Driving thru memories

I am not sure if Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" was as much a part of his youth as it was mine, but that song was so heavy with hurt. I remember not really knowing what it was about for the first few years after it was released. I remember later in college thinking it was such a weird song to have become so successful. Now, years later her self-titled album found it's way back into my life and I've discovered how many other songs on her album I love. The song "Baby Can I Hold You Tonight," which was later a shitty boy band cover. The song "For You," that only people who really gave the full album a listen will remember and love. As I sit down to try and recap the past week of my wild and crazy ride through my state of mind and California state, I can't help but think of that song. Although, the song's lyrics when you listen to the whole thing don't truly reflect my week in sunshine and bliss, a few of them will have to do for this post. "We'll take this fast car and keep on drivin'" she would sing. Rosas was a fast car. Rosas was the name he assigned her. Not for reasons you might expect. The car is not red or pink, it doesn't have a name similar to a flower or a petal, and Rosas owner was not of the latin or Mexican persuasion. In fact, the fast car is a sleek Mazda3. Black with a sunroof, and soft black leather interior. Four doors. Because he hates the idea of himself or anyone for that matter crawling in the back seat. Besides, the doors on two door cars are so much heavier and large. Rosas name was assigned shortly after he arrived in WeHo and met the numerous flower sellers that stroll the Santa Monica Boulevard strip at night approaching bar hoppers and restaurant goers offering "rosas." Except it must be typed phonetically so that you may see how it sounds when the short and stout Mexican mama offers them to you or when Carlisle, Rosas' corn-fed, white, southern boy owner speaks her name in an over pronounced Spanish accent. "Rothath?" "4 dollath." This is how he spoke to his car whenever referring to her. "Oh, look how pretty Rosas (rothath) is after her wash." Some would say it's childish. I called it charming. Because he said it with such earnesty. He wasn't joking. Mazda3's name was Rosas. Besides, I have aunts and uncles who still name their cars. We all have, at one point in our life, named our cars. I just haven't had one in ten years, so I forgot how much people really get into referring to their car by their new given name. By day 4 of 8, I was ridin' the Rothath (rosas) Band Wagon with the best of 'em.I never could have imagined the view from Rosas while on the Pacific Coast Highway. I mean I knew it would be pretty and unique, but I had no idea it would be breathtaking and fantastical.Every twist and turn revealed a different view of the sky, ocean, mountain. Just around the bend would be a scene from some movie about uncharted land or undiscovered country. I never tired of the next turn or bend in the road.With the sunroof open and the music on just loud enough to be filler during silences and soft enough to allow conversation to be effortless, we drove the 8-9 hours. We stopped nearly two dozen times for yet another perfect photo opportunity. I remember Carlisle laughing at my fear of heights and brushing it off with the utmost confidence. Like a parent who let's go of their kid's bicycle seat when you first take the training wheels off. With a nonchalance that should be studied, he laughed at my dramatic display of fear and told me to brave it or stay in the car. So, there now exists a photo of me clutching a bridge that must have been 200-300 feet above a thin river of water branching out to meet the ocean. The look on my face after braving my fear (slightly) is that of genuine fear and dramatic interpretation of fear. It's priceless to say the least.Rosas has a Bose sound system. She has been blessed with good, strong senses. The 80s collection CD I purchased in LA specifically for only one song comes up on Rosas' disc changer. I ask Carlisle if he minds if we skip to track 18 and then start the CD from the beginning. He is an easy type of guy, so, of course, gives me the okay. I know how crucial it is for the driver to like the music. Especially if that driver has driven the entire stretch so far. So, needless to say, Carlisle's best interest was at hand-not my need to hear "Hands To Heaven" by BREATHE. So, there its--the sun, the clouds, the breeze, the winding road, the edge of the country, the ocean and the song of all 80s love songs playing at perfect volume. Carlisle let's me sing along and doesn't say a word when I don't hit the high notes and turn to silent lip synch. His hand reaches across the gear shift and gently falls onto my thigh. Nothing else. No eye contact. No squeeze. Just a delicate hand draped ever so gently across my trembling thigh."Tonight I need your sweet caress..." the song belts.His hands are beautiful to me in this moment. How have I never noticed the strength and beauty in his youthful hands? How have I never noticed his knuckles and the soft light hair on his wrist creeping slightly onto the back of his hand? The color of his string tied bracelet suddenly complements his skin tone on his hand and arm. His shirt is rolled to just below the elbow exposing the perfect amount of a forearm with soft veins appearing across the top and several more barely visible along the bottom of his arm. Like roads, they eventually intersect at the bend in his elbow. I feel this intersection with my first two fingers softly gliding over his skin then slowly back down to his hand and all the way out to his middle fingertip. I continue to sing the song. Again, I miss the high note and mouth the words instead."Tonight you calm my restlessness, you relieve my sadness..." the songs moves into the saxophone instrumental break.The song. His hand. Bring me back to Henry's Skateland in Smalltown, USA. I asked Stephanie if she would meet me by the fir tree and kiss me on the lips. We did too. I relay a bit of my 80s past to my younger travel companion. He doesn't recognize the song. I don't mind. I don't bite back with a bitter banter about the good ol' days, or how old I never intended to be. I just give him more details about why I loved this song and why I still do. He nods his head a subtle yes and agrees it's a pretty song. He doesn't need to recognize it. He recognizes what it means to me. He doesn't need to think it's pretty. He thinks it is and because I do.His hand makes it's way back to the wheel during sharp turns, but it eventually finds it's way back to my thigh. Never caressing. Never squeezing. Never sexual. Only intimate. Only soft. Only a reminder. Only a gesture. If I left a finger he meets my finger listening to the debate of whether they should intertwine or not. So available. So easy. So comfortable.For months, I have been starving for affection. Taking it in brushed elbows and arms of strangers around the waist. Taking hugs from friends for a moment too long. For months I was convinced it was something I needed. Taking pats on the ass as compliments. Taking drunken thrusts as attraction. Taking drunken kisses as meaningful.I begin to think of Tracy Chapman's song..."You've gotta fast car...is it fast to enough so that we can fly away...I gotta feeling that I belong....Aye, I gotta feeling I could be someone, be someone,...be someone."All I needed was in that fast car, Ms. Rosas (rothath)! The surge of positive energy that came from Carlisle's gentle hand hit me like the waves that were crashing into the cliffs 300 feet below our winding road. I wasn't starving for affection. I was yearning for meaning, simplicity, and truth. Thank you Rosas for being that fast car. Carlisle, "just remember when we were driving, driving in your car speed so fast I'd feel like I was drunk, and city lights lay out before us and your arm...."No words to say. No words to explain. This feeling inside. I have....

