Faithful Readers: It's baaaack! "Gay, Gayer, Gayest...THE REVENGE!" Here's a few more gems, culled from emails, stories told first hand, and some pulled from the comments of the original post. They sparkle with a glittery gay light. Enjoy.
Lee @ Skittles, Colorful And Tart
One: Trying on my mothers old fancy dresses in the basement at age 11 or 12. Putting on the velvet and crinoline and taffeta and spinning around to to watch the skirts twirl. I remember wanting beautiful clothes like that.
Two: Wanting a Barbie for Christmas at age 7.
And can you believe it took me until 30 to accept it in myself?
Anonymous #1
Okay, I think this is very gay: About 10 years ago when I was 19/20 and I had my parent's house to myself, I would practice my "runway." There was a very long hallway between my room and theirs, so I would set up a full length mirror on the furthest wall in their room, crank up the my latest house music or techno tape and walk back and forth and emulate all the big girls from the time: Christy, Linda, Naomi, Kate, Amber, Shalom & Kirsty as they walked for Versace, Helmut Lang, John Galliano and Chanel. I had all their walks and turns down, esp. after studying countless numbers of hours of "Fashion TV with Jeannie Becker" and "Style with Elsa Klench." And no I never put on a dress or heels (and never wanted to) and every now and then I would even pretend I was one of the cool guys on the runway, but that got boring quick. I've put the runway behind me, but every now and then I catch myself walking like Giselle or Caroline Ribeiro or Michelle Hicks. Yeah, I know....sooooo gay.
Anonymous #2
GAY - I begged my parents for a Miss Piggy handpuppet until they finally broke and bought it for me. I was 11 years old. GAYER - One of my favorite activities as an 11 year old boy was to give that Miss Piggy hand puppet a lavish makeover. She had gorious blonde hair and a rubber face perfect for my mothers Cover Girl. GAYEST - I would often transform her into Joan Crawford Piggy.
Ensie @ Both Hands
Gayest moment #1: Being a Girl Scout counselor and attending an Indigo Girls concert with 18 of my fellow lesbian counselors the year I came out. And singing along. To every song. Every. Single. One.
Gayest moment #2: Driving at midnight from San Diego to an after-hours club in LA, dancing until 8am and drinking breakfast at a local bar. My friends and I then attended the Long Beach Pride celebration. This whole adventure was fueled by really bad crystal meth snorted in the porta poties(!) and a couple of tabs of E. I spent the next two days unable to sleep, dehydrated, and totally nauseous. Ahhh--the memories!
Ghost @ Ghost Of A Good Thing
My gayest moment was retold to me by my sister. Shortly after I came out in college, she and I were having lunch and she asked me if I remembered how much I loved Strawberry Shortcake when I was little. "Ummm, yeah I do." was my response. I was a little embarrassed by the her saying that at the time. God if I only knew what was going to come out of her mouth next. "When you were six you used to run through the house with your Strawberry Shortcake comforter screaming 'Bruce Springsteen is so HOT!' 'Bruce Springsteen is so HOT!' Having just come out to my sister a few weeks earlier I was mortified. So basically the gayest thing I've ever done happened when I was SIX YEARS OLD! It's a huge laugh now but I could have jumped in front of a bus when she said that to me!!
Horndog @ A Rat's Ass
The gayest thing I've ever done was on New Year’s eve 2002. I went to a sexparty at a penthouse in Manhattan with a view of Times square, and fucked in the freezing cold outside on the balcony wearing only combat boots and a black full length faux-fur coat while watching the ball drop at midnight. But then again who hasn’t?
Sam @ Mad Life
Three years ago, at work, I jerked off in a stall in the restroom while letting the janitor watch. He was about 50, Mexican and didn't speak a lick of English. He loved it. But I know he told all his Spanish-speaking-only janitorial friends because when I got my lunch at the cafeteria, they'd all be sitting around a table staring at me wide-eyed with half smiles like they were gossiping. I just smiled back.
Riley @ Life Of Riley McCarthy
This isn't my story. It belongs to my friend Emory. I mentioned it to Boysbriefs Chris, and I thought I would post it here. Once, in the '70s, Emory hosted an orgy at his lake house in honor of his friend Liberace's return to Atlanta. As Emory put it, "Miss Liberace" had Emory hide his usual jewelry in a vent in his house so that it wouldn't get lost during the orgy. The next day, Liberace was scheduled to do an appearance at a mall, and his assistant called Emory in a panic so that Emory could return the rings before all Liberace's yenta fans caught wise. Emory has a photo up in his house of he, his partner and Liberace backstage at the Fox. When younger gay men (like me) see it, we regard it with shock and awe.
The gayest thing I ever did, though not to the Liberace level, was own a full collection of "She-Ra: Princess of Power" action figures and a Crystal Castle playset in the fourth grade.
JR @ Jrlyter@aol.com
One sunny Saturday while at gay camp with my boyfriend, we were invited to a wedding. Their campsite, which housed a trailer and wrap-around deck, was decorated with dollar-store streamers and foldable wedding bells and overlooked the plastic wedding aisle, cake tent and booze-covered picnic table. Porn played continuously on the deck's mini TV while guests slurped cocktails and mingled, a mix of harnessed leathermen, other gay campers and drag queens - my favorite being Stevie-O who was decked out in a sun hat, Jackie O sunglasses, five o'clock shadow, a purple sequin dress and fuck-me boots. As “Going to the Chapel” played over the speakers, the Maid of Honor, an old queen dressed in lime chiffon with a platinum beehive named Aunt Peg, led the way down the aisle followed by Burnie, the teary bride wearing a beaded wedding dress zipped halfway up her hairy back. She took her place next to her tuxedoed groom, a supposedly straight man she'd met a week ago. The ceremony was short, but managed to fit in on-command blowjobs as part of the wedding vows. Afterwards the happy couple was toasted with cheap champagne in plastic glasses, while guests helped themselves to a buffet of hot sausages. When it came time to throw the bouquet, I hid off to the side as two anxious fags fought over the bundle of plastic flowers, falling onto the table of booze. If it wasn't for the wedding video, I don't think I'd believe my own story.
Mike @ Seamus McStebbins
I grew up on a farm in a tiny town in upstate New York. Not a dairy farm, with animals or anything, but a fruit farm. (Yes, I know, how ironic.) So we had grapes, apples, peaches, pears, cherries, etc. We also had a roadside stand in front of the house. One summer I was home from college (I was 21, I think) and I think I was in one of my major depressive episodes, so I didn't have to go out and work out in the fields, but I was expected to handle customers at the roadside stand. One day, about 11am, the doorbell rings. I'm upstairs, but don't want to go down. I look out the front window where I can see the stand. It's a customer, and she wants something, either change, or a different variety of apple, or just wants to make sure she gives the right money. (we have an honor system, but if someone's home, we're supposed to go out and help them.) I see my dad drive up in his big Ford pick up truck. He sees that there's a customer and goes over and takes care of what she wants. Then I can hear the door slam and his heavy footsteps on down the hallway to the bottom of the stairs. He yells up, "Are you there? We had a customer! Where were you and why didn't you take care of her?" I reply, "I was in the bathroom, and couldn't make it out in time!" But really, I was applying a St. Ives Swiss Formula Peel-Off Hydroxy Masque and it hadn't set yet, so I didn't dare go downstairs with it on. Cucumber or Peach, I think. He called me downstairs to yell at me, but when he saw what I had on my face, he just shook his head and left. Needless to say, he was not suprised when I came out to him a year or two later.
Perry @ withheld
As for mine, at 16 I was part of the high school drama club and we were supposed to come to the annual awards banquet dressed as our "hero". I was out to a few friends but not that up on gay culture and not really aware of the concept of drag. I decided to come as Diana Ross. I also had to have my wisdom teeth out the day before the event. In retrospect I understand why our gay drama teacher was so amused by me showing up in full pancake makeup and an afro wig, slinky little red dress from the thrift store I'd severely altered with maribou feather trim, bugle beading and a hemline slit up to my boy parts, high as a kite on vicodan and booze, tottering around on 4 inch heels. I've never been gayer. At least I hope.
DF @ Thesaurus Rex
Okay, so the gayest thing I've ever done? If you don't count singing "Gold Dust Woman" with my old band at the Pride Festival in Atlanta in the summer of 2001 (you've never seen a hillside of lesbians get so excited so fast about anything, ever), you would have to go with my soufflee phase. Yup. I was waiting to get my taxes done a couple of years ago and I found a recipe for lemon soufflee in a magazine. I realized I'd never had soufflee and if I waited around for someone to make me one, I just might wait for the rest of my life.
