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I miss my dog although I never washed her or really took care of her like my parents did.
Her name was Precious (actually Precious Princess Anne) and after the Lord of the Rings films came out, I used to carry her around and pet her saying "My precious, my prehhhhhciousssssssss" like Golum. She would only walk so far from the house, she didn't care to walk outside, she preferred to be carried. Perhaps I need a new pet, it's getting kinda quiet in my condo.

Story 6: Half-Brownie Date

Picture it. Washington, DC, 2002. It is late spring and the waft of cherry blossoms from the tidal basin is only a memory. It is light jacket weather but those eager Dupont Circle regulars are already sporting sandals and shorts, less because of the heat and sun and more to show off the Caribbean vacations from which they have just returned.

It could have been a wonderful day, and being generally optimistic, it could have been a wonderful date too. A young graduate school student meets his date in Dupont Circle for lunch one Saturday. The blind date is the epitome of cuddly (+1), thick (+1) and muscled (+1), sinewy calves (+1), with a nice soft layer of adipose tissue to make him comfortable (+1). The blind date sounds too perfect: long walks on the beach (+1), romantic dinners (+1), PhD (+2), appreciates show tunes (+2) and jazz (+2), has a house in Florida (+1) - and not a timeshare, has a house in Maine (+1) - not a timeshare, has a car (+1) and likes to do the driving (+2), generically handsome (+1), clean (+1) and healthy (+1), has a job (+5), has a pulse (+5)…

My classmate seemed to have done well in matching us up. Everything I have heard has been positive. And, assuming he heard both my positive and negative traits, at least he showed up (+5).

So, we are at a small restaurant in Dupont Circle. He orders, I order, the server taking our orders could be new to the job. I notice both the server having a hard time with the orders and my date giving a hard time to the server. I let it go, assuming it’s just an off-day for both of them. The server apologizes, and my date continues with being mean to him. The server walks away, and my date cannot cease degrading our “help.” My date asks me what I want for dessert (+1), and I begin to hope things are looking up. I ask for the brownie dessert on the menu. The server returns, and he orders one brownie, with two forks, and again is chastising the server and the entire establishment.

Now, I’m 6’3’’, 215 pounds, and as of a couple days ago, I’m 26 years old. And I was just as big in 2002. I don’t look like I’ve skipped a meal, and don’t look like I cannot eat a dessert alone. If my date had not been so mean to the staff the ENTIRE time we sat in the restaurant, I would not have cared that he did not ask to split the dessert, although it would have been more polite. And had he not ordered dessert, I would have offered to split it with him anyway. But he WAS mean to the staff the ENTIRE time, and I was tired of it.

So, I did something that is very unlike me. I answered my mobile phone. Let me explain: I do not usually answer my phone while on a date, or while eating a meal. I also did not have a “vibrate” option on that particular phone, which I had purchased in 1997 before going to college. And most importantly, no one called me, or no one was calling me. My phone was either on silent or turned off.

I quickly reached into my pocket for my cellular phone and brought it up to my ear. I began listening after saying an initial “hello” to no one on the receiving end of my conversation.

“Ruby, are you okay? What’s the matter? (pause) Slow down.” I have never been a good actor, but I deserved an award for my performance.

“You’re at George Washington Hospital? I can be there in 5 minutes. Bye.” I quickly put the phone back in my pocket. I apologize profusely for having answered it. I tell my date that I have to leave. He asks if everything is alright. I answer that I need to get to the hospital for a friend in trouble. He pays the bill rather quickly, and takes the brownie dessert to go. And, I even get him to drive me to GW Hospital. I walk through the entrance and wait for his car to pull away. I exit the hospital and take the escalator down to the Metro, and take the orange line home.

Date’s Positive Traits: +37 Points
Date Being Mean to Restaurant Staff: -50 Points
Date Splitting Dessert without Asking: -1 Point... Ok, make it -2 Points

Date’s Overall Score: -15 Points

Applicable Quote: Necessity is the mother of invention.

