I'm a Sensitive Guy.

First...This post has a few rules.

If I see you often, or work for you, don't read this. I would like to continue my ability to look you in the face.

If you bring up this post to me in conversation, I may not confirm that I wrote this.

If I've slept with you...well no explanation is needed.

**********

I'm a sensitive guy. Usually when I say that statement, I mean that I'm empathetic, or that I can get hurt easily, or that I genuinely care about others, but in this case, I'm not talking about my emotional feelings. I'm talking about something a bit more personal.

This past weekend, while visiting the cape, I meandered through the shops of Provincetown, this time as a visitor of the town instead of a townie. Now when someone gets to know me, they usually realize that I'm traditionally not a very impulsive shopper. I pick things up, try things on, then put them away nicely and move on. This weekend I had two strikes against me. I needed clothes, and I had a glass of wine with dinner.

Somehow, after being in the sunshine all day, that glass of wine went straight to my wallet and I walked into the leather sex shop and started looking around. Now usually when going into this shop, I'd look at the t-shirts, maybe the cards, and even the belts (something I currently need). The leather store does make the best belts. However something else caught my attention this time, and I blame it on the glass of reisling. I noticed a leather harness.



I think I glanced at it for a total of two seconds, remarked on the fact it was 50% off and the salesman saw sucker written all over my face. Before I knew it, he was offering to let me try the thing on.

I am a leather virgin. I looked stupidly at the harness and admitted something to the salesman (who was wearing 1/2 a dead cow on his own body) that I didn't even know how to put a harness on my body. With a smile he whisked me into the back of the store to a curtained off area, had my shirt off, and before I knew it, I was transformed into "Mr. Irish Leather". Now the harness itself was easy enough to put on, but then he gave me the second piece to go with it. A piece that attaches to the center chest ring and hangs straight down. A long leather strap with a metal ring at the bottom. This is where my innocence and sensitivity come into play.

I had to ask what the ring at the bottom of the strap was for (although I had an idea and was hoping it wasn't what I thought it was). Yes...a cock ring. Which ever guy created this metal contraption did not have people like me in mind. I am a sensitive guy. Seriously, anyone who has sex with me can affirm this. Just breathe on me aggressively and you will rack me.

Women never understand what it is like to get kicked in the nuts. Just the way I can never understand childbirth (thank God). But if you need an idea, imagine having just eaten rotten meat and you are feeling the effects of food poisoning. With that feeling of nausea, pierce your genitals with a needle while simultaneously throwing salt into your eyes. Now you know what its like to get kicked in the nuts.

I'm a sensitive guy. Thus imagine my horror at realizing I am supposed to put the breakfast special (two eggs and sausage) through a metal ring the size of an espresso cup. I just sort of stared at the ring and then looked pleading at the salesman.

"Uhh...exactly how do I put this on?" I had to ask. His answer was inhuman.

He actually suggested I put the giblets through one at a time, and then place the gravy through the remaining space. My first thought? "What remaining space?" I just sort of stared stupidly at this ring, which I swear had shrunk to the diameter of a quarter and figured I'd just pretend that it would fit, and get the heck out of there. The salesman had other ideas.

Stepping behind me, he helped me try on what I will forever nick name the ring of death. Significantly embarrassed, I watched with horror as egg number one was placed through this contraption. Realized what was next, I just closed my eyes as the second third of the breakfast special was being manipulated. Now I understand what it is like to go to the gynecologist. I only wish I had a pretty picture to stare at, instead of the pornographic pictures canvassing the walls like some type of erotic wallpaper. The whole process of putting this particular item on took about 40 minutes. (Actually it only took about 2 minutes, but it felt longer). Taking the thing off...just as uncomfortable, but I did that myself.

Did I mention I was having an impulse shopping moment? Did I mention 50% off? Yeah, I bought the damn thing, but I held my head high (the one on my shoulders) as I took my bag from the salesman. I was about to walk out, when another guy walked into the store with his friends. He was devastated to see that the last harness had been purchased. The salesman pointed at me and said "sorry...he beat you to it." The entire store, which had about 15 people all looked at me. Me...a guy who looks like the Midwestern boy next door, and at that moment I wished I had bought the mask that went with the whole thing, just so nobody would know who I was.

