CockintheSuburbs

The coming out process is a seminal moment in every homo’s life (usually preceded by seminal moments of a different variety). If you didn’t know, it never really ends. You keep telling that shit to people until the day you die or start denying you like dick and go all ex-gay on it. People more eloquent than me (and many, many more people significantly less so) have delved into this in detail and bitched, whined, and moaned their cock-loving hearts out about it. Some people find it awkward, some find it intimidating. It causes others to ponder a world in which rigid heterosexuality wasn’t an assumption and some other bullshit about heteronormative tropes, yada, yada, yada. Personally, I find the eternal explanation fucking annoying.

Going back to school has presented another venue for re-outing myself. To many, I do not come off as queer as a Mexican eskimo. I mean, I dress pretty well (my pants are tighter and my shoes more awesome than most), but the dress code at school keeps things from getting too ridiculous (not that I’d wear my slut clothes to class anyway). My personality doesn’t really portray an inner gaga-for-Gaga nature. I think my general disdain for everyone might obscure that. Perhaps it’s my use of colorful language? I’m not sure, but when I comment that I want “all these fucking morons to shut the fuck up, so I can get the hell out of here and get on with my life,” it may not quite indicate that I would totally do one of the dimwitted dudes.

This is not to say I give a fuck. In the words of at least one character in every reality show ever made, “I’m not here to make friends.” I am here to get my education. I am here to get shit done. I don’t need these fucking lame-wads in my life. I just have to kick some academic ass for two years, then get the fuck out.

Having said that, it doesn’t mean there aren’t awkward encounters. Stupid fucking school makes me interact and coordinate with others. So far, this has mainly been through mandatory meals and group projects. It is in these two settings that my unperceived predilection for penis has created situations.

As I have mentioned before, school requires that I eat at least one meal a day there. More specifically, lunch banquet. Banquet is the type of food you get at an event, like a wedding. It’s actually one of the nicer meals on campus, but it takes about an hour to go through its table service. After lunch is over, I am done until the late afternoon. There are plenty of other kitchens in the school that I can just swipe, pick up food, throw it in a box, and peace out, so I can make productive use of my break. No such luck with banquet.

Being the intelligent, resourceful person that I am, I have found a way out. If I show up right before service starts, it will often be full. To my deepest anguish, I can’t eat banquet that day (but I still get credit for going), so I can get something somewhere else or just leave. I’ve found this works more reliably on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This method is still a gamble, however, as the tables are served in the order they were sat. So, if I roll the dice and still have to eat there, I’m going to be there until the bitter end.

Since I ain’t here to make no friends, I arrive at banquet by myself and let them put me at whichever six-person table they need filled. This is how I have eaten with The Ginger like five times already. Last week, the luck of the draw put me at a table with Twinks McGee.

I still find Twinks McGee irksome, but I am forgiving due to his youth. He is just a fucking kid. Soon enough, he’ll get jaded and calm the fuck down, but I don’t have to pretend he’s not annoying until then. I’m pretty sure my irritation with Twinks is a manifestation of my rejection of “mainstream” gay mannerisms. This too has been written about by some better and many inferior to me, and you can feel free to attribute my feelings to insecurity, self-hatred, jealousy, the popularity of anti-mainstream sentiment, karma, watching too much TV as a child, or whatever the fuck you want, but that’s what’s up.

At this particular lunch, everyone at the table is talking about their ideal place for their externships. Twinks McGee says that he wants to do his on a gay cruise. Cue eye roll. Twinks notices and says something like “What? That doesn’t sound fun to you?” I immediately realize that he doesn’t know I share his affinity for men. I should probably have worked into the conversation that I was also gay, but that I did not find a gay cruise personally appealing, though perhaps it could be his cup o’ tea. Maybe I should have, but instead I said “Yeah, if you want to get herpes. Just go to fucking P-town or some shit.” Bitch didn’t even know what P-town was.

Leaving others with the perception of homophobia is not the only drawback to my subtle sexuality. There’s also the reception of homophobia.

This isn’t something new for me (or unique to me). For example, once while drinking at a bar on U Street in DC, I was chit-chatting with the bartender about DC, the neighborhood, and the changes we’d seen over the years. The bartender informs me that the area used to be really cool, but now all the gays were moving in. “Yeah, fucking faggots ruin everything” was my retort in a tone that made it clear that the sentiment was far from genuine.

Recently, I was coerced into pro-social behavior through class. I had to do a group presentation. How this usually ends up is that I do all the work, because I don’t trust anyone else to not fuck it up. This was no different. As such, the group met today, so I could go over everything with them and finalize all the details. One of the girls in my group was already on my shit list. She was supposed to put together the Powerpoint, which was awful, so I had to redo the whole thing. Then, she was supposed to do research on a certain topic, but instead reported back with some random crap that had nothing to do with anything. As we wrapped up the meeting, we reviewed the presentation to make sure we hit everything that was required of us. We discussed how the professor was rather particular. Miss Shortbus asks if we needed to include a bibliography at the end of the handout we were distributing to the class. I tell her we do. “Ugh, that’s gay” is her reply.