So, I tore out the recipe and took it home and made a lemon soufflee. It didn't fall. It was delicious. So, next I tried orange. Also good. As were cappuccino souflee (espresso and cinnamon), mocha (espresso and chocolate), chocolate, chocolate screwdriver (chocolate, vodka, and orange), and vanilla. I started making one every couple of days. I would get them ready to bake and take them to friends' houses and bake them there and make a pot of coffee and EVERYBODY got some soufflee. It was some kind of mania. It passed.
Paul @ Buggery.org
In 1994, the Sydney Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras was broadcast on national television for the first time. I marched that year in a parade entry organised by my friends Mark and Bruno, with the theme of "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs". I was recruited to play one of the dwarfs, "Sleazy".In the days leading up to the parade the planned broadcast, on the taxpayer-funded national brodcaster, drew howls of complaint, questions in parliament, and the usual anti-gay sentiment from the usual quarters. It also turned out to be the highest-rated program on the ABC that year.As I walked up Oxford Street in my "Sleazy" costume, which was made of black leather, I saw a cameraman coming towards me with a lipstick camera, which zoomed towards and around me.The next day, my mother called. Sounding half angry, half bemused, in that way that only a 70-year-old Catholic mother of seven can, she said:"Walking down the street with no bottom in your pants, Paul! I didn't know where to look."
Matt @ withheld
When I was a kid, I was really into He-Man. For all the obvious reasons. He-Man was hot. I had every He-Man action figure. With the action figures, I began to really explore some adult themes between He-Man and his "deeply loyal companion" named Ram-Man. Jesus fucking Christ, that show was GAY. It got gayer though when He-Man's sister, She-Ra, joined the mix. In no time I was dressing in drag as She-Ra -- remember, I'm 8 years old -- with my mom's high heels, a long t-shirt with a belt cinching it at the waist, and a blanket tied as a cape around my neck.
Gayer still may have been my first sexual experience, during which I performed oral sex on a stranger while he watched Designing Women. Ahh, to be in love...!
Michael @ Try Not To Panic
Years ago, when I was in High School, our family decided to draw names for Christmas. My Uncle Dan drew my name. Now my uncle was a manly construction worker that always had a new girlfriend. He would often point out high school girls to me and comment on how, he was sure, I would like to get to "know" her. Well, I guess he asked my mother to ask me what I wanted for Christmas. I told my mother, not knowing my Uncle was my secret Santa, that I wanted Barbra Striesand's "Broadway Album". Yeah. Babs' "Broadway Album". If that wasn't a clue to the family, I don't know what is.
Cooking Tips, with Mike and Joe
Mike: So, what is up with guys that want to throw up on you? I so don't get that.
Joe (looking up from work, startled): What?
Mike: I was just reading online about guys who are into vomiting on each other.
Joe: Oh. Right. I've heard of that. Yuck. Almost makes you wanna reconsider scat.
(Together): Almost.
Mike (shaking head): There's some weird fuckers out there.
Joe: No kidding. What about those guys with cannibilism fetishes?
Mike: You're joking.
Joe: No, for real. They have webrings and internet discussion groups and they chat about how hot it would be kill and eat someone.
Mike: Like Jeffrey Dahmer?
Joe: Even worse. There's guys who have fantasies about BEING eaten. Like this one dude in Germany who hooked up with some guy online and then met him and the dude cut the guy's cock off and they both ate it, and then the guy whose dick was cut off, died.
Mike: Fuck you, that never happened.
Joe: No, for real, it did! And they videotaped the whole thing and now the German courts didn't know how to charge the guy because the thing was obviously consensual cuz they have the dude on tape eating his own dick.
Mike: And they ate his cock while the guy was bleeding and all?
Joe: Yeah, I guess. They sauteed it.
Mike (frowning): Hmmm, I would have deep fried it. You know, to make sure it was cooked.
Joe (laughing): Right. Wonder what Julia Child would have done?
(Together, sadly): Poor Julia.
Mike: Don't you kinda wonder though, what it tastes like?
Joe: Chicken.
Mike: Hmm, I dunno. I bet it's pretty gamey.
Joe: What, like they say venison is gamey?
Mike: Yeah, it has to do with how much of a muscle to fat ratio there is.
Joe: Oh, so like chickens and cows aren't very muscular compared to a deer, so they taste better.
Mike: Exactly.
Joe: You could ask that soccer team that crashed in the mountains. I think in the movie they ate butts.
(Together): Heh..."butts".
Mike: So if you're gonna eat people, you don't want an athlete or anything.
Joe: Oh, for sure. And especially not an Olympian or anything.
Mike: Right. Can you imagine trying to dig into one of those stringy marathon runners?
(Together): Ewww!
Joe: You'd need a heavy sauce.
Mike: How about a sumo wrestler, though?
Joe: Ah, now THAT's good eatin!
Joe (looking up from work, startled): What?
Mike: I was just reading online about guys who are into vomiting on each other.
Joe: Oh. Right. I've heard of that. Yuck. Almost makes you wanna reconsider scat.
(Together): Almost.
Mike (shaking head): There's some weird fuckers out there.
Joe: No kidding. What about those guys with cannibilism fetishes?
Mike: You're joking.
Joe: No, for real. They have webrings and internet discussion groups and they chat about how hot it would be kill and eat someone.
Mike: Like Jeffrey Dahmer?
Joe: Even worse. There's guys who have fantasies about BEING eaten. Like this one dude in Germany who hooked up with some guy online and then met him and the dude cut the guy's cock off and they both ate it, and then the guy whose dick was cut off, died.
Mike: Fuck you, that never happened.
Joe: No, for real, it did! And they videotaped the whole thing and now the German courts didn't know how to charge the guy because the thing was obviously consensual cuz they have the dude on tape eating his own dick.
Mike: And they ate his cock while the guy was bleeding and all?
Joe: Yeah, I guess. They sauteed it.
Mike (frowning): Hmmm, I would have deep fried it. You know, to make sure it was cooked.
Joe (laughing): Right. Wonder what Julia Child would have done?
(Together, sadly): Poor Julia.
Mike: Don't you kinda wonder though, what it tastes like?
Joe: Chicken.
Mike: Hmm, I dunno. I bet it's pretty gamey.
Joe: What, like they say venison is gamey?
Mike: Yeah, it has to do with how much of a muscle to fat ratio there is.
Joe: Oh, so like chickens and cows aren't very muscular compared to a deer, so they taste better.
Mike: Exactly.
Joe: You could ask that soccer team that crashed in the mountains. I think in the movie they ate butts.
(Together): Heh..."butts".
Mike: So if you're gonna eat people, you don't want an athlete or anything.
Joe: Oh, for sure. And especially not an Olympian or anything.
Mike: Right. Can you imagine trying to dig into one of those stringy marathon runners?
(Together): Ewww!
Joe: You'd need a heavy sauce.
Mike: How about a sumo wrestler, though?
Joe: Ah, now THAT's good eatin!
Milestone
This morning I got my weekly traffic report from Sitemeter, which shows that sometime this week Joe.My.God. had passed 100,000 visitors.
thud
Even though I've been watching the numbers spike higher and higher over the last few months, I'm still floored.
I made my first tentative post on April 29th, 2004. Sometime in mid-June I learned how to install Sitemeter, which means that in just six months I've managed to draw the daily readership of a small town. I don't know who you Daily Average: 1090 people are, but you are certainly not average.
I'd like to send a few shout-outs to those that pimped Joe.My.God. from the beginning. Cuz I roll like dat, yo.
Natali @ Murderous, And Beauty Kills... was the very first blogger to link me. She writes a breezy/snarky take on tech news, music and pop culture. Check her out.
Belle @ Belle de Jour (now about to launch her book tour, I assume), was one of the first uber-bloggers to link me. It was completely unexpected, I'm not even sure how she found me, but I'm grateful.
Mike @ Troubled Diva was an early and persistent flogger of my shite (that's a nod to Mike, cuz he's like, British and all). Mike takes his pop music OCD and pushes it to sublime heights. A large percentage of the music I've enjoyed over the past six months, I learned about from Mike. He's also rightfully nominated for a Bloggie, in the Best LGBT Blog category, the news of which made me do the Joe.My.God. Happy Dance.