Commentary 2: Dating

I can count the number of times I recognized being hit on/talked up anywhere on my hands. I say “recognized” because some of my friends say I am oblivious to being talked up and need to take notice more often. Nevertheless, I don’t blame other people, because I can probably count the number of times I have hit on/talked up anyone on my hands and feet as well. And I realize it’s a two-way street. I just feel that having absolutely no reliable gaydar that I prefer to not make a fool of myself. Is it a fear of rejection? Perhaps. Although I DO have the balls to go talk to people on a friendly, neighborly basis, I DO NOT have the balls talk with any other motivations being obvious to them.

I believe that some of the time, people are a bit presumptuous when they hit on people, a bit rude even. I have been told I am intimidating. How I can be intimidating and shy and extroverted at the same time, I’ll have to analyze deeper.

Yes, my own fault, I realize. I am extroverted enough to approach and talk with people, be friendly, interested, and engaging. Deep down, I may want to do more, I may be planning the outfits for our adopted children and trying to decide if we’ll vacation in the mountains or the beach, but I will never make that known. Is there such thing as a shy extrovert? I would like to blame being born on the Leo-Virgo cusp, with my extroverted Leo being dampened by my humble and demure Virgo.

So what did I do to solve this dilemma?

Well, I am an “academic” so my first solution was to try ballroom dancing, salsa to be specific. Although they let me come to classes three times a week instead of once (which you pay for) because all the women wanted to dance with someone as tall as me and the instructors shorter Latino friends were not cutting it (although they were better dancers).

Why didn’t this class work to solve my problems?

1) I never had trouble talking with females. And the class was mostly females.
2) There are very few gay clubs in the DC/Metro area that even have salsa music.
3) Very few of my friends know how to salsa, and although I do NOT mind going to karaoke alone, I DO mind going dancing alone.

Story 5: Panama

Picture it. Panama, April 2003. A young single American male arrives in Panama City a week before his big brother’s wedding. This is his fraternity “big brother,” and not his elder step-brother. He is the first to get to the hotel of ten fraternity brothers staying in the same hotel, five per room. His big brother, being the considerate host in this foreign land, has set up several tours and mini-trips across Panama for all of his guests from the USA, including the rain forest, deep sea fishing, museums, waterfalls, visiting local native tribes, canoeing, etc.

And, I, being the only homosexual in the party was the only one interested in heading to at least one Panamanian gay club. Nevertheless, I came prepared. Fortunately, the gods favoured me that month. Weeks before, I had been on gay.com in the Panama room. With my limited Spanish (I took French), I got to chat with a few locals. Lo and behold! I come to find one of my chat buddies is a guest to the same wedding, as the nephew of the mother of the sister-in-law of the bride.

So, my first night, my new friend, Eduardo, takes me out clubbing with his friends. The club is packed with relatively short Panamanians. My “local” drink of choice is Seco (sugar cane rum from Panama) and Fruit Punch. My salsa dancing needs work. And unlike most USA clubs, there are very few people standing off the dance floor. EVERYONE is dancing. They don’t even walk to the bar to get a drink. They wait for one of several young boys in a speedos, tennis shoes, and fanny packs (but placed on the side to allow for maximum frontal and read viewing) to come take drink orders and money while ON the dance floor. Now, this is what I call service!

Fast forward a couple days later. Most of my fraternity brothers are at the Panama Canal, which I have seen already, and chose not to see again. I decide to take a walk and go shopping, motivated to buy shoes in Panama, just to be able to say I have shoes from Panama. I didn’t care for the selection of shoes, oh well.

As I am walking down Via Espagna, a cop starts to follow me, about ten paces behind. I am intrigued by the idea of being followed, I figured I stood out from the crowd by height, lack of tan (at the time), and lack of Spanish language skills such that I would not be a suspect for shoplifting. He comes closer and asks me where I am from, thinking I am Italian (apparently there are a lot of those there, which is another story).

