Tuesday, March 24, 2015
The Realest Shit on Suicide
I didn't want to include this clip in my last post about Chris Hardman because it hasn't been said whether or not he actually did commit suicide but his passing and just the possibility of it reminded me of one of my favorite indie movies, and this little scene in a mental hospital between several characters who have attempted suicide. Its hard to explain to others why it rings so true, but its probably some of the realest shit I've ever heard in a movie about this topic. Seek the film out if you want to watch a very moving film about a family in crisis. In the meantime, let this resonate :)
The Lonely Death of Chris Hardman
Full disclosure: The cause of Chris Hardman's death has not been revealed as yet. The rumor mill seems to be slanting towards suicide because he was only 24 and because he suffered from chronic depression. This post is coming from someone who contemplates suicide a lot, so it is definitely going to be slanted in that direction as well since its almost goes hand in hand with the processing of grief to me. Hopefully I don't disrespect his memory with this post. No matter how he died, the fact remains that he is gone and will be missed.
I was scrolling aimlessly through my Facebook feed today only to see something that made me sit up in shock and exclaim loudly "Oh no!" So loudly, in fact, that my niece who was doing her homework in the other room asked "What's wrong?" "Someone I like died." I said, unsure how to word to a child the feeling of a celebrity you admire passing on. When her brother asked what happened, she told him "Uncle Steven's friend died." which struck me funny in the moment only because it hit the nail on the head about how odd it is to be sad when someone you don't know personally dies. Technically, you really shouldn't be mourning them since you didn't really KNOW them to mourn them. But celebrity is funny like that. It gives us a certain sense of knowing somebody even though we only know a certain aspect of them or simply what they chose to share with the world. But when people touch you with their words, or their songs, or their acting they sometimes feel like they become an extended part of your family. I am a fierce fan in that respect. And I am incredibly loyal. Once I become a fan of somebody, I am with them for life. My interest may wax and wane if they're a hard rock artist and they decide to do a polka album one year, but I will never desert them. So I know about feeling bereft when a stranger you happen to admire dies. I can remember crying inconsolably when Princess Diana's funeral took place. She wasn't even a figure of particular importance in the states. But her humanity had touched me. Sometimes that is all it really takes. I corrected my niece, telling her "No its not my friend it was a musician I really liked." and they accepted that but seemed very concerned which was touching. Kids have an amazing knack for being very intuitive and trying to help you but then fucking off when its required and doing somersaults despite the grief in the room. But I was left with the headline. Chris Hardman was dead. Most people in the US probably have no idea who the fuck Chris Hardman was to be blatantly honest. But then thats probably true for a lot of the British musicians and actors I follow who never seem to cross over with Cumberbatch like ease. But I had followed him from the beginning. He started out on Gene Simmons' Rock School which I didn't even watch at the time but remember seeing clips of and being blown away by this kid's talent with a guitar and his attitude. Shortly after the series went off the air, Chris released his first album. He was known for his backwards snapbacks and his punky (but never rude) attitude. The music was almost like All Time Low with more piss and vinegar, as my Dad used to say. Chris had personality to spare. The album didn't do great but produced several minor hits and garnered him a pretty big following on YouTube and MySpace. A few years passed between that and the second album, which featured more writing credits from Chris and an even punkier attitude but weirdly features my favorite song by him a cover of the old Jermaine Stewart classic We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off. I say weirdly only because I know in defense of his writing I should pick a song he co-authored as 1 of my faves and also I really really really don't want to defend the meaning of not taking your clothes off to have fun since I believe the exact opposite I want nudity at every turn if possible. But the catchiness of that song is undeniable. That album never really took off virally like the first one had, and after that I'm guessing, though I never heard him say for sure, that he and his record company parted ways as happens with many artists who burn brightly one day and mellow to a glowing ember the next. But I stayed with that ember. Shortly after that Chris was given his own talk show on UK television. As it never properly aired here and you can only find clips on YouTube, I've never seen it in its unadulterated form and I know nothing about how it fared in the ratings or with critics. I believe it lasted for 1 or 2 seasons. But I remember when watching the clips how natural a host he was. Most talk show emcees always strike me like a used car salesman. I particularly hated Jay Leno in that respect. He would throw a few softball questions, plug the person's movie, and voila you had a show. An incredibly bland and boring show, but there you go. Chris wasn't like that, either because he never really attained a level of stardom where he was afraid to lose it all or simply because he was a genuinely nice but interesting person. I remember thinking "Wow these are pretty good questions!". Even if he didn't write them (though I have a feeling he at least had a hand in what was asked) he seemed very confident and honest as a host. He asked what I wanted to hear, he was cool, and I never got the sense that he was trying to sell me a twenty year old Dodge Dart for thirty percent over blue book value. After the show Chris disappeared for a while, presumable to finish school and try to go back to a normal existence. Twitter had become a thing in the intervening years and YouTube had become even more powerful, and I followed Chris on both sites. He was always saying something real or funny. Occasionally he would post songs he was working on. He had a few more brushes with fame in recent years. He performed in the Welcome to Loserville stage play at one point. He did an Attitude naked shoot to show that he had grown up into quite the sexy dude. Ran his own humorous social media campaign to unseat the Simon Cowell Christmas Number One tradition (you probably have to be British to grasp this concept though I sort of understand) with his own song (which I bought though it didn't). He put together a small tour a few years back and played to what seemed like small but adoring crowds judging from the pictures. And he always acknowledged and appreciated the fact that he had gay fans which made me like him even more. He played the infamous G-A-Y nightclub in London and seemed to be thrilled that people of all walks remembered and still enjoyed hearing from him. There were quiet periods in between these career arcs, but he never stopped making music or wanting to share his talent. To be honest, I never really knew about his battle with depression. I wish that I had. Not that I, as a fan, could have done anything, but it would have been nice to know we shared that issue. It must be incredibly hard to go from being on tv all over the world one day to several years later not being able to get record companies to even listen to songs you put your heart and soul into. If that attributed to his depression it makes me sad. Especially since this is a new era for music and the music business where artists can pretty much self-release albums and build a fanbase all on their own.
