It's been nearly a month since I first introduced myself to Jonathan, and ever since then I've been asking myself the question men have wondered since time immemorial: Is he, or isn't he gay?
For my convenience (and for the readers'), I have organized a list of clues about his sexuality. After studying the list, it became fairly clear that he isn't gay, but might still be bisexual. (This is why the columns are labeled "Signs Jonathan is Straight/Not Straight," instead of "Signs Jonathan is Gay/Not Gay."**)
Only adding to the confusion was a set of clues I couldn't categorize: Jonathan keeps inquiring about my dating status; he altered his name tag to read "Jon·I·Am" (imitating the rapper Will-I-Am), which he pointed out to me with special pride; he suggested coming over to my place to party; he made a sexual remark about a female at the gym, whom he later learned was only fourteen.
Blogosphere: please help me read the tea leaves.
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*Did you ever see the episode of Will and Grace episode in which they're attracted to the same guy, but can't tell whether he's gay or straight? They then consult Jack:
JACK: Ah, yes. Many have sought my counsel on this subject. They say, "Jack is a wise man. Jack is a dangerous man. Jack is a great man." No. Jack is just a man. A man who knows men who like men. Bring to me the facts.
WILL: Ok. In his bathroom, he had 3 magazines, and one of them was Martha Stewart's Living.
GRACE: He also had Basketball Digest.
JACK: Ahh! You both make compelling points, but I believe the truth is to be found in the third magazine...
WILL and GRACE [TOGETHER]: Vanity Fair.
JACK: ...unless it's Vanity Fair.
**Other titles under consideration included
• "Reasons to give up hope on Jonathan/Reasons to invite him to bed"
• "I may have to turn him/This may be easier than I think"
• "He's Straight/He's Str8."
†The "Lady" is, incidentally, headlining at this month's fabulously gay White Party in Palm Springs. For more information, go here or here.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Is he or isn't he, the age old question*
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Great Cloud
--Hebrews 12:1
In 1947, the great English poet W. H. Auden wrote a letter to his friend Ursula Niebuhr in which he confessed: “I don’t think I’m over-anxious about the future, though I do quail a bit before the possibility that it will be lonely. When I see you surrounded by family and its problems, I alternate between self-congratulation and bitter envy.” The root of Auden’s fear of loneliness and his envy of the comforts of family is not hard to uncover: Auden was a homosexual Christian. And this dual identity created a tension for him: As a Christian of a relatively traditional sort, he believed homosexuality missed the mark of God’s good design for human flourishing. But as a homosexually oriented person, despite his Christian beliefs, he craved intimacy and companionship with other men. Caught on the horns of a dilemma like that, what was he to do with his loneliness?
Four years before writing to Niebuhr, Auden corresponded with another friend, Elizabeth Mayer. He described to her how he felt inescapably “different” from others because of his preference for same-sex relations: “There are days when the knowledge that there will never be a place which I can call home, that there will never be a person with whom I shall be one flesh, seems more than I can bear.”The author goes on to explore his own desperate loneliness without a life partner, but also celebrates the platonic friendships that have pulled him through hard times. (Click here for the full article, which while not the best crafted piece of writing, is illuminating and honest. Helpful for anyone not familiar with the intersection of Christianity and homosexuality--and encouraging for those who are.)
"The article helped me understand the importance of supporting you in your journey," my friend wrote. "I hope I can walk alongside you and be the kind of friend described here." His email provided one of those rare opportunities to experience the "great cloud" of the faithful who encourage me to fix my eyes on Jesus.
If such exhortation were the sole influence on my thinking, my bifurcated life, though not simple, would certainly be simpler. But with secular friends like Aurora and Nadia, who are just as happy to incline me in the opposite direction, choices become obfuscated.
These two competing great clouds of witnesses are certainly clouding the issue.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
That's What She Said
I spent the night with Aurora and Nadia, who might soon qualify as my unofficial fag hags. Sitting around their kitchen table for story-swapping and group therapy, I felt a little bit like a 2009 version of the Golden Girls, if the Girls were all in their 20s, rented rather than owned, and if one of them were a queer male instead of a post-menopausal woman. (One more difference of note: we nibbled on calorically-more-acceptable gummy worms, rather than gorging ourselves on cheesecake.)
Dissecting a yellow and green gelatious specimen, I relayed some of the highlights of a recent weekend church retreat. Under the halogen lighting, the sugar-coated worm shone like it were covered in Swarovski crystals.
"You know what you should do," Aurora broke in. "You need to divide your life equitably." She lowered her chin, and looked up at me as though this pronouncement were an Idiot's Guide to Being Christian and Gay, complete with detailed, step-by-step instructions on how I should carry out the next two months.
I was unable to interpret the oracle. "What does that mean?"
