation it’s a tough one to topple. As I finish my delicious duck, and my boyfriend flaps his arms and quacks at me, I decide to use it more often. Feel free to do the same.
Try it, you might like it.

Shut Up and Drive

I’m in a parking lot, on the phone with Preppy’s mother. I’m enlisting her aid in some undercover work.
“Oh, Topher darlin’, I just don’t know,” she says. “I know his shoe size, I used to know his waist size, but this… I just don’t know.”
“Well, there’s no way I can ask him without him knowing exactly what I’m doing.”
“Just let me think, honey. Okay, I can tell him we’re going through some of his Granddaddy’s things, seein’ if there’s anything he might want, and work it into the conversation. I’ll be real subtle.”
There’s a tap at my window. A humorless, boxy woman stands with a clipboard, looking impatient.
“Gotta go, Mama B. Make me proud.”
I hang up the phone and roll down the window.
“Please turn on your left turn signal,” she says, and I oblige.
I’ve spent a thrilling day at the Department of Driver Services, which was called the DMV the last time I was here. They changed their name, I’m assuming, to distance themselves from the DMV’s less-than-stellar reputation for customer service. Well, they could call themselves the Department of Unicorns and Blowjobs if they wanted to, but they’d still be a big pain in the ass.
I stopped driving several years ago, in part because I lived a block away from work and the hassle just seemed silly, and in part because of my belief, and this is an actual quote, that “Nobody in their right mind would pay $1.75 for gas.”

Silly me. If only I’d known.
So for roughly six years, I’ve walked or caught MARTA, or bummed rides from friends if we were going somewhere out of the ordinary. This worked just fine until our adventure in homelessness last fall, when Preppy and I stayed with friends in Smyrna, and he had to cart me back and forth to Atlanta every day. And he began to go a little crazy, like my mother when she’d tell my sister and me that her name was not “Taxi”. It was then that he suggested it might be convenient if I joined the ranks of licensed drivers once more. I resisted.
“Atlanta drivers are out for blood,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stamina to keep up anymore.”
“I know it’s scary, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re brave and bold and you can do it, now I'm gonna need you to go get your fucking license.”
I want to make something very, very clear: I do not want to drive. The whole image of the open road representing freedom and possibility? It does nothing for me. I don’t think cars are sexy. The whole enterprise just feels unsafe and expensive. But I cannot deny the appeal of a twenty-minute trip home by car, versus two interminable hours on MARTA. Besides, I can still convince Preppy to do most of the driving when we’re together- he just wants the option of not always being behind the wheel, maybe occasionally having a designated driver on a night out. But I know what this will lead to.

I’ll get the license, and then I’ll end up getting a car. And then I’ll have insurance to deal with, plus gas, which I think is like sixteen bucks a gallon now.
I can stress about it, or I can go with the flow. It’s a small concession I’m more than willing to make if it removes a little hassle from Preppy’s life. And that’s how I choose to view it: I’m in the car with this very stern woman, attempting to parallel park without wetting myself, as a gift to the boy I love.
That night, as I stare in slight disbelief at my driver’s license, my phone rings. It’s Preppy’s Mama.
“His ring size is ten and a half,” she says, delighted. “Did you already pick it out?”
“I saved a picture of it on my computer. I look at it ten times a day.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little. But we did just buy a house together, so I feel like it’s a safe bet, you know? I guess tomorrow I’ll drive over and get it.”
“Aw, you’ll DRIVE. That’s exciting! Things are certainly changing for you two!”
As I look at the ring with which I plan to propose, I realize Mama B has just made the understatement of the New Year.

Yours, Mine, and Ours

I was home by myself, a rare pleasure in the three weeks we’ve lived in the new house. My boyfriend Preppy has an impressive collection of skin and bath products, so I decided to put them to use and break in the bathtub with a nice long soak.
I found a big bottle of oil on Preppy’s shelf in the closet, identified as “Soothing Skin Care”. This sounded like exactly what the doctor had ordered, so I added a splash to the steaming water. Then, following my philosophy that more is always more, I added two, three, maybe eleven more splashes, and then I climbed in.

I was ready for some proper soothing. I love being soothed.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was not a soothing smell. You know the smell of the stuff the school janitor would pour on the floor when one of the kids threw up back in third grade? That was the smell.
And the itchy, burning sensation on my legs and feet? That was alarming. And again, not the least bit soothing.
I immediately reached over and drained the tub. Then I tried to stand up, but the oil slick that had been resting on top of the water now covered me and the porcelain. So I was flopping around in there like a fish in a barrel, grasping at anything I could for support, but failing so miserably.
I managed to free myself from the tub by swinging one leg over the side and crawling onto the floor. But even after taking a very thorough shower, I was still greasy and stinky. Plus I felt really guilty about wasting all that water, what with the city running out and all, especially since I’d recently convinced Preppy that we should shower together more in order to conserve. It was another one of my fumbling attempts at seduction, but he played along.
When Preppy came home a few hours later, he stopped mid-greeting and sniffed the air.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
“I used some of your bath oil, but it smelled awful. Plus, I think I’m allergic. Or it’s possible I used a little too much.”
He looked perplexed.
“Bath oil? I don’t own bath oil.”
“Sure you do. Soothing Skin Care. It was in the closet.”
After I told him this, I knew he wanted to explain something to me. As soon as he could catch a breath from laughing.
“Darlin’,” he said, wiping away tears. “That was concentrated insect repellant. We used to put it in a spray bottle when we went to Phish concerts.”
Well. That explained a few things.
When we bought the house, Preppy and I merged all of our possessions for the first time. There’s little dangers inherent in having a sudden influx of someone else’s stuff in your life. You’re forced to reconsider what’s still “Yours”, and what is now “Ours”. The toothpaste is shared, but we each have our own shampoo. Food is shared, but beer and vodka are more sensitive ground when supplies are low. Can I look at one of his photo albums when he’s not home, or would that feel like an invasion? Can we borrow each other’s clothes without asking, or would he prefer not to see me walk in the door wearing his Crazy Stripe sweater?
It’s impossible to address all of these things beforehand.

