Urban Insanity

Kissing and Pissing

I love Sunday afternoons in the Spring.  The flowers and trees are in full bloom, the weather is absolutely beautiful, and everyone is in a great mood. 

For some people, Spring Sundays are for lounging around in the back yard with a pitcher of sweet tea, a frisbee, some laid back music, and a playful, silly dog. 

For others, Sundays are prime hook up days. 

In several cities that I've been to, the gays come out in droves on Sunday.  In my city, for example, when the weather is nice, the bars are more packed on a lazy Sunday afternoon than on a Thursday or Friday night. 

The clubs with outdoor patios are especially wild. 

A couple months ago, my friends and I hit the Strip hard on a Sunday. 

Earlier that morning, I'd gone to church with my buddy Brian, so I was in a particularly upbeat mood when Brian and I met our friends BOB and Neo for our weekly brunch at an Italian restaurant with all-you-can-drink mimosas, bellinis, and Bloody Mary's for $6.00. 

Neo, who I'd dated a few weeks before, still acted little standoffish towards me when I sat down at the table.  The awkwardness lingered through the entire brunch, but I didn't let his attitude spoil my good mood, or anyone else's.

Two hours, five mimosas, and a bowl of mac and cheese later, BOB and Neo drag the rest of us to the Strip. 

I can't believe what I see.

The bar with the rooftop patio is packed solid.  I mean, it looks like Animal House up there.  Gays are practically hanging from the rafters and the railings, sloshing beer and mixed drinks around like it's Saturday night.

After going to church earlier that morning, I feel a little dirty, but to be completely honest, it looks fun up there.

And it is fun, for a while. 

Brian, Neo, and I grab beers from the bartender while BOB works his magic throughout the room. 

Within minutes, BOB finds a guy who catches his eye, and the flirting begins. 

The rest of us sit back and watch him in action.  Usually, this happens when the sun goes down.  It's sort of entertaining, if not slightly disturbing, to see BOB in full-out mack mode in the middle of the afternoon. 

While BOB flirts with a tall, thin guy decked out in outrageous $500 designer jeans, the rest of us fight off a pack of "ankle biters."  As a rule, ankle biters are vertically challenged.  But not all shorter gays fall into this category.  They must (1) have attitudes stemming from the short man's complex and (2) be very loud and aggressive.  They usually run in packs of four or more, and descend on their targets in mass. 

One of the ankle biters is after me.

He's Hispanic and has nice facial features, but I'm not interested in the least, especially after he spills his beer down the sleeve of my shirt after jerking on it like a five-year-old to get attention.   

After thirty minutes, we finally fight off the ankle biters and weave through the crowd on a BOB hunt. 

We find BOB standing by the railing with lips all over Brent, one of his regular hookups. 

They're kissing, but the groping is pretty minimal, which I think is odd.  I figure that BOB must still be sober or, instead, trying to be a bit more discreet because of the daylight.

Regardless, Brian and I decide to head home and leave the other guys to the wolves. 

The next morning, I get the full scoop when BOB calls me at my office. 

Apparently, Brent invited BOB and Neo over to a friend's house to watch Desperate Housewives.  The owner of the house made out with Neo on the couch until Neo invited some random hookup of his over. 

When the hookup showed up and started making out with Neo, the owner of the house got really angry and told everyone, including Brent and BOB, to leave. 

No one went anywhere, however, because BOB and Brent were busy.

While BOB was urinating in the bathroom, Brent came up behind him, put his hands on BOB's hips, looked over his shoulder, and watched him piss. 

Brent next kissed BOB's neck very slowly. 

BOB, insatiable, turned around and stuck his tongue deep into Brent's mouth. 

It wasn't until BOB pulled back that he saw the wet stain all over Brent's leg.  Apparently, he hadn't stopped urinating when he turned around. 

BOB couldn't remember the name of the friend who owned the house or whether anyone cleaned up the piss on the floor. 

When everyone finally left the house, however, BOB got some action from Brent on his own turf . . . and this time, nobody got pissed on.

That Sunday was a wild one, but even though I had a blast, I'll probably stick to the back yard for most of the rest of the year. 

After all, I'm one of those guys who owns a silly dog and likes sweet tea. 

Still, every once and a while, it's great fun to check out the scene on a Sunday.  After all, where else can you piss on a guy and then take him home with you?

Gays and Depression

This is a very difficult post for me to write, and until a few days ago, I'd convinced myself that this was a private matter that didn't belong on the blog. 

But then I had a conversation in a chat room with an army soldier who absolutely hated himself and other gay men and was disgusted by homosexuality in general.  This brief chat reminded me just how tough the struggle was for me to reconcile my career goals, family relationships, and religion with my sexuality. 

Hopefully, by reading this entry, someone out there will better understand what they're going through right now and find their own way to cope with it.    

For two years, up until March of 2006, I suffered from depression. 

I never went to get counseling for it, was never medicated, and didn't even really know what was wrong with me at the time. 