"So, you went on a church retreat for the weekend, and gave two and half days to God? Well, then you need to go on a gay retreat and give two and half days to men. You can't live with imbalance." Apparently very satisfied with this advice, she treated herself to a red and blue worm. "When do you want to go gay clubbing? Nadia and I will take you."
I'm not sure that this is the best suggestion for my situation, but it is what she said.
Monday, March 30, 2009
A Life too Crowded, Not Rumi
Although I'm not usually a fan of pop-reading (especially from Oprah's book club), I've been re-reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love because sometimes one just needs a break from all his pensive, dour introspection. Something with a happy ending. Or at least something that distracts one from his own messed up life by inviting him into the messed up life of someone else. Eat, Pray, Love offers both.
Well, until page 29, where Ms. Gilbert writes, "[t]he Great Sufi poet and philosopher Rumi once advised his students to write down the three things they most wanted in life."
So casually I drew up my own list in my mind:
1. A healthy relationship with Jesus
2. A healthy relationship with another man
3. Bay windows from which to view my garden
She continues, "[i]f any item on the list clashes with any other item, Rumi warned, you are destined for unhappiness."
As there is clearly not room enough in my life for all three things on this list, I suppose I could: console myself with the popular wisdom that two out of three ain't bad; or accept Rumi's wisdom and resign myself to a lifetime of unhappiness.
F* my life.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Turning Turtle
My friend Nadia invited me out to watch turtle racing to celebrate her 28th. Having never heard of this spectator sport, I assumed it was something quaint, like a pastime Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise might have enjoyed on a Thursday night in Far and Away. Not so, according to an email explanation from another friend, Ellie, who's been to the races before:
So about the turtle racing thing...it is disgusting. I have never seen women with lower self-esteem. The whole idea behind the turtle race is really to get chicks to bend over and put the turtles down—you cannot bend your knees. They blow the whistle for a unknown penalty and make each girl do it again, telling them to spread their legs more and taking a picture this time.This delightful plot summary was followed by some analysis of the human participants:
A good portion of the turtle droppers wore skirts. When you spread your legs and bend over in a skirt your v-jay-jay is totally out there. especially if you are wearing a thong...or no underwear at all, like one girl thought was okay.
It is clear that the skirt girls knew what was going on and many were playing into it. These people are totally psychologically f'ed up. They want attention so bad and are not hot enough for porn so they are willing to go to a disgusting dirty bar and bare their cooch… the thing is, due to the vast amount of vag's that are exposed it is very unlikely that someone will remember yours and come up to you after and compliment it.I laughed in agreement, of course, at how pathetic the girls were in their attempts to procure attention at the expense of their dignity, then mused for a moment on the effort people will exert in their search for significance.
I was going to really think about the psychology behind this and if it had something to do with childhood abuse or insecurity associated with something else, but I don’t have the time so for now I am just going to say the girls are f'ed up whores who can't get attention via their brains, so they use their lady parts.
But didn't give it too much thought beyond that until this evening at church, where we sang "Jesus Paid it All." When we got to the verse below,
Lord, now indeed I find
Thy power and Thine alone,
Can change the leper’s spots
And melt the heart of stone.
which led me to consider the "leper's spots" I'd accumulated during my recent adventuring. This made me think how "stone-hearted" I've been about the incident, which in turn caused me to question what compelled me to do something I find morally objectionable. This sort of psychological introspection can be dangerous if pursued without the assistance of a professional, but I proceeded anyway...
...and after a long and meandering train of thought, realized that I am just as messed up as the turtle racing girls. I guess the plank in my own
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nasty, Dirty Sex
Warning (because the title may lead some to the erroneous conclusion that this post is about kittens dancing with ponies and rainbow-colored unicorns): this entry is graphic. You have been warned.
I've decided that hookups with strangers have their ups and downs. Ups: I get to have sex. Downs: as many people know, sex can also be a "down," especially when one expected it to be up Up UP.
So recently, through the sex-providers known as the Internet, (though not through Gay Face), I found a local college guy also on the prowl. He's not out, so we couldn't meet at his dorm room; I am quasi-out, but not in a way that permits free love (roommate issues). The solution: no one is at my office past 9pm. We met at 10:30, just to be safe.
Be apprised that I did have reservations about this: I'm sure I would at least get chastised if i were caught. In addition to the Biblical injunction against pre-marital and homosexual sex, there was also an ethical consideration: is it inconsiderate to have sex in a cubicled environment, a semi-public square? How would I feel if I knew my co-workers were fornicating right there against the water cooler, or over here on the rug that is considered a common space?
But, as is so often the case, I chose to ignore those better angels on one shoulder in favor of the demons goading me on with the promise of orgasmic bliss on the other.
I was surprised that he asked "normal questions," the kinds of inquires one makes when meeting a person one isn't planning on screwing five minutes later. What do you do? Oh, how do you enjoy that? Where'd you go to school? What was your major?