I was a bit taken aback by this. Who is this chick? She is like an emo-esque hipsterish chick, not some jock from the Deep South with inexplicable, strenuously repressed sexual desires. Do people say that anymore without irony? Don’t kids these days know better? Hello, haven’t you seen Glee? Somewhat stunned, I reply “Right … I think we’re done here.”

So is there something I should do to prevent such moments? I suppose I could work my testosterone-tilted tendencies into the random conversations I have with folks. Perhaps I could start making classroom announcements? During the first class, when it comes time to say your name, where your from, and something interesting about yourself, I could stand up and say “Hi, I’m Kevin. I’m from here in Poughkeepsie originally, but spent the last eight years in DC, and I think dick is just the bee’s knees.” Or maybe when the professor asks if we have any big plans for the break, offer that “I’m going to be the dining car in a cock train!”  I don’t think I’d have to worry about ambiguity after that.

The blog is back.

If case you were wondering what happened, here’s what went down.

Naturally, I would rather the gentlemen with whom I’m [un]romantically involved not know that I write about them on the internet. However, I still want to share this information with you good people, which involves publicizing the blog on Facebook.

Throwing up a link on Facebook that those people can’t see is pretty easy. I put them (and everyone else I’ve met since I moved back) in a group together and set the privacy setting for them, so they can’t see links related to this blog. I have a group for family members, as well as one for former employers and coworkers who would not find my precariousness entertaining. These groups are further restricted, so they basically only know that I exist on Facebook. Simple enough process, right? Yes, as long as I add all the appropriate people to the appropriate list.

Last Saturday, while I was getting soused with The Dude, I checked my Facebook on my phone and found a friend request from the Clueless Chemist. Without thinking, I hit confirm. A little bit later, it hit me. I had posted a link to the blog on my wall. I immediately scrambled to rectify the situation (trying not to draw attention to myself — thankfully The Dude was “distracted,” otherwise known as drunk). From my phone, I couldn’t add Clueless to the Cock Block list, but I could delete the post from my wall. I then attempted to access the blog directly from my phone, but couldn’t alter the admin options from there (at least I didn’t think so, I wasn’t exactly sober at this point). Eventually, I called a friend to make the whole thing private until I could confirm or deny a breach.

I am still unsure if Clueless saw it. Looking at the stats for the site, there was a visit directed from Facebook that day, but that doesn’t mean it was him (hell, it might’ve been me). This is one of the reasons I was hoping to meet up with him on Wednesday. I wanted to feel out if he saw and it and if he cared.

I still don’t know if he read it, but I do know that I received a text at 2:28 a.m. on Saturday night from Clueless reading “Hey, what u up to?”

I think I’m safe.

They just can’t keep me away from Babycakes. I don’t know why; I don’t know how, but every Wednesday, I find myself hoping they don’t run out of $1.50 PBRs before I’ve had a handful.

This past Wednesday, I went with The Boy. I had originally hoped to go out with the Clueless Chemist that evening. We had exchanged texts throughout the previous days that portrayed mild mutual interest and vague promises to get together in the near future. He was typically erratic in his responses. This shit drives me crazy. Either you’re into it or you’re not. I don’t have any real emotional investment here. I’m cool either way. Are you just bad at responding to texts? WTF, man?

So I decided to make this our Waterloo. If he was not responsive today, I would consider his interest no longer piqued, and I’d move on. Hell, I haven’t even tapped my reserves yet or explored the more risque offerings of technology. So I sent Clueless a message at 5:42 p.m. asking if he cared to rendezvous later. At 7:56 p.m., I called it. He was just not that into me. Oh well. He was pretty cute and somewhat interesting, but its not like he was my fucking soulmate. So, I shot a text to The Boy to see what he was up to so I could mask the subtle sorrows of an implied rebuff from Clueless.

The Boy informed me that he was going to the ‘Cakes. I was really hoping for a different venue. I had been there, done that. I also didn’t want to run into Clueless, or any of the others for fear of a repeat of the previous Friday at Primetime. Alas, The Boy’s mind was made up: Babycakes or no Boy. They better still have fucking PBR by the time I get there.

It was around now that I realized I had a shitload of schoolwork to do. Juggling a few guys, writing about it, getting to the gym regularly, and going to school takes up a decent amount of time. With all my cavorting around, the later had started to pay the price. I am actually hoping to not be a fuck up and actually try at school this time around, so I informed The Boy that I couldn’t go out until later, and then only for one drink (no laughing/incredulity).