It all happened while I was in law school, a place where a lot of people, gay and straight, experience depression because of the stress and competitiveness. 

But still, people who knew me back then would've been shocked to know I was anything but happy. 

I was the pinnacle of success, at the top of my class, published in an Ivy league journal, and the best mock trial competitor in school.  I was popular amongst both students and faculty, and I could've dated any girl on campus.  I mentored dozens of law students on how to get published, how to win barrister events, and funny enough, how to make it through law school with their sanity.

But through all of this, I was miserable.

Now that I look back, I believe that several challenges caused my depression: 

Part of it was the pressures of law school. 

Part of it was financial stress. 

Part of it was my brutal fight with God over homosexuality.

My break up with Rick, the game warden, certainly didn't help. 

But I think that the biggest influence was that, after Rick and I went our separate ways, I tried to go back to women. 

I had visions of a white picket fence, children, a dog, and a two-story house in suburbia, and I decided I'd try one last time to "go straight."  After all, I thought, my folks would be fantastic grandparents, and they're just dying for some grandkids and a daughter-in-law. 

It was during that period that my depression was the worst. 

For the most part, the days were good.  As long as I was laughing with friends or swamped with work, I didn't have time to dwell on my emptiness inside. 

But the nights always got me.  It was as if a shadow fell over me whenever the sun went down. 

I can't begin to count all of the sad nights I went to bed wanting to ball my eyes out.  I felt such an emptiness, like a void deep within me that desperately needed to be filled.   

And I had no clue why. 

Suicide even danced through my mind while I laid there between the sheets staring up at my dark bedroom ceiling.  I never actually made any concrete plans to off myself, but I pondered over and over again how easy it'd be and how many problems it'd solve.  I owned guns, and knew it'd only take a matter of minutes.

I never actually drew up solid plans to kill myself. 

I think it was the thought of my parents, and how devastated they'd be, that kept me from taking that next step.  After all, suicide is such a self-centered act.  My family is very close, and I knew that my folks would never fully recover from losing their only son.   

For two years, I tried to date women. 

I broke several hearts, hearts of beautiful, intelligent girls who were fooled into believing I could really love them. 

I got so sick of lying to everyone and sneaking out to the only gay bar in the small college town. 

At one point, I got tired of sex with women and really tired of making up excuses not to be intimate with my girlfriends. 

I felt immense guilt almost every day for the last year of law school, and I was restless, throwing myself into studying, work, and writing to avoid my depression and my illicit life.   

Finally, when I couldn't make "being straight" work out with a gorgeous, blond neurosurgeon who'd been a college cheerleader, I knew that my days of hunting for women were finished. 

She was amazing, one of a kind, and quite possibly the sweetest person I've ever met. 

I felt terrible for leading her on for so long. 

But something good came out of that last relationship.  Starting on the day that we broke it off in March of 2006, I've remained true to my sexuality and true to my attraction to men. 

Sure, I'm not out to everyone in the world yet, but I'm at least completely out to myself. 

The day that I finally accepted that I could only ever love another man, a great weight lifted off my shoulders.

I can't remember feeling truly depressed since that point in my life. 

Of course there're still days when I'm down, just like anyone else, but I've never once laid in bed pondering the pros and cons of suicide. 

Since graduating from law school and moving to the city to practice law, I've come out to several friends.

Each time I come out to someone, my life gets a little better, and I get a little happier. 

For me, depression took a hard toll.  But I was able to get through it by finally being true to myself and to some of the people close to me.

I look forward to the day that I'm fully out to all of my friends and family, and I hope that the soldier I chatted with can find peace in his struggle.

*A non-profit, ad-free site that gives advice about dealing with depression and provides a list of psychologists in the U.S. is:  http://www.psychologyinfo.com/depression/help.html

Betty Cocker' Birthday

Many gay men, myself included, are often obsessed with the way we look. 

From our hair, to our abs, all the way down to our toenails, we critique every crevice and worry desperately about packing on an extra pound or two. 

One sure way to fight the chubby monster is to combine cardio and weightlifting workouts. 

Unfortunately, no amount of exercise can keep you as trim as you'd like to be if you're addicted to foods that are terrible for you. 

The best way to keep from stuffing your face with bad food is to keep it out of your kitchen. 

Another way is to be creative, and use it as a sex toy. 

My friends have been begging me to tell this story, and I honestly can't believe that I've waited this long to post it.  This is the story of my 30th Birthday, herein dubbed the "Betty Cocker' Birthday."

First of all, you must understand that my "bad food" addiction is chocolate. 

I'm completely obsessed with it. 

If someone put 100 chocolate covered strawberries or Hershey Kisses in front of me, the entire pile would be gone in a matter of minutes. 

My buddy Toby and I have birthdays on the same day in December.  This last year, Toby and I decided to throw a party for ourselves at his townhouse in the middle of the city not far from the Strip. 

Neo and I had just started dating, and I brought him, still shaking and scared like a straight boy, to the party. 

