Urban Insanity

Coming Out: The Parents

"My parents are coming to town over Thanksgiving. I think I'm going to come out to them."

The others sitting at my table looked at me, some with skepticism and some with optimism, as I made this proclamation earlier this week at a sports bar downtown. 

I've come out to most of my friends, and I'm out at work now.  The most important people in the world to me, however, don't yet know that I'm gay. 

I keep thinking my parents must have some idea. 

I haven't brought a girl home since high school.  I avoid conversations about relationships, and hell, I'm not a bad looking guy. 

I imagine that in their eyes, I should've been married a long time ago, like the other guys in my old hometown.  But every time I'm home, they ask me about girls, try to set me up with some of the locals, and talk about my old girlfriends. 

I can't grasp how they don't know yet.   

I sure wish I could give my parents what they'd really like - grandkids.

My parents would be fantastic grandparents. 

They are great nurturers.  They are well-known in my hometown for helping people out . . . I can't count the number of Rotary and Kiwanis awards my mom has been honored with for her service to the community.  My dad is a farmer, and he employs 5-10 poor rednecks every year during planting and harvest seasons - as their employer, he displays more compassion for their well-being than they've ever experienced from their own family members, and many of these lost souls look to my dad as their mentor and friend.

For small town standards, they're probably a little liberal, so that'll make things easier. 

But I've been putting off tell them about my sexuality for two reasons, one, because I'm a big wuss when it comes to talking about it, and two, because I know it's going to be hard for them. 

And I hate to see my parents unhappy. 

My mom is so cute - she's like a little cheerleader, an 55-year-old who looks ten years younger with blond hair and stylish hats. 

My dad's a happy-go-lucky guy who likes golf, beer, and home repairs. 

Neither of them encounter gay people very often. 

My dad's best friend's son is gay, and that kid is quite possibly the most effeminate, angry guy in the state.  They also know of the local, hometown gay guy who runs the radio station and tries to sleep with every married man in town.  Needless to say, it'll be a challenge when they find out.

I haven't reconciled how to handle it yet . . . it'll definitely be a difficult step for me to take . . . but I'm committed to doing it. 

September 5, 2007 UPDATE

Several of the international readers of this blog have asked what happened with me coming out to my parents.  I should've clarified that Thanksgiving is an American holiday that occurs in November. 

So . . . in my unending efforts to put off telling my folks that I'm gay, I've set the date of truth for several months from now, when they come to visit me in the city. 

Right now, it seems like a long time . . . but Thanksgiving weekend is less than 3 months away. 

Yikes. 

My mom and dad called last night, and we talked for almost an hour, despite the fact that I was exhausted from work and had just returned home at 10:00 p.m. from a date with a genuinely nice guy.

My folks didn't ask about my love life at all.

In fact, I've noticed that, in the last year or so, they've asked less and less about my relationships. 

While I was in law school, they asked about it a lot more often. 

Of course, while I was dating Rick, the game warden, I lied to them frequently and told them that I was dating women. 

Then, shortly after Rick and I broke up from our secret, Brokeback Mountain-type relationship, and I went through those difficult few months of depression, I received a phone call from my folks.

I will never forget that night.

It was the first and only time that my parents probably realized that I might've had some mental struggles going on.

I was lying in bed, curled around a long pillow and under the thick blanket in my icy-cool room.

We talked about the usual BS--how successful my law school career was going, how my house was doing, how my sister was doing--and then they asked the question dreaded by all people in singledom, especially those of us who are closeted. 

"Are you dating anyone right now?"

I always hated that question, unless of course I had a girlfriend, which I always did in the old days.

But in the more recent past, I'd responded to that question with cheerful stories of college co-eds who'd hung around with me and my buddies, and occasionally, I'd make up a story about a girl just to satisfy their concern for my social life and to give them something to talk about to the small town gossips back home. 

But this time, my difficult break-up with Rick had just occurred, and I was fighting depression like you wouldn't believe.

I just didn't have the energy. 

I shook my head, stared up at the dark, bare ceiling above my bed, and replied, "No I'm not, mom.  There's no one." 

That comment, darkened further by my dreary, depressed mood, caused an awkward silence on the phone, followed by me saying goodbye rather quickly.