Of course, a natural part of doing homework is fucking around on the internet. While diligently revising a presentation some stupid skank slapped together for a group project, I meandered over to Facebook. It is here that I discover Clueless’ phone and wallet had been stolen earlier in the day. Waterloo it would be not. More like the Battle of New Orleans. Hopefully, he would not be hittin’ up the Baby’ in anguish.

The Boy was there by the time I arrived. There was a medium-sized crowd: there were people, but no real wait for drinks or jockeying for outdoor seating. The PBR well had already run dry, so I grabbed a still-reasonably-priced Dogfish Head, and The Boy and I popped a squat at a table on the patio.

Apparently, it was to be The Boy’s mission this evening to attempt to make me jealous or show that he had other offers on the table or some shit. Not that this would work. I could give a fuck what else he’s got going on. Regardless, he would give it the old college try.

First, he told me about a guy he met at Primetime on that fateful Friday night. Apparently, his Primetime paramour just would not stop texting The Boy. This gent could just not get enough. The Boy’s feigned exasperation with the situation was almost endearing if not annoying. He continued to tell me about some other guy from Grindr. I kind of checked out at this point, but there was something about how this guy was crazy or stupid or Italian. I don’t remember which.

After regaling me with this tale, he asked if I remembered Clueless from Primetime. “Sure,” I replied. Apparently, The Boy and Clueless both “dated” the same guy (I use parentheses because I don’t know the accuracy of that statement). According to The Boy, Clueless sent him a Facebook message a few nights earlier along the lines of “Man, <the guy they “dated”> was super weird, right?” The Boy interpreted this as a booty call. I can’t say that he was incorrect, but he wasn’t just recounting a story. He was looking for a reaction. For all this shit, he wanted me to have some emotional response. Throughout it all, I generally ran a waffled between indifference and pandering. He wasn’t getting what he wanted.

At this point, a couple super annoying homos with whom The Boy was somehow acquainted came over to the table . Here again, The Boy referenced hooking up with one of them and other sexual encounters with dudes they were both familiar. And again, I didn’t give a shit. I chugged the rest of my beer (ok, it was actually my second) and instructed The Boy to walk me to my car.

As we approached my car, he mumbled something about it being good while it lasted or some shit. I called him an asshole, and we made out a little bit before I headed home.

It’s a rather busy week, so I haven’t had much time to write. I will have some updates coming soon though!

For now, check out my Guide to the Guys. Not quite sure who The Boy is? The Clueless Chemist got you confused? Check out this handy-dandy spreadsheet of them all, complete with rankings.

These boys are going to be ranked every Friday, so stay tuned to find out how your favorite is doing!

Your Guide to the Guys

(I’m sorry this isn’t embedded, but this shit’s far more difficult than it should be. I’ll hopefully have it up and running for next week.)

Thursday was a little rough. I was reasonably hungover and only got a few hours of sleep. The Clueless Chemist and I did exchange a few texts throughout the day. The result of this was a tentative date on Friday night. We were hard-pressed for event ideas. I suggested the drive-in (as it has become my go-to) to allow for some erotic hijinks, but Toy Story 3 was playing, and I imagined an awkward juxtaposition of an animated Don Rickles against my hand down Clueless’ pants. We agreed to mull over potential options and regroup the following day.

Friday rolls around and does its thing. I do the whole class and gym spiel and then text Clueless asking if he had thoughts on the evening. Neither of us have come up with anything terribly enticing, so we agree on coffee. I inform him that I’m making some food, but then I’m ready to roll. This is around 8:30 p.m. Not hearing back from him by 9:15, I text and ask where said coffee would be happening and if he needed a ride. A little after 10, I text him that I’m bored and ask if this is still happening. He calls me a few minutes later explaining that he fell asleep, but that he intended to go out, though not for a little bit.

I hate waiting for people. If we are hanging out, I want to know when and where. Of course, I’ll be late to that, but I need an estimate to plan things out. In this case, I was dressed and primped and ready to roll by 9:30. At this point, I get restless. I want to get out there and get boozin’. So I’ve already waited for like an hour and a half, and now I’m just waiting around with my thumb up my ass for him to let me know when and where I’ll at some point, maybe, eventually be going. By 11:30, I’m over it. I need to get out of the house. I head down to a bar near my house to get a beer. Unfortunately, it was karaoke night, so that beer stayed singular. Finally, I receive at text at 12:30 asking if I wanted to go to Primetime.

Let me give you a little background on Primetime. Before this evening, I had never been to Primetime, but I had heard of its lore. Basically, it’s the only gay bar/club in the Hudson Valley. It’s also an 18+ establishment, so its chock full o’ twinks/baby gays. The general consensus I have gathered from folks is that they hate it, but they still go there.