Bob @ Boblog Try and imagine my shock at being reviewed and linked by BOB MOULD, the gay rocker, the legend lionized by critics and adored by fans. I'm still amazed. I mean, come ON...Bob freekin' Mould! Husker Du's Zen Arcade! Bob's own Workbook! Two albums that permanently OWN a part of my brain. On top of all that, thanks to Bob, Jimbo Barrett and Rich Morel (whose Lucky Strike remains my #1 album of 2004), I actually got the nerve to get up on a stage and read a few of my stories in public for the first time. And not to brag (lie), but I even had Xmas dinner at Bob's. Surreal. By the way, the man can throw down with some mean turducken.
It's been a strange but immensely gratifying ride thus far. Still, I'm finding myself pondering a recent rant by the presently-on-hiatus blogger, Palochi, who has made me consider how I'd be feeling about my abilities as a writer, my worth, as it were, if I had not enjoyed this nice bubble of quasi-popularity.
I'm going to keep cranking out the short stories. At my heart, I'm a memoirist, that is clear. But I'm also going to try out some different stuff. Don't worry, I'm not going to start linking news stories and posting pictures of cats or ranting about our oppressive regressive government, others do that much better than I ever could.
So, on this landmark day in my nascent writing life, let me just say...humbly...thanks.
-Joe
Edit: In a grievous oversight, I neglected to thank Jimbo @ Jockohomo, who gallantly resurrected Joe.My.God. from its digital ashes, after the Great Hacking Incident Of 2004. Jimbo, we bow to your hot techy geekness!
thud
Even though I've been watching the numbers spike higher and higher over the last few months, I'm still floored.
I made my first tentative post on April 29th, 2004. Sometime in mid-June I learned how to install Sitemeter, which means that in just six months I've managed to draw the daily readership of a small town. I don't know who you Daily Average: 1090 people are, but you are certainly not average.
I'd like to send a few shout-outs to those that pimped Joe.My.God. from the beginning. Cuz I roll like dat, yo.
Natali @ Murderous, And Beauty Kills... was the very first blogger to link me. She writes a breezy/snarky take on tech news, music and pop culture. Check her out.
Belle @ Belle de Jour (now about to launch her book tour, I assume), was one of the first uber-bloggers to link me. It was completely unexpected, I'm not even sure how she found me, but I'm grateful.
Mike @ Troubled Diva was an early and persistent flogger of my shite (that's a nod to Mike, cuz he's like, British and all). Mike takes his pop music OCD and pushes it to sublime heights. A large percentage of the music I've enjoyed over the past six months, I learned about from Mike. He's also rightfully nominated for a Bloggie, in the Best LGBT Blog category, the news of which made me do the Joe.My.God. Happy Dance.
Bob @ Boblog Try and imagine my shock at being reviewed and linked by BOB MOULD, the gay rocker, the legend lionized by critics and adored by fans. I'm still amazed. I mean, come ON...Bob freekin' Mould! Husker Du's Zen Arcade! Bob's own Workbook! Two albums that permanently OWN a part of my brain. On top of all that, thanks to Bob, Jimbo Barrett and Rich Morel (whose Lucky Strike remains my #1 album of 2004), I actually got the nerve to get up on a stage and read a few of my stories in public for the first time. And not to brag (lie), but I even had Xmas dinner at Bob's. Surreal. By the way, the man can throw down with some mean turducken.
It's been a strange but immensely gratifying ride thus far. Still, I'm finding myself pondering a recent rant by the presently-on-hiatus blogger, Palochi, who has made me consider how I'd be feeling about my abilities as a writer, my worth, as it were, if I had not enjoyed this nice bubble of quasi-popularity.
I'm going to keep cranking out the short stories. At my heart, I'm a memoirist, that is clear. But I'm also going to try out some different stuff. Don't worry, I'm not going to start linking news stories and posting pictures of cats or ranting about our oppressive regressive government, others do that much better than I ever could.
So, on this landmark day in my nascent writing life, let me just say...humbly...thanks.
-Joe
Edit: In a grievous oversight, I neglected to thank Jimbo @ Jockohomo, who gallantly resurrected Joe.My.God. from its digital ashes, after the Great Hacking Incident Of 2004. Jimbo, we bow to your hot techy geekness!
Membership
Michael didn't look good.
We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.
But he didn't look...right.
It was 1985.
My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window, I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard, stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch, reviewing the party, who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.
Finally, I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun, as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."
Ken shot me a scowl.
I tried to recover, "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting that party ready."
Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"
We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.
For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then, at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."
"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.
"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."
'Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people.'
"Yeah, I guess."
Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. First, the press was calling it 'gay cancer'. Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.
We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco, and that made us feel safe, in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.
Michael was from Miami.
A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve, out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"
Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.
A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and Michael couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.
Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them 'this new and modern group' of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.
Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do, since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, pale, his skin patchy and scaley.
But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.
Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results, but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.
"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?
Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.
"So, um...are we millionaires?"
Ken didn't answer me.
"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"
Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.
"We've just joined that 'new and modern' group."
.
We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.
But he didn't look...right.
It was 1985.
My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window, I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard, stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch, reviewing the party, who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.
Finally, I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun, as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."
Ken shot me a scowl.
I tried to recover, "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting that party ready."
Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"
We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.
For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then, at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."
"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.
"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."
'Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people.'
"Yeah, I guess."
Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. First, the press was calling it 'gay cancer'. Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.
We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco, and that made us feel safe, in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.
Michael was from Miami.
A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve, out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"
Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.
A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and Michael couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.
Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them 'this new and modern group' of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.
Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do, since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, pale, his skin patchy and scaley.
But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.
Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results, but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.
"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?
Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.
"So, um...are we millionaires?"
Ken didn't answer me.
"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"
Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.
"We've just joined that 'new and modern' group."
.
Homo Haiku
His grizzled chin and
chiseled chest were betrayed
by plucked eyebrows
"I'm all top" he said,
but in the end it was his
we passed around
The self-spreading boy
reached back and opened his
only real asset
Tweaker Boy stopped
and said "Sorry what were we
just talking about?"
Potato salad
behind the ears works well to
attract bears to you
chiseled chest were betrayed
by plucked eyebrows
"I'm all top" he said,
but in the end it was his
we passed around
The self-spreading boy
reached back and opened his
only real asset
Tweaker Boy stopped
and said "Sorry what were we
just talking about?"
Potato salad
behind the ears works well to
attract bears to you
Gay Gayer Gayest
"That is SO gay!"
I've been thinking about that expression a lot lately. What does it mean? I'm hearing it from kids, on television, and even around my office. Did the expression trickle up from the middle schools? Is it a playground epithet that is simply in vogue with the grown-ups? Or is it a sign that gay culture is so integrated into the pop culture that even the hets now see the evidence of homo-style in their everyday lives, and make jokes about it? And IF gay culture is being mainstreamed to this degree, what does that mean to us?
I put a call out to some fellow bloggers and asked them this:
"What is the GAYEST thing you've EVER done?"
The answers I received were at once predictable and surprising. There were mentions of doing drag, of course. And of pervy, slutty sex...of course. As for the other things...well, they're all listed below. You will love it. Feel free to let us know who YOU think is the MOST gay of the gay. Or contribute your own extra faggy moment in gayness.
(Faithful Readers: There's a special surprise entry from a fabulous non-blogger at the end of the post!)
Chris @ Boy's Briefs
About three years ago, my best friend and his partner decided to open a sex club. So I wasted an entire weekend helping them set up the maze of walls. I probably spent twelve hours sanding glory holes with an electric sander. Trust me, it's imperative that you get glory holes really smooth.
John @ By The Bayou
Mardi Gras, 1993 (I think). I was part of a group costume on the street that day: the New Orleans Female Firefighters (this was the year there was a big court case about women on the fire department there). I, along with a bunch of others, paraded all over the French Quarter in a smart firefighter skirt, helmet, carrying a Dalmation-print handbag and a hose. We performed rescues at various bars; we planted people on the balconies up and down Bourbon Street and when we came by, they'd run to the edge of balcony, scream "Save My Baby!" and toss a baby doll into the street for us to catch in our rescue net (made of a hula hoop and some burlap). Since we were firefighters, we did get to wear sensible flat shoes. It all ended on the stage for the Bourbon Street Awards, outside of the Rawhide bar. We did not win.
PJ @ Chromewaves
When I was living in DC, I skipped a Teen Beat anniversary party — probably the hippest indie-rock event of the year, and I was even on the guest list — to go to an all night Madonna dance party. I was wearing a velvet shirt and made out with two boys during a 20 minute remix of "Material Girl."