After that call, I noticed that my parents both made the effort to say "I love you" more often at the end of our phone conversations, and, importantly, they stopped asking about my dating life as often.

It does come up now and then, but noticeably less than in the past.

In my conversation with them last night on the phone, I could almost feel their desire to ask me who I'm dating right now.  I don't know how to explain what I felt, but it's like a feeling of impending doom or sorrow that you know you can't put off forever. . . like a train wreck that's bound to happen even if you do everything you can to stop it. 

But as usual, my parents didn't bring anything up about my dating life, and when I felt like it might be a subject of conversation, I quickly cut off the phone call, using the excuse that it was 11 p.m., and I was exhausted.   

I truly feel that my parents would rather have a gay son who's honest about his relationships and talks with them about everything important in his life, especially love, than a "straight" son who appears successful, but lonely and isolated. 

I just hope I have the courage to tell them in November. 

October 28, 2007

The pressure to tell my folks about my sexuality is greater than ever. 

A few weeks ago, my good friend BOB came out to his mother and sister with great results, and this weekend, BOB is introducing his boyfriend to them.

BOB's positive experience may have reinvigorated me, but it didn't do anything to dissuade my anxiety about coming out. 

My folks and my sister will be in Dallas over Thanksgiving.  However, I'll be back home for opening weekend of deer season the weekend before they travel here. 

My friends have recommended that I "have the talk" while I'm visiting them because (1) it'll be on their own turf, and they can escape to a comfortable place if they need to, and (2) they'll have a few days to let things sink in before visiting me.  If I go this route, that means that I have about 20 days until my life takes a dramatic turn.  And as an added pressure, my ex-boyfriend, Rick - the game warden - will be hunting with me that weekend. 

I can totally see myself making up excuses to avoid this inevitable conversation, but I'm more committed than ever to finally getting it over with.

Continued:  Click here. 

My First Gay Pride, Dallas 2007

I finally did it. 

I attended a Gay Pride Festival and Parade. 

From the first time I ever spoke with another person about what it meant to be gay, I vowed never to attend one.  I mean, in the past, the parade and festivities didn't seem like a celebration to me, but more like debauchery in the streets . . . a drug-filled cess pool of disease-ridden old men and twinks. 

Certainly, it had to be an event that I'd abhor, much less fit in.

Now, as I sit here writing these words, they seem so harsh to me.

But until a little over a year ago, that was my closed-minded opinion about the Pride celebration.

This year, however, I've become a lot more comfortable with my sexuality and with understanding the gay culture.

I figured that it was finally time to see if I was wrong about Pride. 

Here is how it all went down. 

First off, this guy named Ryan had been asking me out for weeks.  He was cute, but I didn't think the chemistry was there, so I wasn't particularly excited about going out with him. 

However, one of my friends told me that he was extremely well-endowed, and although I may sound like a complete hooker, I have to be honest:  I was curious to see if the rumors were true.

Consequently, I set up a Sunday lunch date with him.

The Sunday date coincided with the Pride parade, so Ryan and I decided to grab lunch at a restaurant and then walk over to the crowds. 

He showed up at my condo at around 12 noon, and, in our shorts and sandals, we walked three blocks in the sweltering heat towards a pick-up-and-go restaurant near the festivities.  The food was great, the weather was bad (hot), and the conversation was average. 

But Ryan, a 6'1 athlete with beautiful brown eyes, made up for the lack of good conversation with his cute smile and nice biceps. 

Even though it was early in the date, I knew that from a dating perspective, Ryan and I wouldn't last very long.  But I persevered, intending to make the date a good one, and glad to have a cute guy on my arm for the duration of the Pride festival.

After lunch, Ryan and I marched towards the Strip, which was partitioned off for the parade by colorful barriers and rotund police officers. 

Amidst our journey to the crowds, my crazy friend Heather text messaged me to let me know that she and a friend wanted to meet me at the parade.

I was thankful for that.

We eventually turned a corner. 

That was when I saw the crowds.

Massive amounts of gay men. 

Some in drag, some half naked, practically everyone with their shirts off.  One guy was on stilts. 