At the time, BOB, like Neo, was a new acquaintance and came to the party knowing only me.  But BOB, a total extrovert, walking hormone, and shameless flirt, had no problem making friends with everyone early in the night. 

Like most parties, gays straggled in and out over several hours. 

At one point, someone brought a cake from my ex-boyfriend, who couldn't make it that night.  He knew that my favorite cake was chocolate, and had ordered a special one for my birthday from a boutique bakery downtown. 

It was beautiful . . . layers of silky chocolate, covered with white, buttercream icing. 

Really nice. 

Fortunately for the gays, and for their waistlines, the cake arrived late, right when we were hauling ass to the Strip to dance at one of the clubs.

I don't do well with shots at all, especially tequila shots, and like most of my birthdays, I was completely hammered by the end of the night. 

It was one of those nights you hear about the next day from your friends, and then you want to crawl under a rock. 

I'm not much for PDA, but according to my friends, I mauled Neo all night on the dance floor.  His shirt was off, my lips covered his for hours straight, and you couldn't tell whose arms were whose.   Apparently, a pack of lesbians cheered us on for most of the night.  At least that's what I was told. 

When the club finally shut down, Neo and I went home together.  We were both so drunk and tired that we passed out as soon as our sweaty heads hit the pillows.

So much for getting laid on my 30th birthday . . .

The next morning, I woke up with a terrible hangover. 

I gave a Neo a kiss on the cheek, but I doubt he ever noticed - he was out cold.

O.k., I thought, I need to help Toby clean up . . . and the cake!  I'll take it to work!  The secretaries will love it.

I knew the cake would never make it out of my kitchen. 

I would eat the whole thing myself over three or four days, and then feel guilty about it for weeks while I slaved on a running trail or elliptical machine.

Still, I call Toby to tell him I'm on my way.

No answer. 

A few minutes later, I pull up in front of his townhouse.  Before I go to the door, I decide to check in with BOB to make sure he got home alright.   

After a few rings, BOB finally picks up.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Have fun last night?"

"What do you mean?"

BOB sounds strange.  Someone must be with him.

"O.k., hooker," I laugh, calling him out, "Who did you shack with last night?"

"Nobody.  I'm at my house.  Where are you?"

"I just parked in front of Toby's.  I'm about to go to the front - Oh, wait, that's Toby.  Hang one."

I click over. 

"Hey," Toby says. 

"What's going on?  I just pulled up in front of your house to help you clean."

"Don't worry about it.  I already did it."

"No shit?"

"Yep.  All done."

"Well, I'll come grab the cake, then.  I'm gonna take it to work," I say as I step out of my car.

"Uh . . . some people ate the cake.  Sorry man."

"Oh, really?  The whole thing?"  Some people? 

"Yeah." 

I got the vibe that Toby didn't want me to come up. 

"Well, alright man.  Sorry I wasn't around to help you clean.  I'm heading home to shower."

I click back over. 

BOB is gone.

But later that afternoon, he shows up. 

"What's up man?"

"Not much," BOB says as he plops down on the couch, hung over like I am.

"Crazy night, huh?"

"Yeah, no kidding."

"So, when are you going to tell me who you took home last night?"  I laugh.

BOB gives me a guilty smile. 

He's so busted.

"Alright, you might get a little pissed about this," he begins, "I stayed at Toby's last night."

I must've given him an odd look, because he continues, "Yeah, I was there when you called this morning, and when Toby called you."

I chuckle.  "Well, at least somebody got laid on their birthday!  So, you ate my cake?!"

"Well, not exactly.  When we got back, Toby just went crazy.  He started attacking the cake with a butcher knife."

"Really?  He can be weird sometimes, but . . . I would've freaked."

BOB grinned, "I thought it was kinda hot."

"So, you -"

"Yeah," he interrupted, "We used it.  I grabbed a big scoop of the cake in my hand.  He got the hint.  It took me a while to get the icing out of my hair." 

"Oh man!  My poor cake!"  I laughed, "You used all of it?!"

"Trust me, you don't want the leftovers."

No, I probably don't.

Sadly, I never got to try that amazing chocolate cake. 

But at least I didn't have to work off the pounds later. 

The best part is that I will never let BOB forget that he defiled my 30th Birthday cake, or that he owes me at least 50 chocolate covered strawberries, to be paid with interest - one strawberry a week until the debt is paid.

Please, Please Don't Talk to Me!

If you're closeted, partially out (e.g. not at work), or have a rainbow shirt for each day of the week, there's gotta be someone you simply do not want to run into when you're away from the anonymity of the gayborhood, and instead, smack dab in the middle of Straightland. 

It could be a one-night stand.  Perhaps it's that boy you flirted with on the Internet while you had a boyfriend.  Maybe it's just that annoying guy who bugs you while you're drinking coffee and reading the Sunday paper at your favorite coffee shop. 