Will @ Designer Blog
Years ago I had a lawyer as an occasional fuck buddy. One afternoon, he had to take a conference call in the middle of our tryst. As he sat on my bed talking in a calmly professional manner, I started to blow him. He went into contortions but kept his voice smooth as silk. When he started to cum, I had him shoot on my chest and abs. He finished the call not even breathing hard and I spread his cum all over me and let it dry. I wore it for the rest of the day and to the opera that night.
Michael @ D O G P O E T
I've been thinking about that expression a lot lately. What does it mean? I'm hearing it from kids, on television, and even around my office. Did the expression trickle up from the middle schools? Is it a playground epithet that is simply in vogue with the grown-ups? Or is it a sign that gay culture is so integrated into the pop culture that even the hets now see the evidence of homo-style in their everyday lives, and make jokes about it? And IF gay culture is being mainstreamed to this degree, what does that mean to us?
I put a call out to some fellow bloggers and asked them this:
"What is the GAYEST thing you've EVER done?"
The answers I received were at once predictable and surprising. There were mentions of doing drag, of course. And of pervy, slutty sex...of course. As for the other things...well, they're all listed below. You will love it. Feel free to let us know who YOU think is the MOST gay of the gay. Or contribute your own extra faggy moment in gayness.
(Faithful Readers: There's a special surprise entry from a fabulous non-blogger at the end of the post!)
Chris @ Boy's Briefs
About three years ago, my best friend and his partner decided to open a sex club. So I wasted an entire weekend helping them set up the maze of walls. I probably spent twelve hours sanding glory holes with an electric sander. Trust me, it's imperative that you get glory holes really smooth.
John @ By The Bayou
Mardi Gras, 1993 (I think). I was part of a group costume on the street that day: the New Orleans Female Firefighters (this was the year there was a big court case about women on the fire department there). I, along with a bunch of others, paraded all over the French Quarter in a smart firefighter skirt, helmet, carrying a Dalmation-print handbag and a hose. We performed rescues at various bars; we planted people on the balconies up and down Bourbon Street and when we came by, they'd run to the edge of balcony, scream "Save My Baby!" and toss a baby doll into the street for us to catch in our rescue net (made of a hula hoop and some burlap). Since we were firefighters, we did get to wear sensible flat shoes. It all ended on the stage for the Bourbon Street Awards, outside of the Rawhide bar. We did not win.
PJ @ Chromewaves
When I was living in DC, I skipped a Teen Beat anniversary party — probably the hippest indie-rock event of the year, and I was even on the guest list — to go to an all night Madonna dance party. I was wearing a velvet shirt and made out with two boys during a 20 minute remix of "Material Girl."
Will @ Designer Blog
Years ago I had a lawyer as an occasional fuck buddy. One afternoon, he had to take a conference call in the middle of our tryst. As he sat on my bed talking in a calmly professional manner, I started to blow him. He went into contortions but kept his voice smooth as silk. When he started to cum, I had him shoot on my chest and abs. He finished the call not even breathing hard and I spread his cum all over me and let it dry. I wore it for the rest of the day and to the opera that night.
Michael @ D O G P O E T
When I was twelve, me and my brother, my mother, her lesbian lover and her lesbian lover's two kids went on a road trip around the East Coast, and all along the way, at every gift shop, I collected unicorn stickers. You'd be surprised how many places, in 1983, sold unicorn stickers. I didn't come out of the closet for another six years, but I don't know who I thought I was kidding.
Farmboyz @ Perge Modo
Several years back, I (already completely jaded and restlessly seeking dick-inspiration) decided to road test some flavored essential oils that I had purchased earlier that day at The Body Shop in Montreal. I got a room at The St. Marc (my favorite of the 14 bath houses of Montreal), and applied the vanilla oil to my left nip and the strawberry oil to my right nip. I strode into the crowded upstairs playroom wearing the requisite thin white towel, and my signature thick grey sox and black work boots (everyone's signature in that place. God, we were such nuns). Since it is not uncommon for my chest to attract the hungry, several testers registered within seconds their approval of both applications, but left me with a markedly more intense soreness on the vanilla side. Later, I applied anise (licorice) oil to my crotch and entered the dry sauna to induce some sweat into the mix. Since I have but one dick, the results of that test were inconclusive.
Curly @ Ham & Cheese On Wry
Okay I've thought about this but I don't know if there is just one defining over-the-top gay moment in my life. However, my first relationship with a woman had many stereotypical attributes: We had sex while Sarah MacLachlan, Jewel, Fiona Apple and Natalie Merchant provided the soundtrack (on a themed mix-tape I lovingly crafted just for the occasion.) Furthermore, each week we wrote each other schmoopie poems that were epic in length (but not quality). We were nauseating. Even our phone sex involved tender foreplay and cuddling afterwards. Since that ended, I've become, quite possibly the worst lesbian ever. A woman invited me to a yoga chanting circle and I had to stop myself from laughing in her face. I'm afraid of cats, own nary an Indigo Girls CD and I've never watched even five minutes of a WNBA game. However, I still play softball where I swing for the fences and slide safely into bases. I own a Craftsman cordless drill and know how to use it.
David @ Hell In A Handblog
Proudest gayer then gay moment? Portraying Suzanne Pleshette/Annie Hayward in my feminist drag deconstruction of 'The Birds' with TIPPI HEDREN in the audience!
Hans @ It's Good To Be A Guy
While cruising on Hampstead Heath dressed in my best skinhead gear, a leather rubber queen came crawling out of the bushes, handing me his riding crop and beseeching me to beat the crap out of him. I duly obliged (mummy taught me to never say no the queen) he kept murmuring: "Nazi Boy! Nazi Boy!" When I got back home and relayed the story, my (black) flatmate was rolling on the floor, and the epithet was his nickname for me from now on. True story!
Jim @ Jockohomo
Lady Bunny and I rode an elephant down a New York City street in the middle of a January snow storm. I was wearing only a pair of white Calvin Klein underwear and police boots, she was decked out in a Halston, that once belonged to Agnes Morehead. Out of our minds high on a whopper hit of Ecstasy, we lost the circus trainer/guide somewhere downtown, and couldn't steer the damn animal towards the nightclub, let alone parallel park it for her 3 A.M. appearance. After circling the block a few times we finally got it to slow down near our destination, the club doors opened as the strains of Sylvester's Do You Wanna Funk came pouring out. Leigh Bowery looking like a shattered disco ball stormed out and wrestled the naughty pachyderm down long enough for us to fall into a snow drift.
Joe @ Joe.My.God.
I did cocaine in a South Beach disco with Grace Jones while a drunken drag queen wrote "LOVE ME" on my back in lipstick, while the Village People were on stage performing YMCA. I had on combat boots and daisy dukes. My chest was shaven.
Jimbo @ Jimbo.Info
There was a door prize raffle at the Halloween Party at work this year. I won a fabulous autumn floral arrangement and let out a big, high-pitched girly squeal when my number came up. I was more delighted with the arrangement than those who had won round-trip tickets to Cancun. I'm easy that way.
John @ Johnny Is A Man
For my tenth birthday, I asked my father for the Village People's "Go West" album, my mother and step-father for Abba's "Arrival" LP, and my grandmother for Barry Manilow's 2-album opus, "Live." I was thrilled when I got them all. Thirteen years later, all three were shocked when I came out to them. When they would get uppity about my gayness, I would blame them and their faggy birthday presents.
Leif @ LHW773@aol.com
A couple of weeks ago I was in a San Francisco store that sells Dungeon Beds. Large, steel frames with a burnished petina. A sling hung from one of the beds but the chain was new, shiny links. I asked if they could darken the chain to match the bed and not clash. Somehow they thought it was the gayest thing they'd heard all week.
Steve @ Living In The Bonus Round
My partner was on the phone with uber-gay Charles Nelson Reilly when he got beeped by call waiting. On the other line was super-uber-gay Rip Taylor. He started to laugh and said, "How gay is this moment? We have the two biggest queens in Hollywood on hold."