One would go mad with the minutia, plus in my case anything I was told not to open or touch would become an object of complete obsession, because it’s this THING in my HOUSE that I CAN’T OPEN OR TOUCH.
This might just be a trial and error scenario. Sometimes the only way to determine the location of a boundary is by stepping just beyond it. For example: Tonight I learned that I should probably not use any of Preppy’s bathroom stuff which he has not properly identified and cleared for my use. It’s the best way to avoid spending another afternoon sliding around naked in hippie bug spray.

The Closing Date

Step Number 906 in the purchase of a new house: A home inspection, in which you pay a qualified professional three hundred dollars to spend a few hours investigating your intended purchase. He examines every inch of the property, top to bottom, inside and out, and then presents you with a detailed report on his findings. I wish I’d had this guy’s number when I was still dating. I would’ve been spared a lot of frustration if I’d had him check out a few of my old boyfriends.
After you get your report, you send a little note over to the seller, with your requests for what needs to be fixed before you take possession of the house. Then the seller writes you back, either agreeing to take care of those things, or telling you to go screw yourself and buy your own damn outlet covers.
After that, it’s only a matter of time until your Closing Date. Anytime Preppy or I mention we’re buying a house, that’s the first question a current homeowner asks: “When’s your Closing Date?” It’s shorthand for, “I know this is the most stressful and mind-numbing experience you’ve ever been through. You lie in bed each night wondering how there could possibly be more to do and additional money to pay, and you can’t remember when the hell you had a conversation about anything but the goddamn house. What day have they assured you this shit will finally end?”
Our Closing Date is in two weeks. On that day, my boyfriend and I will receive the keys to the new house and retrieve the pod with all our stuff in it. On the Closing Date, these frustrations will pay off. There will be sunshine and blue skies. A herd of unicorns will frolic in our front yard on the Closing Date. If for some reason this does not happen, we will quit our jobs and become gypsies, selling elixirs from town to town out of a brightly-colored wagon.
This week, I took a much-needed break from house hell to celebrate my former roommate George’s birthday. When Preppy and I moved to our temporary digs in Smyrna, George got a little apartment in Decatur, which might as well be three states away considering how seldom we now see each other.
“How’s the apartment?” I ask, assuming my customary seat at the bar.
“Oh, darling,” sighed George. “Despite Virginia Woolf’s claims to the contrary, a room of one’s own is most overrated. No one visits, no one calls. I have a neighbor who drinks malt liquor out of a measuring cup, and I don’t think it’s to monitor his intake. And even worse, I have all this time… alone… with my thoughts. There should be a restraining order in place preventing that. Remember my old boyfriend from college? The man that got away? We’ve been e-mailing.”
“Ooh. That could be dangerous.”
“I know that! Now I sit there thinking about how I’m another year older, and I haven’t found anyone who made me happy like he did, and maybe it was just bad timing back then. Things didn’t really properly end between the two of us. Maybe I should go see him.”
“You’ve said that for years.”
“Yes, but now I think about it nonstop, because there’s too much quiet in my house. I need the clutter of people around to keep me from getting introspective! I don’t know what to do.”
“You should set a Closing Date on your relationship with him. Just mark a day on your calendar. By that date, you have to go see him and find out what happens. Or you’ll let him go and keep his memory to reflect upon in your twilight years. The Closing Date will either motivate you into action, or force you to drop it and move on.”
“You know, darling, there’s some logic to that.”
“And here’s the best part,” I continued. “After you set your Closing Date, if he’s interested, you get to submit your list of requested improvements.”
“I don’t know that he needs improving. Of course, I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Got it covered. I know a guy who can check him out for three hundred bucks.”

Pet Peeves

“I had a dream last night that someone told me eighty percent of lesbians have five-letter names,” says my sister Shannon on the phone. “And I think it’s true. Ellen, Rosie, Jodie, my friend Marcy… I know a lesbian named Heather, but I think she’s part of the other twenty percent.”
“Maybe it’s just eighty percent of the lesbians you know,” I say.
“That’s why I’m telling you. You can test it out better than I can, since you’ve got a bigger lesbian pool.”
“I can already report that you’re wrong.”
“Even still, I know you’ll be counting letters in names all day.”
Damn it, she’s right. I already am. Cindy, Laura, Katie… Hmm…
“SIMON!” Shannon screams into the phone.
“Jesus,” I say. “Warn me before you do that.”
“If I don’t find this damn dog before five o’ clock, my husband’s gonna kill me. I don’t understand how he got out.”
My sister is wandering through the woods behind her house, once again searching for one of her giant, unmanageable dogs. Their great escapes are a fairly common occurrence at her house, sometimes stretching well into the next day, before she or her husband will find their pony-sized canine rolling in a ditch somewhere, covered in mud, delighted by his freedom.
She brought this on herself.

They acquired each of their three dogs when they were tiny little puppies- adorable fuzzy little things who would gnaw on your finger and make cute puppy sounds. Then they grew into the hulking monsters they are today, but apparently nobody clued them in on the fact that they aren’t tiny little puppies anymore. They’re not stupid, really, they just lack self-awareness.
I grew up with a series of malcontented cats- fuzzy, angry lumps of fur that only seemed to bond with my father. One survives to this day. Chloe is nearly eighteen, arthritic and wicked. She hates my nephew, but is shrewd enough to recognize she cannot eliminate him without upsetting my parents, so she avoids him altogether. Cats don’t really DO anything, a feature my friend Slutty Mandy considers a fine selling point. She has two of them, and apparently they enjoy companionable silence. That idea bores me to tears, which is why I wanted a dog: An action pet. I would name him Benjamin. We could go for walks, and he’d greet me at the door, and do that thing where he sits beside me and puts his paw on my leg, saying, “Hey, Topher. I love you, man.” My dog-ownership fantasies stretch all the way back to childhood and are incredibly elaborate. I knew I’d have one eventually, but whenever I reported that to my boyfriend Preppy, he’d give me a funny look and say, “Okay… sure.”
Now I understand why. While we’re in the holding pattern of purchasing a house, Preppy and I have been living at his former home in Smyrna with his old roommates… and their dogs. Brutus is a Great Dane, with a powerful tail that always manages to whack one’s testicles as soon as one’s guard is down, rendering one breathless for about ninety seconds. Kaiser is a “Standard Poodle”, which confuses me because I thought the standard for poodles was small and yippy, with little bows on their ears. Kaiser defies this logic, standing nearly as tall as Brutus, though thankfully without a ball-busting tail.
They wrestle. They bark. They knock me over in the kitchen. They growl at the walls and bark at the pizza guy. They drop chew toys on my clean sheets.