As you do when you’re involved with a few people at once, you try to segment and ensure that you don’t mix company. Throughout Wednesday night, I realized that Clueless and I had been the same places the previous Wednesday and Thursday nights (at which I was enjoying the Boy’s company). In fact, I had talked with and exchanged numbers with his lesbian friend on Thursday night. Despite being armed with this information, I thought I was safe. The Dude would not be there. He told me he only went to Babycakes once and found it unbearable. If he couldn’t handle that, there was no way he would be at Primetime. The Boy had also made disparaging remarks about Primetime, indicating it was the worst place in the world. I felt pretty comfortable that I was keeping my planets in their proper orbits.

Of course, I walk into P-time, and guess who I see talking with Clueless? The Boy, of course. The Boy had texted me earlier asking about my plans for the evening. I responded that I had family shit all weekend. I approach, attempting to mask as much of my trepidation as possible, and greet the boys. It seems that Clueless’ friend with whom the Boy and I spoke last Thursday had become fast friends with the Boy, and the Boy’s lesbian sister. This association led to the Boy’s presence and his fraternization with Clueless. As if by intuition, Clueless quickly saved me by inviting me to the patio with him for a smoke.

On the way across the dance floor to the patio, a hand taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and before me is standing the Facebook Fellow with Log Cabin at his side. “Like I need this fucking shit,” I think to myself. “Hey!” I saccharinely sputter, “I thought you were in New York this weekend.” It seems he wasn’t going down until tomorrow. Well isn’t that precious?vI excuse myself from the Fellow and follow Clueless outside. He was accompanied by a cast of characters this time. A few I knew (like his also-gay fraternal twin brother and a few random folk), but most were new. I felt relieved as I sat down (I had successfully broken away from the Boy and the Fellow) and attempted to make a good impression on the friends. Of course, this was short-lived. Soon enough, the Boy came outside and sat down right next to me.

With the Boy on my left and Clueless on my right, I had quite the balancing act before me. “Are you with him?” the Boy asks in reference to Clueless (thankfully, not loud enough for him to hear). “Oh no, we just met the other night,” I respond. “Oh, well, I was going to congratulate you about it if you were,” is his reply. Like I am falling for that one. Now, I am in no way attached to the Boy (or Clueless for that matter), and I did tell him flat-out that I am not looking for a relationship, but that does not mean I’m stupid enough to tell him about another guy I hooked up with, particularly one that is sitting three feet away from him.

While I didn’t (and still don’t) know exactly what the Boy knew, my instincts told me to lie. Besides, I could always annotate history later. I had already done it once with the Boy that night. When I first saw him that night, he called me out for saying I had family shit all weekend, to which I explained that my sister had come up, and I could only sneak away at the point (which was about 1:30), which I hadn’t anticipated happening at all.

As if being sandwiched between the two of them wasn’t fun enough, Clueless had also gotten involved in some drama. The nutjob that showed up at the afterparty Wednesday night and demanded that Clueless get in his car was there. Nutjob was apparently still burning the crazy candle at both ends. I’m not completely clear about the details, but it seemed that Nutjob still had delusions of a relationship with Clueless. When we went in to get some drinks, Nutjob approached me and introduced himself. I didn’t want to provoke him or ignore him, because I really don’t know this kid or exactly what kind of crazy his is. I decided to go the “kill him with kindness” route and try to be overly friendly and such. He was attempting a divide and conquer strategy. He proceeded to guide me over to his friends and made their acquaintances. Soon enough, I had whittled down the pack to a one-on-one conversation with an older, balding friend, which I quickly excused myself from to go back outside.

This drama was an interesting reflection on Clueless. It is not that I completely blamed him for it. Sometimes insanity happens to good people. He did not seem to be encouraging it, but he wasn’t extricating himself from the situation either. When someone like that starts acting up, you just need to cut him off. Don’t even bother trying to maintain a friendship; it’s just not going to work. Clueless’ friend spent a good portion of the night texting with Nutjob, culminating in some sort of drama blowout on the second floor. While I understand that these things happen, I’m past the point in my life that I want to engage in that shit.

.The one saving grace about Nutjob’s antics was that it distracted Clueless. This made my job of maintaining an interest in both him and the Boy without it being overtly obvious to either a bit easier.

Eventually, the Boy left. I was exhausted and attempted to leave while the batshit blowout was going down, but that effort was unsuccessful. I ended up talking to one of Clueless’ friends and agreeing to dance to some Gaga with her. Of course, at this point, the only folks left on the dancefloor were the Facebook Fellow, Log Cabin, and some 70-year-old dude wearing only a black Speedo outside of his sun-abused, well-wrinkled birthday suit.

One song was all I could handle. It had been a long week. I tracked down Clueless and said goodbye. That was enough of that for one night.

On Sunday morning, I drove home with my underwear on the seat next to me, soaking wet. I was thoroughly parched and in need of a few Advil and a comfortable bed.