I say I am from the USA in broken Spanish. He does not even have broken English, he just slows down the Spanish for me. He asks why I am visiting, and all sorts of questions, and I obligingly answer, because he is a cop. Now that we are talking and side by side, I can see that he has a beautiful form. His arms were large and foreboding, his hair was black and thick, oily. He wasn’t particularly outstanding in his looks, just simple. He had dark eyes, and his tan was a dark brown with a hint of bronze. He had perfect teeth, which I remember noting because I was expecting them to be mediocre (USA bias coming out). He was plain, sturdy in his uniform, arms and biceps bulging out his short uniform shirt sleeves. His forearms were huge reminding me of Popeye. I hated his work shoes/boots, I thought they were ugly and it convinced me that I did NOT want to buy shoes in Panama.

He asks me the normal cocktail party questions, even though were walking down the street in front of store after store. In broken Spanish with mixed in French and English words when I give up on the Spanish, I go through the responses: Soltero/Single. Cursos de posgraduado. No novia. Washington, DC. Si, soltero. Llegado viernes en la tardes. No, no novia, no amiga. No dormir con chicas. Si, soltero, solo.
Let’s just say, the whole conversation was getting annoying. He kept asking me if I was single and if I had a girlfriend. I didn’t think he understood me at all. That is, until, he said a word in Spanish that didn’t need any translation, (thank the gods for Romance Languages): homosexual.

Have you read about my lack of gaydar? And I thought no one would notice the homosexual walking down the road unless I had some rainbow stickers and HRC magnets and such adorning my bag. Apparently, I am more obvious than I think.

About two minutes later... “Mi hotel es allí… Ven con migo" (thank you Cristina Aguilera)

I figure I have about an hour and a half before the brothers get back from the Canal to get ready for our dining out. We go into the hotel, up the elevator, into the room. He’s not a great kisser, awful really. He threw me onto the hotel bed (and I am not easily thrown). He jumps on me like a panther, my shirt is off, his face in my armpits, grunting, his hands are all over me and just touching every part, it feels like he has eight arms. He smells, and I’m not in the mood to lick the road-dust off his chest (it tasted awful).

We continue in the shower, his uncut member throbbing, his tongue on my nipples lapping, the foreplay is continuous, unstopping, touching every part of my body, his body, the towels. He handcuffs me from behind and makes me lick and lap at his hairy testicles (but not hairy-bad-get-in-your-teeth-and-mouth-cough-up-a-hairball-hairy). I position myself to put my moistened lips around his cock…

Brapp! Brapp! Brapp! Everything screeches to a halt. Someone is at the door.

I walk over, cuffed, and look out the door peephole. It’s Scott, my fraternity brother who is supposed to be in a different hotel. He explains that his girlfriend hated Panama and he had to buy her ticket back to the USA (which he could have prevented had he been staying in a nicer hotel like me), so he had to get all of his stuff out of his hotel room and into mine since he didn’t have enough money to do his hotel room AND her ticket.

He calls “pin” for me to open the door. (Older fraternity brothers get certain privileges by calling pin on younger fraternity brothers, calling pin number (by order initiated) is usually used to have someone get you a beer, answer the frat house lobby phone, organize the queue for dinner buffet-style, and call shotgun in a car) I have a towel around my waist, and my hands cuffed behind my back. I open the door slightly, which took some doing with my hands cuffed. Then I quickly step out the door to speak with him.

“How’d you get in a towel and handcuffs, Marcus (he actually calls me by my last name- not shown here)?” Scott inquired (he’s not the brightest bulb, but he is damn good looking and sexy) ”Scott (I call him by his last name, not shown here), go get your bag at your hotel, I’ll be here, bring it back, give me about 30 minutes,” I instruct.

“But I can be back in 7,” he retorts.

“But I won’t be finished in 7, come back in 30, PLEASE! And DON’T YOU DARE CALL PIN ON ME,” I plead.

He laughs, agrees, and leaves. I reenter my hotel room to find my buff cop fully dressed, he takes my cuffs off, and he rushes out. Apparently, he had to get back to work and my fraternity brother’s visit made him nervous. Oh well, the wedding reception made up for it, I guess.

Story 4: Last to know

For someone who is as social as I am, one would think I would be "in the know" at least some of the time. However, that is not the case.