Here are several clips of Chris performing in recent years, first a beautiful acoustic version of We Don'r Have to Take Our Clothes Off with his friend Tom Mann (who wrote and performed on the Christmas Number One single with him) followed by a lovely solo acoustic number Chris wrote all on his own:
This was the last photo Chris shared on social media several weeks ago. Though he doesn't look ecstatically happy, he certainly doesn't seem like somebody in a deep depression either.
But that is what is so insidious about depression. It makes you put a false smile on your face so that no one else knows your pain. Or it makes you avoid people altogether because you are feeling hopeless and simply don't want to be helped. Despite whatever personal pain he might have been going through, Chris was always quick to make others smile, as evidenced by this tweet from several weeks ago:
But then there was this tweet shortly after, which at first I wasn't sure should be taken seriously since Chris always did have a sarcastic sense of humor:
I did take it seriously, and this was my response to him:
It may seem weird words of comfort and support coming from someone who worries endlessly about what others think and whether or not I matter in this life. But if there's one thing I know how to do it is try to remind others bereft of hope why they should continue to hang on. Its a strange psychosis. I can very literally contemplate and formulate a suicide plan in the morning and in the afternoon try vehemently to talk a friend or loved one out of doing just that. I guess it boils down to not wanting to see people you care about hurt the same way you are. I have no way of knowing whether or not Chris saw my tweet or even cared that it was sent since he didn't respond in any way. But in light of his death, I'm glad I sent it. The outpouring of love from celebrities and fans alike on social media has been lovely. No matter how Chris died, there is a loss. Whether a loss for what might have been, what at one point was, or simply the extinguishing of a light much too bright and far too early is up to you to decide. I feel for his family and friends. For myself, I'm going to take my melancholy and listen to his music tonight. Rock on, Chris, wherever you are. I hope you are finally at peace.
I was scrolling aimlessly through my Facebook feed today only to see something that made me sit up in shock and exclaim loudly "Oh no!" So loudly, in fact, that my niece who was doing her homework in the other room asked "What's wrong?" "Someone I like died." I said, unsure how to word to a child the feeling of a celebrity you admire passing on. When her brother asked what happened, she told him "Uncle Steven's friend died." which struck me funny in the moment only because it hit the nail on the head about how odd it is to be sad when someone you don't know personally dies. Technically, you really shouldn't be mourning them since you didn't really KNOW them to mourn them. But celebrity is funny like that. It gives us a certain sense of knowing somebody even though we only know a certain aspect of them or simply what they chose to share with the world. But when people touch you with their words, or their songs, or their acting they sometimes feel like they become an extended part of your family. I am a fierce fan in that respect. And I am incredibly loyal. Once I become a fan of somebody, I am with them for life. My interest may wax and wane if they're a hard rock artist and they decide to do a polka album one year, but I will never desert them. So I know about feeling bereft when a stranger you happen to admire dies. I can remember crying inconsolably when Princess Diana's funeral took place. She wasn't even a figure of particular importance in the states. But her humanity had touched me. Sometimes that is all it really takes. I corrected my niece, telling her "No its not my friend it was a musician I really liked." and they accepted that but seemed very concerned which was touching. Kids have an amazing knack for being very intuitive and trying to help you but then fucking off when its required and doing somersaults despite the grief in the room. But I was left with the headline. Chris Hardman was dead. Most people in the US probably have no idea who the fuck Chris Hardman was to be blatantly honest. But then thats probably true for a lot of the British musicians and actors I follow who never seem to cross over with Cumberbatch like ease. But I had followed him from the beginning. He started out on Gene Simmons' Rock School which I didn't even watch at the time but remember seeing clips of and being blown away by this kid's talent with a guitar and his attitude. Shortly after the series went off the air, Chris released his first album. He was known