And they slobber, leaving doorknobs dripping and lakes of saliva on the floor, awaiting unsuspecting bare feet.
This, I am now told, is the stark reality of being the parent of a dog. This isn’t to say the animals aren’t loveable. They’re really well-behaved, you know, for dogs. But it never occurred to me that in living with a canine, I would be sharing space with something that is messier and requires more attention than I do.
That simply cannot happen.
So my childhood fantasy of walks, rawhide bones, and the paw on the knee is tucked away, replaced by a new fantasy: one of clean floors, quiet nights, and being able to move freely about the house without one hand in front of my nuts. And as I listen to my sister crunching through the leaves, cursing her four-legged nemesis, I revel in the fact that this is not my future. That leaves me plenty of time for more important pursuits. Like counting lesbians.

Blessed Are the Peacemakers

When Preppy agreed to go on a weeklong vacation to a Smoky Mountain cabin with his family, we didn’t know we were going to be homeless. So now, in the midst of us living out of boxes and negotiating the rugged terrain of buying our first house, he has to leave. Since we’ve been crashing in Smyrna, and I don’t drive, that means I’ll be sleeping on the sofa at my pal Slutty Mandy’s until Preppy’s return. Now we’re both packing suitcases, which lately we’ve pretty much elevated to hobby status.
My family rarely took trips when I was a kid, for which I am eternally grateful.

That sort of forced togetherness in confined spaces is really just pulling the pin out of the grenade and waiting. Eventually, there’s gonna be an explosion. When I picture Preppy in a four-door truck with his father, mother, grandmother, two nieces, and a small dog, I feel whatever the opposite of envy is.
But Preppy is a peacemaker, one of those people who can diffuse a potentially bloodcurdling situation and get everybody laughing, which is probably why his mother was so insistent upon his coming along.
“They’ll be here to pick me up tomorrow morning at seven,” says Preppy. “And I hate to ask you to get up, but… Mama said they had to stop like every ten feet to let Granny or the dog or the girls go to the bathroom, so they’ll probably need to come in. I’ll need to straighten up.”
“The house looks fine.”
“No. I have to straighten up. My sister hasn’t told her kids about me. Or about you.”
He gestures to the photographs of us together throughout the room. We’d put them out so it would feel more like home.
“Well,” I say. “You do what you need to do.”
Preppy studies my expression, but says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I continue. “It’s your family, not mine. It’s not my place to give an opinion here.”
“Thank you,” he says, and we resume packing and a new subject.
The nieces in question are a couple of pre-teens, who are unfortunately falling victim to the common parental misconception that children are incapable of evaluating and forming opinions about the people in their lives. I’m certain they’ve noticed Uncle Preppy isn’t married, has never had a girlfriend, and isn’t the hunt-and-fish type of man they know back in Mississippi. If they don’t know right now, they will soon, and all this secrecy is accomplishing is cementing the idea in their minds that something is wrong with him, which deserves to be hidden. Those girls aren’t being protected from anything. They’re just being given something to be very confused about later.
But Preppy is a peacemaker.

He wants this trip to go as smoothly as possible, and this is one concession he’s willing to make in the pursuit of his goal. I am not a peacemaker. I am usually referred to as a troublemaker. The anti-peacemaker. I tend to have very strong opinions about what is right, and what is wrong, and if it makes people happy, so much the better. But if it makes them unhappy, that is their cross to bear, because it’s still what’s right.
When I wake up the next morning, Preppy is already showered and dressed. The pictures of us are all missing. I could say something. I could say, “This hurts,” or, “This is the first time I feel like you’re not taking my side.” But I’ve got twenty minutes left with my man before we spend a week apart, and that’s not how I want to spend it.
I report on all of this to Slutty Mandy as I’m putting sheets on her sofa that night.
“It’s hard for me,” I say. “I want the people who love me to pick sides, and I want that side to be mine.”
“It’s not about sides,” she replies. “It could be an issue of timing. If his sister’s got some homophobic issues, he might have determined the best time to address it wasn’t with her daughters while she’s not even there. Picture if all you wanted was five minutes to take a pee and instead you find out your uncle’s a queer.”
“But you agree it should be addressed.”
“Of course. Later. And I’m very proud of you for not choosing to make it an issue at that precise moment. You’re showing progress, my love.”
So, I might not be a peacemaker, but I live with one, and I’m learning. Slowly.

Taking the Leap

It’s my boyfriend Preppy’s birthday, and we’re seated in a plane awaiting takeoff. There’s the little surge of excitement, because this is the first time we’ve flown anywhere together. It’s one of those tiny puddle-jumper planes, like celebrities fly after they’ve gotten their pilot’s license. I half expect Patrick Swayze or Angelina Jolie to step out of the cockpit and sign autographs for the passengers.

Thinking of Angelina makes me remember to add “A Mighty Heart” to my Netflix queue when I get home. I meant to see it in theatres, but I went to see that movie with the talking rats instead. I felt awful about it at the time, because I knew “A Mighty Heart” was a more important film, and I try to support such things, but those damn talking rats were funny.
“You wanna go get margaritas later?” asks Preppy.
“Anything you want, it’s your day.”
He smiles.
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Wanna move into my house?”
“Absolutely.”
This is the five-hundredth time I’ve asked him this question since I made the official offer a week ago. I keep asking because I like it so much when he says yes again.

