Danielle

This post is dedicated to Danielle, who wouldn't stop screaming in a jealous rage after I referenced another one of our friends on this page.

Sex

Let's talk about sex.

No, really, let's do it.

I should start by saying that writing this is probably a mistake. Because it implies that I get laid regularly, and while sometimes I wish that was the case, it isn't.

Unfortunately there isn't a high demand for skinny, neurotic, white boys in Columbus. You'd think there would be, because nothing says "sexy" like awkwardly bumbling through conversation and compensating for social anxiety with alcohol.

But let's talk about sex anyway.

Because politics and religion just piss people off. But I think everyone can agree that sex is a generally okay thing, in moderation, of course.

I know some of you have an incredibly distorted definition of the word "moderation," but I'll let that slide for now.

I have this problem, the problem being that I think too much, even when I'm capable of tricking someone into hopping into bed with me. You'd think all of my focus would be spent thinking about things that will keep me from ejaculating entirely too early, but my overactive mind stretches, speculating about the other people that have touched my bed partner in the past.

That awkward grope she just made at my thigh? She learned that on her first Homecoming when a Senior boy did it to her, and being fifteen, she thought it was sexy, because fifteen year-olds think everything is sexy. Nobody's ever told her how clumsy and uncomfortable of a move it is. I'm not going to tell her either.

The way he slides his finger down my side? He learned that from his first gay experience with somebody eleven years older than him, and he's been trying to find a similar experience ever since. I'm not that experience. Nobody ever will be. You can't just relive your first sip of alcohol.

That desperate grasp around my neck, the way the nails are cutting into my skin? It just screams past sexual abuse, and it's hard to maintain an erection with somebody so afraid of the world, so desperate not to be hurt again.

My mind spirals into a kaleidoscope of cocks and vaginas from the past.

And let's not even start with the blow jobs. Because what I see isn't just my own penis in someone's mouth, but every other penis that's ever been there. I imagine the mouth stretched into a perfect ring, crowded with dicks, like those old cartoons where the character would cram an entire pack of cigarettes into its mouth. Suddenly I feel like I'm in competition with every other imaginary penis in the room. There's a bartender from Atlanta, a football player from Cleveland, a stripper from Las Vegas. I know these are just characters I've imagined, products of the overactive imagination my parents have been nurturing since my childhood (thanks a lot Mom), but it doesn't make the feelings any less real, the envy and shame and embarrassment.

I can't give her what the lawyer gave her. I can't give him what the artist gave him. I'm inadequate.

I'm inadequate and I'm going to die alone with three cats, and I don't even like cats, and even though I haven't decided what the cats will be named, one of them will have a spot behind her ear and another will be overweight and the third will be orange with stripes. I won't tell the other two cats that the orange one is my favorite, because I won't want to hurt their feelings.

And of course, being in such a ridiculous, uncomfortable situation with my mind churning out completely insane scenarios, sometimes I laugh.

This never goes over well.

"What's so funny?"
"What's wrong?"
"You never take me seriously."
"What am I doing wrong?"
"Is this a joke to you?"

At this point I have to explain why I'm laughing.

And I'm met with answers like this:

"So what, you think I'm some kind of slut?"
"I don't get it."
"What kind of person do you think I am?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Huh?"

But occasionally, someone will laugh, and think it's just as hilarious as I do.

These are the best people in the world, and I totally recommend sleeping with them, and maybe even going so far as to date them, hell, some of them might even be worth getting married or gay-married or partnered or whatever word you want to use.

Because these people are fun.

We can use all the big, meaningful words we want to analyze and over-analyze human interaction and relationships. We can make it messy and complicated and impossible-to-navigate.

But in the end, it's hard to deny that we're all just looking for a little fun.

And that sometimes we just need to shut the fuck up, relax, and let ourselves have some.

Father-and-Son Fleshlights: A Christmas Story

"Father-and-Son Fleshlights? You are disturbed." Even miles away I can imagine Chris, his face contorted into a mix of humor and disgust.