The Fast Track...Day 1

There's probably not many of you left out there still reading me. I can't believe I dropped the ball just at a time when I was getting readership. Anywhoo, here goes...



I have embarked on what I believe to be my very first official diet. Sure, over the years I have given up this or cut back on that. I have had my exercises fanatical days and my low carb seasons. But, this is the first time I am with in very strict perimeters of a diet that is specifically aimed at cleaning and detox the colon and the liver. It is called The Fast Track One-Day Detox Diet. (Link above...i hope)



Here's a little back story.

-Met a boy and he made me smile.

-Three months later it's a deal.

-His influence is powerful because I love him.

-Now I follow a strict summer detox that he has done in the past, loves and is far more diligent and excited about than me that lasts for a total of 11 days.



But, it is something we can do together (I keep telling myself). It's something that we can share the benefits of together. It means we can cook together. Share ideas for snacks together. Encourage and motivate each other. Even keep tabs on each other to ensure that neither is falling off the detox wagon.



So it begins with 7 days of stocking up and chowing down liver loving foods. (i.e. Greens nobody likes, fruits and veggies that make you gaseous, and protein the size of the palm of your hand in the form of lean chicken, beef or fish. Not to mention things like Flax - what the F is Flax? - a few berries here and there, olive oil, and half your body weight in water a day.) But it also means staying away from the things that clog our liver, toxi-fy our body, and cling to our colon. (i.e. Coffee, alcohol even WINE!, breads, gluten, pastas, fried foods, soy products, sugars and anything that ends in "uctose" as well as any and all dairy.) On the eighth day you fast for 24 hours with only water intake and juice they call "Miracle Juice." It consists of Cranberry Juice (natural of course) and some spices of nutmeg, lemon, etc. Then after most likely "gettin' rid of the rottens" you spend the next 3 days replenishing your fluids and your good bacteria with some supplements and lots of good healthy yogurts and greens.