Worst part, or best depending on how you look at it, I didn't have room in my luggage for the new purchase...so I had to wear it on the train home. I feel dirty...


By the way...where does one wear a leather harness?

Going, Going, Gone!

Since May 21st of last year, I have had a total of 8 days where I had no job to be at. Seriously. 2 Wednesdays in September, 4 in October, Christmas Day and New Years Day. I'm so wound up that I'm not even able to think clearly. It's time to disappear for a while.

Today...I'm officially on hiatus. My brain is shutting off and I don't plan to leave the beach unless it's for a very good reason. Like darkness or rain.

Of course, I've forgotten how cold the beach is on the Cape in May. I'm freezing my butt off right now. I'm actually afraid to get in the water in the event that my skin turns blue and stays that way. Somebody prepare the thermal blankets.

A Gay Bartender's Rant

After bartending for a year and especially after last night's shift, I have earned this bitterness. Now I must rant.

1. I don't care how old you think you look, that your friends who are cops will vouch for you, or that your elderly grandmother is with you in the bar. If you don't have an ID, you aren't getting a drink.
   
   
2. No you can not use part of the tip money you gave me on the last round to pay for the drinks on this round. Would you ask a hairdresser to take some of their tip money to pay for your next haircut? Go to the ATM!
   
   
3. If you ask me to make you "something good", I'm going to mix tequila, Ouzo, and Kahula and strain it over olives for you. If you don't know what to drink, don't ask me. I don't know what you like.
   
   
4. Thanks, but if I honestly drank every drink a customer bought me, I'd be puking in the ice I'm serving you. I'd rather toast to your drunkenness with a nice cup of coffee.
   
   
5. No, I'm not able to go home with you. It's my job to flirt with you.
   
   
6. Yes the bar closes at 4. I then have to restock until about 6. If you want to meet me after I get off, you had better be taking me to breakfast.
   
   
7. Yo' Chiki-Poo sorority girl. A martini is gin or vodka with vermouth! You aren't sophisticated drinking a creamy chocolate mixture called a "chocolate bliss martini". You are showing that you don't like taste of alcohol. If that's the case...don't drink.
   
   
8. Hey Fratboy! Yeah you, the one who ordered a "Red Headed Slut" and a "Urine Sample". You're not getting laid tonight.
   
   
9. Hey old man: Touch my ass one more time, and my foot is going up yours, and no amount of shots you buy me is going to change that.
   
   
10. If you tip me a quarter on the first round, I can guarantee you will be sober enough drive home.
    
    
11. Trust me. I'm not turned on. I'm just cold because the air conditioner is blowing behind the bar.
    
    
12. A Grasshopper? Exactly how old are you? 60?
    
    
13. Hey drunk girl! Get down off the damn barstool. This isn't freaking Show girls.
    
    
14. We don't have a blender, so I can't make a frozen drink. I know I have one sitting in front of me. I broke the damn think on purpose.
    
    
15. Old man: I'm flirting with you because I want your tip money...not because I want to sleep with you.
    
    
16. Big spender: Don't expect me to remember a 20 drink order. Give me 5 drink orders at a time.
    
    
17. ARE YOU GOING TO PAY FOR THAT DRINK OR WHAT? Then quit talking to your friends and pay for the order!
    
    
18. Yes...I can make a Mojito. I can make it so bad that you will never order it from me again. Make the pain in the ass drinks at home!
    
    
19. Yes, bars close at 4 am in NY. If you are the only patron at 2 am, I want you to leave so I can close early and get some sleep.
    
    
20. Hey drunk lady. Do you really need another drink? You've had so much alcohol your unborn children are going to grow gills.
    
    
21. Waiters: I understand you are in the weeds. Coaching me with "come on, come on, come on" does not make the Coke come out of the gun any faster. Take a vallium already.
    
    
22. All Staff: If you use a glass to scoop the ice, you will eventually break a glass. When you break a glass, I will personally hunt you down and mutilate you.
    
    
    

Decisions, Decisions

I have a history. It ain't pretty folks, but I have a history. A history of dating the wrong men, and it usually ends up biting me in the ass (in some cases literally, but that's another posting). So for the past few months I've not been dating anyone. I've called it "reclaiming my independence" as opposed to calling it a voluntary dry spell.