This particular hangover was due to the Dude. We had made tentative plans to hang out Saturday night. I had some family shit to do, but I texted him when that was done. He was already intoxicated and it was obvious: in addition to telling me so, the number of typos, confusing statements, and repeated messages clued me in that he might not be exactly sober.

He was at a friend’s house, which I found by decoding his directions with Google Maps. He was quite clearly drunk, but not quite falling over yet. It was a relatively small gathering, about 10 or so people. There was beer pong, which I quickly volunteered for. I asked the Dude if he wanted to play and if he was any good. He told me he would play, but that he wasn’t very good. Christ was that an understatement. Weird underhand lobs and overhand hurls that were fortunate if they hit the table comprised his technique. By chance, the occasion ball went in, but it was mostly left up to me to get it done (and drink the beer). We (read: I) actually won the first game and were competitive in the second but ultimately lost.

We adjourned to the patio table and joined the rest of the peeps. A few mixed drinks later and some folks decided they wanted to go swimming. I wasn’t overly enthused by the idea, but it sounded mildly entertaining. A couple people jumped right in. A few more of us went down to the pool area to check it out. After being splashed a few times, I said “fuck it” and stripped off everything but my underwear and took the plunge. We played a few games of Marco Polo and then tired of the waters.

We headed back up to the patio, where I decided it was a good idea to initiate a game of “Never Have I Ever.” I don’t know why. I felt that we needed some sort of activity, and there weren’t any cards in sight. While this game is amusing, it really just turns into me admitting to things I would be just as happy for others to not know. Luckily, the girl next to me was in pretty much the same boat. Regardless, we got pretty fucked up.

After this, the party started to die down, and people began to leave. The few of us left (me, Dude, girl whose house it was, and weird straight couple) went inside and watched some Jackass before we all passed out in our places. A few hours later, I awoke in an over-sized chair next to the Dude with the TV still on. We began making out and such but couldn’t progress too much further as the weird couple was asleep on the couch behind us. Eventually, we decided to go into the bathroom and continue our salacious shenanigans there.

This situation highlights some challenges faced by living at home. In addition to my parental cohabitation, the Dude, the Boy, and Clueless all live at home. This makes finding a location for libidinous hijinks a little trickier. For example, the only reason I felt comfortable bringing the Boy back to my house was that my mother was out of town. We hooked up in my sister’s room because mine is directly under my parents’, and I didn’t want to wake my father. The Dude and I have only done dirty deeds at his friends’ digs. Clueless and I made out in my car. If habitative circumstances had been different, he could have invited me in (or we could have just gone back to my place).

In fact, I prefer to take my dad’s car over my mother’s because it is roomier and has a bench in the front, allowing for a larger range of movement. Difficulties in determining a domicile for debauchery are also why I like to suggest the drive-in for dates. Hooking up in your car is more socially acceptable there.

Of course, this will only be an issue while my parents are here. They’re retired and spend the winters in Florida, so I’ll have the place to myself. When that happens, all bets are off.

Last night, I returned to Babycakes for their weekly gay night. The Facebook Fellow desired to go, and I agreed to oblige. As is typical, I was tardy to the party. I did have a decent excuse: I went to a meeting for the school newspaper (and then dicked around for a bit because I didn’t want to get there too early). The Fellow was already there and knew some people. It seems he met some gents last weekend, and one of them is a manager at Babycakes. I got my Stoli O and soda, and we talked a little shop about the first day o’ classes. 

One of the friends of the Facebook Fellow was an interesting character. He was a bit flamboyant, but not too over-the-top. Still, he didn’t have a problem making a spectacle of himself (like when he forced a girl who was drinking at a bar next door to drop it with him or when he decided to start doing backflips). He’s also black and Republican. While we were discussing New York’s budgetary woes, he averred that they were mostly due to illegal immigrants sapping the welfare system. Later in the evening, I would overhear him talking about the seeming conundrum of being black, gay, and Republican. He made the vaguely valid point that just because people are black does not mean they should automatically be Democrats. Then, he started to say “If you look at the history of the Republican party …” At this point, I was compelled to interject. “Do not even try to fucking bring up Lincoln. The Republican party of today would be fucking unrecognizable to Lincoln. Do not try to pull that shit.” A few more lines into a tirade, and he conceded to my argument. Smart man. Well, sort of …

Anyways, Mr. Uncle Tom’s Log Cabin, the Facebook Fellow, and I adjourned to the patio. We joined a table with a duo of dudes, one of which caught my eye. Log Cabin told this boy he looked kind of like The Situation (of Jersey Shore fame). I was immediately appalled and came to this adorable boy’s defense. I told Mr. Log Cabin that this comparison was unflattering. He tried to argue that The Situation was hot. His body may be decent, but he’s old as shit and his face looks like a botched mastectomy. I assured the boy he did not look like The Situation. He did look like some celebrity though, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Eventually, it came to me. This boy, in fact, looked like two celebrities. If Paul Rudd and Breckin Meyer could produce a child from a magical evening of passion that I would pay good money to watch, it would be this guy. Accordingly, this one shall be named the Clueless Chemist.