A woman in a dominatrix outfit had a 300 lb man-slave, who was wearing a leather speedo, black leather suspenders, a blindfold, a leash, and nothing else. 

He wasn't allowed to speak unless she told him so. 

Those were some of the more shocking sights. 

Otherwise, I saw families (both straight and gay), young gay couples holding hands, elderly folks in lawn chairs with umbrellas, groups of straight girls, and pleasant gay and lesbian singles who lined the streets cheering on the decorative floats and pedestrian walkers and grabbing for flying candy and trinkets. 

At times, I was at little shocked. 

But for the most part, the parade was a festival for people to express themselves.  It wasn't really political or sinful in nature - it was simply fun and a little crazy.

If nothing else, it was fanatically entertaining. 

More than anything, I remember how hot it was that day.

Ryan and I were roasting. 

We walked into a seedy little bar, one of the only ones on the Strip that wasn't crowded.  The bar was heavily-air-conditioned, and we were in heaven. 

I bought us two beers and sat in a booth near an older man with a beautiful golden retriever that was sprawled out on the wooden floor.

The bar owner had rigged a ghetto b&w camera on the roof to provide its patrons with live coverage of the parade.  Although the television was as small as my lap top screen, I appreciated the effort. 

I don't know what provoked it, but at some point, Ryan and I kissed. 

Maybe it was the lack of hydration.  Maybe it was the sensual nature of the whole day.  I don't know.  But whatever it was, we kissed each other several times in the dark bar. 

The oddest thing happened when we stopped kissing.  After I pulled away from him, I looked down at the dog, who was sprawled out about ten feet from our booth. 

At some point, the dog had woken up and raised it's head.  It was staring right at me, and to my complete surprise, it seemed to giving me a knowing smile. 

Cute, but the oddity of the situation weirded me out a bit. 

Heather, who was trying to figure out where on the Strip I was planted, had texted me 4-5 times during my PDA kissing escapade. 

I replied, telling her that Ryan and I were hitting the oven-like streets once again, and would make our way towards her. 

We finally worked our way through the crowds to meet Heather at a Latin bar called Havana, which was conveniently located at the exact center of the parade route.  She looked hot in a short skirt and tank top, and I told her that her voluptuous body was being wasted on all of us gay boys. 

But like my friend Brian, Heather loves hot Latin guys, even gay ones, and she was in Heaven at Havana.

Although Ryan wasn't Hispanic, he had dark features, and after polishing off her margarita, Heather gave me two thumbs up. 

I shrugged, but gave her an encouraging smile.

Time went on, the parade continued, and I had a few more drinks, switching from beer to frozen girly concoctions. 

But eventually, I realized I had to wrap things up. 

I was flying out to Mississippi that night for a Monday morning hearing in a small town, and I wanted a little bit of "alone time" with Ryan before I left. 

So . . . after saying goodbye to Heather, Ryan and I made our way back to my place. 

The combination of the narrow sidewalks and tight crowds caused Ryan and I to bump into each other, which, consequently, stimulated our sexual tension and arousal.

Earlier that morning, I'd made the mistake of donning loose linen shorts and boxers, so it was nearly impossible to hide my arousal.  On several occasions after Ryan and I had stopped to kiss on one corner or the next, I had to pull away and visually picture Rosy O'Donnell naked in my mind.

This is usually a sure-fire method to help me lose a hard-on, but I had only marginal success this day. 

Ryan, who'd worn cargo shorts and boxer briefs, didn't have this problem, and he found my situation hilarious. 

By the time we got back to my condo, Ryan and I were ready to rip each other's clothes off. 

It was 3:00 p.m., and I had to be at the airport at 5:00 p.m., so we didn't have much time for foreplay.  And besides, if you think about it, the entire date had been one big episode of foreplay.

We kissed for at least 20 minutes . . . and then, well . . . I'm sure you can figure that out.

Let's just say that I succeeded in my mission as an investigative journalist to find out if the rumors about Ryan's endowment were true. 

Ryan is now a distant memory, but my experience at Pride 2007, even putting the "happy ending" aside, remains burned into my mind. 

Pride is a good thing for the gay community, and I recommend that anyone, gay or straight, check it out at least once.