If possible, you'll probably avoid this person.  But what if you're at a lunch meeting with clients or at a birthday dinner for your sister, and it's too inconvenient to leave?  Or what if you're just walking down the street on a warm Saturday afternoon. . . if he sees you, you know you're stuck.  When he walks towards you, what do you do?  Do you greet him like you would anyone else, with a big smile and a firm handshake?  Are you standoffish and unwelcoming?  Or do you completely blow him off? 

Regardless of how you react, if you don't treat him kindly, it's possible that you'll regret it down the road.  But when, if ever, will you change your ways?  Will you ever get to that point in personal development where you are fully comfortable with yourself and with everyone you stumble into?

Just last night at the gym, I was in the midst of my typical Tuesday workout - biceps and shoulders. 

I was absorbed in a set of curls almost too heavy for me to keep good form, so I didn't notice when a man sat down on the bench to my right. 

"Matt?"  A high voice with a slight lisp belts out.

My eyes are still focused on my arms, but I awaken from my concentration and think, Shit!

The gym is very conservative.  I'm not "out" there, mainly because there's no reason to be, but partially because I have coworkers who go there, and partially because I love it that the young, straight, college gym rats bullshit with me everyday. 

I set my dumbbells on the ground and slowly raise my eyes, discreetly scanning the room for any coworkers or frat boys.

Phew!  Safe! 

But my heart still races at a thoroughbred's pace.

A full five seconds after he said my name, I look at him, and have absolutely no idea how he knows me.

"Hi," I say quietly.

"How's it going?" 

"O.k., thanks."  I want to say, I'm sorry, but I'm a complete ass who doesn't want to talk to you.

"I'm sorry, but how do I know you again?"

"I met you on Saturday," he says as he juggles a pair of ten pound weights, "I'm Tom's friend." 

Oh, that's right.  I'd only spoken with him for a few seconds Saturday night.

"Oh, yeah."

In the mirror, I see two coworkers walk into the weight room.  They're coming in my direction.

Shit!  Shit!  Shit! 

Despite my recent exertion, the blood drains from my face.  To my embarrassment, the mirror reflects my ghastly profile. 

"It's Richard," he lisps.

My mind is racing. 

They're coming.

It's only been about thirty seconds, not enough time to really recover before my next set, but I grab the weights and dive into a third set of grueling hammer curls. 

They're really close now.

One of the coworkers gives me that straight-guy nod via the mirror.  I nod back.   

But I totally ignore Richard until I see that both coworkers have their IPODs on and head to opposite ends of the room.

Thank God.  I breath easier. 

"It's nice to see you again," I finally respond, barely over my breath. 

He wants to keep talking. 

He's just sitting here?!  He needs to do some abs, I think, and instantly scold myself for being so shallow. 

Great idea!

I get up from my bench and walk over to a mat across the room, hoping that he'll will be gone when I get back. 

After fifty crunches, I'm tired.  Back to the bench, even if he's still there. 

He is. 

For the next four exercises, I barely take breaks between sets. 

Just please don't talk to me, I think.  I keep a close eye on my coworkers and the cute gym rat who just walked in. 

Richard gets the hint, finally. 

He doesn't speak another word.  He just nods and walks to the front desk to meet the gym's sexiest personal trainer. 

Of course the 'hot one' has to be his trainer, I think, suddenly jealous.

I relax, thrilled that I can take a break before the next set.  I doubt that anyone saw me talking to him, and I'm positive that I wasn't outed. 

I finish, but only after a gym rat struts over in his revealing gym shorts and chats to me about college basketball for a few minutes. 

I don't avert my gaze or attention from him for a second.

After I drove home, I got to thinking about my behavior towards Richard.  I didn't feel terrible about being so standoffish, perhaps because I didn't think I owed him all that much.  I mean, we're not friends, and we're barely acquaintances.

But still, there was a lingering regret.  I realized that I'd been embarrassed by him, probably because he was so feminine.  I wouldn't have thought twice about chatting with him in the gayborhood, but here, on the comfortable turf where I play it straight everday, I didn't want anything to do with him.

I knew I'd been snobby, rude, and worst of all, a traitor to my own kind.  If you've ever been around a group of straight buddies when they think you're straight, and they're telling really mean gay jokes, you'll know what I felt like last night. 

Like I should've been a bigger person and spoken up for "my people," or in this case, been friendly to my own kind. 

Still, I don't know if I'm ready to face my own "gay" image in every part of my personal and professional life. 

Sometimes it just seems easier to stare at the pale reflection in the mirror.   

When Your Job Keeps You in the Closet

Dating a closeted guy can be a messy challenge.  Some men put off coming out because of their families.  Those guys will usually crack open the door a little bit at a time until they take that big leap into freedom. 

But another big block of gay men can't open their closets without setting off the bombs attached to the outsides.  These guys refuse to come out of the closet because their professional lives will explode if muddled with their romantic interests. 

If you've ever dated this kind of guy, you might understand that the "closeted" thing doesn't normally cause drama at first.  Everything is great until you've been together for a while, and then you have to stay at home instead of going to his company picnic or sit in the car while he talks with a coworker.  It's usually then that you feel the relationship isn't real, that it's cheap. 