for his backwards snapbacks and his punky (but never rude) attitude. The music was almost like All Time Low with more piss and vinegar, as my Dad used to say. Chris had personality to spare. The album didn't do great but produced several minor hits and garnered him a pretty big following on YouTube and MySpace. A few years passed between that and the second album, which featured more writing credits from Chris and an even punkier attitude but weirdly features my favorite song by him a cover of the old Jermaine Stewart classic We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off. I say weirdly only because I know in defense of his writing I should pick a song he co-authored as 1 of my faves and also I really really really don't want to defend the meaning of not taking your clothes off to have fun since I believe the exact opposite I want nudity at every turn if possible. But the catchiness of that song is undeniable. That album never really took off virally like the first one had, and after that I'm guessing, though I never heard him say for sure, that he and his record company parted ways as happens with many artists who burn brightly one day and mellow to a glowing ember the next. But I stayed with that ember. Shortly after that Chris was given his own talk show on UK television. As it never properly aired here and you can only find clips on YouTube, I've never seen it in its unadulterated form and I know nothing about how it fared in the ratings or with critics. I believe it lasted for 1 or 2 seasons. But I remember when watching the clips how natural a host he was. Most talk show emcees always strike me like a used car salesman. I particularly hated Jay Leno in that respect. He would throw a few softball questions, plug the person's movie, and voila you had a show. An incredibly bland and boring show, but there you go. Chris wasn't like that, either because he never really attained a level of stardom where he was afraid to lose it all or simply because he was a genuinely nice but interesting person. I remember thinking "Wow these are pretty good questions!". Even if he didn't write them (though I have a feeling he at least had a hand in what was asked) he seemed very confident and honest as a host. He asked what I wanted to hear, he was cool, and I never got the sense that he was trying to sell me a twenty year old Dodge Dart for thirty percent over blue book value. After the show Chris disappeared for a while, presumable to finish school and try to go back to a normal existence. Twitter had become a thing in the intervening years and YouTube had become even more powerful, and I followed Chris on both sites. He was always saying something real or funny. Occasionally he would post songs he was working on. He had a few more brushes with fame in recent years. He performed in the Welcome to Loserville stage play at one point. He did an Attitude naked shoot to show that he had grown up into quite the sexy dude. Ran his own humorous social media campaign to unseat the Simon Cowell Christmas Number One tradition (you probably have to be British to grasp this concept though I sort of understand) with his own song (which I bought though it didn't). He put together a small tour a few years back and played to what seemed like small but adoring crowds judging from the pictures. And he always acknowledged and appreciated the fact that he had gay fans which made me like him even more. He played the infamous G-A-Y nightclub in London and seemed to be thrilled that people of all walks remembered and still enjoyed hearing from him. There were quiet periods in between these career arcs, but he never stopped making music or wanting to share his talent. To be honest, I never really knew about his battle with depression. I wish that I had. Not that I, as a fan, could have done anything, but it would have been nice to know we shared that issue. It must be incredibly hard to go from being on tv all over the world one day to several years later not being able to get record companies to even listen to songs you put your heart and soul into. If that attributed to his depression it makes me sad. Especially since this is a new era for music and the music business where artists can pretty much self-release albums and build a fanbase all on their own.
Here are several clips of Chris performing in recent years, first a beautiful acoustic version of We Don'r Have to Take Our Clothes Off with his friend Tom Mann (who wrote and performed on the Christmas Number One single with him) followed by a lovely solo acoustic number Chris wrote all on his own:
This was the last photo Chris shared on social media several weeks ago. Though he doesn't look ecstatically happy, he certainly doesn't seem like somebody in a deep depression either.