Dave @ London Calling
Picture it: 1986, travelling round the world with my first boyfriend. We spent a few days with his elderly aunt in a 'smart' English speaking town outside Montreal (Knowlton). One day she decided to give us a tour of the area in her big 'ol 1960's car. I sat in the back seat alone during the scenic drive and discovered a lovely silk Hermes headscarf and some horn-rimmed sunglasses. Naturally I couldn't resist donning the scarf and glasses and began waving regally to people we passed. That car was so big that my BF and his aunt sitting up front had no idea what I was up to. As we progressed through the lovely town of Knowlton at 20mph I was waving majestically at everyone who would look at us. I was so engrossed in my regal acts that I didn't notice the car stop and that's when two ladies stuck their heads through the drivers window and were introduced to us - "this is my nephew and in the back seat is his friend Dave". I turned crimson and waved back at them timidly. I'm quite sure those old ladies thought it was Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. I thought I looked like this, but judging by the ladies looks I looked more like this.
Rick @ Rckt Ramblings
The one and only time I did drag, I went to the birthday party of one of the biggest drag queens in Chicago. Everyone - from the men to the women, the straight and the gay - was in drag. Except for the guest of honor. He thought he was going to a meeting about a show he was producing. When he got off the elevator and saw everyone there in outrageous costumes, he thought he was in the wrong room. And then he started to notice faces. It was absolutely priceless. I was dressed in a blue sequined gown with a huge blonde wig. And heels. For the love of God, HEELS. I looked like Bea Arthur on crack. I'm not a pretty girl, and the experience confirmed to me that I definitely enjoy being a boy.
Mike @ Troubled Diva
So there we are, me and the Life Partner, strolling into town yesterday evening, and it's his birthday, and I've just given him (amongst otherthings) a beautiful Roman wine amphora dating from around the 2nd-4th century A.D, and a glossy coffee-table picture book which contains a photo-spread of the architect-designed house that (having visited twice) we are seriously considering buying, and we're discussing the new garden in our second home in the country which has just been designed by the guy who's doing Princess Diana's memorial garden, and I'm wearing Yohji Yamamoto and Martin Margiela, and we're on our way to have dinner at one of the city's top boutique hotels, where their newly appointed head chef is coming in specially to cook a surprise menu for the two of us (pea soup with poached egg, parmesan & black truffles, foie gras with scallops and wild mushrooms, sea bass with salmon topped with crab tortellini), and I ask you (and I asked him): "Can we get any more Elton Bleedin' John and David Soddin'Furnish than this?"
Sparky @ Ultrasparky
Probably the gayest thing I ever did was when I had the Coming Out Talk with my mom while we ate lunch in a Jewish delicatessen in Times Square right before she took me to see a Gershwin musical revival on Broadway. She asked if she mothered me too much, or if I'd ever been touched by a priest.
Van @ Vanguard
Whenever I enter someone's home, I take in the surroundings, then mentally redecorate everything from the flooring to the paint or wall-covering, plants, art, lighting and furniture. I've actually done both my parents' and my sister's condos. Sorry that's the best I can do, but it is pretty fucking gay.
Mark @ Zeitzeuge
Dressed in a suit jacket, matching knee lengh shorts, white bobby socks and black patent leather shoes, my best friend and I went to a gay club in Kansas City to see the return of Boy George. We watched him while he was so cracked out, giving the worse performance of his life. I turned around and lo and behold there was Barry Manilow behind us with his bodyguards. I shrieked as I ran towards him, only for him to have me pushed away by Thor The Protector. We flipped Barry the bird and went and ordered a cocktail.
Terrence @ BoyTVLive@aol.com
While at Pensacola for Memorial Weekend. I was walking up and down the beach with my Glamour Boys, we were 9 strong all in custom made stars & strips swimsuits, mine was a speedo style, of course. I was conducting and filming fabulous interviews for Boy TV when we happened upon a Priscilla Queen of the Desert amazing tent and giant shoe set up. The queen who'd put together this spectacular display said, "The cotton is high, we spending big, hateful props out the barn."
She then quickly dressed me in a tight stretchy neon peach tube top style dress with feathers at the top and bottom, and put a matching peach feather headdress on me. I climbed the ladder and got on top of the 12ft giant open-toed pump and waived to the crowds and helicopters above, then proceeded to hold on to my headpiece and gracefully slide down the pump, emerging from the open toe to thunderous applause!
The pump and beautiful yellow and pink satin tent made the cover of the paper the next morning.
Top that for gay! And of course I have it all on film, the "Barbie Tour" complete with our Barbie decorated rented van.)
Kisses!!!
Terrence
Big thanks to all my friends who gamely played along!!! - JOE
Dig
Archaeological dig, Lower Manhattan, 2605 AD
Professor Theel couldn't resist letting out a small whoop of delight as he delicately brushed the dirt off of the artifact. Around the dig, his students stood up from their work.
"Whatcha got there, Doc?" asked one of them. The students put down their tools and closed in around the professor.
"It's a ceremonial item, from late in the Circuit period. I believe the correct name for it was 'glowstick'."
The professor gently placed the glowstick on a specimen tray hovering nearby. His eyes crinkled with excitement.
"The glowstick is known to have been used in ritual group dance exercises popular with urban homosexuals, called 'Circuit Parties', which were usually held in conjunction with hallucinogenics and banging drums," he said.
The students murmured with appreciation as they crowded around the tray.
Professor Theel nodded towards his assistant and said, "If any of you have an interest in the Circuit period, Eric is the one to ask. Eric, didn't you go to the last Circuit Faire held in Holoscan World?"
Eric smiled broadly, "Oh yes, Professor. It was, um...'totally awesome, dude!'"
The class was impressed with Eric's usage of the ancient vernacular. Encouraged, he pulled another classmate over to him and pushed his hand in front of his face.
"Talk to the hand, bitch!"
The other student grinned, put a hand on one hip and snapped his fingers in Eric's face, "Don't even try it, Mary!"
The professor nodded approvingly as the students applauded. "Very nice, Eric and Mark, you've clearly done your homework!"
Mark blushed, "Thanks, Doc! You should see us in our Circuit Faire costumes! I have TWO pairs of 'track pants'!"
Regina spoke up, "I have an authentic Fag Hag costume!"
"Oh, shut up, you do not!" said one of the students.
Regina whirled around indignantly, "Yes, I do! I got it last year, when we were doing that dig at the Jersey Home For Obese Spinsters!"
Dismissively, Eric looked Regina up and down. "You are not nearly fat enough to pull off Fag Hag, Regina."
"Oh, and I suppose YOU think you can play Dealer?" Regina spat back.
Eric snorted, "Shows what YOU know, I play Circuit Boy."
Theel jumped in, "Um, before this goes any further, let's all get back to the work at hand, shall we? Regina, see me after class. I'd like to refresh you on the rules regards taking items from these digs."
"You sketchy queen," Eric laughed.
Theel snapped, "That's enough Circuit Talk for today, Eric!"
Eric lowered his head, "Sorry, Doc."
From the far end of the dig an intern started shouting excitedly. The professor and the students raced over. The intern had unearthed a slightly-rounded, white metallic surface.
The intern was shaking with excitement as he turned to the professor, "Is this what I think it is?"
The professor said, "Well, let's not get too excited just yet. It could just be another coffin."
But it was not another coffin.
Beyond their wildest hopes, they had found a nearly intact "tanning bed." The hover-crane magno-lev'd the tanning bed slowly up and onto the surface. Barely able to contain his excitement, Theel approached the ancient machine, and lifted the lid.
-to be continued
Professor Theel couldn't resist letting out a small whoop of delight as he delicately brushed the dirt off of the artifact. Around the dig, his students stood up from their work.
"Whatcha got there, Doc?" asked one of them. The students put down their tools and closed in around the professor.
"It's a ceremonial item, from late in the Circuit period. I believe the correct name for it was 'glowstick'."
The professor gently placed the glowstick on a specimen tray hovering nearby. His eyes crinkled with excitement.
"The glowstick is known to have been used in ritual group dance exercises popular with urban homosexuals, called 'Circuit Parties', which were usually held in conjunction with hallucinogenics and banging drums," he said.
The students murmured with appreciation as they crowded around the tray.
Professor Theel nodded towards his assistant and said, "If any of you have an interest in the Circuit period, Eric is the one to ask. Eric, didn't you go to the last Circuit Faire held in Holoscan World?"
Eric smiled broadly, "Oh yes, Professor. It was, um...'totally awesome, dude!'"
The class was impressed with Eric's usage of the ancient vernacular. Encouraged, he pulled another classmate over to him and pushed his hand in front of his face.
"Talk to the hand, bitch!"
The other student grinned, put a hand on one hip and snapped his fingers in Eric's face, "Don't even try it, Mary!"
The professor nodded approvingly as the students applauded. "Very nice, Eric and Mark, you've clearly done your homework!"