Now, I must admit, I consider myself a person with a strong sense of conviction and dedication. When I set my mind to something I feel that 9 out of 10 times I accomplish or fulfill to a satisfactory outcome. And, so far this is how it went...



DAY #1 MONDAY

I woke up with a whisper of a hang over. It could have actually been a hang over from Saturday masked by margaritas and wine on Sunday only to rear it's soft subtle head on Monday. A hangover nonetheless was present. So was the boyfriend. (For the sake of this blog and any future one's he will be known as Zondry.) There we were, Zondry and I, scrambling eggs with broccoli and mustard greens in olive oil. The night before we had done some mild one or two day shopping of must have items: A couple of pears and oranges.; a big clove of garlic and a large onion; some odd greens like cilantro, mustard greens, and chard; carrots and lean chicken breast.

I did very well. I jokingly wined about craving coffee. I gave total poker face when Zondry asked if I had a headache. I mustered up a smile (could have been a wince) and said..."No not really..." While thinking..."Nothing a little cup o' java couldn't cure!" He gave his signature "ha!" Which is this adorable nervous laugh he has after he knows more than someone else has actually revealed, when he doesn't know what to do with the dead air, when he feels like being polite and when he hasn't really been listening. It's actually quite cute. Adorable in fact. This toothy, airy, comforting, "Ha" that has just a linger of a sustained awww sound. He preps me on what to expect for the day with my hunger pains, headaches, and possible withdrawal symptoms. (What am I, a junkie?) He promises to cook my first dinner that night and have it waiting in the fridge when I come home from the night shift. (He really is that devoted to the diet)

I suffered that day. No matter how many pears or carrots I ate, my hangover stomach and caffeine headache just would NOT let up. But, I made it. I drank copious amounts of water. I didn't cheat. I didn't have a glass of wine from the three beautiful bottles staring me in the face from my kitchen. I made it home to grilled chicken over more mustard greens and asparagus sauteed with olive oil and garlic. It tasted like heaven and I loved it more because just the thought of Zondry brought his scent into my memory and the dish was peppered with Bond St. #9 cologne.

Day #1.
Mood Swings - 0.
Tired Level (0-10) - 8
Hunger Level (0-10) - 9
Cheats - 0
Cravings - 2 (Peanut Butter and Coffee)

Rainy Nights flood with Random Thoughts

The following is a small handful of random thoughts that came and went through my mind while on the clock Saturday night. It was raining and dismal and I longed for sleep and someone to hold me. I was also doped up on cold meds and a little foggy in the head. After several trips to and from my office the following is just some random things that I laid out into this post.

• When I was a very young boy I used to strum my toy guitar and sing Eddie Rabbit's "I Love The Rainy Nights." It used to be a party favor for my parents at adult gatherings. Like there was a string attached to my back and they would pull it and I would strum and sing..."I love to feel the rain on my face and the rain on my lips. You know it makes me feel good..."


• I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe even a little cra-cra. But, I am starting to believe that love is it's most real, raw, and true when it eats away at you causing small fits of rage, panic, arousement, anxiety, lust, jealousy. These coming and going by the hour or sometimes by the minute.


• Only a few short hours ago, one of my fellow male employees (a 22 year old immigrant who is heterosexual) asked me if I am scared that being gay may mean I will not have a family and will end up alone. Instead of questioning the origin of his curiosity, I answered the question as clearly, honestly and succinctly as possible. I said, "Absolutely! I am terrified. It is something I believe most people gay and straight are afraid of. However, I believe that gay people have to face everyday of their lives learning how to deal with the possibility of no family and living alone as well as cultivate their own idea and definition of family and loneliness."