In addition to being an apt pop-culture reference to a movie that is probably the finest of either of his composites’ careers (Overnight Delivery and The Craft aside), this gentleman’s nickname is also ironic. The incongruity here is that this boy has got his shit together. so he is far from Clueless. He’s from the area and is currently doing biomedical research across the river at SUNY New Paltz (hence the “chemist” part). He’s actually working on growing some shit that would help with the oil spill (details escape/never entered me). He has a plan for his life and loves what he does. 

It’s actually interesting, the three-and-a-half romantic acquaintances I have made so far (one I haven’t actually met yet, but have a to-be-scheduled date with) all have their shit figured out in some way or another. It’s nice not to fuck around with some aimless assholes.

As happens on a patio, there was a general game of musical chairs as people came and left and went to the bathroom and got drinks. I worked my way towards the Clueless Chemist and struck up whatever conversation I could. It seems he works part-time at Abercrombie (a gig he’s had since high school). He lamented over the smell and the music and the clientele. I empathized; I cannot walk by that place without sneezing and developing a massive headache.

This week at Babycakes did not have the turnout it did last week. Yet, we stayed until they kicked us out around 1:30. We then went to some dude’s house only a few blocks from my own, where we continued to drink and talk and such. As I grew tired and the night started to wrap up, I told Clueless I could drive him home for obvious reasons. He accepted my offer.

At this point, Mr. Log Cabin put in the paperwork to get his name legally changed to Mr. Cock Block. He said he could drive Clueless home because he lived closed to Clueless and, since I lived nearby, it’d be out of my way. He also questioned whether I was in a condition to drive. Though I gave it my best shot, these charges were difficult to deny without being completely transparent about my intentions (or looking desperate). In fact, I thought all was lost. We bid our farewells to the house’s occupants and walked outside. In a fortuitous turn of events, Clueless then said goodbye to Mr. Log Cabin and headed toward my car. Victory was mine.

It seems this boy has a tendency to evoke a battle. In addition to the Cabin, one of the house’s residents wanted to go to bed and was apparently upset that Clueless did not join him. A little bit earlier, some guy showed up at the house, refused to come in, demanded that Clueless get in his car and go with him, and then drove off in a huff after he refused. I’m not sure if this bodes well or poorly, but it’s certainly something.

Regardless, I won. He was mine. Not a moment after we both got into my car, my mother called. She had called at three (about an hour earlier) asking where I was, telling me she couldn’t go to bed until I came. I told her I was hanging out with friends, that I would be home soon, and that she shouldn’t wait up. This next call was briefer. “Get home now,” she demanded. At this point, I didn’t really have a choice. It would take at least a half hour to get the boy home and get back, during which she would just stew in anger. So, I decided to go home.

This, however, was not to be the end of this. I profusely apologized to Clueless and informed him we needed to make a quick detour. I continued to beg pardon as I raced the few blocks home. I parked a little away from the house and told the boy I’d be right back. “This isn’t funny” is how I was greeted. God, she is such a bitch. I told her I was sorry, that time got away from me, but that I told her she should go to bed when she called earlier and did not expect her to be waiting up. She immediately went upstairs and went to sleep. I pretended to do the same but just snuck right back out (yes, as if I was in high school). Unfortunately, I couldn’t risk my dog blowing my cover by whining/barking when I left, so I had to bring her with me.

Clueless was a doll about the whole thing and sympathized, as he too is currently living at home (only for the summer though). He was also super sweet with my dog, which I find super attractive. After far too many turns, we ended up at his house. He has me drive a little past his driveway to drop him off. We exchange numbers and start making out. Luckily, I had my dad’s car, which has bench seats. It was pretty fucking hot. In fact, if my dog wasn’t such a crazy bitch (and right there in the back seat), we probably would’ve entered into some form of congress right there. Alas, ‘twas not our night.

Still, it was a solid makeout/grope session, but my dog goes a little crazy just sitting in a parked car (for fear that I’m plotting to abandon her), so we bid adieu with vague promises to get together this weekend. I then drove away to find my way home (I had to call him almost immediately to ask if it was a left or right out of his street). A few corrected wrong turns later, and I finally hit the hay a little after 5 without parental notice. Now, if only I didn’t have class at 9 …

[Author’s Note: I’m sorry if this post kind of sucks. I just wanted to bang it out to get on to bigger and better things.]

On Tuesday night, I went to a meeting of the school’s Gay-Straight Alliance. As I do, I rolled in late. The Facebook Fellow and I had messaged on the internets about going. En route, I got a call from him to ensure I was going, letting me know he was there, and that the meeting was starting. He retrieved my number from the F-book. Thanks buddy.