Ok...so I did date Mr. Curve Ball (I'll let you guess why I call him that), and Mr. "Please Let This Conversation End"...but nothing has been very serious, and I've not been that interested in either of them. It's not like people have been beating a path to my door.

But lately, I've been getting the subtle signs that two different guys are interested. You all know the signs. The way you catch him looking directly into your eyes, or the way they can find any reason to spend just a few extra long minutes with you, or the way they can tuck a dollar bill into the waist band of your underwear (yes...that did happen this weekend).

So two guys are expressing interest: So the ratings.
Prospect one:
Personal Wealth: Lawyer, owns his own law practice and a townhouse in Manhattan.
Looks: Well...they aren't supposed to matter? I could keep the lights out.
Personality: REALLY REALLY SHY.
Physical Activity level: Works out. Not religious about it.
Sports Knowledge: Actually knew who was playing in the NBA playoffs, and had a first place choice (Phoenix).


Prospect two:
Personal Wealth: Social Worker, rents a studio in Brooklyn.
Looks: I could brush my teeth on his abs.
Personality: Outgoing, but likes to be the center of attention.
Physical Activity Level: See looks. He has seen the insides of a gym very often.
Sports Knowledge: "NBA? Do they design shoes?"

So...person one, person two, stay single, or do I ask both if they would like to start a monogamous threesome relationship?

Behaving Badly

Last night, I bartended. The owner of the restaurant is pressuring me to put in more hours (his other bartender is quitting), and unfortunately I can't survive here without the second job. Not quite true...I could survive. I just wouldn't be able to eat.

The interesting thing about bartending is that when I bartend, I never drink. Possibly at the end of a shift I might have a beer, but for the most part, I don't like to drink while working. I drink when I play...which isn't as often as I'd like.

But being behind the bar allows for me to see things I normally wouldn't if I was drinking. For instance, how much people begin to slur after 4 or 5 drinks. The eyes are the window to sobriety, and when the eyes turn to small slits, the person needs a cup of coffee.

What was most interesting was watching the lone drunk woman, who had three men near her. These three men were circling like sharks, waiting each other out before making a move. All three were on her scent, and she was drunk enough to not notice. Before the end of the night, she was making out with one of them.

Is it sad to notice someone making out with a complete stranger in a bar and find it odd that it wasn't me?

Great Expectations

33. This is the age that is used as a measurement for many in their progressions in life. By the age of 33, Jesus H. Christ (his middle name is Henry) had accomplished more than most men in the world. Although he did fail initially at his plan for global domination, his followers are still continuing his plan through Christianity.

Today...the Chicken of the Sea turns 33, and I felt it was only appropriate if I compared her accomplishments to Jesus'.

By the age of 33, Jesus had walked on water, while Tunagirl has walked through water (while wearing a pad). Not an easy task to top, but Jesus did so when he cured the sick. Tuna girl instead nursed two sick children while puking from the flu herself. The score is still even.

Jesus did feed the masses with only a few loaves of bread and fish. Tunagirl was not to be out done though. She ordered takeout.

So who accomplished more? Tunagirl pushed two children out of her vagina.

Tunagirl 1, Jesus 0

Who Wants to Play Post Office?

Some people say that "good things come in small packages". Those people have never met my ex.

But it does amaze me about postal delivery. For just a mere 39 cents, the US postal service can deliver your mail anywhere in the United States. Packages are another story. At my post office I only had to navigate 15 windows, fill out a form 63-399a (or whatever the thing is), get special weighing, and show identification to finally mail my package.

I'm left here scratching my head. Thank God the rest of the government doesn't work like this. Right?

What's on Television?

Over the past few weeks, I've been chipping away small pieces of myself off and dropping them everywhere. It has left me sleepless and stressed, and very irritable. My shoulders are like rocks and I feel like I've aged 25 years in 4 weeks.

Normally in a case like this, I'd just shut down. Emotions off. But I can't always do this. My mind plagues me about nearly everything, my perceptions of the world, and knowing full well what I'm missing, but without the knowledge or energy to get it. When those times come, I sit up all night and watch infomercials until sunrise, actually debating if I should buy a salad shooter, the blender bullet, or if that Abs-blaster really does work. Television at it's best.