• I find myself missing some of the most odd and specific things about my friends and loved ones. For instance, with Joely I miss watching her put on her lip gloss and the smell that seems to lightly lift from her handbag when she combs through it. I miss the Nurse's clean scent after he would take a very long and thorough shower. All freshly scrubbed and humid linen smell. I miss the smell of new car sometimes. Pretty much everyday when I wake up, I miss the smell of cleaner air and the smell of a large house rather than a tiny apartment. And right now, in this moment, I miss my new man's quick little "Ha!" laugh that he has after almost everything.


• Have you ever really sat down and praised yourself for your own personal growth? I hardly do it. I am sure we all should do it more often.

I Bow to The Queens

A few months back, I had an incredible "overheard" moment. I had arrived early (SHOCKER!) to a bar where my friends who are always late were planning to hang for the night. I knew no one, but it did not stop me from sliding my ’fatter-than-normal-lately’ ass on to a bar stool that stood at a cocktail table and quickly summon my server to bring me a Maker’s Mark on the rocks. Maker’s is something I have been drinking during these colder months. It’s nice, but too many can reek havoc the next morning. So, I generally switch to Stella as soon as I feel the bourbon buzz.
Next to my three-top cocktail table stood three boys. Although, they were all clearly over the age of 21, they were still boys. And not because of their ages, but because of what I overheard. Just to give you some visual perspective, they were all above average height, above average looks, and they all were plain and boring. Simple faces with simple haircuts (all with no variation from the other) on top of what clearly were simple minds.

In no particular order I heard things like this. (Embellishments and liberties have been taken...so roll with it.)
one boy: "I mean, I just don’t get it. Sure, I want to get married or have the right to. But the type of people that are standing up for it in the media are, like, fat lesbians, and bear daddies."
another boy: "I mean, let’s face it, it’s sort of the ugly, retarded types who want to get married. Or at least that is what it looks like. Is it mean that I just said that? I mean, you guys know what I mean, right?"
the third boy: "I totes know what you mean. (okay, so he probably didn’t say totes...but it makes the story sound oh so much better.)I just feel like there are, like, certain types of gay people. There’s, like, us. And other’s like us. And then there’s like, drag queens, and trannies, and lesbians. I just don’t get the drag queens?"
one boy: "I kinda don’t get it. I mean why can’t all gay people be more normal."

At this point, it is taking every muscle in my body to tame my tongue and lock my loud mouth. So, needless to say , I ordered another Maker’s Mark since I sucked the first one down in an attempt to bite my tongue. Chewing the straw made me drink it faster I guess. There were more things tossed around the conversation round cocktail table. Things about lesbians being "just different." There were more comments about how they love some drag queens but don’t get the others. Lots of talk of "normal." What the fuck IS Normal?

So, this is my shout out to the queens, the trannies, the ho’s, the movers and the shakers, and the button pushers, the ones who are out, the ones who are loud, the ones with bellys and hair on their chests. I fucking love you. I worship you. I idolize you. I sometimes dress up like you. I sing along to your songs. I learned how to lip synch because of you. My runway skills have gone from "Wha’ the F*K?" to "WOOOORRRRKKK!" I have scored some major free drinks because of you. I have met some crazy tranny chasers because of you. I have made friends with you. I have serenaded you. I have toasted to you and with you. I have given you jobs. I have fired you. I have dragged my ass out on my only night off to air kiss your beat face and watch you make dozens of happy homos that much happier and drunker (is that a word?). I bought your single. I celebrated your birthday. I walk proudly down the street arm and arm with you. You teach me to be unafraid. You teach me to hold my head up even higher than my arrogant ass thought I could. You make me realize what it takes to be yourself. You make it look so natural and you always look gorgeous to me! Fat, thin, goth, old school, dirty, sexy, cool, soft, sweet, singer, lipsyncher, performance artist, musician. Anyone with bravery and balls. (Literally and Figuratively)
You know who you are and you are BEAUTIFUL dammit! Despite what a table of 20-something, flat ironed, flat faced, thin browed, drab, grey, plain white T-wearin’, above average "Normal" gay BOY says!
You paved the way and still continue to do so.
I love you. I thank you.
You better work!!!