But that is what is so insidious about depression. It makes you put a false smile on your face so that no one else knows your pain. Or it makes you avoid people altogether because you are feeling hopeless and simply don't want to be helped. Despite whatever personal pain he might have been going through, Chris was always quick to make others smile, as evidenced by this tweet from several weeks ago:
But then there was this tweet shortly after, which at first I wasn't sure should be taken seriously since Chris always did have a sarcastic sense of humor:
I did take it seriously, and this was my response to him:
It may seem weird words of comfort and support coming from someone who worries endlessly about what others think and whether or not I matter in this life. But if there's one thing I know how to do it is try to remind others bereft of hope why they should continue to hang on. Its a strange psychosis. I can very literally contemplate and formulate a suicide plan in the morning and in the afternoon try vehemently to talk a friend or loved one out of doing just that. I guess it boils down to not wanting to see people you care about hurt the same way you are. I have no way of knowing whether or not Chris saw my tweet or even cared that it was sent since he didn't respond in any way. But in light of his death, I'm glad I sent it. The outpouring of love from celebrities and fans alike on social media has been lovely. No matter how Chris died, there is a loss. Whether a loss for what might have been, what at one point was, or simply the extinguishing of a light much too bright and far too early is up to you to decide. I feel for his family and friends. For myself, I'm going to take my melancholy and listen to his music tonight. Rock on, Chris, wherever you are. I hope you are finally at peace.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
The Return of the Legend of Nastybabyboy
Nastybabyboy continues to be 1 of my favorite dudes on the web. He's fun, flirty, and seems pretty fearless. Love him :)
Truthful Phone Calls
Do you ever really say what you're thinking one hundred percent of the time over the phone? First of all, I hate talking on the phone. There's an unwritten law when people talk on the phone that the conversation will go like this: I tell you some cool stuff that's been happening in my life, you tell me some cool stuff that's been happening in your life, we both agree we need to talk more often, and then we hang up and go back to our pretty much totally uncool existence. Unless your friend DOES happen to be cool in which case my sympathies cuz that must be frustrating as fuck. But my point is: in this preordained strokefest, where could you possibly find time to fit in the fact that you cried yourself to sleep the previous night because you found a gray pubic hair and you weren't quite ready for that shit? Or maybe my friend found out that his 12 year old was planning to kill him and he's obviously worried. But are you going to tell somebody that whom you only speak to over the phone every 6 months? Probably not. By the way, both of these things may or may not have happened. That's not the point. As someone who prides himself on not being a hypocrite and wearing my heart on my sleeve, I find the false cheeriness of phone calls sort of offensive. That's not to say I always need to have honesty. Unless I already lust after my friend I don't need to know that he jerked off with the same hand he used to dial the phone. But too often I find myself saying "I'm fine" when I'm really not. Or "Yes let's get together" when I know damn well this person can't be trusted to commit to a breakfast cereal let alone complicated plans to hang out several weeks from now. I guess I'd prefer a happy medium where we COULD be honest if we wanted to without being embarrassed. Maybe its just me and my weird sense of male upbringing that taught me never to show emotion or admit that I need help (though I have done both on occasion and often when it was required). Even recently though this doesn't relate to a phone call but a straight male friend hurt me pretty bad by standing me up. I know he didn't mean it and I know it was silly but I was truly upset. But because he was straight and I didn't want him to read into my feelings I kept them to myself. Yet here I am a month later still hurt by that silly little incident. I guess the take-away is that feelings are very complex and I hate having to disguise them over a phone call where we both talk about everything but what we're really concerned about. But I suppose the opposite could be incredibly uncomfortable as well.
"Hi Sally, how are you?"
"Awful. I've had diarrhea for six days. I can barely leave the house."
"Oh my God. I'm so...sorry. Are the kids doing all right at least?"
"Kevin is doing amazing. He took first place in the county spelling bee. I'm so proud of him. But he has ADHD so we've got him on a Ritalin cocktail. Karen...she shit herself on the school bus yesterday (sobs erupt). I just don't know what to do with her. I'm speaking to a priest now. But enough of my problems (blows nose loudly). How are you?"
"I can't say anything better than I'm maintaining. Even when my husband is in the room I'm so lonely I want to die. Essentially my pillow is so wet from the tears that I feel like I'm sleeping in a water bed every night. You know, the usual."
Honestly, I REALLY don't want to have that phone conversation either. But I will try to tell people important things like "I miss you" or "I love you" or "You hurt me" or "I am hurting" when it is required. I'll just shoot for that happy medium in between soul-baring/crushing honestly and pointless blather. Be back later I have to go make a phone call to my friend.
"Hi Sally, how are you?"
"Awful. I've had diarrhea for six days. I can barely leave the house."
"Oh my God. I'm so...sorry. Are the kids doing all right at least?"
"Kevin is doing amazing. He took first place in the county spelling bee. I'm so proud of him. But he has ADHD so we've got him on a Ritalin cocktail. Karen...she shit herself on the school bus yesterday (sobs erupt). I just don't know what to do with her. I'm speaking to a priest now. But enough of my problems (blows nose loudly). How are you?"
"I can't say anything better than I'm maintaining. Even when my husband is in the room I'm so lonely I want to die. Essentially my pillow is so wet from the tears that I feel like I'm sleeping in a water bed every night. You know, the usual."
Honestly, I REALLY don't want to have that phone conversation either. But I will try to tell people important things like "I miss you" or "I love you" or "You hurt me" or "I am hurting" when it is required. I'll just shoot for that happy medium in between soul-baring/crushing honestly and pointless blather. Be back later I have to go make a phone call to my friend.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Star of My Affections
Hey there young and handsome you should know the drill, won't you take that pill
and get famous.