Mark blushed, "Thanks, Doc! You should see us in our Circuit Faire costumes! I have TWO pairs of 'track pants'!"
Regina spoke up, "I have an authentic Fag Hag costume!"
"Oh, shut up, you do not!" said one of the students.
Regina whirled around indignantly, "Yes, I do! I got it last year, when we were doing that dig at the Jersey Home For Obese Spinsters!"
Dismissively, Eric looked Regina up and down. "You are not nearly fat enough to pull off Fag Hag, Regina."
"Oh, and I suppose YOU think you can play Dealer?" Regina spat back.
Eric snorted, "Shows what YOU know, I play Circuit Boy."
Theel jumped in, "Um, before this goes any further, let's all get back to the work at hand, shall we? Regina, see me after class. I'd like to refresh you on the rules regards taking items from these digs."
"You sketchy queen," Eric laughed.
Theel snapped, "That's enough Circuit Talk for today, Eric!"
Eric lowered his head, "Sorry, Doc."
From the far end of the dig an intern started shouting excitedly. The professor and the students raced over. The intern had unearthed a slightly-rounded, white metallic surface.
The intern was shaking with excitement as he turned to the professor, "Is this what I think it is?"
The professor said, "Well, let's not get too excited just yet. It could just be another coffin."
But it was not another coffin.
Beyond their wildest hopes, they had found a nearly intact "tanning bed." The hover-crane magno-lev'd the tanning bed slowly up and onto the surface. Barely able to contain his excitement, Theel approached the ancient machine, and lifted the lid.
-to be continued
Charlie & Buttercup
When I was 9 years old, I had a pet chicken. His name was Charlie.
Charlie T. Chicken.
The 'T' was for 'The.' Just like Smokey Bear's middle name. I thought it was very clever.
Charlie The Chicken used to chase the children of our trailer park if they ventured anywhere near our yard. You see, Charlie hated feet. Kids' feet, to be more precise.
Charlie would erupt from his sentry post under our front steps in a furious explosion of brown feathers and machine-gun pecking, as terrified toddlers screamed and attempted to bat Charlie away from their offending toes. Next door or across the street, mothers would wearily pull themselves away from their washlines or their 'stories' and yell at me.
"Joey, you GIT that dang bird offa my Ellen!"
And I'd put down the bullfrog that I'd been attempting to feed bits of my Moon Pie, and go shoo Charlie back under the front porch. Charlie never went after MY toes. That bird knew where HIS seed was scattered.
My sister, age 7, was insanely jealous of Charlie. She begged my mother for her own pet at every opportunity. Mom would scarcely turn her head away from the sink
"You already have a pet, honey. You have Bridgette." she'd say with finality.
Even a 7-year-old saw through that old trick.
"Moh-om!" Janet would plead. (Always with the hyphen when she was whining.)
"Don't be stupid! Bridgette is our dog. I want my OWN pet!"
From the back bedroom of the trailer my father would bellow, "I had better NOT have just heard you call your mother STUPID!"
Janet already knew better than to tempt the back of my dad's hand, or more commonly, a flying copy of the TV Guide. She'd pout and stomp off outside.
Then, to add fuel to the whining fire, Janet's best friend Amber got a hamster for her birthday. Amber named her hamster Crimson. But not because of its sinister beady red eyes. Crimson was named after Amber's favorite song, "Crimson And Clover" by Tommy James & The Shondells.
That's when Janet decided that she absolutely had to have a hamster. And her hamster was going to be named after her favorite song, "Build Me Up Buttercup", by The Foundations. And just to annoy me, she ripped off MY pet name, saying her hamster would be 'Buttercup The Hamster.'
"Mom, are we going to go get Buttercup The Hamster today?"
What a wily child she was. Naming her pet before she even got it, personalizing it, giving it an identity, a presence in the household it had not yet seen. I think hostage negotiators do the same thing with kidnappers.
"Mom, it's really cold today. Do you think it might be too cold at the store where Buttercup The Hamster is?"
Mom would just give her a flat look.
"Go feed YOUR dog."
But finally, as we knew she would, Mom caved. On a Saturday afternoon, the day before Janet's 8th birthday, she picked me up from Little League and we went hamster shopping.
There were no pet stores in tiny Newport, North Carolina. We'd gotten Charlie at the local feed store, where their primary sales items were cow and chicken related. So Mom and I drove to nearby Morehead City, where they had two department stores, K-Mart and Roses.
Both K-Mart and Roses had small pet departments located in the rear of their stores, buried behind the gardening supplies and lawn chairs. You could usually find parakeets, tropical fish, hamsters, turtles and snakes. All caged in 20-gallon aquariums. All in a state of manic escape attempts, or listless why-bother-ness.
It used to depress me immensely to watch the hampsters. They'd all be in position at the edges of the aquarium, each of them furiously, desperately, endlessly pawing at the glass. It bothered me that they never realized that they weren't actually making any progress. One time I leaned over and shouted into the hamster aquarium.
"YOU'RE NEVER GETTING OUT!"
The hamsters paid me no mind, and the mothers nearby worriedly herded their kids away from me.
Mom first drove us to Roses. But since Janet's birthday fell close to Easter, Roses had no hamsters but lots of rabbits. The rabbits were darn cute and Mom was leaning towards getting one until I pointed out that 'Buttercup The Hamster' would be a awfully dumb name for a rabbit.
Over at K-Mart, there were only four hamsters for sale. I pointed at the one running in the wheel. "What about that one?"
Mom bent over and wrinkled her nose. "He looks mean, he probably bites."
"Mom, hamsters can't look mean. They don't have expressions."
"I can just tell." She pointed at the two that were scratching at the glass. "What about one of those?"
Just then one of the two leapt onto the other's back and began fucking it. I wanted to die. Just die. Mom stood up straight and looked into her purse. Trying to divert my mother's attention, I pointed at the fourth hamster, "That one looks good!"
Hamster #4 was a huge slovenly creature and was lying on its back, scarcely moving.
Mom frowned, "Ugh, that one looks like it's half-dead. Janet wouldn't have much fun with THAT!"
She checked her watch. "OK, let's go back to Roses and get a rabbit. It'll have to do."
At the door of K-Mart we could see dark thunderstorms gathering on the horizon. Mom hated to drive in the rain. She looked down at me.
"Let's go back and get the fat one."
We raced home, barely ahead of the thunderstorm, with Hamster #4, the soon to be 'Buttercup.' We hid the cage in my bedroom closet, and in the middle of the night Mom slipped it into Janet's room and left it on her dresser.
At 6AM, we all awoke to bloodcurdling screams. It was Janet.
Mom and I raced into Janet's room. She was standing on her bed pointing at the cage, screaming over and over. These were not screams of joy. I peered into Buttercup's cage.
During the night, 'fat' Hampster #4 had given birth to approximately 67 babies. Actually, we couldn't tell HOW many babies there were, because the entire cage, from end to end, was strewn with the bloody half-eaten corpses of Buttercup's progeny. She must have been birthing and gnawing continuously through the dark night. The amount of hamster blood was only equaled by the spectacular array of discarded parts. Buttercup had eaten relentlessy but randomly, leaving a head here, a leg or two there.
Buttercup was sitting in a corner of the cage, chewing and staring at us with her red murderous eyes. And she STILL looked hungry.
Mom threw a towel over the cage and rushed it out the room. Janet sat on the edge on her bed sobbing.
Down at the feed store, Mom gave Buttercup away to some kid, gory cage and all. She came back with a baby duck, the sight of which dried Janet's eyes immediately. She named him 'Dudley The Duck', after her favorite cartoon "Dudley Do-Right."
For awhile, Dudley The Duck lived under the front porch with Charlie The Chicken. Later however, Dudley decided he really preferred to roost on the top of Dad's Buick.
Roost and crap, that is. The amount of disgusting watery crap a single duck can create is really mind-boggling. My dad's famous talent for cursing was sorely tested by that duck.
Dudley The Duck did not survive Christmas dinner.
Under the tree, Santa left Janet a kitten.
Charlie T. Chicken.
The 'T' was for 'The.' Just like Smokey Bear's middle name. I thought it was very clever.
Charlie The Chicken used to chase the children of our trailer park if they ventured anywhere near our yard. You see, Charlie hated feet. Kids' feet, to be more precise.
Charlie would erupt from his sentry post under our front steps in a furious explosion of brown feathers and machine-gun pecking, as terrified toddlers screamed and attempted to bat Charlie away from their offending toes. Next door or across the street, mothers would wearily pull themselves away from their washlines or their 'stories' and yell at me.