Preppy is kind enough to indulge me.
When The Ex moved in with me, it was because he was on summer break from college and had to move out of the dorms. We figured we’d try it for a few months, and if it was a complete disaster, he could move back on campus when the new semester started. All of his worldly possessions amounted to one carload: His clothes, a computer, some photos, bathroom stuff. He might have owned a coffee mug. The first summer we were together, we went six weeks without electricity because neither of us could afford the bills. That’s the beautiful thing about being nineteen, in love, and kinda stupid- You can still romanticize all of these glaring deficiencies.
But, as trips to the bar so painfully remind me, I am not nineteen anymore.
This is totally different. Preppy has his own home and life up in Smyrna. A move will require actual planning, and a truck of some kind. Various agencies will be notified of a new address. Phrases like “Will my hutch fit in the dining room?” are being bandied about. We’re two grown men, making a very big decision: We’ve learned from past experience that once you move in, there’s never going to be a time that you DON’T live together again… unless you’re no longer together. So is renting a U-Haul tempting fate in some way? Should we leave well enough alone and maintain separate households, even though he goes back to his place roughly once every two weeks?
When Preppy and I started dating, I came to the realization that I had spent two years being very careful approaching relationships, because I didn’t want to be hurt again. This policy had unfortunately led to a series of men who felt that I was always holding something back, keeping them at a safe distance. I had to learn the difficult lesson that a life lived without risk tends to be a life without much joy.
So we’re taking the risk.
“Okay, gentlemen, we’re at fourteen thousand feet, let’s go!”
The guy at the front of the plane gestures to Preppy and me, and we are shoved forward by the men seated behind us.
“Baby, I love you, this is the best present ever!” says Preppy. I don’t have time to respond, however.
Because my boyfriend just jumped out of the fucking plane.
If you ever want to know how you really feel about someone, I encourage you to experience the sight of their body falling towards Earth at 140 miles per hour. There’s no time to think, just react. We’ve already established that whatever adventures lie ahead will be experienced together. So I fall out after him, into the open sky, an odd cocktail of terror and exhilaration overwhelming me as I burst through clouds and the cities below come into view. Then the chute opens, I snap back up, and I’m fine. Delighted, actually. I float along, enjoying cool breeze on my face, another fear conquered. It’s a little easier letting go now, safe in the knowledge that someone’s waiting for me when I reach the ground.

Style and Substance

“Oh, would you look at that! I’ve never seen that before!”
I grinned at the tiny woman sitting in front of me, proudly displaying my t-shirt.
“I made it myself,” I said. “Would you sign it for me?”
“Sign your shirt!” she exclaimed, delighted. “Oh, I feel like a rock star!”
The photo on my t-shirt was of her, laughing broadly, wearing a hat with a giant sunflower. Below, I’d included a quote of hers I loved: “I laugh much, much more than I cry.” She giggled as she grasped a pink Sharpie between her talon-like acrylic nails.
She signed, “Love, Tammy Faye.”
I was at Outwrite bookstore, for Tammy Faye’s signing of her perkily-titled book “I Will Survive… and You Will Too!”. The place was packed like I’d rarely seen, and when she faced her admirers, she was overwhelmed. She thanked the room for the love we showed her. The crowd was mostly gay, which was hardly surprising. Tammy Faye was fabulous and warm-hearted. You know you’re a gay icon when Bernadette Peters plays you in your life story. She sang, she spoke of her life with wonder and gratitude, and had us eating out of the palm of her outrageously manicured hand.
“You did such a good job on that shirt! I need that picture! It’s beautiful!” she said. Everything she said was an exclamation, a glorious idea dawning on her that must be shared.
She had her husband give me an address, and the next day I mailed her a copy on glossy paper. She sent me a note of thanks a month later, apologizing profusely for how long it had taken to thank me for my gift, but she’d been promoting her book. She also told me she was certain I was “A blessing to many, many people.”

Coming from someone like her, I considered that high praise indeed.
I saw the interview on Larry King last week and knew we wouldn’t have her for much longer. The image of Tammy Faye was heartbreaking. She had, as always, made an effort, despite the cancer that had left her weighing just 65 pounds. Her ever-present wig and makeup were firmly in place, as she was facing her public, and wanted to look her best. Speaking was a tremendous challenge, and she was in obvious agony. Yet when King asked her how she was doing (which, by the way, is an absurd question to ask someone on hospice care with terminal cancer), she gave a half-smile and responded, “Oh, pretty good, Larry, considering.”
That’s how she faced every challenge in life: The eternal optimist, willing to look past whatever horrors she faced, and see a bright future before her. Her unwavering faith carried her through having it all and then losing it, watching two husbands go to prison, battles with her own drug dependencies, and enduring years of being a public punchline. But she used every single one of those challenges as a new opportunity to reach out to others. She invited people suffering from AIDS complications on her PTL talk show during a time when Ronald Reagan would not utter the word. She never used her faith as a weapon against others, instead utilizing it as a tool to build understanding between communities. She saw goodness and hope in everyone, even Jerry Falwell, who had orchestrated her family’s downfall and publicly derided her in the name of God.
Tammy Faye was, sadly, a rare creature: A nationally-respected and recognized Christian who genuinely wanted to heal and unite us all. She was a woman who respected people with beliefs or lives different from her own, did not judge, and was standing at the ready to embrace anyone in need.
In that interview with Larry King, on what would turn out to be the last night of her life, Tammy Faye thanked the gay community for coming to her rescue when she had lost everything, and sent her love. My hope is that we will honor this remarkable woman by following the example of her bravery: To seek out what is good and true in life, to find room in our hearts to accept those who would deride us, and to find the substance beneath our own style.