Picture it. Maryland, 2005. A young man is on his fourth week working at an international association based in Maryland. He is enjoying his job, where he gets to arrive at 7ish and leave at 3ish every day to bypass the horrible beltway traffic to and from Virginia.

Everyone knows I leave around 3ish. It's common knowledge. And yet, they sent out an email at 459pm on Wednesday to ask everyone on staff to wear a red tee and jeans the next day to show solidarity in launching our new product. Did anyone remember that I left at 3ish? Did anyone call me to tell me to wear red?

So, ignorant of the whole celebration that morning, I arrive at work in a turquoise polo shirt and tan slacks. And, I check my email at 0710 AM to find out, I will be the only one in turqoise that day.

Sidenote 1: Even if I had received the email, I don't own anything red except ties. I look awful in red, makes my skin look blotchy, depending on the day. The closest I come to it is pink or a purplish maroon.

Sidenote 2: The picture above does not include about 30 OTHER people in red, also present at the festivities that morning.

Welcome to my life.

Story 3: First "Real" Kiss

I'm in a happy, slightly energetic but not overly excited, romantically optimistic but not sexually frustrated (yet) mood.

So, I'll share this story.

Picture it. Cleveland, 1998 or so. It is a hot Ohio summer and I am on a date with a Cleveland-San Jose Ballet dancer.

The date started off with a simple late lunch at a diner on a weekday in Lakewood (AKA the gay west side of Cleveland). He's quirky, a bit shorter than me, and on "unemployment" for the summer (the ballet dancers did that between arts seasons).

He's athleticly slim, with beautiful tanned skin, and short cropped black hair. His jawline is strong and sharp, his features are striking. The skinniness is almost a turn-off, until he finishes his lunch and orders dessert, at which point I could either be enamoured by finally finding someone with an apetite or annoyed by someone with a high metabolism.

After lunch, we sit talking, and he excuses himself to answer his mobile phone (and he's got manners, too). He comes back and inquires what I am doing for the rest of the day.

I drive him back to his place to drop off my car. Then, we get picked up by his friend who drives us to Tremont to a restaurant/bistro/cafe called "The Flying Fig."

He wants a cocktail, and I'm too young to get into the bars. So he brings me to this place to hang out with his dancer/bartender friend. We hang out together with several dancers, girls and boys, all cordial and friendly.

Being the consummate frat boy, I am not accustomed to the cocktails, and I drink them like juice. I was more used to cheap hard liquor shots and beer (generic and microbrews).

I am at the giddy point, but pre-noticeable slurring. We get driven home and outside of his roommate's house, he says goodbye.

His hands are on my shoulders and he pulls me toward him for an embrace. Unexpectedly, he raises up on toe to have his lips meet mine. And because I'm used to lowering my head for shorter people, we fall short of actually matching up. His two lips encompass my upper lip. And my previously dry (but not chapped) lip is left slightly moist from his touch.

The embrace ends we repeat "Goodnights," and I drive home to the east side. I remember singing the entire way home in the car. In last night's dream, I believe I sang "I could have danced all night" from "My Fair Lady." I don't believe that was actually the case that night, I vaguely remember it just being whatever was on the radio.

My upper lip tingled, with my car window open and the night air cooling the moistness on my lips. I could feel it like ben-gay on a sore muscle, but without the smell.

When I arrived home, I remember placing my head on the pillow, upper lip still with an unmistakable sensation. And the last thoughts before I fall into a deep slumber were me overanalyzing and debating and questioning: Is my head spinning because of the alcohol? Or is this the way a kiss is supposed to feel?

Story 2: Never Again

One would think that someone who has watched as much Discovery Channel and HGTV/TLC programs like Trading Spaces, and This Old House would have had enough exposure to home improvement techniques and and basic fix-it knowledge to not make a fool of themselves at the local Home Depot.

Picture it. VA, 2005. A young man in his condo can no longer tolerate parking his car in his single car garage with blotchy drywall spots spread throughout. Six months of parking in the unfinished surroundings and he becomes motivated to paint the walls and ceiling of the garage in a plain white. His parents are shocked that he does not just hire out to have it professionally done as they have, four weeks prior.