And for the lonely straight guy?...There are a lot of lonely women that like to chat on the phone while taking a bath, or while having a pillow fight with their best friends. I knew I should have been a straight man. Tonight? Sleeping pills...by the wee fistfull. I want to sleep and forget everything.

The After Effects

I read the other day that exercise is supposed to leave you feeling full of energy.

Saturday I ran 6.2 miles without stopping or walking, and sprinted the last quarter of a mile. I then went home and took a 3 hour nap. After feeling like I was wasting the day away, I had dinner before going back to bed at 8pm. I slept until 7am the next day. Can someone please tell me when I am supposed to feel energized?

I had more energy when I was a sloth, and I had less laundry.

Fifteen Minutes

At night, in the dark, it takes me about 15 minutes to fall asleep. But in those 15 minutes, my subconscious can take over and deliver some powerful memories. Sometimes memories of those I used to love, and the specific details of their smile. Thoughts of old friends I no longer see, but think fondly of, and sometimes, memories of things I'd rather forget.

When I was 10 years old, I took a job delivering newspapers while living with my father. It was a way to get out of the house more (anytime away from that house was worth it), and it allowed me to earn a little spending money. It was with my spending money that I decided to take myself out for a slice of pizza at the local pizza parlor (which was four blocks away). The weather was cool and I was wearing my navy blue nylon jacket. Both pockets were starting to wear away and were splitting at the seams, so often I would lose my keys in the lining of the jacket.

The television at the pizza parlor was playing the television show "Heart to Heart", which starred Stephanie Powers and Robert Wagner, a stupid television show that involved a rich married couple that solved murder mysteries (think adult Scooby Doo). The reason I remember this, is that I had a curfew of 11pm, and that show was an hour long show. I could stay at the pizza parlor until 10:55 and still make it home in time.

After finishing my food, I paid Tony (the owner's son) and put my change in my right hand pocket of my jacket, and left the restaurant 1/2 way through the show. I walked down the main Boulevard towards my street when two boys behind me called out to me. Both were in their mid teens.
"You got a dollar, man?" the one asked.
"I don't have anything." I lied.
"Then what's this?" the other said as he reached in my pocket and grabbed the change from the $20 I used at the restaurant.

Obviously I was followed. Like an idiot I could be, I actually ran after them as they took what little money I had earned. I chased them up the grass covered hill to the statue on the high school grounds. The statue had a wall surrounding it on all three sides, so when I went into the statue area, nobody from the street could see me (years later, I heard a body was found near that statue).

The two boys backed me against a wall and things are a bit hazy in my memory here. I remember a few fake punches, where the punch would stop just a few inches from my face, but the words that they said are completely gone (hell...it has been 26 years...I'm surprised what I remember). They made me walk them across the school grounds, help them down off of walls that we climbed over (degradation at its best), before finally leaving a little stunned in the parking lot of the school.

I walked the two blocks back to my house, and rather than going into my home, I went around the corner to where all the neighbors used to sit on their porches. It was when the neighbor saw my face and asked what was wrong that I started to lose it. Her instruction was to go home and tell my father immediately. I did as I was told and went to my father and told him what had happened. His response was merely "too bad". That answer didn't really surprise me.

The next day I filed a police report by myself, knowing full well that nothing would ever come of it. I did so, merely as it seemed the right thing to do. The police officer didn't really help(I'm sure if I had a parent been with me, I would have been taken more seriously), but at least let me file the report.

For years, when thinking about this incident I would get so angry. I would think " I could have kicked the fucker in the balls, then kept hitting him until one of us was beaten to a pulp. I should have gone into it with the attitude that one of us was about to die and it didn't matter who it was." Instead, last night, as the rain started to overtake the city and the thunder rumbled, I didn't have the anger as those last images that flowed through my head. I'd like to say it was because I'm over it, but if I'm remembering all of these details now, that would be a bold faced lie. I look at the event now as a learning experience. When the kind of event happens again (and let's face it...odds are it could happen again) what will I do this time?

Sophie's Choice

Over my life I have been forced to make some serious choices. Do I go to college and which one do I go to? Do I stay in Cleveland or move away? Should I consider prostitution to pay off my student loans? Do I prefer length or width more?