Pieces of Me

For instance, I want nothing more than a million little things with you in this very moment. I want to cry on your lap. I want to hear you sing. I want to throw popcorn in your face. I want my hair stroked by your hands. I want to slowly undress you. I want to swirl the hair on your forearms. I want to run really fast through Washington Square Park in a race. I want to take you to my favorite lil romantic wine bar. I want sleep for 12 and 1/2 hours waking up periodically to your elbow in my chin. I want you to complain about my hogging the covers. I want to push you to be more; to be better. I want you to challenge my intellect and my vocabulary. I want to know what Florida looks like with you. I want you to see beauty in the ugly of Iowa. I want to go shopping for you, with you, because of you. I want to fight at the jukebox. I want to hate Bjork...but I don't. You want to hate Kelly...but you won't. I want to gossip with you and judge all the boys that pass us by. I want your hand to fall effortlessly onto my thigh. I want my body to quiver when it does. I want to laugh, I want to kiss, I want to cry, I want to hold...even just your hand.

I will not be here waiting.
I will just be here.

I will not take these things for granted. I will only cherish and learn from all this that is bad and that is good.

Someday maybe...Someday maybe not.

Either way, in time it will bloom and grow and close up and start over again.
I will be here...if you will be. I will be here....Please be careful with me.

Breathe out the old...in the new...

At first I was afraid. I was petrified.

I ran to the nearest mirror. I inspected my nose hairs for any extra long strays. I tugged at a few of the bed head strands of my styled-to-look-messy hair. I made sure my shirt was tucked in to reveal my "new" ass. I gargled with my organic mouthwash. I shined my boots. I may have even dropped down and squeezed out twenty push-ups (like when we used to date) to give myself a freshly pumped look.

I came up the stairs to find that I was not afraid. My heart was not aching with every heartbeat as it had so many times before. My hear wasn't even racing. I was angry but confident. You were somewhere you shouldn't be. You were doing all the things you shouldn't do. But, poor you, you just can't stop. I was confident but angry. One could say I was maybe confidently angry. I may have been angrily confident. I am not sure how the combination of the two end up rationing themselves over my emotions. But, I was both. I was grace and power. I was tranquil and in motion. I danced around you with reckless abandon but with total control over my surroundings. I looked you in the eye and saw right through you. You are hallow. I wanted your heart to beat. I wanted your pulse to rise. You were in MY house...UNWELCOME.

But I remained a gracious host. A professional manager. My normal, flirty, happy-go-lucky, playful self.

I believe I breathed my very last high strung breath with regards to you. It was a tight breath but after I let it out, the amount of new, clean, fresh air that I let in carried me to new heights. Higher than you. Bigger than you. And yes, I will say it, BETTER than you.

I am so strong...right now!

Dee in Dolce

We will call him Dee. This will stand for his designer douche bagness and his dee-lite that he added to my night. Let me fist describe Dee. He's a little bit chubby if I'm going to stoop to the shallow edges of myself. Dee is tall. Dee is young (23-25). Dee is also drunk. He's feminine without being tranny. He is stumbling and fumbling somewhere he is not supposed to be and I politely ask if he needs assistance and guide him in the proper direction out of the basement of the bar. How he got there in the first place is beyond me. The following is my 2 min and 2 sec exchange with Dee.

(Oh and btw, I was also on a phone call)

Me: Can I help you? You shouldn't be down here?
Dee: Wha? I just...ummm...I am looking for drag queens.
Me: Well, we don't keep them in the basement here. Besides, I think they left.
Dee: (Pause with an open mouth stare then finally in his best valley girl voice)...Um...geez sorry I am wearing dolce. (Which could also be Sorry. I AM wearing Dolce.)
Me: What? That's nice. Now right this way up this flight of stairs. Watch your step.

Dee stops dead in her tracks and he says: "Do you know? I mean where on earth can you find Micheal (insert long weird name of some designer perhaps)? I mean you can't find him in New York..."
Me: Excuse me? I don't understand what you just said?
Dee: Puhleeeessseeee, I am just saying...
Me: (interrupting) I am not sure what you are saying because it has been nothing but hoots and clicks since I found you stumbling around. Can you please head up these stairs and I will show you out.