While You Were Sleeping

I’m lying in my bed with my boyfriend Preppy, enjoying that lovely fuzzy place just before I fall asleep. There’s freshly laundered sheets that smell like gardenias, and I’m curled up with a man I adore.
I am officially content.
Then, just as I’m drifting off, a deafening noise pierces the silence, akin to someone starting a chainsaw next to my head. I bolt upright and look over, already knowing the source: Preppy is snoring.
Careful not to disturb his peaceful slumber, I roll him over on his side, which stops the chainsaw, replacing it with what I’ve come to call “The Death Rattle”. Sometimes the Rattle only lasts a few minutes before it subsides. No such luck tonight. I tilt his head forward. I stare at him and silently demand he stop this racket right now. The Rattle continues, supplemented by the sound the spit-sucker makes when you go to the dentist.
I rub his back and say, “Shhhh,” very gently. Then I say “Shhh,” a little less gently. And I shove him a little.
“Wha, huh?” says Preppy.
“You were snoring, baby.”
“Were you shushing me?”
“I was out of ideas. I thought it might make you stop.”
“How? I’m not doing it on purpose!”
“I know, I know,” I say. “Go back to sleep. Sorry.”
He floats back to his dreams. The Rattle returns, defiantly, with renewed vigor. I put a pillow over my head and pray for sleep.
On the phone the next day, my sister Shannon tells me to try lightly pinching his nostrils. It worked on her husband. So in bed that night, when the chainsaw massacre begins anew, I reach over and very carefully pinch his nose. It works! He instantly stops snoring. I want to dance a little jig, so great is my joy in this moment. Until I realize Shannon’s trick didn’t simply make Preppy stop snoring. He’s also not breathing.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus,” I think. “I killed my boyfriend.”
I shake him, which gives him a good jump start, his mouth falls slack, and a new instrument is added to the bedtime symphony: Sort of a mournful, moose-like sound. I decide this is my karmic punishment for trying to murder him in his sleep, put the pillow back on my head, and fail to sleep much.
The next morning, my roommate George notes that I’m unusually grumpy.
“Your reaction to this snoring business is beginning to concern me,” says George.
“Have you ever slept with a man that snores?” I ask.
“Darling, I’ve encountered every deficiency known to mankind. There were a few that snored. I thought it was kinda cute.”
“No, George. Golden retriever puppies with giant paws are cute. Sleep apnea is just frustrating. Plus it’s not good for him. I’m thinking of his welfare.”
“Bullshit, you’re thinking of your beauty rest. Personally, I think you just need to learn to sleep through it and accept that there are some things you can’t control.”
I’m really trying to do that, I swear. A few days before, I’d run across one of Preppy’s T-shirts in my bedroom. It was a Larry the Cable Guy shirt that said “Git Ur Done”. My first instinct upon finding it was to, of course, set it on fire in the back yard and play dumb later. And I know when I was with The Ex, that’s exactly what I would have done. That poor man lost half his wardrobe, item by item, when we started dating. My instinct anytime I run across something I don’t like is to make it go away immediately. I didn’t want to repeat those mistakes, so I folded the “Git Ur Done” t-shirt, and put it in his drawer.
Now, faced with the snoring quandary, I’m once again battling the question of whether to try and fix something, or accept it and let it go. I really wish there was an easy reference guide for relationships that I could consult in these scenarios. But, left to my own devices, I decide that I’m probably just adjusting to having someone sleeping in my bed on a regular basis, and with time I’ll get used to my bellowing boyfriend. I don’t need to force this issue. But there’s not any harm in picking up some Breathe-Right strips and casually leaving them on his side of the bed, just in case he’d like to try them out.

House Rules

When I was little, I’d always picture getting away from Mississippi, and then one day returning with pride and confidence, as a success. In a perfect scenario, I’d be in the back of a big limousine, maybe wearing a fur coat, like Reba at the end of the “Fancy” video.
Next month, I experience a small measure of that moment when I travel to see one of my plays produced by a theatre back home. After I announced the production to my friends, it didn’t take long before a road trip was planned. So this July, George, Slutty Mandy, my boyfriend Preppy, and I are Mississippi-bound. I fully expect the crowd to grow as we get closer to the event.
Preppy is the first guy I’ve ever dated from my home state of Mississippi, so it’ll be a nice visit home for him too. We grew up not far from each other, and know all the same landmarks. It’s a fun thing, saying stuff like, “You know, over where the Shoney’s is on County Line Road?” and having him nod along. He knows it well.

Every kid who ever went to Jackson with their grandparents and had supper at 5:00 knows that Shoney’s.
My Mama and I are notorious over-planners, so something like this launches us into the stratosphere.
“I need you to find out if anyone has any food allergies,” Mama informed me in a recent conversation. “And your Daddy’s gonna fire up the grill! Goodness, I hope we have enough beds for everyone.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll bring sleeping bags if we need to. And Preppy’s staying with his parents at least one night.”
“Oh!” she said. “I just assumed he’d be staying with them every night.”
“Well, he’ll wanna be where all our friends are.”
“Naturally. You know you two can’t share a bed, of course.”
“We understand that. Your house. No problem.”
“And since you’re both from Mississippi, I don’t have to tell you that you’ll need to behave appropriately while you’re here.”
Oh, boy. It’d been a while since we’d had this conversation. When I was still with The Ex, there was an endless list of rules and restrictions that we were expected to adhere to whenever we visited my parents. Included in the mix: no holding hands, no kissing, no hugging... basically if we could make it appear that we hadn’t been properly introduced, it would really make everyone more comfortable. We endured that for a few years, until a showdown during Christmas planning that led to us spending our holidays alone. We were just tired of making concessions for other people’s intolerance. After we broke up, I started going home again. Our relationship continued to improve. In fact, it’s better than it’s ever been.
But now there’s a boyfriend again.
“I’m going to need you to clarify what you think of as ‘appropriate’, Mama.”
“Oh, you know. There’s just some things that make me prickly, Son. I even have to look away when those boys kiss on Brothers and Sisters, and…”
“Just stop. Listen to me. I am not a TV show. I am your son. We won’t share a bed, because that’s not a big deal for us, and we won’t have any makeout sessions because that’s just tacky. But that’s it. We will hold hands, we will embrace, we will sit together, and I will tell him I love him. And when you see that happen, you can look at me and remind yourself that after I went through cancer treatment three times, and all the crap we’ve both survived, thank God you have the chance to see me alive and happy. And that I’ve found someone who loves me as much as he does. I swear if you can’t get over your own bullshit and do that, you’re gonna see a whole lot less of me. We are not going down this road again. House rules have changed.”
Mama said she understood.
My childhood dream was to come home with pride and confidence in who I’d become. And you know what?