One Friday evening, the young man ventures to the local Home Depot and buys a "Paint-Mate" and a large tin of white paint. "Paint-Mate," a contraption of the devil, markets itself as a tool to aid in the painting of your ceiling and walls by sucking the paint into its handle/tube and evenly spreading it out through the attached roller. Truthfully, being the novice I am, I thought the product was logical and the mechanics made sense. When more paint ended up on my floor than on the walls and ceiling, I began to question the logic. Although it did put an amount of paint on the wall, the huge amount of effort for an even layer of paint was taxing on my reserves. I quickly fatigued of the stupid extra-long roller and decided to go back to the store.

On Saturday, my second can of paint and a basic roller and tin proved to work efficiently enough, especially with the greatest hits of Stevie Wonder playing on the stereo in the background. Three bottles of Yeungling later and most of two walls and half the ceiling enveloped in cloudy white, I stopped. I cleaned myself off and went out for the evening with a friend.

I returned to find the blotchy walls still shining through the layer of paint like ghosts on a Civil War battlefield. Albeit appropriate for a Civil War battlefield, ghosts do not belong in my garage. And my friend, returning with me to get in his car to go home, inquires if I "primed" it.

Primed? Primed, you say? Oy.

So, Sunday. I venture to Home Depot, the third time that weekend, in the morning. I ask the sales associate to give me primer. I take it home, and what did I find? I've been given another can of paint. Perhaps I was still delirous from having to close the garage to paint the ceiling directly above. Perhaps I was inhaling too many fumes and the sauna created by my closing the garage door had dehydrated me. Whatever it was, I knew I didn't need any more paint. I needed primer. So I took the can back to the Home Depot and told the customer service desk that I needed to exchange the paint for primer.

"This is primer, dude" says the young man behind the counter. I retorted, "No, open it up, it's paint. I wanted primer."


Lesson 1: I hate fuckin' painting.
Lesson 2: Primer looks just like fuckin' paint.
Lesson 3: And, I hate being called "dude," especially when I feel like a fool.

So, since then, I have been shopping at Lowe's. They have healthier plants and a better selection anyway.

And, most importantly, the kid at the customer service desk doesn't know me yet.

Commentary 1: Gaydar and Toes

Unfortunately or not, I’ve never been able to fit into the stereotypical categories. I’m not large enough to be a bear, not interested in being a cub or otter, too chubby to be a jock, too hairy to be a twink… you get the idea. I’ve also never thought of myself as “obvious,” although my friends would surely disagree. The new girls at work, nevertheless are always confused. And I can understand when people slowly figure it out after speaking with me and getting to know my tastes (musical theatre, karaoke, etc) and history.

Nevertheless, it is incomprehensible to me that at the gym, where I hardly speak with anyone, and no one knows me, that people can guess. I have no rainbow tattoos and do not swish my hips when I walk for fear of tripping in my flip flops and slipping on the wet locker room floor. So, not knowing why I don’t fall through the gaydar cracks at the gym has boggled my mind.

I have laid down in the sauna with both a swim trunks and naked on a towel. Deductive reasoning would maintain that being nude in the sauna or steam room had no correlation to revealing homosexuality.

So I sat in the sauna, towel around my waist like a skirt with a slit showing way too much leg. My eyes peered down, a preventative measure for myself to keep from looking longingly in someone’s eyes or staring at their crotch or nipples. And that’s when it dawned on me.

I began to notice that a high proportion of men observed entering the sauna had interesting feet. My conclusion, having taken into account my awful nonworking gaydar, is as such. Gay men are more likely to have problem pinky toes. Heterosexual men are more likely to have problem big toes. One guess as to the cause of this may be that homosexual men may try to squeeze their feet into slim, stream-lined shoes that don’t allow room for their pinkie toes. My best guess as to why straight men have bruised and blackened big toes would be based on the fact that men in general say stupid things. Straight men say stupid things to women who might stamp or step on their feet, with good aim I might add. This is only based on my own biased observations. Any help?