So here's an interesting choice.

A work colleague of my Ex approached him on Tuesday evening. This colleague, who is married, has recently started an affair with another colleague of my Ex. The two are getting significantly closer and want to consummate the relationship (why straight people wait to have sex is beyond me. I usually have sex then exchange names...IF it was good). However, this couple doesn't have a place to do the consummation. My Ex assumes that the woman is married as well ("We can't use her place.").

I already know what his and my answer are (which are different), but I wonder what other people would do. Would you knowingly let a person use your bed to have an extramarital affair?

The Difference

What's the difference between a Dumb-Ass and a Wise man?

This morning started out as any usual morning would start out. Clock goes off, I hit snooze 20 times and finally get up in a rush for work. Running late, I make a mad dash through the house picking out what can only be described as the wrong outfit. Pants two sizes too big (why do I even have a size 33?), a shirt that has too much material, and I didn't have time to shave. I looked like a big mess.

A quick run around the corner and down the steps into the 81st street station, I walk into the mass of rush hour commuters. The train platform is nearly packed with people, all pushing and shoving to get onto the train. I can only guess that I'm not the only person late for work today.

7 months in NYC and I'm still amazed at just how many people can squeeze onto one subway car. Everyone is smooshed into the moving sardine can, their bodies contorted like Tetris pieces, with only enough space to breath, although some people have mastered reading the paper 1 inch from their faces while holding the handrail at the same time. The train stopped at the 72nd street station and even more people pushed onto the train, pushing a man who was reading the New York Times into me. It was at that point, that my life turned into a breath mint commercial. Cue the music please.

He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. From that point on, we kept exchanging glances (really only because we could barely move let alone try to look anywhere else). For two long subway stops we rode the train, our lips only a few inches apart, and as we arrived at the 7th Ave station, we both bolted down the stairs together to the next train. He stopped the door from closing so that I could get on our next train and grabbed my hand to help me in.

I asked his name and gave him mine. He works as a yoga instructor. Does anyone realize how flexible he probably is? We made initial conversation crowded against each other, our faces now nearly touching. As for other body parts...well lets just say my arms fit nicely around his waist. As the train came to a stop at the Lexington Ave stop, he stumbled into me (hello...nice pecs).

We walked up the escalator together, me in front of him (yes...I know my best assets), and at the top of the stairs, made a little bit more casual talk, before having to go our separate ways.

Now I ask the question again. What's the difference between a dumb-ass and a wise man? A wise man will give his business card to a guy he's interested in. A dumb-ass forgets to carry his cards with him.

Guess which one I am?

Running With The Bulls

When conservatives ask me why I am pushing the "Gay Agenda", I always give a heavy sigh. I've never really had an "agenda" and I'm sure a majority of the GLBT community would agree with me on this. I just want the ability to have the same quality of life as any heterosexual already has.

To be sure, I checked with the Human Rights Campaign's website, which consistently is pushing for the GLBT community in Washington. Their mission statement:

The Human Rights Campaign is AmericaÂ’s largest civil rights organization working to achieve gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender equality. By inspiring and engaging all Americans, HRC strives to end discrimination against GLBT citizens and realize a nation that achieves fundamental fairness and equality for all.

HRC seeks to improve the lives of GLBT Americans by advocating for equal rights and benefits in the workplace, ensuring families are treated equally under the law and increasing public support among all Americans through innovative advocacy, education and outreach programs. HRC works to secure equal rights for GLBT individuals and families at the federal and state levels by lobbying elected officials, mobilizing grassroots supporters, educating Americans, investing strategically to elect fair-minded officials and partnering with other GLBT organizations.

So all us GLBT people want basically the same things right? But why are we so fractured as a group? Fucking politics.

Saturday morning is my run with the Front Runners of NYC. This is a GLBT running group that has 400+ active members that run and compete weekly (there is a race nearly every weekend in NYC). While in Cleveland, I ran with the runners and made some very good friends, both men and women. Here in NYC, I found something very interesting.