After some light making out, I unbuttoned his shirt. Since my typical venue for hookups is bath houses, I'm used to freshly showered guys. Not so with this collegian. Not that he was completely funky, but he had a trace of body odor that was surprising, but pleasing. It bespoke a manliness that I found alluring.
(Despite the stereotypes of gays as effeminate and being attracted to effeminate men, most of the gays I know prefer pretty masculine guys. I mean, if we were attracted to the super fem-types, we might as well go for women, and then we'd just be straight.)
So I gave nipples a little loving (which I assumed he enjoyed, based on the depth and audibility that his breathing assumed.) I let my hands travel south to loosen his belt, pull down his boxers...
Something smells heinous. The odor did not suggest masculinity, or any quality that might entice me sexually or otherwise. It wasn't manly; it wasn't even human. I tried to think of ways to describe the smell, but couldn't come up with anything comparable. The smell wasn't super strong, just highly unpleasant.
Thus was my predicament: Can I tell him that he's malodorous? Is it alright to ask him to go to the bathroom and wash up a little? We just met, so he's technically a stranger, and I would never tell a stranger that he smelled. Should I make a hint? I can't even threaten to break up with him over this, because we're not dating. Arg--the dilemmas of a one-night-stand. O_o\
He looked at me and smiled. "Do you wanna suck it?"
Thinking fast, I grabbed some cologne that I kept in my desk drawer, spritzed my hands, and rubbed them together.
"Whatcha got there?"
"Oh, nothing..."
I rubbed my hands all over his underparts. I think he assumed this was an act of arousal; I knew it was an act of remediation.
Okay, you can do this. You can do this. It isn't gross: bodily "fragrances" are natural.
I filled my lungs with as much air as possible and went down. Holding my breath for as long as I could, I felt like a marine biologist, interacting carefully with his gentle environment. I resurfaced, gasped for air, and back down I went. Repeat. (If you've never tried this, it's a rather strenuous activity to conduct with limited access to oxygen.)
We finish; I wash my hands and go home. At home, I clean my hands again, have a snack, then shower. I wash my hands a third time, then...what's that smell? Oh no: my skin has somehow absorbed the particular bouquet of his genitals. And even after three thorough rinses AND A SHOWER--ie fifteen minutes of continuous exposure to hot water, with the mitigating fragrances from my shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and facial cleanser--I can still smell him on my hands.
The horror of the possibility of living the rest of my life with dick-hands was just starting to set in when I realized that I had also given this guy head: from this point on, I may forever be known as "penis breath."
Monday, March 23, 2009
No, it doesn't stretch any bigger than that, so quit asking.
My trainer Jonathan is providing me with much more than eye candy and lessons on fitness.
After my chest felt ready to disintegrate and I could barely raise my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow, we went into Jonathan's office to measure my body fat and discuss my feelings toward the sessions so far.
Having noticed that Jonathan isn't a good listener, I tried to sound as forceful as I could. "Jonathan, the sessions are good but..." Oh no: I am hedging. Be forceful! "but I really don't want my arms to be any bigger. A lot of my shirts are pretty fitted, and the sleeves are just right. If my biceps grow larger, my clothes won't fit me."
Jonathan leaned forward in his chair and squinted. His mouth opened slightly, as if it were trying to formulate a question, but couldn't figure out exactly what to ask. "You mean your shirts don't stretch like this one?" he eventually asked as he pinched a section of his uniform and tugged at it to demonstrate the miracles of Lycra.
No, my clothes are made of natural fabrics: cotton, wool, linen, cashmere. They're not designed to expand, and if you force them to, they will not recover their original shape or size.
"No, they don't."
Jonathan was not to be deterred. "You don't need nice clothes for girls to like you. Yeah, they always talk about 'I want my man to dress nice,' but if you look good in a tank top--like I do--that's all they care about. Just buy yourself some more tank tops."
Maybe I'm not being forceful or descriptive enough.
"Jonathan: I have a closet at home full of very expensive clothes. I am not going to intentionally out-grow them so that I can walk around in tank tops. I spent too much on those clothes to stop wearing them."
He considered this point for a moment, then brought out his conversation-stopper, the smile. "You don't believe me? Look, when I go to the mall, I take my little sister with me, and I have her count how many girls check me out in my tank top as we walk around. I like going into Victoria's Secret with her, because that's where I get the most attention. See, you don't need expensive clothes to attract the ladies. Big guns are a good thing."
OMG, am I hearing him correctly? Is this a true story? If not, why would someone make up something about himself that's so narcissistic? If it is true, why would someone reveal it to another human being? Yes, he is gorgeous, but I don't know that even good looks can excuse that sort of behavior.
"Hm, okay, I'll think about that. But I really am happy with the size of my arms, so can you please not do exercises that will bulk them up?"
He chuckled and shook his head at my inability to understand the importance of "big guns."
Thanks, Jonathan, for the extra-contractual laughs, and for exposing me to a level of egocentricity previously unimagined by the human mind.