Distraction by Billie

I've been bad about posting this last week, but I have to tell you that it's been the wildest, busiest two weeks of my professional career. 

Literally, I knew it'd be tough being a lawyer when I finished law school, but these last 14 days or so have been ridiculous. 

On Wednesday, I head out to Los Angeles for a client meeting; this will be my first trip ever to LA, and I'm completely stoked.  We're staying in a luxury hotel on the beach in Santa Monica.  It's way out of my price range, but luckily, the firm is paying. 

I plan to do some writing on the trip, and I look forward to at least one wild night in LA (probably Friday night). 

Tonight, I tried to take my mind off work by watching a little bit of the Cowboys game.  Eventually, I turned off the television and sat down to write.

I wanted some Billie Holiday music to set the mood for my writing, but I couldn't find my CDs, and I haven't yet graduated to MP3s or to the wonders of the IPOD world (I know, I'm a dinosaur). 

Instead, I went to Youtube, and once again got distracted by watching some of the captivating videos and music clips. 

Here is one of my absolute favorite Billie songs - her sweet, but haunting, voice never ceases to make me forget about the stress at work. 

Unfortunately, it also distracts me from doing more productive things, like writing or going over depositions, both of which I wanted to do tonight at some point. 

In any event, enjoy this song. 

It's one of her very best.

Funday Sunday

The perfect Sunday is one of those days where I get up late, work out, eat a huge breakfast, go to church, go to brunch with my buddies, and then spend the rest of day writing or reading a fiction novel. 

Next to my "perfect" Sunday is a Sunday where I get ridiculously crazy and shitfaced in gay town.  It's the kind of day I like to call "Funday Sunday." 

Yesterday was such a day.

I started off being responsible.  I really did.

I woke up early, cleaned the condo, and went on a 45 minute run up the Katy Trail, which is a reasonably good running and bike path that snakes through the heart of Dallas.  On most weekends, one can find shirtless studs (both gay and straight) pounding the Katy's pavement, especially around the section that I frequent. 

After my run, I came home and relaxed on the couch. 

At around 11:30 a.m., my friend Heather called and reminded me that I'd promised to watch the 12:00 noon Cowboys game with her at a sports bar. 

Forty minutes later, Heather picked me up and drove us to Buffalo Wild Wings, a bad ass sports bar and grill (albeit a chain) that just opened a new location in the heart of the gay part of Dallas. 

This new BWW is awesome for five reasons:  (1) gay sports fans go there, (2) it has cheap drinks, (3) the atmosphere is bright, not dark and dingy like the other popular sports pubs in Dallas, (4) there are lots of big screen TVs, and (5) NTN Trivia is usually on one of the screens. 

BWW was packed when we got there, as we didn't arrive until after kickoff.  Still, we were fortunate enough to get a booth in the middle of the big, noisy room.

After settling into our booth and ordering two beers, Heather and immediately scanned the room. 

A group of young, fairly cute lesbians were right in front of us.  One girl was sitting on another girl's lap, which I'd never seen at a sports bar before, but it was refreshing, if not a little shocking. 

In terms of guys, however, the pickings were slim. 

I thought the assistant manager was cute, but Heather disagreed, and complained that he had too much of a baby face.  Other than him, there was a blond hottie who showed up with his parents, but he only stayed for one quarter of the Cowboys game. 

Needless to say, Heather and I were both very disappointed, especially me, because I've been on a man-craze of late.  I must've been on 20 dates since my last boyfriend and I broke up, and none of the guys have made it to the second date. 

With no eye candy in the bar, I focused instead on one of the sexiest football hunks of all time - Brett Favre.  The Packers are looking good this year, and Sunday's game was no exception.   

Five drinks later, I told Heather that the Grapevine Bar, a seedy looking dive off the beaten path, but a favorite watering hole for many, was having its 11th Anniversary Party that day.  Admission was $10/person, and any kind of drink (including premiums) were $1.  Jello shots were also $1, there was free food, and, of particular importance to Heather, the Grapevine had ordered a bouncy house for drunk patrons to get crazy in. 

Heather and I both wanted to go, but neither of us wanted to stay for very long.  In fact, we agreed to bring $15 each, and once we used all of our money (part of which would go to pay our $10/each cover), we'd head out.