On Saturday, I was speaking to an Irish woman who recently moved here and like me, is new to the group. She and I run about the same pace and she asked if I would run with her, our goal being the whole Central Park Loop. I agreed and we began to warm up together. Each group run is started by having introductions and announcements before the run begins. During these announcements, a woman brought another woman over to my Irish friend and introduced her as someone who could run with her. A little startled, my Irish friend asked if I would mind if we ran with the other women as well. I had no problem, and as we began running, I watched the men run along a different path. That should have been a sign. I was running with the bulls.


Apparently, in NYC, lesbians and gay men are not allowed to run together, nor socialize, nor even speak to each other. In fact, had it not been for my Irish friend, I would have thought I was completely invisible. At each water stop, the "Leading Lesbian" would ask the Irish woman how she was doing, and completely pass over me. The woman that was assigned to pace with the Irish woman would always run between the Irish woman and I, to interrupt any conversation we may have had.

Now I understand that lesbians feel that gay men overshadow them. Men do dominate in the world and many lesbians feel they are a double minority, but please. What does separatism really accomplish? Yes, anyone can foster an artificial single gender zone, but in reality, it's impossible to acquire that in society.

Now before anyone tries to justify that the women should have a separate space in this running group, I point out the constitution of Front Runners, which indicates that the organization promotes and encourages gender parity.

So yes...I'm pissed off. So often I hear statements like "AIDS is not a lesbian issue". Let me say this...AIDS is a human issue. Anyone can get it. Yes, lesbians may have a lower risk, but carpet munching without a dental dam is STILL a fucking risky behavior. Cervical cancer is not something I can get, but it's still my issue. I have female friends, and family and I'm the first to scream if they aren't getting checked...AND YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE WOMAN!!!!!

Perhaps if the separatists in both communities actually took the time to find a little common ground, I'd actually have social security survivor rights, or inheritance rights, or even the right to get married in any of the 50 states. Grow up girls, the rest of the world is way ahead of you.

Marking Territory

When I was 13, I was allowed to choose which high school I wanted to attend. My Parents divorce requirement of a Catholic education for me only went until I hit high school, and for the first time I was about to get a little freedom. I could lie and say I chose a public school to piss off my father, but the truth is a little more complex. Being 13, I still wanted to change my sexuality. If I had gone to a Catholic school, it would have been an all male high school. How would I have "fixed" my sexuality if I was never around women. Ironic how everything turned out...but even more interesting is that I still prefer mixed company and not all male environments (unless involving a sling, orgy, or locker room).

When I first started public school, I had one goal. Sane...like minded...Friends. Hell...I would have taken one out of three. I was already sick of moving and my mother knew it. I think she felt a little bad, and that was why she gave me the freedom that she did. This included letting me date a girl, Donna.

Years later, she told me that she had been really torn on the situation. She didn't know who to have a long talk with. Donna, who was dating a closeted boy, or me who was obviously dating a skank. Seriously...at the age of 14, she had had more sexual partners than my mother had had husbands. My mother chose to keep her mouth shut, but did give me a long lecture about protection from sexually transmitted diseases (at the time I had no idea why).

*** On a side note...have you noticed that when you start writing stuff like this, your mind floods with memories you had completely forgotten for years?***

On one of my dates with Donna, she gave me a hickey on my neck. I will go on the record here...I HATE HICKEYS! They are the most ugly things which scream adolescence and immaturity, and are used as a way of marking someone's territory. They are extremely embarrassing. Unless you are a 13 year old in his first year of high school. Then hickeys are cool. My mom was the first to notice, and couldn't resist making a comment. I think she accused me of using her curling iron. I blushed, but in my room I admired Donna's work. That purplish bruise on my neck was going to make me popular. If I had a hickey, someone found me attractive and desirable enough to give me one. I'm hot. You want to suck on this hot neck? I went to bed with dreams of being captain of the football team. Ok...that's a lie. I dreamt I was doing the football team. Guys in cleats and shoulder pads are hot.

The next morning, I chose a lower cut yellow t-shirt (contrast complimentary colors is important), brushed my teeth, shaved the two hairs on my chin, and looked in the mirror at my badge. Imagine my horror when I realized that the bruise was nearly faded! I needed to do something quick, and I couldn't call Donna and say "suck my neck woman!" I'm a smart guy though, so I improvised, and grabbed the skin over the bruised area and twisted it hard. I continued to do so as often as possible that day. Even when I didn't have a mirror to look in. It began to hurt, but this was for popularity!