It was a relatively small crowd, about ten or twelve folks. Of course, most of them were awful. I managed to sit between the two cutest boys, who were still kind of lame. Facebook fellow was looking so-so (I think part of the problem is the glasses, he really needs new ones). There was a ginger next to him that was ok-looking. He was in athletic garb (apparently, he was to play basketball afterwards and seemed somewhat fit.

The meeting itself was relatively short, which was nice. Apparently, their big event of the year (supposedly the biggest event on campus) is a drag show. Ok, been there. It’s not the most amazing thing in the world, but it’s mildly entertaining. Part of this meeting was to brainstorm a theme. Guess what the working theme is. Do I even need to tell you? Think of the most obvious drag theme that one have this year. That’s right, Gaga. Now, I love me a little Lady from time to time, but it just seems so uninspired, so unoriginal. Plus, those costumes are fucking labor-intensive, and I have doubts about some random dude’s ability to pull it off. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything else to suggest. If anyone has any ideas, I’d love to hear them. It’s around Halloween, so incorporating that would be beneficial.

Anyways, there was also a discussion of a camping trip (I can only imagine would that would  devolve into) and a few other potential events. This was followed by a movie, Zombieland. I had never seen it before (and completely forgot it existed), and found it reasonably amusing. Facebook Fellow and I sat next to each other, made small talk, and I offered to drive him to the weekly gay night where I had met the [20-year-old] Boy the previous Wednesday. We agree to communicate the following day about this and part ways.

The next day, I run into the Fellow at lunch. As per usual, we recognize each other’s existence, but don’t really talk. It’s pretty odd. So that’ll be a fun thing to do over the next few weeks as we repeat that situation at 11:30 every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

You see, at the CIA, you are forced to eat at least one meal on campus. As you progress, you gain more options, but for now, I have to eat at the banquet (think wedding food) every day at 11:30AM. It’s a decent meal (I’m told that it’s the most expensive plate on campus for students), but it’s generally kind of heavy and you can’t just grab and go, you have to sit through the whole frickin’ meal (it’s table service). It can be super annoying, especially if you’re the last table to be served (like today).

Since I’m not an incredibly social person, I don’t always go to lunch with people. I just sit wherever they put me. Yesterday, I’m brought to a table with two people at it. One is some random chick; the other is the ginger from the GSA meeting. I’m pleasant with them, and we have a good conversation. Eventually, a few other people join us. The Ginger and I have a nice little discussion about life and New Hampshire. He’s in a few other clubs that I’m interested in, so we talked about that. All in all, we had a pretty good conversation.

However, The Ginger is a bit too queeny for my taste. He is in good shape and somewhat cute, but that doesn’t really cut it when it comes to gingers. A note to all of you red-haired, freckly freakshows out there, for you to be worth my time, you need to be (outside your carrot-toned mess of a mane and dermal deformities) otherwise model-level attractive, the most fascinating person on the planet, or crazy rich for you to be worth my time. Otherwise, take your pasty ass elsewhere.

Therefore, I will not be adding The Ginger to the mix.
(Which is not to say I won’t get bored and/or drunk and fuck him. It’s hard to get that card revoked.)

So today was my first day of school at the Culinary Institute of America.

It got off to a decent start. I woke up on time. The dude texted me good luck (for which he earned points that moved him into the lead). No traffic on the brief commute. When I arrived, there was no one in the M-Z line and free coffee. All in all, just swell.

This was quickly erased by the rest of the day. I hate waiting in lines. I hate meetings. I hate presentations. I hate team building. Put it all together, and you get my first day. Annoying meeting followed by waiting in a series of lines followed by presentations followed by team-building with lunch thrown in there. After receiving my books, I dropped them off at the car, on which I proceeded to leave the keys (luckily they were turned in to Campus Safety). Before we got to eat dinner, we had to sit through an excruciating sexual harassment and alcohol abuse seminar. (You think I don’t know about that shit? Bitch, what do you think I do on Saturday nights?) We did get fed steak after that though, which helped ease the annoyance.

There are about 70 people starting at the same time (it gets broken down a couple times between programs and start times and shit). I had anticipated a larger contingent of students that weren’t fresh out of high school (there were like 10 of us). But whatever, the younger they are, the stupider they are, so it’ll be easier for me to wipe the floor with them.

Amongst my future mops, I’ve identified a handful of gays.. The first one I semi-knew when the day started. Upon moving up here, I started researching shit to do and places to meet guys. I came across the school’s gay-straight alliance’s Facebook page. On its wall, a gentleman stated that he was starting on the 21st and requested anyone contact him, so he could start meeting people. “Why the fuck not?” I figure, and sent the gent a message.