How long can you live with this?  If you know that your guy's job is going to keep him in the closet forever, can you endure it knowing that you'll always be his illicit lover? 

A few years ago, I met Rick on the Internet.

We talked on the phone a few times.  He was completely closeted, reluctant to tell me much about himself, and hard to get to know.  But his photos were phenomenal.  So, I stuck with him. 

After I showed him that he could trust me, he eventually opened up, and we finally met in person. 

Rick, as it turned out, was a game warden from a Southern state.  I've always had fantasies about about messing around with law enforcement officers, but this guy aroused me like never before. 

He had a muscular build, a short-trimmed goatee, and the most incredible butt I'd ever seen.  The first time I met him, I had to remind myself several times not to rip off his old shirt and faded Levi's.  Rick's slight cockiness and boyish grin had me hooked from the first minute.  And he didn't even have to show me his handcuffs.

After meeting Rick a couple times halfway between his town and Dallas, he invited me to go deer hunting.  In my cosmic lust, I said yes, completely forgetting that I'd never hunted before and had no clue how to kill a deer or what to do with it once it was bleeding on the ground.  I was nervous about the whole thing for weeks. 

For our hunt, Rick and I agreed to meet at a cabin in the middle of redneck country, where the locals might skin you alive if they saw you holding another boy's hand. 

We arrive at 4:00 p.m., with just enough time to throw on our long underwear, camouflage pants, jackets, and boots.  At this point, I still haven't seen Rick naked, and I do my best to take a peak.  Rick, more enthralled about the hunt than getting naked with me at this point, doesn't even notice.

Instead, he gives me a crash course on handling the shotgun, and we drive his pickup truck deep into the woods.  We nestle down in a ground blind, and after only thirty minutes, I am freezing and painfully horny for the camo'd up jock sitting next to me. 

A true hunter, Rick still doesn't notice.  He is far too busy scouring the wood lines for deer in the ever-approaching darkness. 

Within minutes, a good-sized buck walks within 30 yards of our spot.  Remembering Rick's instructions, I slowly point my shotgun, get a center-mass view through the scope, relax my breathing, and pull the trigger. 

The buck drops.  Wow, it was that easy, I think.  I couldn't understand why all my straight friends made such a big deal about it.  Learning to hunt was much easier for me than learning how to play sports. 

After we gut and drain the deer, we drive his truck to the cabin, wash the blood off our hands and arms, and grab a couple sandwiches out of the fridge. 

"Now what?" I ask, figuring that he'd want to drive the deer to the meat processor.

I was way wrong.

Rick doesn't say a word.  He just gives me a cocky grin and pushes me onto the old leather couch in the middle of the cabin. 

His rough beard is a striking contrast to the softness of his lips and tongue, and I grip the back of his buzzed head to keep his lips on mine as he falls on top of me. 

Like most law enforcement officers, Rick is used to getting his way.  He tears off my camo jacket and long shirt with powerful hands, still cold and hard from our earlier hunt. 

I don't resist as he grips my shoulders and pushes me all the way on my back, onto the dirty leather cushions that so many game wardens had probably sat on before. 

He is fully on top of me now, and I can feel his arousal through the thick pants. 

I run my hands down his narrow hips, around his amazing rear, and finally onto his buzzed, angular head as he brings his lips below my waist.

I am in heaven, completely lost in a rough and tender roller coaster in the middle of Deliverance Country.         

After that hunt, Rick and I tried the long distance thing for nine months.  It was torture for me, because I was utterly infatuated.  I don't want to even think about the money we both spent on airfare traveling to see each other. 

I eventually got frustrated with only seeing him once or twice a month, and not at all when hunting season was going on. 

I asked him if he'd ever want to move from his small town.  I sure didn't want to live in a place where people might drag me behind a truck for being gay, and I naturally assumed that he felt the same way.

I was wrong.  Rick had no intention of leaving.  He'd wanted to be a game warden his whole life, and couldn't imagine doing anything else.  If we kept dating, he told me, I could move up there with him or to the nearest city two hours away.  But there was no way either of us could come out if I was going to be a part of his life.

I actually considered making that sacrifice at the time. 

Then, after one terrible visit, I changed my mind.  I went to visit Rick over Labor Day weekend, the same weekend that a bunch of his work buddies and bosses got together for a weekend of drinking and playing cards. 

He told me to come up, because he'd figure out a way to do the work-thing and see me, but when I got there, Rick couldn't figure out a way to please everyone.  As a consequence, I saw him for a total of 12 hours during that four-day weekend. 

I felt cheap, like everything that Rick and I had was illicit and fake. 

After that trip, I thought long and hard about what I wanted in a relationship.  For me, it was just too hard to stay in love with a guy who could never put me at the forefront of his life. 

I still hunt with Rick every year.  Besides teaching me how to kill a deer, I have him to thank for teaching me what I'm looking for in a relationship.