It wasn't until 4th period history that anyone noticed. A guy in my class (who I ironically dated later) asked what had happened to my neck. I answered loud enough so that most of the class could hear that "My girlfriend accidentally did that." A girl who overheard looked and said "What she do? Use her teeth?...Are you dating a vampire?"

Apparently, if you rub your skin enough, you can draw small amounts of blood, by actually rubbing off some top skin layers (ask any man about his first exposure to porn as a teen). For the next few weeks, I was going to be known as the vampire boy, and learned my lesson.

Hickeys are never cool. Neither is dating a skank.

Getting Back to Nature

"Dead mouse walking"

Tuesday, I went on a mission of doom. I had to go to the grocery store and buy peanut butter to use as bait for the mouse traps. Now I'm sure PETA will be against me, but I pay rent to live alone, and a rodent roommate is not in my lease. It's either the mouse or me...and finding an apartment in NYC is nearly impossible. Mickey Mouse must die...fuck that "Catch and Release" attitude. I don't want him coming back.

So Tuesday while walking down my street to go buy bait I happened to look at the sky and realized something. I've not seen a sunset in nearly 7 months. That's a little surreal for me. Living in the city, the sun is shadowed by the buildings long before sunset, and when the sun sets...well darkness hits quickly. What I found odd is that I've not even noticed this until that day, and now I miss the sun. Of course, it could be my pasty white skin I've been seeing in the mirror for the past few weeks. I didn't think I could be this white.

Today, it's 80 degrees. I need to head to the park and just soak up a little sunshine and enjoy the day. Perhaps even go for a run. Tonight...when the sun goes down, hopefully I'll have to clean out a mousetrap.

A Good Workout

Lately, I've been going to church. I know...big shocker. The atheist is going to church, but this isn't the ordinary church. No Catholicism, or Judaism, or Buddhism for me. Just a little hedonism. I attend the gay church, the gym.

Don't think it's the same?

• Others go see the preacher...I do preacher curls.
  
• Religious people go to church to feel uplifted. I go to the gym to lift things up.
  
• Catholics feel guilty for missing church. I feel guilty for missing the gym.
  
• Catholics do penance for doing bad things. I run on the treadmill for eating bad things.
  
• Worshipers get on their knees in church. I've seen the same thing happen in the steam room.
  

But what gets me is that working out is about quality, not just quantity. I could lift to my heart's content, but if my form is off, or I'm only lifting 8 lbs, I'm getting no results. And results is what I am shooting for. I'm looking to run a 7 minute mile this summer.

So I work out religiously. And recently I've determined what a "good" upper body workout is. I hate doing upper body workouts, but I've been pushing it as hard as I can, and my arms feel like lead when I'm done. So I know I've had a good workout when my arms are so tired, I don't have the energy to slap the old man's hand away as he fondles me on the crowded train.

Learning a Lesson On My Knees

I hate eating. Seriously, I hate it. Not because I don't like the flavors, or that something can be nutritious, as I do like food. Rather I hate eating because I have problems swallowing (insert gay joke here). I can eat very few foods without having difficulty swallowing them. Sometimes serious difficulty, which is why I drink a lot of water with my meals. Water by the gallon. This is a result of my prior health issues and there isn't much that can be done about it. I've got a lot of scar tissue and it causes blockages.

I've learned to live with it, but it's embarrassing and distressing when I dine in restaurants or social situations. My closest friends know my situation and the minute we sit in a restaurant will all order water for the table. Suddenly 5 glasses are in my arms reach. While eating at a friend's home last year, the water pitcher would be placed in front of me. But there are times in restaurants where my waiter isn't attentive enough and my glass is empty. I've learned to just stop eating. Otherwise I choke.

Which leads me to this weekend. My run took place on Saturday at 10:00. Now normally I am fairly chipper and ready to run, but this past Saturday was different. I had been out the night before and drank beer. A sign that I've had too much to drink is when I leave one bar, and go to another one on my way home. So my head on Saturday was going thumpa thumpa boom. But I was determined to run.