It's a fleeting kind of fame though it comes with frills, and all the perfect thrills
of desire.
It's a sawboned affair, leaves you gasping for air
while you claw to the top, pristine cream of the crop
not the everlasting star of my affections.
Happy you can join the overachievers, once doubtful believers
in your life.
All the shiny and the bold, heads too big to uphold
from the haze there.
Leaves you on your knees, others do as they please
And your mournful despair, it gets lost on the air
as you fade from the star of my affections.
And I told you to breathe
but you didn't believe
that I meant what I said
as I cradled your head
but I did.....but I did.
Its all in the past, I told you this was meant to last
when our eyes met.
I can heal those wounds with something better that's bloomed
here in our touch.
It's a moment so rare, that it's almost unfair.
Better seize that chance, take my hand and let's dance
as the everlasting star of my affections.
And I'll give you my heart
for us never to part.
It's not much but it's mine
now it's yours to define
forever and ever...forever and ever.
All hail the star
because that's what you are
the everlasting star of my affections.
and get famous.
It's a fleeting kind of fame though it comes with frills, and all the perfect thrills
of desire.
It's a sawboned affair, leaves you gasping for air
while you claw to the top, pristine cream of the crop
not the everlasting star of my affections.
Happy you can join the overachievers, once doubtful believers
in your life.
All the shiny and the bold, heads too big to uphold
from the haze there.
Leaves you on your knees, others do as they please
And your mournful despair, it gets lost on the air
as you fade from the star of my affections.
And I told you to breathe
but you didn't believe
that I meant what I said
as I cradled your head
but I did.....but I did.
Its all in the past, I told you this was meant to last
when our eyes met.
I can heal those wounds with something better that's bloomed
here in our touch.
It's a moment so rare, that it's almost unfair.
Better seize that chance, take my hand and let's dance
as the everlasting star of my affections.
And I'll give you my heart
for us never to part.
It's not much but it's mine
now it's yours to define
forever and ever...forever and ever.
All hail the star
because that's what you are
the everlasting star of my affections.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
The Worst Dates Ever
Valentine's passed last month and, as usual, it got me kinda introspective. Considering last year my boyfriend dumped me 2 weeks before Valentine's, introspective was me getting off light. But I started thinking about horrible dates. We've all experienced them. You would think eventually the dating pool would shrink enough that you could at least get them over and done with but there always seems to be a new contestant vying for the title of worst date ever. Honestly, I've had my fair share, but at this point in my life I've gotten incredibly good at weeding out the crazies before the date even begins. And with age comes a certain brusqueness. Where years ago I might have continued with the date out of simple decorum, I've now come to the conclusion that time is too fucking valuable to waste on someone who will simply rob you of it without any payback. I'll end that shit before the appetizers come if I have to. I don't play. But here are a few of my candidates for worst date ever.
1) Lisa Runewicz. Picture it. New Jersey, 1986. Junior year of high school. You have me, looking kind of like a chubbier, "in the flesh" version of Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club. Except with hair spray. Lots and lots of hair spray. I knew my place in society. I wasn't cool. I would never be cool. But I was funny. Well read. And an all-around nice guy. I would never ever have thought of asking out anyone too far above my station. This was the era of Rush' Subdivisions, and for anyone who thought that song was exaggerated let me tsk tsk u right now. The Breakfast Club was not a work of fantasy. I wept like a baby when I saw that movie because it really spoke to my soul and what I was going through. I was 15 when it came out, and I knew all too well about societal castes and being unpopular. When Brian, the character played by Hall in the film, told of his failed suicide attempt, I understood the feeling. I'd already been pondering suicide for several years by that time. But I digress. It had taken me several years to gather up the courage to even ask a girl out. I knew I was gay by this point, but I was in a denial phase. I thought if I dated females like society told me I should then I could make it go away. So I chose Lisa, a semi-homely girl who played field hockey and, oddly enough, was obsessed with looking as much like Molly Ringwald as she could. She wore her hair shortish like Molly (though it was dark and straight, unlike Molly's ginger curls and waves), dressed in the same sort of short skirt/sleeveless blouse/leggings combo that Molly rocked all through her John Hughes phase, and, the piece de resistance, wore the same stylish fedora that Molly wore in Sixteen Candles. True, she played a sport so was at least 1 rung above me with my school newspaper cred, but she had never been anything close to popular. I figured at the very least we'd have a nice dinner and I could actually say I had been on a date. But to my surprise, she had caveats. She would go out with me, she said, but I wouldn't be allowed to tell anyone. It had to be a secret. We talked a few minutes longer, but I was already holding onto a pretty big secret, I didn't need anymore. I told her never mind. Happily, she seemed kind of shocked that I turned her down. Now, all these years later, I'm pretty shocked myself. I could have simply kept my mouth shut and probably got to at least second base if thats what I was really interested in. But it wasn't. And I'm proud, in retrospect, that I didn't ditch my integrity to gain some experience. You could argue that I got what I deserved by choosing what I thought would be an easily attainable girl who turned out to actually not want to date a chubby geek in a Def Leppard shirt. But fuck that. She was copying Molly Ringwald lock, stock, and fedora. How much goddamn status did she think she had to lose? I'm glad I never saw her again. So, in essence, one of the worst dates I've ever had never even got off the ground.