I think I’m finally doing it.

Town and Country

“Toothbrush, moisturizer, cigarettes, lube…”
I’m in my bedroom, packing my overnight bag as my friends George and Slutty Mandy observe from the bed. My new fella, Preppy, has been staying over at my place consistently for the last few weeks, but I’ve yet to stay at his house. So tonight I’m having my first sleepover in Smyrna. It’s rare occurrence, me leaving the city limits, but Preppy wants me to meet his friends.
“You’re going to change, aren’t you?” asks George.
“What’s wrong? This shirt makes my arms look good.”
“Yes it does,” says Slutty Mandy. “At WetBar or Mary’s. But it’s a bit too overtly gay for the suburbs.”
“We’re going to his bar. He’s introducing me as the guy he’s dating. It’s not like I’m trying to fly under the radar here.”
“Darling,” says George. “We’re thinking of your safety. I’ve heard of these Outside-the-Perimeter types, seen them on the news. Don’t hold hands or kiss. In fact, you two should really be on opposite sides of the room.”
“Y’all, he’s not taking me to Petticoat Junction. It’s Smyrna. Julia Roberts is from there.”
“Yes,” says George. “But she left. Now put on something from The Gap.”
Apparently Preppy is the token gay in his group of friends. I was already anxious about making a good first impression, but now George and Slutty Mandy have me terrified. What if their reaction to me is similar to Middle America’s general response to gays? They like us witty and clean and completely devoid of all sexuality, like Ellen Degeneres or the guys from Queer Eye. The Smyrna friends might have been fine with having their one gay buddy, but when presented with firm evidence that he’s actually engaging in man-on-man action on a regular basis, would their heterosexual suburban values rebel? Would it all just be a bit too icky for their taste?
We’re waiting on the porch when Preppy arrives to collect me. George gives me a hug.
“Don’t hesitate to call if things get ugly,” he says.
We arrive at Preppy’s bar of choice, a standard-issue Applebee’s type place, anchoring the corner of a shopping center and filled with frat boys and their Express-clad blondes. We are instantly assaulted by a group of squealing women who end every sentence with an exclamation point.
“Oh my Gawd! You’re Topher! You’re so cute! I love you! Come do shots with us!”
We’re off to a good start. Everybody seems to be getting along great. After a few rounds of shots, Preppy puts his head on my shoulder, a sweet gesture. It’s a gesture that does not go unnoticed, as I spot a twentysomething with a buzz cut giving us the stink eye from across the room. Then Preppy leans in and kisses my neck, which launches the guy across the room out of his chair, making an irate beeline for us. I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation.
But before the Buzz Cut can complete his approach, a giant linebacker type intercepts, blocking him from reaching us.
“Dude,” says Linebacker. “You got a fuckin’ problem?”
I cannot hear the response to this question, but I can see that Buzz Cut is quickly being reduced to a quivering puddle of goo.
“Nobody else here has a problem,” says Linebacker, leaning in close. “I think YOU’RE the problem.”
Realizing that this exchange has drawn the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Buzz Cut gives us a final angry look before heading off to another part of the bar. Linebacker walks over to Preppy and me.
“It’s cool,” he says. “My brother’s gay. Anybody gives you shit, you come get us.”
And then he shakes my hand and rejoins his table of cheering frat boys and dishy blondes, who collectively are my new favorite people in the world. I turn back to Preppy and give him a real kiss, beginning to understand why he likes this place so much.
It’s always great to hang out at gay bars, among our own kind, and paw each other as much as we want. But there’s a true sense of pride that comes with showing affection at a random straight bar in the suburbs, and finding unexpected allies willing to defend our right to do it. Thanks, y’all.

Ring the Alarm

I set four alarm clocks every night, because I live in mortal fear of oversleeping and missing something major I was expected to accomplish the next day. So I love Sundays. A lot. It’s the only morning that I’m slowly lulled out of sleep by sunlight filling the bedroom, and it always feels like a minor victory.
Last Sunday, I rolled over in bed to find Preppy still asleep. It was the morning after our fourth date, or fifth if you count an afternoon that we grabbed a few hours together before seeing each other again that night. Preppy had joined George and me on an outing to our bar, and I’d introduced him to several of my friends. To my great relief, everyone seemed to connect really well (the last few men in my life have not quite met with my friends’ approval, a fact they made painfully obvious). At one point, my friend Nick pulled me aside.
“Topher, we like him. Really,” said Nick. “Would you please try not to fuck this up?”
“I always try not to,” I said.
“Okay, well, whatever it is you normally do, DON’T DO THAT.”
Which, when you think about it, was pretty sound advice.
So Sunday morning, I went to the sink and did that thing where you brush your teeth and wash your face before crawling back into bed, so that when he wakes up he thinks you always look amazing. And then I laid there, watching him sleep, amazed by my own good fortune.
I think this boy’s sensational. I’ve never experienced the whole can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other business, getting all goofy when he’s around, developing an instant rapport. It’s kinda tremendous. He even gets along with my friends. I mean, my God, my roommate George likes him. And George doesn’t like ANYBODY. And what’s more, when he says he thinks I’m amazing, I actually believe him.
And as I laid there, considering all this, I felt a wave of new and unexpected emotion rising inside of me.