Story 1: "Just Go Home!"

Story 1:
I begin my blog with this story because everyone seems to like this one the most, although I am never sure if it is the story, or the way I tell it.

Picture it. DC, 2001. It is August, a young man has recently returned home from college in Ohio to live with parents and go to graduate school in Washington, DC. Most of his high school friends have moved away or out of touch. He is lonely and itching to have some fun, regardless of lack of company. And more importantly, he’s bought these beautiful black leather half boots with a slight flamenco dance shoe heel- I needed to go out.

Upon reading the weekend section of the Washington Post, he finds an advert for Kim Coles at the DC Improv. If you remember Kim Coles, a comedienne, who played Sinclair on the television show, Living Single, with Queen Latifah, Erika Alexander- cousin Pam on The Cosby Show’s last seasons, and Kim Fields, who played Tootie on Facts of Life. While most people I know were watching Friends, I was watching Living Single. They aired at the same time.

I drove into the city, found parking a bit away, and tried to get into the DC Improv. Unfortunately, I did not make reservations. There was no room, the place was packed, and they wouldn’t let me in. So, disheartened, I walk back to the car, not my car- but my stepfather’s car because my Toyota was getting serviced in Fairfax. I’m disappointed because I cannot see my favorite comedienne and I have driven into the city for nothing.

So, I stand on the side of the street and smoke a cigarette because I, of course, cannot smoke in my stepfather’s car. Unexpectedly, a car pulls up to me, rolls down the window, and asks where Connecticut is. (I should mention here that people ask me directions and questions all the time. Apparently I have a sign on my head that says, “I know the answer, ask me a question, I can help you.”) I instruct them, “The letter streets go this way, the number streets go this way, the state streets are diagonal, go that way,” and I point. Another car pulls up and asks how to get to Southeast DC. I repeat myself, “The letter streets go this way, the number streets go this way, the state streets are diagonal, go that way,” pointing another direction this time.

Then, a third car pulls up, a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows and rims gleaming in the moonlight. An obese man rolls down his passenger side window and poses the question, “Hey, what’s going on tonight?” And, I, like the lonely bum I am, actually respond.

“I came to see Kim Coles at the DC Improv, she played Sinclair on the television show, Living Single, with Queen Latifah, Erika Alexander- cousin Pam on The Cosby Show’s last seasons, and Kim Fields, who played Tootie on Facts of Life. But I didn’t make reservations and could not get in. So, I’m standing here smoking because my car’s getting serviced at Fairfax and I can’t smoke in my stepfather’s car.”

Yes, I repeated that all in its entirety. More importantly, because the large man in the car had a deeper voice than mine, and he was hard to hear with all of the DC noises around, I said ALL of that while leaning, albeit slightly, towards his passenger window. I had hardly said, “Tootie,” before I heard a quick siren and bam, I was pulled, cuffed, and pushed around onto a police car. It took me a minute to realize what was happening. But I was quickly stating my case, “I don’t know what you think is going on, but I came here to see Kim Coles at the DC Improv, she played Sinclair on the television show, Living Single, with Queen Latifah, Erika Alexander- cousin Pam on The Cosby Show’s last seasons, and Kim Fields, who played Tootie on Facts of Life. But I didn’t make reservations and could not get in. So, I’m standing here smoking because my car’s getting serviced at Fairfax and I can’t smoke in my stepfather’s car.”

Yes, I repeated that all in its entirety. I said it about three times to the police officers when one officer un-cuffed me and said, “Just go home, kid.”

Ok. I could have left right then, but I am a man of principle. And I was under the impression that they were letting me go because they were sick of hearing my story over and over and not because they realized they were wrong and I was NOT soliciting and, more importantly, NOT a sex worker (I was skinnier that summer). So, I asked them to make sure, “I don’t know what you think is going on here, but I need to make sure you don’t think that you are being ‘nice’ by letting me go, because I was innocent in the first place…” I continued for a bit until both police officers said together, “Just GO HOME!”
And, then I drove home.

The End (for the second part of the story involving more sexual solicitation and burning leather shoes, ask me later).