2) My very first boyfriend was named Christian. He was loud, fem, and unabashedly direct. He was also 6 foot 4 and a towering presence. The worst date with him took place at the very end of our relationship. But I'd be remiss at starting there without explaining about him and 1 of the very best dates I ever had. I actually met him at a party that a friend of a friend dragged me to. I was ditched within the first 5 minutes and left to my own devices which was terrifying both then and now, but this was my very FIRST queer gathering so it was doubly frightening. Christian found me by myself at the party, talked to me for hours and made me laugh, and we made plans to go on a date several nights later. We went to see Independence Day, of all things. Great movie and since it was our first date we actually watched the movie and didn't mack all over each other during the quieter moments. Afterward, we went back to my place to drink some beers and chill. Keep in mind, we were both young and horny, so without much ado after walking through the door we were naked and writhing on my living room floor. It was pretty glorious, if I can toot my own horn a bit. But afterward, as I put my head down against his chest and listened to him breathing, his body began to shudder slowly. And then harder. Until he broke out into quiet sobs. I raised my head in alarm. It was pretty disturbing to have somebody break down into hysterics five minutes after you just fucked them what you thought was silly. But as I stroked the side of his face and asked him what was wrong, he wiped his tears away and I could see that they were not tears of pain, but of joy. You see, I neglected to mention that Christian also had a very large red birthmark running right across half of his face. It was, of course, very noticeable, but it hadn't given me a second's pause when I first thought about dating him. He was handsome and funny no matter what. But I hadn't realized just how much that birthmark had been holding Christian himself back. When I asked him why he was crying, he said "I didn't think anyone would want to do anything but fuck me. I didn't think anyone would find me attractive. You're so special." And boy, did I feel special after that. The moment passed but we stayed there for a while with out naked bodies intertwined watching tv and shooting the breeze until the wee hours. And that ended up being one of my most special dates. But fast forward six months, what seems like an eternity when you're young and gay. By that point we were both getting on each other's nerves. We knew it was over but neither of us had the balls to officially break it off. But the last straw came that summer. My Aunt owned a massive house where she would frequently host us during visits to Long Beach Island. It was right on the bay, so we could swim there or in the ocean, and they had just bought a jet ski. I'm not sure if I actually invited Christian along hoping the semi-romantic setting would calm things down between us a little or if he barged his way into the invite for far more selfish reasons. But by the 5th hour of our first night there I was aware that this was going to be one of the worst dates in my life. We actively hated each other and were mostly not even talking. But worse, it was MY family's house and Christian was roaming around riding the jet ski, eating up all of the food, and generally acting like it was his house to invade. Essentially, he was using me for the weekend away. That night I got my revenge, and though the date was bad, I did get one positive out of it. I suppose guilt or simple horniness made Christian ask me for sex that night. And after several months of actively seeking it, I hate fucked the shit out of him. With every thrust I imagined I was shoving a bushido blade into him. And it did feel good and give me some sense of payback, even though he ended it several days afterward. Unofficially, of course. The gutless weasel simply stopped calling me because it was easier than actually saying the words "Its over." But that weekend was hell, which is why it made this list.