Dee begins to work up the stairs. This is different than walking up a flight of stairs. It's runwaying up the stairs. Work! But, just before he reaches the top of the stairs he speaks in his best Janice Dickinson and says...

"You're a poor bitch."

Me: Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?
Dee: You heard me. A poor Bitch! This is Dolce+.

With that he shonteyed* out the door and back into the gay fray of Therapy bar.

+Apparently Dolce is this really tacky black jacket with horrible black floral stitching on it. But, also apparently it makes you NOT Poor!
*shontey is a word used by Rupaul in her hit song Supermodel. It's really spelled Shante. At least according to her liner notes inside the CD. But, since I am a poor bitch who can't afford an education, I made up this spelling. I am certain my pal Dee would know the proper spelling of this FABULOUS word from the fashion and pop culture vernacular

Enough is Enough

He did not cancel. He texted when he was running late. He brought STELLA because he knows already. He brought popcorn...because he read my myspace profile. It was the old fashioned kind and he taught me to pop it in a pot with some oil and shake it over the stove. He brought his favorite seasonings, butter, salt, pepper, raisins and nuts. It was fun. My batch turned out better than his. He matched me drink for drink. We watched Project Runway. We watched will and grace. He drank what i was drinking. (we had one bottle of white and one bottle of red) He told me he was jealous of the coziness of my apartment. He laughed a lot. He made me laugh. He told me about his life. He held my hand....a lot. He kissed me a lot. He finally let me touch his belly even though he is insecure about it. He threw me on the couch and tore my clothes off and then respected my wishes to move slowly. He made penis jokes that weren't too corny. He then stayed another hour longer than he said he would. He complimented my looks. He praised our first date. He asked for another date. He left at 1:50am....It was well worth the over 4 month wait. Well worth it. Even though it never happened again.

Because...

It still was not enough for him.

Seasons Change

It took a lot for me to say what I did. I am not certain it's all the god's honest truth, but in that moment it was what I was feeling, thinking and foreseeing in our possible futures. I guess the reason I blurted it out could be blamed on the hour of the night, or the amount of alcohol I consumed. But, the burning desire to tell you came from a longing to hear you, see you, touch you and a fear of losing you. I couldn't watch someone come in and sweep you away from me. Not only as a jealous "possible" love interest but as your friend. A good friend. I know you so well. He will come in a sweep you away from this life. From this life of shared sodas and music critiques. From this life of twisted arms to venture to the next watering hole or stay even though we are drenched. Do you or anyone else for that matter realize that we abandon so many people for one other person. I know friends til the end, and friendships prevail. But, how can you move forward or on with this new person if I am not a part of it too...at least in some way?

I wished I could sweep all my control issues under the rug and let it all unfold in fate's hands. But, this is who I am. Control. Direction. Constantly in tune. You must know this by now. I wished I didn't care about your choices in life and your future. I wished I did not always think I was right about them. I don't know what's right for you, but for some reason I often think I do. I see things in you that I am not certain you see in yourself. Hence the contrived and manipulative demeanor your sometimes choose to wear. Or, the innocent, confused traditionalist you convince yourself to be.

It's harder now for me to be brushed by your arm. To pretend I never let the words escape. I don't take any of it back. I don't know if any of it is real. I must say, for those tearful, impassioned hours I had some odd sense of hopefulness and self pride. But, now it's harder to look you in the eye. Now, I wonder what it will be like, look like, feel like a year from now.

We will all still be here when this is over. But, don't forget we are here now. We are here to share a soda and have our arms twisted.

Did you get my text?

One should think that over time and experience you would get better at the waiting game that comes with the dating game.

I suck.

In an age of instant gratificatoin and constant communication, we are so used to rapid response. But, I hereby declare never to text again. Let me be more specific. I will, from this point forward, no longer communicate with a boy I am interested in via text until it is undoubtedly clear that feelings are mutual, affections reciprocated, and committement is the goal.

I say that today...then he will text me tomorrow or Sunday and I will crush all that I claim to stand for, out of sheer relief to hear from him, and widdle my thumb and pointer on my keypad in an immediate response.

OY! Men!