Gay With God

I grew up Methodist. 

I did all of the things good Christian straight boys should do.  I went to Sunday School a couple times a month, watched my mom sing in the choir, and even acted as an Arabian-looking Wise Man in the "March to the Manger" on Christmas Eve one year.  The church didn't have any dark skinned people, and for some reason wanted a black Wise Man, so one of the blue-haired ladies covered my skin in black makeup.  I still joke with friends that I turned gay because of that Christmas pageant.

After I flew the coop and left for college, I realized and admitted to myself that I was gay.  I knew that I couldn't fight the lustful urges much longer and sought some advice from the good book, which had always been part of my personal library.  Finding no clarification, I got frustrated.  I didn't understand why God, in all his wisdom and glory, would throw me this serious handicap.  If you listen to a strict constructionist - someone who follows the bible word-by-word - being homosexual is ok, but acting on it by "fornicating with men" is not.  Many people also believe that homosexuals can "pray away" our gayness and ultimately repress our desires. 

For me, at least, that wasn't possible. 

Sadly, I drifted away from my faith, the church, God, everything.  The saddest part about it was that I didn't even understand what the scriptures about homosexuality meant.  I never tried to analyze them.  Hell, I didn't even know what scriptures to look at!  I just assumed that the bible said that homosexuality was bad.  After all, that's what the ultra-conservatives were preaching.  Now that I look back, I guess it was just easier to write off God by accepting the prevailing conservative opinion instead of performing my own hard-core study. 

It wasn't until January of this year that I went back to church for the first time.  Funny, I drifted from God for seven years, and the very thing that drove me away from him brought me back.

His name was Nathan, and he was gorgeous.

Tall, blond, angular face, mid-thirties, with boyish, All-American, guy-next-door looks.  My friend Brian told me that he worked for a large hotel chain but liked to preach on the side. 

Indeed, even in the smoky haze of the bar, Nathan seemed to have a halo-like aura surrounding him.  People loved to touch him, as if he was some kind of celebrity or deity. 

We made eye contact, and he gave me a friendly, let's-talk-about-Jesus grin. 

I never once asked myself 'What would Jesus do?' 

Instead, I walked up to him and said hello.   

Coincidentally, Nathan went to Brian's church, which was Methodist.  Brian had been trying to get me there for weeks without success, but when Nathan told me that he was a devout attendee, I was sold. 

That Sunday, Brian and I rolled into the church's contemporary service--another first for me.  I'd always gone to traditional ones in the past. 

It was surprisingly enjoyable, way different from the stuffy ones I'd been subjected to as a kid.  It would've been more inspiring if Nathan hadn't miraculously appeared twenty minutes into the service.  He sat down right next to me, so close that our legs were touching. 

It was ridiculous.  I had an instant hard-on in church.      

Over the next couple weeks, Nathan and I tried to get together.  Unfortunately, our schedules never seemed to mesh.  I eventually ended up dating someone else, and Nathan and I went our separate ways.  But I stuck with the church. 

It's members are primarily white, but the contemporary pastor is a spunky, stylish black woman named Shante.  Shante is awesome, supportive of gay relationships, and incredibly inspiring.  In fact, a few weeks ago, she gave a sermon so moving that I left with tears in the corners of my eyes.  I prayed for the first time in years that night. 

Equally important, Shante inspired me to figure out my own answer to the "Gay with God" issue.  I spent hours upon end searching on Google. 

I've only come to three conclusions so far, but considering the rut I was in, I think it's a great start:

1.  The bible was generated from a compilation of numerous books written by numerous authors.  Each author had his own angle, point-of-view, and moral background.  Only a couple of the bible's authors mentioned that homosexuality was wrong.  Jesus never said anything about it.  I can't accept the opinion that gay relationships offend God when the bible's wording is so sparse on the topic.

2.  In my past, I've lied, stolen, cheated, fought, gossiped, and turned away people in need.  All of those felt like sins, and I'm confident they still would today.  Being in a gay relationship does not feel like a sin.  I think that God instills in us a set of morals.  Some people choose to ignore those morals, but everyone who isn't completely insane realizes what is right and what is wrong.  I simply don't feel like 'being gay' is wrong.

3.  The most important revelation:  God used a gay man to get me to a particular church, and in a few short weeks, I've totally changed my attitude on being "gay with God." 

Tomorrow is Easter, and I am looking forward to another outstanding service with Shante.

- - -

The best website I found to walk me through the bible's nuances is: http://www.jlarue.com/wtbs.html . 

The site is unbiased, well-written, and most importantly, well-researched.          

Three Men and a BOB

Cleaning up the mess that a friend creates when he's juggling several men can consume one's thoughts, time, and energy, especially if the friend is totally driven by hormones.  If you repetitively "handle" your friend's drama for him and let him skate by in blissful alcoholic indifference, his partying whirlwind will eventually hinder your own good times and sanity.  Despite your endearing love and loyalty for your buddy, at some point, you've got to let him work out the dating disasters on his own. 