3) Curiously, my next long term boyfriend and my last worst date (on this list, anyway) follows a similar formula to the previous one and also involves a lovely but surprising first date and ended in a pretty devastating one. His name was Chris as well. Weirdly, I dated three boyfriends named Chris right in a row. It was pretty mind blowing. But this Chris was a polar opposite to the last. Shy, closeted, and a virgin, he was sweet and caring but required a lot of patience since every touch or romantic word made him freak out. Our first date was to go see Titanic. Yes, you have discovered a pattern here. I love movies so that will always be a preference when going on dates. And if I can find someone who is as obsessed with them as I am its usually a good sign. In any event, we went to see Titanic. I had seen it already and loved it. He hadn't. By the time the ship is perpendicular and about to go down and that chick lets go of the railing and falls and bounces off of the propeller, he was a sobbing mess. And by the end, he was still sobbing. And when we got to the car. All he could manage for twenty minutes in between wracked sobs was "Those poor people." But I hugged him for a long time. And we made out. And then went to the shore where we lie under the moonlight and told stories about our past and laughed. It was actually pretty beautiful. So my first date with him began as a source of comfort. Actually, our whole relationship was me acting as a source of comfort for him so he could find himself, be comfortable, and be proud. I never got to see the fruits of my labor however. I never even got him to take his underwear off if I recall, even though we dated for about six months. I had the patience of a saint, as I think about it now. Six months later, we were doing fine or so I thought and he was becoming more comfortable being gay with every date. It was New Year's Eve. We were having a massive party at my apartment and I was excited because it was the first time he would be meeting my extended family and all of my friends. He was incredibly nervous. So much so that after just two hours and countless drinks, drunk and extremely nervous, he ran out of the apartment and got into his car and drove away heading the 25 miles to where he lived. I was running after him in tears, screaming for him to stop because he could barely walk without teetering let alone drive a car. And as he sped away I just stood there in the cold sobbing, my friends hugging me as I worried whether or not he would survive the trip home let alone be ok with calling me his "boyfriend". I went to bed with my eyes still wet. And didn't hear from him for several days. At which point I received a Dear John letter from him in my mailbox. I was absolutely crushed. To make matters worse, several months later, still reeling from the break up, I was walking through Penn Station in New York City when I saw him walking hand in hand with an attractive man he was obviously dating.
I don't begrudge life throwing me the curveballs of these awful dates. I sometimes begrudge the people involved for helping to cause them. But if I'm being generous, they helped to shape me into the person that I am today so I can only be so upset. That seems to be the healthiest way to look at it.
1) Lisa Runewicz. Picture it. New Jersey, 1986. Junior year of high school. You have me, looking kind of like a chubbier, "in the flesh" version of Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club. Except with hair spray. Lots and lots of hair spray. I knew my place in society. I wasn't cool. I would never be cool. But I was funny. Well read. And an all-around nice guy. I would never ever have thought of asking out anyone too far above my station. This was the era of Rush' Subdivisions, and for anyone who thought that song was exaggerated let me tsk tsk u right now. The Breakfast Club was not a work of fantasy. I wept like a baby when I saw that movie because it really spoke to my soul and what I was going through. I was 15 when it came out, and I knew all too well about societal castes and being unpopular. When Brian, the character played by Hall in the film, told of his failed suicide attempt, I understood the feeling. I'd already been pondering suicide for several years by that time. But I digress. It had taken me several years to gather up the courage to even ask a girl out. I knew I was gay by this point, but I was in a denial phase. I thought if I dated females like society told me I should then I could make it go away. So I chose Lisa, a semi-homely girl who played field hockey and, oddly enough, was obsessed with looking as much like Molly Ringwald as she could. She wore her hair shortish like Molly (though it was dark and straight, unlike Molly's ginger curls and waves), dressed in the same sort of short skirt/sleeveless blouse/leggings combo that Molly rocked all through her John Hughes phase, and, the piece de resistance, wore the same stylish fedora that Molly wore in Sixteen Candles. True, she played a sport so was at least 1 rung above me with my school newspaper cred, but she had never been anything close to popular. I figured at the very least we'd have a nice dinner and I could actually say I had been on a date. But to my surprise, she had caveats. She would go out with me, she said, but I wouldn't be allowed to tell anyone. It had to be a secret. We talked a few minutes longer, but I was already holding onto a pretty big secret, I didn't need anymore. I told her never mind. Happily, she seemed kind of shocked that I turned her down. Now, all these years later, I'm pretty shocked myself. I could have simply kept my mouth shut and probably got to at least second base if thats what I was really interested in. But it wasn't. And I'm proud, in retrospect, that I didn't ditch my integrity to gain some experience. You could argue that I got what I deserved by choosing what I thought would be an easily attainable girl who turned out to actually not want to date a chubby geek in a Def Leppard shirt. But fuck that. She was copying Molly Ringwald lock, stock, and fedora. How much goddamn status did she think she had to lose? I'm glad I never saw her again. So, in essence, one of the worst dates I've ever had never even got off the ground.