"Joey, you GIT that dang bird offa my Ellen!"
And I'd put down the bullfrog that I'd been attempting to feed bits of my Moon Pie, and go shoo Charlie back under the front porch. Charlie never went after MY toes. That bird knew where HIS seed was scattered.
My sister, age 7, was insanely jealous of Charlie. She begged my mother for her own pet at every opportunity. Mom would scarcely turn her head away from the sink
"You already have a pet, honey. You have Bridgette." she'd say with finality.
Even a 7-year-old saw through that old trick.
"Moh-om!" Janet would plead. (Always with the hyphen when she was whining.)
"Don't be stupid! Bridgette is our dog. I want my OWN pet!"
From the back bedroom of the trailer my father would bellow, "I had better NOT have just heard you call your mother STUPID!"
Janet already knew better than to tempt the back of my dad's hand, or more commonly, a flying copy of the TV Guide. She'd pout and stomp off outside.
Then, to add fuel to the whining fire, Janet's best friend Amber got a hamster for her birthday. Amber named her hamster Crimson. But not because of its sinister beady red eyes. Crimson was named after Amber's favorite song, "Crimson And Clover" by Tommy James & The Shondells.
That's when Janet decided that she absolutely had to have a hamster. And her hamster was going to be named after her favorite song, "Build Me Up Buttercup", by The Foundations. And just to annoy me, she ripped off MY pet name, saying her hamster would be 'Buttercup The Hamster.'
"Mom, are we going to go get Buttercup The Hamster today?"
What a wily child she was. Naming her pet before she even got it, personalizing it, giving it an identity, a presence in the household it had not yet seen. I think hostage negotiators do the same thing with kidnappers.
"Mom, it's really cold today. Do you think it might be too cold at the store where Buttercup The Hamster is?"
Mom would just give her a flat look.
"Go feed YOUR dog."
But finally, as we knew she would, Mom caved. On a Saturday afternoon, the day before Janet's 8th birthday, she picked me up from Little League and we went hamster shopping.
There were no pet stores in tiny Newport, North Carolina. We'd gotten Charlie at the local feed store, where their primary sales items were cow and chicken related. So Mom and I drove to nearby Morehead City, where they had two department stores, K-Mart and Roses.
Both K-Mart and Roses had small pet departments located in the rear of their stores, buried behind the gardening supplies and lawn chairs. You could usually find parakeets, tropical fish, hamsters, turtles and snakes. All caged in 20-gallon aquariums. All in a state of manic escape attempts, or listless why-bother-ness.
It used to depress me immensely to watch the hampsters. They'd all be in position at the edges of the aquarium, each of them furiously, desperately, endlessly pawing at the glass. It bothered me that they never realized that they weren't actually making any progress. One time I leaned over and shouted into the hamster aquarium.
"YOU'RE NEVER GETTING OUT!"
The hamsters paid me no mind, and the mothers nearby worriedly herded their kids away from me.
Mom first drove us to Roses. But since Janet's birthday fell close to Easter, Roses had no hamsters but lots of rabbits. The rabbits were darn cute and Mom was leaning towards getting one until I pointed out that 'Buttercup The Hamster' would be a awfully dumb name for a rabbit.
Over at K-Mart, there were only four hamsters for sale. I pointed at the one running in the wheel. "What about that one?"
Mom bent over and wrinkled her nose. "He looks mean, he probably bites."
"Mom, hamsters can't look mean. They don't have expressions."
"I can just tell." She pointed at the two that were scratching at the glass. "What about one of those?"
Just then one of the two leapt onto the other's back and began fucking it. I wanted to die. Just die. Mom stood up straight and looked into her purse. Trying to divert my mother's attention, I pointed at the fourth hamster, "That one looks good!"
Hamster #4 was a huge slovenly creature and was lying on its back, scarcely moving.
Mom frowned, "Ugh, that one looks like it's half-dead. Janet wouldn't have much fun with THAT!"
She checked her watch. "OK, let's go back to Roses and get a rabbit. It'll have to do."
At the door of K-Mart we could see dark thunderstorms gathering on the horizon. Mom hated to drive in the rain. She looked down at me.
"Let's go back and get the fat one."
We raced home, barely ahead of the thunderstorm, with Hamster #4, the soon to be 'Buttercup.' We hid the cage in my bedroom closet, and in the middle of the night Mom slipped it into Janet's room and left it on her dresser.
At 6AM, we all awoke to bloodcurdling screams. It was Janet.
Mom and I raced into Janet's room. She was standing on her bed pointing at the cage, screaming over and over. These were not screams of joy. I peered into Buttercup's cage.
During the night, 'fat' Hampster #4 had given birth to approximately 67 babies. Actually, we couldn't tell HOW many babies there were, because the entire cage, from end to end, was strewn with the bloody half-eaten corpses of Buttercup's progeny. She must have been birthing and gnawing continuously through the dark night. The amount of hamster blood was only equaled by the spectacular array of discarded parts. Buttercup had eaten relentlessy but randomly, leaving a head here, a leg or two there.
Buttercup was sitting in a corner of the cage, chewing and staring at us with her red murderous eyes. And she STILL looked hungry.
Mom threw a towel over the cage and rushed it out the room. Janet sat on the edge on her bed sobbing.
Down at the feed store, Mom gave Buttercup away to some kid, gory cage and all. She came back with a baby duck, the sight of which dried Janet's eyes immediately. She named him 'Dudley The Duck', after her favorite cartoon "Dudley Do-Right."
For awhile, Dudley The Duck lived under the front porch with Charlie The Chicken. Later however, Dudley decided he really preferred to roost on the top of Dad's Buick.
Roost and crap, that is. The amount of disgusting watery crap a single duck can create is really mind-boggling. My dad's famous talent for cursing was sorely tested by that duck.
Dudley The Duck did not survive Christmas dinner.
Under the tree, Santa left Janet a kitten.
All right. FINE. Here. (Updated)
Faithful readers: I've been getting a steady stream of emails from you asking for various details about my life. While your interest is quite flattering, the common thread to these letters is that while my stories are enjoyable, I seem to be an observer in life, rather than a participant, and that you don't feel you "know" me. That's a pretty fair criticism, one that is more accurate than I normally feel comfortable in admitting. To counter that perception, I hereby succumb to the most tired and cliched of blogospheric memes.
1. I was born in a Marine Corp hospital in North Carolina.
2. My first car, my high school graduation present from my father, was a used Pontiac LeMans. I superglued a green shag carpet to the dashboard. The first night I took it to a gay bar, someone smashed the window and stole my 8-track player.
3. I was circumcised at age 6. I remember the operation vividly.
4. My final year in Little League, my team went 17-1. Guess who cost the team a perfect season?
5. The first 45rpm record I bought was "Kodachrome" by Paul Simon, in 1973.
6. I had white-blond hair until I was about 10 years old. I was a 'towhead'. I was frequently told that I looked like Opie Taylor from the Andy Griffith Show.
7. The first concert I attended was KC & The Sunshine Band, at Disney World. I ended up seeing them at least a dozen times over the next few years.
8. My first plane flight was at age 22. I flew from Orlando to Washington DC to see a guy I had met on spring break in Fort Lauderdale. I'm still friends with that guy.
9. I have never missed a flight.
10. I have never held a gun.
11. I have never held a baby.
12. I have never ridden a horse.
13. I have ridden a camel.
14. I have never gone scuba-diving.
15. I have never gone sky-diving.
16. I have gone muff-diving.
17. In 1989, at the Warsaw Ballroom in South Beach, I stepped on Madonna's foot. I was wearing steel-toed boots.
18. In high school I was the president of the German club and a member of the German Honor Society. I competed in statewide competitions for students of German. Today, my German vocabulary consists of less than 100 words.
19. The first time I attempted to speak Spanish to a stranger, I meant to say "I have a headache." What I actually said was "I have a pain in my purse."
20. My junior year in high school, I was nominated by President Gerald Ford to attend the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. I did not attend.
21. I have never done drag. Not even for Halloween. And it bothers me that I have such self-image issues that I can't do something that truly silly, just for fun.
22. I haven't been in a fistfight since 8th grade, when school bully Ruben S. pushed me into a puddle during an assembly.
23. I fucked Ruben S. at an orgy in the mid '80s. He didn't remember me.
24. My car once got towed away from the Old Plantation, a gay disco in Tampa. At the tow-yard, I drunkenly called the tow-truck driver a 'cocksucker.' He punched me in the stomach.