I started the run in Central Park and headed South, around the Southern loop, and then North up the East Drive. I personally call this the loop of despair, because from 59th to 93rd the road is nothing but mini hills. And with each step I made, I felt the despair...and nausea...and wishes for death. I circled back at the Northern end of the great oval and stopped at a Starbucks on my way back home.

One Vanilla Latte later, I was walking down the street to the apartment when I saw that an art festival was being put on outside the Natural History Museum. I'm never one to pass up the opportunity to browse, which is what I did. Coffee in hand I took a taste of the molten liquid, swallowed, and regretted it immediately. The small amount of coffee I swallowed was not going all the way down.

The best way to describe this feeling is to imagine a time when you have eaten too quickly and swallowed something too big. You actually feel a pain in your chest as the item is pressing against the lining of your esophogus. It hurts, and it isn't fun. Speaking is a little difficult, and you feel a little panicky. I'm used to it.

Normally, I would take a gulp of water and things would be fine...except my dumb ass didn't remember to bring water. No water in site, I thought I'd try to drink a larger gulp of coffee. This would be the solution if the liquid was cold, but hot liquids are difficult to gulp. My second gulp was as stuck as my first. I needed to find water immediately, and looking off into the distance, I saw the oasis of a street vender only 100 yards away at the corner. He might have well been across the Sahara desert.

I started to push past the crowds to get to him, when the unthinkable happened. Before I could even take a breath to scream in pain, I was down on the ground on my knees. My leg had a new buddy, Mr. Charlie Horse, and my calf muscle was ripping itself into itty bitty pieces. All around me, people saw me go into this weird contorted convulsion (oh the humanity) coffee all over ground around me (I let go of the cup). Someone asked if I was ok, but I couldn't answer since I was still having difficulty swallowing my last sips of coffee. I just couldn't get the words out. Thankfully, the person selling art closest to me realized why I was gripping my calf in agony and gave me both a water and a banana (good deal I wouldn't have been able to swallow it). After about ten minutes of massaging out my calf, I was ready to walk away...albeit very embarrassed.

That should teach me to run hung over.

Why I Need a Man

Each day, I wake up to the sounds of my alarm clocks. Yes, plural...I have three. When the clock strikes 6 am, my apartment sounds like a prison break in action. NPR is reporting on the fact that both cell phones are ringing at opposite sides of the apartment. And yet, even with all that commotion, I still hit the snooze button. I blame it on sleeping alone.

When I don't have somebody sleeping next to me, I have a hard time finding the motivation to get out of bed. If someone else is sleeping next to me, I'm the first to leap out of bed and shut off the alarm to not disturb the bedmate. Afterwards, I'm the first to jump back in bed and disturb that same bedmate. But when alone...well it's depressing when the only help you have with "morning wood" is the NPR announcer telling you how hot the weather is. Which lately has been getting really hot.

So post shower and sometimes shave (I'm Irish...I don't need to shave daily), I reach the next potential downfall of being single. When in a relationship, while one person is showering, the other person can make the coffee and breakfast. Almost nothing is better than fresh made coffee upon exiting the shower. Instead...because I slept in, I have to drink instant coffee made with hot tap water.

Now I don't want to say that my life isn't complete without a man, but there are necessary things that another man needs to do for me. Like hang my curtains. I'm 5'6" and my curtain rods are over 10' above the ground. A real man would be able to hang those for me (of course that means buying them). I could use a man when it comes to cooking. I love to cook, but hate cooking for myself. I'm not used to cooking in small amounts, which is why for the last 6 days I've been eating pasta puttanesca with chicken for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I'm up to my ears in pasta puttanesca.

And it was the puttanesca and its fragrant attractive smell that made me realize just how much I want and need a man right now in my life. Yesterday, while I was sitting in my living room, I saw a very quick movement out of the corner of my eye. Apparently, I've been living with a roommate. A furry one with beady little eyes, big ears and a long tail. I have a mouse who likes pasta puttanesca, and now I have to go to the store and buy $1000 in mouse traps and poison to lay all over the kitchen (yes...this may be overkill, but I prefer a tactical nuclear attack on any rodent roommate). I'm about to go George Bush on the secret of N.I.H.M. and I'm only upset by one thing.

A real man would clean the traps for me.

God I need a man!