2) My very first boyfriend was named Christian. He was loud, fem, and unabashedly direct. He was also 6 foot 4 and a towering presence. The worst date with him took place at the very end of our relationship. But I'd be remiss at starting there without explaining about him and 1 of the very best dates I ever had. I actually met him at a party that a friend of a friend dragged me to. I was ditched within the first 5 minutes and left to my own devices which was terrifying both then and now, but this was my very FIRST queer gathering so it was doubly frightening. Christian found me by myself at the party, talked to me for hours and made me laugh, and we made plans to go on a date several nights later. We went to see Independence Day, of all things. Great movie and since it was our first date we actually watched the movie and didn't mack all over each other during the quieter moments. Afterward, we went back to my place to drink some beers and chill. Keep in mind, we were both young and horny, so without much ado after walking through the door we were naked and writhing on my living room floor. It was pretty glorious, if I can toot my own horn a bit. But afterward, as I put my head down against his chest and listened to him breathing, his body began to shudder slowly. And then harder. Until he broke out into quiet sobs. I raised my head in alarm. It was pretty disturbing to have somebody break down into hysterics five minutes after you just fucked them what you thought was silly. But as I stroked the side of his face and asked him what was wrong, he wiped his tears away and I could see that they were not tears of pain, but of joy. You see, I neglected to mention that Christian also had a very large red birthmark running right across half of his face. It was, of course, very noticeable, but it hadn't given me a second's pause when I first thought about dating him. He was handsome and funny no matter what. But I hadn't realized just how much that birthmark had been holding Christian himself back. When I asked him why he was crying, he said "I didn't think anyone would want to do anything but fuck me. I didn't think anyone would find me attractive. You're so special." And boy, did I feel special after that. The moment passed but we stayed there for a while with out naked bodies intertwined watching tv and shooting the breeze until the wee hours. And that ended up being one of my most special dates. But fast forward six months, what seems like an eternity when you're young and gay. By that point we were both getting on each other's nerves. We knew it was over but neither of us had the balls to officially break it off. But the last straw came that summer. My Aunt owned a massive house where she would frequently host us during visits to Long Beach Island. It was right on the bay, so we could swim there or in the ocean, and they had just bought a jet ski. I'm not sure if I actually invited Christian along hoping the semi-romantic setting would calm things down between us a little or if he barged his way into the invite for far more selfish reasons. But by the 5th hour of our first night there I was aware that this was going to be one of the worst dates in my life. We actively hated each other and were mostly not even talking. But worse, it was MY family's house and Christian was roaming around riding the jet ski, eating up all of the food, and generally acting like it was his house to invade. Essentially, he was using me for the weekend away. That night I got my revenge, and though the date was bad, I did get one positive out of it. I suppose guilt or simple horniness made Christian ask me for sex that night. And after several months of actively seeking it, I hate fucked the shit out of him. With every thrust I imagined I was shoving a bushido blade into him. And it did feel good and give me some sense of payback, even though he ended it several days afterward. Unofficially, of course. The gutless weasel simply stopped calling me because it was easier than actually saying the words "Its over." But that weekend was hell, which is why it made this list.
3) Curiously, my next long term boyfriend and my last worst date (on this list, anyway) follows a similar formula to the previous one and also involves a lovely but surprising first date and ended in a pretty devastating one. His name was Chris as well. Weirdly, I dated three boyfriends named Chris right in a row. It was pretty mind blowing. But this Chris was a polar opposite to the last. Shy, closeted, and a virgin, he was sweet and caring but required a lot of patience since every touch or romantic word made him freak out. Our first date was to go see Titanic. Yes, you have discovered a pattern here. I love movies so that will always be a preference when going on dates. And if I can find someone who is as obsessed with them as I am its usually a good sign. In any event, we went to see Titanic. I had seen it already and loved it. He hadn't. By the time the ship is perpendicular and about to go down and that chick lets go of the railing and falls and bounces off of the propeller, he was a sobbing mess. And by the end, he was still sobbing. And when we got to the car. All he could manage for twenty minutes in between wracked sobs was "Those poor people." But I hugged him for a long time. And we made out. And then went to the shore where we lie under the moonlight and told stories about our past and laughed. It was actually pretty beautiful. So my first date with him began as a source of comfort. Actually, our whole relationship was me acting as a source of comfort for him so he could find himself, be comfortable, and be proud. I never got to see the fruits of my labor however. I never even got him to take his underwear off if I recall, even though we dated for about six months. I had the patience of a saint, as I think about it now. Six months later, we were doing fine or so I thought and he was becoming more comfortable being gay with every date. It was New Year's Eve. We were having a massive party at my apartment and I was excited because it was the first time he would be meeting my extended family and all of my friends. He was incredibly nervous. So much so that after just two hours and countless drinks, drunk and extremely nervous, he ran out of the apartment and got into his car and drove away heading the 25 miles to where he lived. I was running after him in tears, screaming for him to stop because he could barely walk without teetering let alone drive a car. And as he sped away I just stood there in the cold sobbing, my friends hugging me as I worried whether or not he would survive the trip home let alone be ok with calling me his "boyfriend". I went to bed with my eyes still wet. And didn't hear from him for several days. At which point I received a Dear John letter from him in my mailbox. I was absolutely crushed. To make matters worse, several months later, still reeling from the break up, I was walking through Penn Station in New York City when I saw him walking hand in hand with an attractive man he was obviously dating.
I don't begrudge life throwing me the curveballs of these awful dates. I sometimes begrudge the people involved for helping to cause them. But if I'm being generous, they helped to shape me into the person that I am today so I can only be so upset. That seems to be the healthiest way to look at it.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Anonymous Hottie Ahead
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