25. In high school, my friends and I were obsessed with Monty Python. I spent much of my junior year shrieking in a mock-English female voice.
26. In 1990, my mother's Xmas gift to me was a Three Stooges video box set. A total of 12 episodes. And every one was a SHEMP. I looked at her and said, "You never loved me!"
27. Despite being completely gay, I have never watched an episode of "Buffy, The Vampire Slayer." And none of its spinoffs.
28. Despite being completely gay, I have never watched an episode of "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy."
29. Because I am completely gay, I have seen every episode of "The Simpsons." My favorite character is Ralph Wiggum.
30. During the "Wild Planet" tour, B-52's frontman Fred Schneider would hand out fake awards to audience members. At a show in Daytona Beach, I was given a trophy for "having survived the deadly bite of the coral snake!"
31. I have worked for a nightclub, a newspaper, a magazine, a theatre company, a television station, a radio station and a record company.
32. I am the eldest male in my family, and the family name ends HERE.
33. When commercial space flight becomes viable and affordable, I will be the first the sign up.
34. My dog, Edison, died in March 2004 at the age of 17. He was a mostly Corgi mixed-breed and I miss him everyday.
35. My first pet was an orange cat that I named Applesauce. Only I was too young to actually pronounce "Applesauce", so according to my mother, I called him "Bahbey-slops".
36. I like to give my friends nicknames. Usually they don't like this at first, but eventually they start signing their emails with my name for them.
37. In 1998, I fell down on Market Street in San Francisco and broke my hand and arm in six places. From what I could tell, I had tripped on a big pile of air that someone had carelessly left lying around.
38. While living in Florida, I ran over a racoon, an opossum, and a small alligator.
39. Sometimes I think I would rather run over a child than a dog.
40. I maybe be somewhat short, 5'8", but I've learned that in Central America I tower over the locals. TOWER, I tell you!
41. In 10th grade biology when my turn came to read aloud from our textbook, I mispronounced 'vagina' as 'vah-GEE-na'. The class roared and to this date, my embarrassment is so great that I try to never think about vaginas at all. Damn it! I just wrote 'vagina' two times. Fuck! I did it again!
42. If I am home, the tv is on. It feels like company.
43. Coffee smells like old people.
44. At the age of 9, I was turtle-hunting with a friend in a large field cluttered with derelict farming equipment. My friend held up one end of a large sheet of rusty metal while I kicked the grass underneath it for turtles. As I backed out from under the metal, my friend let it go too soon and the corner of it ripped down my leg. I got over 100 stitches. I've been told the scar is "sexy".
45. Star Jones is a complete cow.
46. I tend to dislike celebrities more often than I like them.
47. I tend to meet celebrities in elevators.
48. My favorite baseball team is the San Francisco Giants. The last entry in my 6th grade journal says: "Tomorrow Dad finds out where he is being assigned. Please God, let it be San Francisco because I LOVE WILLIE MAYS!"
49. I saw Willie Mays play once. He struck out three times.
50. Today, my heroes are Larry Kramer, Harvey Feirstein and Jimmy Carter.
I'll add to this list as more items occur to me. This is just a start, be afraid.
1. I was born in a Marine Corp hospital in North Carolina.
2. My first car, my high school graduation present from my father, was a used Pontiac LeMans. I superglued a green shag carpet to the dashboard. The first night I took it to a gay bar, someone smashed the window and stole my 8-track player.
3. I was circumcised at age 6. I remember the operation vividly.
4. My final year in Little League, my team went 17-1. Guess who cost the team a perfect season?
5. The first 45rpm record I bought was "Kodachrome" by Paul Simon, in 1973.
6. I had white-blond hair until I was about 10 years old. I was a 'towhead'. I was frequently told that I looked like Opie Taylor from the Andy Griffith Show.
7. The first concert I attended was KC & The Sunshine Band, at Disney World. I ended up seeing them at least a dozen times over the next few years.
8. My first plane flight was at age 22. I flew from Orlando to Washington DC to see a guy I had met on spring break in Fort Lauderdale. I'm still friends with that guy.
9. I have never missed a flight.
10. I have never held a gun.
11. I have never held a baby.
12. I have never ridden a horse.
13. I have ridden a camel.
14. I have never gone scuba-diving.
15. I have never gone sky-diving.
16. I have gone muff-diving.
17. In 1989, at the Warsaw Ballroom in South Beach, I stepped on Madonna's foot. I was wearing steel-toed boots.
18. In high school I was the president of the German club and a member of the German Honor Society. I competed in statewide competitions for students of German. Today, my German vocabulary consists of less than 100 words.
19. The first time I attempted to speak Spanish to a stranger, I meant to say "I have a headache." What I actually said was "I have a pain in my purse."
20. My junior year in high school, I was nominated by President Gerald Ford to attend the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. I did not attend.
21. I have never done drag. Not even for Halloween. And it bothers me that I have such self-image issues that I can't do something that truly silly, just for fun.
22. I haven't been in a fistfight since 8th grade, when school bully Ruben S. pushed me into a puddle during an assembly.
23. I fucked Ruben S. at an orgy in the mid '80s. He didn't remember me.
24. My car once got towed away from the Old Plantation, a gay disco in Tampa. At the tow-yard, I drunkenly called the tow-truck driver a 'cocksucker.' He punched me in the stomach.
25. In high school, my friends and I were obsessed with Monty Python. I spent much of my junior year shrieking in a mock-English female voice.
26. In 1990, my mother's Xmas gift to me was a Three Stooges video box set. A total of 12 episodes. And every one was a SHEMP. I looked at her and said, "You never loved me!"
27. Despite being completely gay, I have never watched an episode of "Buffy, The Vampire Slayer." And none of its spinoffs.
28. Despite being completely gay, I have never watched an episode of "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy."
29. Because I am completely gay, I have seen every episode of "The Simpsons." My favorite character is Ralph Wiggum.
30. During the "Wild Planet" tour, B-52's frontman Fred Schneider would hand out fake awards to audience members. At a show in Daytona Beach, I was given a trophy for "having survived the deadly bite of the coral snake!"
31. I have worked for a nightclub, a newspaper, a magazine, a theatre company, a television station, a radio station and a record company.
32. I am the eldest male in my family, and the family name ends HERE.
33. When commercial space flight becomes viable and affordable, I will be the first the sign up.
34. My dog, Edison, died in March 2004 at the age of 17. He was a mostly Corgi mixed-breed and I miss him everyday.
35. My first pet was an orange cat that I named Applesauce. Only I was too young to actually pronounce "Applesauce", so according to my mother, I called him "Bahbey-slops".
36. I like to give my friends nicknames. Usually they don't like this at first, but eventually they start signing their emails with my name for them.
37. In 1998, I fell down on Market Street in San Francisco and broke my hand and arm in six places. From what I could tell, I had tripped on a big pile of air that someone had carelessly left lying around.
38. While living in Florida, I ran over a racoon, an opossum, and a small alligator.
39. Sometimes I think I would rather run over a child than a dog.
40. I maybe be somewhat short, 5'8", but I've learned that in Central America I tower over the locals. TOWER, I tell you!
41. In 10th grade biology when my turn came to read aloud from our textbook, I mispronounced 'vagina' as 'vah-GEE-na'. The class roared and to this date, my embarrassment is so great that I try to never think about vaginas at all. Damn it! I just wrote 'vagina' two times. Fuck! I did it again!
42. If I am home, the tv is on. It feels like company.
43. Coffee smells like old people.
44. At the age of 9, I was turtle-hunting with a friend in a large field cluttered with derelict farming equipment. My friend held up one end of a large sheet of rusty metal while I kicked the grass underneath it for turtles. As I backed out from under the metal, my friend let it go too soon and the corner of it ripped down my leg. I got over 100 stitches. I've been told the scar is "sexy".
45. Star Jones is a complete cow.
46. I tend to dislike celebrities more often than I like them.
47. I tend to meet celebrities in elevators.
48. My favorite baseball team is the San Francisco Giants. The last entry in my 6th grade journal says: "Tomorrow Dad finds out where he is being assigned. Please God, let it be San Francisco because I LOVE WILLIE MAYS!"
49. I saw Willie Mays play once. He struck out three times.
50. Today, my heroes are Larry Kramer, Harvey Feirstein and Jimmy Carter.
I'll add to this list as more items occur to me. This is just a start, be afraid.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)