"Well I think I could make millions on this idea," I say, "Perfect for the mom-on-the-go who needs a gift for everyone in the family. Two Fleshlights in one package? What a bargain, am I right?"

"You are more wrong than I ever thought was possible."

I should point out that this conversation is taking place on the phone, and the "Father-and-Son Fleshlight" business endeavor came from a conversation I had earlier in the day. I'm at my parents' house and have decided to call my friend Chris to wish him a merry Christmas (Eve). The conversation immediately turns to inappropriate humor, because that's how our conversations tend to work.

"Aren't you at your parents' right now?" Chris asks, "Can't they hear you and your disgusting business ideas?"

"No, I'm downstairs in the kitchen," I say.

"But can't they hear you from there?"

"No, they're upstairs, I'm in the basement."

"Your kitchen is in the basement?"

"No, this is the basement kitchen, the other one's upstairs."

"Two kitchens? You never told me you were a millionaire. I want a car."

"I'm not, we just have... two kitchens."

"Why?"

"Uhh..." I stutter, "I don't know."

"Like, why are two kitchens necessary?" he asks.

"In case the other one breaks I guess."

I have not been able to stop thinking about this. It's ruining the holidays.

Extra bathrooms make sense, because two people can poop at the same time without having to touch butts. Extra living space? Also reasonable, everyone needs their space, it keeps people from killing each other. Extra bedrooms make sense because condoms break, and you have to have a place for the screaming, money-hemorrhaging results to sleep. Hell, I can even understand having a table for dining in your kitchen and an additional table in a dining room. One is casual and the other is formal, and it's nice to have extra seating when you have guests.

But an extra kitchen? This makes no sense.

And I've never questioned it. I've always accepted it as the other kitchen. I spent my childhood questioning the motives of religion and government and authority (a great way for an eight year old to make his parents uncomfortable), but never once did I say, "Mom, why the fuck do we have an extra kitchen? Who built this fucked-up freakshow of a house?"

The realization that my childhood home is some hideous monstrosity with unnecessary appendages is a little unnerving.

And the fact that it was like this the entire time and I didn't even think about it is slightly traumatizing for me. This building deceived me, tricked me into thinking it was a loving home when in reality it's a disfigured monster.

"Hey Mama, why is our house a disgusting freak with extra limbs?"

"Huh?"

I can't believe she still loves me.

It turns out that the woman that used to live in this place used to do a lot of canning and baking, so a second kitchen makes sense. I'm a little suspicious that she was a serial killer and used the second kitchen as her personal torture chamber and mortuarium, but I keep quiet about my suspicions (but seriously we live in the middle-of-nowhere. Nobody could hear the screaming. It would be the best serial killer hideout ever).

I guess that's what family is all about, looking past the unnecessary appendages and hideous disfigurements and accepting them for the fucked-up mess that they are.

I'd prefer it if my parents' house had a hot tub, billiards, and mini-bar room instead of a second kitchen.

But it's still home.

Road Rage

I'd rather not be writing this, because it's embarrassing.
But part of my new policy on life is admitting to all of my unsavory behaviors and poor choices, because it keeps me from repeating them in the future and falling into unhealthy patterns. Simply put, it helps me be a good person, which I've been all about lately.

You know how you hear about road rage on the news, reports of people slamming their brakes, getting out of their cars, and screaming at each other in the middle of the street like psychopaths? And you think, who in the hell are these jackasses? What the fuck is wrong with people these days?

Today, I was that jackass.

I should start by explaining how I spent my morning and early afternoon. My friend PK (stupid abbreviation, I know) and I decided to take a trip to the mall. I had to try on a pair of boots so that I knew the size to order online later. We visited a few stores, but PK could tell something was off about me. I was being mopey, thinking about certain places I go and some of the people I spend my time with, wondering if they were really helping me become the person I want to be. PK did his best to entertain me and snap me out of my morose, but I was having none of it. I can be kind of a dick like that.