I have a close friend who I'll call "BOB."  If someone asked me to compare my friends to "Sex and the City" stars, BOB would undoubtedly be Samatha.  He's fun, extremely outgoing, attractive, and there are no holds barred (or men turned down) when the drinking starts. 

This tale begins on a Saturday in January.  After tossing down several Mambo Taxis--lethally strong margaritas mixed with sangria--at Mi Cocina, BOB, Neo, and I drive over to pick up Rocky, who is more of an acquaintance than a friend.  BOB, as usual, is on a sex binge.

I ask, "So, crazy ass, who are you shacking with later?"

"I don't know.  I kissed Vann last night at the party.  Is he coming?"

"Yeah.  He sent me a text asking about you.  Oh, and ya'll did more than kiss.  Your pants were off, remember?!"

BOB swerves around in his seat, gives me a sly grin, and says, "Really?  Whatever.  I didn't do sh*t." 

Neo and I laugh.  "Dude, you were mauling him on the couch." 

BOB frowns, "Yeah, and he wouldn't take his pants off.  Prude."

"Well, maybe he just wasn't as drunk as you were," I laugh. 

"Whatever.  I might hook up with Rocky anyway.  And Brent is gonna be out-- Neo, turn here!"  Luckily, Neo is more sober than the two of us, and he navigates the turn perfectly. 

After picking up Rocky, we drive over to our favorite bar on the Strip.  The beats are blaring, the beer is flowing, and I'm consumed with Neo, who I was sorta dating at the time.  I totally lose track of BOB for a while.  Then, out of no where, I feel a death grip on my shoulder.  I spin around, and BOB is standing there with a Miller Lite in his hand and an urgent expression on his face.

"Matt, you've gotta help me out!  Vann just walked in.  Brent's here too!  And Rocky has his hands all over me.  Sh*t!"  BOB is completely stressed about the entire situation, which makes me laugh.

"What do I need to do?"

"Vann thinks that I don't like him.  Go talk to him.  He'll listen to you."

I shake my head, grab my beer, and walk across the bar.  There, I find Vann sulking in the corner. 

"What's wrong?"  I ask. 

"BOB isn't interested in me.  I thought you said he liked me."

Are we in Junior High?  Come on, man.  I frown.  "Of course he likes you.  What makes you think that he doesn't?"

"He was hangin' on that Brent guy a few minutes ago."

I hadn't seen that.  How should I cover?  My mind races, and I know I've paused too long, so I just blurt something out.  "Oh really?  Well, that's nothing.  He's a little drunk, that's all."

Vann perks up a little.  "You think?"

He really bought that?  "Of course.  Come on, he's probably gettin' a drink right now.  Let's find him."

Vann and I, now joined by Neo, trek through the mass of sweaty bodies towards BOB's favorite bartender.  We round a corner, and Whoa!  I suddenly stop in mid-stride, shocked.

There, in the middle of the bar, BOB is mugging down with Rocky.  Everyone around them, including Brent, and now Vann, watch the pornorific display.  Hands are grabbing, tongues are touching, and bodies are melded together.  Some shady older guys behind BOB are getting turned on.  Rocky and BOB finally break away as if nothing had happened.  Rocky grabs his beers and walks in the opposite direction, and BOB, seeing me, struts over with a big smile on his face. 

Then he sees Vann.  For a fleeting moment, I see panic in his eyes.  But BOB, a talented salesman by profession, is a true master of seduction.   

After instantly donning a sexy grin, BOB looks at Vann and says, "Hey, where did you go, stud?" 

Unfortunately, BOB's charms fail him this time.  Vann just walks off, and I follow.  I feel bad, like I set the poor guy up for failure.  He agrees.

"Hey man, sorry about that," I say, still trailing him through the tight gauntlet of hard bodies.

He barely turns his head.  "Whatever, man.  Just don't try to set me up with your friends anymore." 

Is he crying?  I can't really tell.

I think about grabbing Vann's arm to stop him from walking away, but figure that any conversation tonight would be fruitless.  So, my matchmaking reputation tarnished, I turn tail to search for Neo and BOB.  Instead, I find Brent, who detains me for 30 minutes because he's mad as hell.  I eventually escape. 

Finally, as the drama-filled night draws to a close, I stumble upon Neo, who is leaning against the bar with a half-full beer in his hand.  He's watching Rocky and BOB make out again.  This time, no spectators are around.  It's getting late, after all, and people are either trying to hook up or thinking about heading home.  My head is pounding from the cheesy 80's music blasting on the dance floor.

"So, how has your night been?"  Neo asks. 

"Crazy.  BOB owes me for this one." 

Neo just laughs. 

The next morning, when I drag the hungover, crazy-haired BOB to Einstein's and make him buy me a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese, we recap the night.  The drama seems hilarious now that it's over with, and we laugh about it for a good hour.  Then, just as we are leaving, I get a text message from Vann. 

Have you talked to BOB? 