But, as is typical in such a situation, things didn't work out quite like we'd planned. 

First, we pulled into the small dive's parking lot, which was half gravel and half pavement.  Next to the parking lot was the bounce house, which was shaped like a small, red castle, and sported netted sides to prevent drunk idiots from falling on their faces as they crashed into the walls. 

Heather brightened up when she saw it.

The lesbian at the front door must've thought Heather was cute, because she let us through without paying cover. 

Both of us knew what that meant - we were each going to spend our $15 on booze.

We walked into the bar, the first room of which was dark and lit by hanging lanterns and bubble lights.  Cheap, but comfortable, yard-sale-quality lounge chairs lined the walls, and a barrage of gay, straight, old, and young patrons laughed and sang along with the Prince song that was blasting over the speakers.

Heather and I started with two rum and Diet Cokes and walked through the pool table room (which has only one table) and onto the back patio, which has another bar, a lattice roof with vines and lights, crazy decorations, and more gay than straight people. 

We grabbed a table overlooking the ghetto basketball court, which, for Sunday, had been converted into a beer garden and BBQ pit.

For the next two hours, Heather and I got drunker, and more and more people rolled in. 

Two guys who I'd recently been on dates with showed up.  At first, neither were very happy with me, as I'd neglected to return their calls over the last week.  I think I made amends, however, or at least they gave me that impression. 

Another guy, who I'd kissed in a bar a few months ago, suddenly appeared at the table next to us.  I was embarrassed because I didn't remember his name.  Heather thought he was really cute, and hounded me all day to talk to this guy, who I'll call "Jabronie" (because Heather and I thought that'd be a funny name for him, even if he was a nice guy).  I avoided Jabronie's gaze as much as possible.

Why?

I have no idea, but in my hazy state, it seemed like the sensible thing to do.

Then, to my surprise, Megahottie walked. 

I've never blogged about Megahottie before, primarily because, in my last year in Dallas, I've only actually seen him 3-4 times.  He's incredibly handsome, one of those guys who turns every single head when he enters a room.  At 6'1, he's in perfect physical form with light blue eyes, short, brown hair, and a beautiful smile.  He is completely stunning.

I've met him twice, but, believe it or not, I don't remember his name. 

I don't think he remembers meeting me at all, but that's OK because it allows me to fantasize about him more secretly. 

Beyond his captivating good looks, I knew nothing about him.  I didn't know what he did for a living, if he was a nice guy or a dickhead, what kind of morals he had, you name it. 

But still, I made a vow to Heather that I was going to talk to Megahottie, and possibly ask him out, even though he seemed shy and was getting stared at and approached like he was a movie star.

There was one huge hitch in my plan, however. 

Megahottie showed up at the Grapevine with two guys.  One of the guys had recently asked me out and gotten a rejection.  The guy was pissed too. 

Consequently, I kept my distance from Megahottie, thinking that I'd run into him again when the time was right.   

For some reason, Heather kept nagging me to talk to Jabronie - she really thought he was cute. 

Eventually, I did. 

He seemed somewhat feminine to me, which doesn't bother me in friends, but is not something I want in a boyfriend - I'm just not attracted to it. 

In my drunken stupor, however, it didn't bother me as much. 

We joked around about our kissing episode in the bar, and he got along well with Heather.  More importantly, Jabronie was fun to hang out with.

Consequently, we asked him to join our table. 

At one point, Heather, Jabronie, and I all decided to go to the bounce house, where the net walls kept giving way, causing patrons to roll off the pad onto the asphalt below. 

Yes, I was one of the idiots who rolled off and busted my ass on the ground. 

After I finished a summersault and landed on my head, I looked up to see Megahottie and his two friends (including the pissed-off guy) climbing into the bounce house. 

Heather threw me one of her sexy Ali Landry smiles and started laughing. 

Jabronie just kept bouncing. 

And I stuck my tail between my legs and climbed out of the bounce house. 

An hour later, I took Jabronie home, and this morning at 6:00 a.m., I drove him back to his place.

Needless to say, it was a long, long day at the office.

I've already decided that next Sunday will not be another Funday Sunday.