So instead of sharing our usual chatter, our inappropriate jokes and poorly-planned puns, PK was forced to listen to me drone about how I always feel like I'm falling behind while my friends have new successes with careers and graduate schools. He emphasized that a lot of my friends are three to eleven years older than me, so of course they're farther along, but I didn't really listen. Like I said, I can be kind of a dick like that.

I dropped PK off at his apartment, which happens to be in the same house I previously lived in for three years. On my drive home there's an intersection, it's a turn I'd driven countless times during my three years living in the neighborhood, a left turn onto a one way. I carefully looked to the right, and after a single car passed, I made my left turn.

There was a honk, and I looked up to see a car facing mine, a car going the wrong direction down the one way. There was a girl inside, waving her arms in the air and rolling her eyes as if I'd done something wrong.

And before I knew it, my car was in park, and I was outside her window shouting, pointing at the One Way sign and telling her to back the fuck up. Back your car the fuck up and turn around you fucking moron. Don't roll your eyes at me like a snotty bitch.

Other words used: stupid, cunt, dumb, retarded, ass, damn. My vocabulary wasn't exactly extensive at the time.

It was so classy. Classy, now there's a word I'm proud to have in my vernacular.

Moments ago I had been pondering self-improvement and the secrets to bettering myself, and here I was yelling at a girl like a lunatic. This was a horrible step towards improving myself.

I've told a few friends what happened and have received nothing but applause, cheers and high-fives. Even through text messages and phone conversations, I could feel the pats on the back.

But I'm still so embarrassed, the way I always am when I release emotions, affection or rage, it doesn't matter. The feelings are different but the embarrassment always lingers.

Because these feelings mean I'm losing control, the control I work so hard to maintain to keep myself from acting like a crazy person, to keep myself from behaving like those people on the news who commit assault over chicken nuggets.

I was probably accurate when I described that girl using some of the awful, derogatory language I used.

But I hope she accepts my apology.

Under Where?

I wake up to a typical morning.

I roll out of bed, scratch my ass, and eat a bowl of my roommate's breakfast cereal. I do a few push-ups and sit-ups because I tell myself that it will wake me up even though it never does. I reluctantly take off my comfortable sweat pants (the ones that are one size too big and hang over my ass) and exchange them for a fresh pair of jeans straight-off-the-hanger.

I go to my medieval literature class for some super-mature discussion about knights humping things, stop by the bank to withdraw money and totally not flirt with the teller, and then stop home for a few hours of eating and homework before my next class.

It's such a bland day. Look at me, being all normal and shit. This day is awesome. I'm being a productive member of society. I'm educating myself, and in the evening I'll go to my job, which pays taxes and everything. You wouldn't even know that at this time two years ago I was dating a lesbian and popping Vicodins like breath mints.

Then I go to Czech class. It's towards the end of class, and I'm fumbling through words like I normally do, nervously tapping my foot as I do so.

And I feel something sliding under my heel. I rub my heel on the ground, trying to figure out the texture, but I can't discern what has put itself under my foot. So I look down.

There is a pair of my underwear sneaking out of the leg of my jeans, caught under my heel.

What?

How did it get there? How did I not notice this? How did I miss that there was an extra article of clothing attached to myself the entire day?

Some classmates notice, giving me awkward glances and nervous smiles as I clumsily snatch the clothing and toss it in my bag.

And since I know you're all curious, it was a pair of blue, plaid boxers. I know I'm not supposed to be wearing boxers anymore, but I still do. Besides, it's not like there's much of a chance of somebody taking my pants off and seeing them anyway, so fuck it.

Now I'm wondering what else could be attached to me, what else could be inside of me that I'm completely unaware of. What embarrassing attributes have gone unnoticed by me but not by others? What aspects of myself have I left unattended?

I can't come up with a way of forcing the answers to the surface.

So I guess I'll just keep going about my everyday life, waiting for them to present themselves at the most inopportune moment possible.