It was a feeling I was completely unprepared to face.
And that feeling was cold panic.
It was like a fire alarm going off in my head. I realized with horror that I wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever. Eventually, there’ll be a morning that he wakes up before I do, and he sees me all bleary-eyed and icky. Or I’m gonna have one of my patented neurotic fits (like the one I was having at the moment), and Preppy will realize I’m not nearly as sweet or together or amazing as I managed to make him believe in those first few weeks or months. And what then? Would he run screaming? Plenty of others had. Should I be bracing myself for that eventuality?
Some little voice in my head spoke up.
“Why not, darling?” Little Voice said. “It’s what you always do.”
Little Voice sounded like George. Little Voice was a bitch.

But Little Voice had a point. When it ended with The Ex two years ago, it hurt. A lot. And I didn't bounce back very fast. And in the time that's passed since, I’ve always been hopeful about finding someone new, but there was a certain part of me that held back, steeling myself for the ending. And when the ending came, I took it really well… because deep down, I’d been expecting it all along. I knew that the one time I really worked on a relationship with someone, that’s all it ended up being: work. And I was devastated by the failure. I couldn't imagine willingly placing myself in a position to go through that all over again. But I had to accept that the reason things ended that way was because I was with the wrong person.
Maybe Preppy would turn out to be the right guy, or maybe he wouldn’t. But the hard truth of it was, I’d never be able to really love someone again if I was too busy shielding myself from potential pain.
So that morning, I gave myself permission to relinquish a little control. I decided to take a chance, and see what happens. If I end up getting hurt, I know I can take it. I’ve survived worse.

And I think he might be worth the risk.

Then I rolled over and went back to sleep, because it was Sunday. There were no alarms going off, and there wasn’t a thing in the world to do except curl up with the boy in my bed.

Road Hazards

As a taxpaying, hardworking citizen of Atlanta, I would like to lodge a public complaint.

YOU BITCHES GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROAD BAND-AIDS.

I have no idea what the hell they’re doing that requires them to put thirty of ‘em down in a row and leave them untouched for a week, but it is preposterous. Now, I don’t personally drive a car, so I’m not at great risk of property damage, but when road band-aids start affecting my sex life, this has just gone too fucking far.
This requires a little backstory.
Friday night at the bar. I didn’t even spot the preppy boy with pretty eyes until my roommate George was standing at the exit jangling his car keys. Time was not on my side.
“Five minutes,” I begged. “A guy just made eyes at me.”
“Absolutely not,” said George. “This bar is dead to me. There will be other men with eyes at our next stop.”
“One minute!”
“I will leave you, Topher!”
So I grabbed his keys and ran directly to Preppy, who was standing with a pretty girl. I had an instant of pause, thinking he might be a straight guy out with his girlfriend (have y’all noticed there’s a lot more of those lately? What’s goin’ on there?), but this was no time to finesse or hesitate. I knew George would be back to tackle me for his keys at any moment. And he’d get ‘em back, too. George may be a skinny thing, but he fights dirty.
“Hey,” I said to Preppy. “I swear I would normally spend the next hour flirting with you, but my ride is ready to try his luck elsewhere so I gotta go. But you’re really cute and I’d like your number. Assuming you might be interested. And that she’s not your girlfriend.”
“That’s really sweet,” he said. And then he kissed me, which is a really great way to let someone know you’re interested. Then I got his number, and his NAME, which usually comes before the kiss, but who says there’s rules to these things?
George tapped me on the shoulder.
“Give me my damn keys, you trollop,” said George. “We’ll stay. But you owe me.”
I spent the night fawning over Preppy, right up until the lights came up at closing, which is always so disorienting and leaves everyone scrambling like blinded lab rats. I said goodnight, and found George outside, already sitting in the car with the engine running. He opened the window.
“I assumed you wouldn’t be home tonight,” he said.
“He offered, but I’ve got a lot of work tomorrow and stuff. I told him to call me. Now unlock the door.”
“Darling, really, you should go home with him. You’re so much easier to live with when you’ve gotten laid.”
I wavered.
“Well, it’s too late now. I already said goodnight.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” said George, who then threw the car in drive and peeled off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.
I ran back around to the front of the bar, where I found Preppy getting in his car. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and smiled.
“Change your mind?”
“My roommate ditched me because I turned you down.”
“Wow. I like your roommate. Come on, I’ll take you to your house.”
“No,” I said. “Your house is fine.”
George was right. This would be great. A good time to be had by all. Preppy was gainfully employed, funny, had his own place… this was very, very good.
Or, it would have been. A road band-aid was lying askew over the gaping maw that was once Monroe Drive. Preppy’s car managed to hit it just wrong, causing the tire to rip to shreds on impact. I’m pretty handy in these scenarios (pedestrians should always know simple auto repair or nobody will ever offer you a ride), so I broke out the spare and changed his tire.
But by the time everything was said and done, we were filthy, pissed, and exhausted. The moment just didn’t scream romance anymore. Fuck you, road band-aid.
So someone, I’m not sure exactly who, but I’m gonna Google it, should be held responsible. Mayor Shirley Franklin? The Pothole Posse? I’ll find out. And when I do, I expect some assistance. Because y’all made me miss out on potentially good sex here, and George will tell you: I’m gonna be impossible to live with until that changes.