Remembering Vann's forelorn face, I suddenly want to crawl under a rock. 

"This one's for you, BOB."

I hand him the phone, and he shakes his head. 

The laughing over, I make a vow to stay out of the "courting" between BOB and his men.  From here on out, BOB, and all my other friends for that matter, are on their own if they choose to juggle multiple guys.

Dating Within the Circle - the "Trick" That Doesn't Go Home

My friend Brian has developed his own rule book for life.  Well, now that I think about, most of Brian's rules involve dating do's and don't's in the gay world.  Some of the rules are absolutely ridiculous (e.g. Don't go on a date before Easter because the weather is too depressing), but others make quite a lot of sense. 

For example, Brian's Rule #70, "Don't date or hookup with guys in your group of friends," seems very logical, primarily because if you follow it, you can keep drama with the periphery people and not with your core buddies.  However, what do you do when one of your hookups sticks around?  If he's a good guy and your friends love him, it's easier to fully accept the one night stand into your circle, but will the awkwardness ever really fade away? 

It all went down last December.  One Saturday just before my birthday, the weather is particularly nice, so I throw on some old jeans and a teeshirt and meet the boys down on "The Strip," a street chock full of gay bars and boutique shops in the heart of the city.  It'd been a long week, and I'm a little tired.  In fact, at 1:00 a.m., when I walk into the largest dance club on the Strip, I begin tossing around the idea of calling it a night. 

Then, however, I meet "Neo."  I call him this because he slightly resembles Keanu Reeves.  He looks completely out of place at the huge, two-story club, as if he's a straight guy who's hopelessly lost.  Cute, I think. 

My buddy thinks so too. 

"He's staring at us," I yell to my friend over the insane dance beats.

"Yes he is," my friend replies, "We should talk to him.  But I think he's into you more."

"Why do you say that?" 

"I can just tell."   

Neo is obviously shy.  He stares for a while, then walks around us in a wide circle, like a hawk would circle his kill for the night.  Remembering back, his whole stalking method was really odd.

"I think he's by himself," I say.

"Yeah, he is."

And with that, I walk over to him.  As I approach, I see that he's thin and very boyish-looking.  With an American Eagle teeshirt, holed-up jeans, and sandals, I guess that Neo is probably about 18, which is waaaay too young for me, so I mentally prepare myself to walk away if he turns out to be jail bait. 

"Hello," I say as I grab his shaking hand.  He's totally nervous, practically freaking out, I laugh to myself. 

"Hi," Neo replies.

"First time here?"  I instinctively ask.

"Yeah.  Just moved here, actually."

"Cool, well what do you think about this place?"

"Honestly, it's sorta freakin' me out." 

As it turns out, Neo is a 25-year-old who'd just moved to the city from a small college town.  He's closeted, but had somehow found his way to the Strip.

"Wanna get outta here?"  I ask.

"Yeah." 

We don't make it very far.  Sitting in Neo's car, I suddenly can't keep my hands off of his young, hard body.  Throwing morals and caution to the wind, I run my hand down his tanned arms and over his jean-clad thigh. I want him now.  He takes off his shirt, revealing smooth, wiry limbs and a flat stomach.  Before I can take my own sweaty shirt off, he reaches over and pulls it above my head.  The smell of smoke lingers in his cloth seats.  Smoke usually turns me off, but tonight, it only intensifies the mystique of this insanely hot and random moment.  I kiss his ear lightly, making him smile and blush. 

"So, do you wanna come back with me?" Neo asks. 

Do you really have to ask?  "Definitely." 

The next morning, without thinking, I ask Neo if he'd like to meet some of my friends for brunch.  He doesn't know any gay people in town (he'd only moved here a week ago), so he said sure.  It goes well with the buds.  In fact, they like him so much that they decide to take him under our collective group's wing to show him around town and keep the bar predators away from him (and of course they all acknowledge that I'd been one of those very predators the night before). 

Over the next few weeks, Neo and I continue to hook up, even though we're now friends within the same circle, and eventually, Neo develops a chronic case of "puppy love."  I don't feel the same way, but mistakenly get drunk on several weekends and go home with him.  To my friends, I am the bad guy who's using this poor kid for the wrong reasons.  I can't count how many lectures I received over the following four weeks. 

Eventually, I cut the hookups off and have the "friendship" talk with Neo.  The talk goes o.k., but the first two times I bring other guys around him, he leaves the restaurant in a fury.  Time goes by and now, a few months later, he's cool with the guy I'm dating.  But I still detect some lingering hostility . . . or maybe "awkwardness" is a better word. 

Now that Neo and I are friends, will that awkwardness ever really go away?  When you've been intimate with a buddy, and at least in their mind, have tossed their heart around like a hack sack, can you both totally let go and be platonic?  At least in this situation, I don't think it's possible.  But if Neo and I had been friends before we were intimate, and not the other way around, perhaps it'd be easier to go back.  I don't know and hopefully don't have to find out anytime soon . . . as long as I stick with Brian's Rule #70 that is.