Over the course of the next two weeks, we exchanged a series of messages containing basic biographical information  (he is actuallly the same age as me), and I provided him with a little insight into the area. His messages aren’t quite up to my standards (extensive use of “lol,” excessive typos), but not egregious enough that I can’t let it slide. He does not have a ton of pictures on Facebook, so it was difficult to judge his attractiveness. Seeing him in person today, I am no less uncertain. He’s one of those people whose comeliness varies upon each encounter. A first glace, I thought, “Meh.” During the “How to Succeed in College” Suckfest, I thought he was hot. While he was passing a ball during a team-building exercise, I found him merely acceptable. At dinner, I found him unappealing.

I didn’t actually talk to this guy that much. We sat next to each other for the Math placement test (which contained questions like “Which of these numbers is twenty-four and two-hundreths?”), but only said like two things to each other. He basically sat in front of me during one of the sessions, but messaged me on Facebook rather than turning around and speaking to me. Its like we were at a bar, and he attempted to find me on Grindr rather than simply approach me. It was a little weird. There weren’t any distinct sexual undertones to the messages, just random misspelled trivialities.

Another easily pegged homo was in my team-building groups. Let’s call him “Twinks McGee.” Fresh out of high school, this child has overly effeminate mannerisms and a giggly attitude, which will surely be slowly sapped out of him as he is filled out six ways ‘til Sunday over the next four or five years until he wakes up in a ‘tussin-fueled furry orgy and something youthful and hopeful dies inside of him (hopefully that something is an intangible, not, say, a rodent). Still, he’s kind of cute and a gymnast (flexibility will always earn you points in my book).

It’s clear I could hook up with this boy. I won’t detail how I know this, but I do. This got me thinking about something I had really only pondered hypothetically: underage boys. Sure, there was the 20-year-old, but he’s been on the gay party circuit long enough that he’s already quit drinking and tired of the scene. Twinks McGee seemed far more innocent and unexposed. He is absolutely 18 years old. Is that  too young?

Obviously, it’s legal, but acceptability and appropriateness are different matters. If you use the formula the internet provides for how young you should date (half your age plus seven), I bottom out at 20. Of course, I can rationalize going younger in this setting. We’re both part of the same cohort. We’re living the same experience (to an extent). I mean, I would never date this boy. God, I would fucking kill him. I just want to beat it up a few times. To move from rationalization to aggrandizement, isn’t that probably just what he wants? Isn’t that what is supposed to happen in college? Better it be with me than some super-sketch uber-predator. Right?

As I waffle between pediatric predator and prurient paladin, I’m going to keep Mr. McGee on the back burner. I have a few other things going anyway. Plus, there’s a Gay-Straight Alliance meeting tomorrow night with enough time for me to hit up the gym beforehand. Who knows what’ll happen there? (I predict some awful homos; those things are always run by the biggest losers.)

Yesterday, I went to Pride in a lovely little town called Hudson about an hour north. I got off to a rough start given my shenanigans the previous evening, I arrived about an hour late. I was tabling for Marriage Equality New York, so it would have been best if I got there right after the parade ended, but I did the best I could. There were still a decent number of folks around when I got there, and they gave me some pretty prime real estate. Unfortunately, this spot was nowhere near the shade, and it was hot and bright as all get up. This was not an ideal setting for sobering up, but I spilled my drink attempting to carry all the tabling stuff from the car, so I was SOL.

I’m not a huge Pride person in general. I’m not one of those people that complains about pandering to stereotypes and blah blah blah, whine whine whine, <insert random gender and sexuality studies keywords words here>. I’m always down for a party. Pride’s just not my favorite thing. Also, I find the percentage of dudes that are creepy to be significantly higher at such events.

This is the attitude I had going into the event. While watching the performers and listening to the speakers and such, I realized that this is a more important event in a place like Hudson than in a place like DC. As I’ve stated before, places like DC are lousy with gays, there are rainbow flags everywhere and trashy gay clubs and gay book/porn stores. In upstate New York, it’s a little trickier to single them out, for them to gain a sense of community, and sometimes for them to be open in expressing their sexuality, however that may be. Should they feel the desire, they can’t just pull on some fishnets and cram their over-sized feet into a ridiculous pair of sequined heels and head on downtown. This offered them an outlet, no matter the influence of misguided paradigms.

Besides the burlesque act (I fucking love burlesque), the most interesting thing on stage was the two gay friends that just won prom king and queen at Hudson High School. They recounted their tale. Basically, they were supported every step of the way by their teachers, school administrators, and classmates. Until the story hit the media, their win was met with the typical reaction of any prom king and queen — generic congratulations mixed with jealousy. With news stories popping up over the past year about prom fiascoes involving homos, it was refreshing to hear a more positive story.

On the guy front, I only spotted three potential boyfriends. None of them came close enough to my table to strike up conversation, so I was left just fending off advances by ugmos and old dudes. I was supposed to have another OkCupid date that evening, but it was a long fucking day, and I was being guilted to come home since it was Father’s Day and shit. Plus, school was strating the next day school.