The Domino Effect

My bank statement came in the mail the other day, so I sat down for the sobering ritual of re-living the last month through my impulse purchases. When my roommate got home, I had thoughts to share.
“George,” I said. “I don’t think I’m spending wisely.”
“Certainly not on your wardrobe,” George replied.
“For real. I think I’m putting at least three bartenders through night school. If I’d saved up all the money I’ve wasted buying cocktails for people who never talked to me again, I could have bought myself one hell of a male escort by now. At least he’d be a sure thing, and probably teach me some new stuff.”
“This is true.”
While I haven’t quite reached the point of engaging the services of a professional, I felt like I was getting a glimpse of what eventually leads people to make such decisions. You know the drill. You get all dressed up in your graphic tee and your nice-ass pants, carefully craft properly tousled hair, and head out to your bar of choice feelin’ all cute. You’ve got hopes. Not HIGH hopes, because you’re no fool. Just hopes. And you talk to the same people, or nobody at all, and you sip your drink while scanning the room looking a little too alert, like a wary Chihuahua. And as much as you claim you’re there because you like the music, or you just came for the show, YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE THERE. At some point you realize tonight won’t be your magic night, you go home, take off your cute little outfit, and go to bed convincing yourself that eventually something different will happen.
But then you have that same night a few dozen times, or maybe a few hundred, and you ask yourself, “What if something different isn’t going to happen? What if, for now, this is all I’ve got to work with?”
A few nights later, George came in from the gym and found me in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine. He gave me a quizzical look.
“Slutty Mandy’s coming over,” I announced. “We’re gonna play dominoes and drink Chablis. You in?”
“But it’s Tuesday, darling. You haven’t missed a Tuesday at the bar in… well, ever.”
“Precisely,” I said. “I need something different to happen. Anything. Plus, I’m broke. So you wanna play or not?”
“You should know,” said George. “I’m frighteningly good at dominoes.”
Within a few hours, George proved this was true by handing Mandy and me our respective asses. We took our losses very well, most likely thanks to the Chablis.
“So,” said Mandy as we set up again. “Whatever happened to that boy you climbed a mountain with?”
“Abducted by aliens. Kidnapped and dumped in a desert. Something like that.”
“Is that why we’re hiding out tonight?” she asked. “Some guy stopped calling and you needed to lick your wounds?”
“No. It’s all of it. The perpetual cycle I’m on lately. It’s not just this one boy. I mean, they ALL pull the same shit. They ALL just stop calling. It’s only a matter of when.”
Sudddenly, I was mortified.
“Oh my God. Do I sound bitter?”
“Not bitter, darling, just experienced,” George explained. “You’re right. Things go along just fine, you think it’s safe to get a little interested, and then, POOF, they’re gone.”
“And if you run into them in public,” I continued. “It’s like y’all never went out in the first place. He’ll do that pleasant-but-chilly thing that bank tellers do. It’s Gay Dating Amnesia, it is a rampant crisis, and sweet Jesus, someone needs to find a cure.”
“There should be public service announcements,” said Mandy. “Neil Patrick Harris could do them. ‘Talk to your doctor about Gay Dating Amnesia. Together we can find a cure.’”
“So what do we do?” I asked. “How do we change the outcome?”
“What else can you do, babe?” said Mandy, gesturing to the dominoes. “You take a break, get back in the game, and if luck’s on your side, you’re bound to win eventually. That’s how you’ll get a boyfriend, and how I’m about to kick George’s pansy ass at dominoes.”
Slutty Mandy said this with such authority, I couldn’t help but believe her.

If the Shoe Fits

I’m standing in a ballroom at the prestigious Capitol Club, wearing my good suit and a pair of George’s shoes. It’s best if I stand still. I wear a size 13 1/2 wide. George is a 10 narrow. It took me twenty minutes to get these loafers on, feeling not unlike one of Cinderella’s stepsisters. I’m becoming increasingly concerned that at any moment the shoes will give up the fight and explode, freeing my giant feet from their confines and drawing no end of unwanted attention.
I have a standard policy that I will not wear dress shoes unless someone’s dead, but George insisted this occasion called for decorum. I was persuaded, but for only one woman in the world:

Martha Stewart is less than ten feet away from me.
My friend Rich had a ticket to the reception in Martha’s honor. He managed to get me in, knowing that if he invited anyone else, I would set myself on fire.
We’re moments away from actually meeting her. I can’t tell if my shortness of breath is from nerves, or my suspicion that my feet are actually bleeding at this point.
And here we come to a helpful hint: If your shoes are so small that they’re causing you to limp, just accept the limp and go with it. If you attempt to overcompensate and walk normally, you will end up looking like you’re doing the Mashed Potato, which is fine if it’s 1963, or you’re partying at Little Richard’s house, but will do you no favors at a cocktail party for the Eva Peron of housekeeping.
Rich says she’s ready for us, and I do my crazy wiggle dance across the room. Martha’s had some wine, she’s loose and funny, very warm. She shakes my hand. I resist the urge to hug her. This is a big moment for me. And yet, as she speaks with us, I have one thought running through my head:

“AAARGH! MY FUCKING FEET! OH MY GOD!”
I certainly cannot remove my shoes, and I don’t want to walk away from Martha (when would I ever have this chance again?), but I’m freakin’ dying here. So, for lack of a better idea, I drop to my knees in front of her, kneeling on the floor. I do this as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, perhaps a quaint local custom no one mentioned. My relief is instantaneous. And as a testament to her class and unflappable nature, Martha continues the conversation without ever noting that one of us is now possibly preparing to do a little yoga. Rich takes his cue from Martha, keeping eye contact with her, I look up smiling at both, and we all pretend I’m not doing this. But then our audience with the Domestic Diva has ended, and I missed most of it worryin’ about my damn shoes.
Later, I’m barefoot at the bar, recounting the story for George and Nick as I nurse my bloody, blistered feet, when I’m interrupted by Nick’s phone. We groan in unison when he shows us the text message he’s received.
“R U IGNORING ME?”
“That’s number six for the day, boys,” says Nick. “And I haven’t responded once.”
“That poor man,” says George. “He should try to preserve a little dignity.”
“What am I going to do about this guy? He was okay, it just wasn’t a good fit. And now he’s creeping me out,” Nick says, genuinely distraught. Nick is much nicer than we are.
“Oh, hand me the phone,” I say, reaching. “I can put a stop to this. Driving men away is one of my marketable skills.”
Nick resists, still holding out hope that he can let this relentless suitor down gently. I wish I could show this guy my feet, because I’d have such a great visual aid for my little life lesson: If something doesn’t fit, do not try to force it. You’ll only put yourself through unnecessary pain and risk ruining something really great.
I doubt Nick’s suitor would see the paralell, but I plan to keep it in mind.
And that’s a Good Thing.