Monthly Archives: January 2014

46. James Loves His Mom

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I would like to tell a story of a young fairy named James. He was about 15 years old. He was still as gigantic as he is today, but his face was a little bit more busted. Acne was a bitch and so was he.

The young fairy is me. If that wasn’t clear.

I decided to join a group called “Madison Youth Choirs”. It was an all-men’s choir. I auditioned, and I was accepted! YAY! But every year of MYC started with a camp where we went to learn all the music; I was going a camp full of boys I’ve never met before; EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!

My mom was driving me to this camp in the middle of nowhere. I remember sitting in the passenger seat feeling like I would explode and praying that I would. You see, I had decided that I would tell my mother during this car-ride that I was gay. I figured the worst-case scenario would be: she was NOT a fan of the gayrods but she would have the time while I was at camp to come to terms. So I’m sitting in the passenger seat feeling EXACTLY like Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls; I was CONVINCED my stomach was seconds from falling out my butt. I felt like I had a fever and as if I had swallowed a bowling ball that was slowly expanding inside me. It took me a while to muster up the courage and even longer to make my tongue speak but I told her, “Mom, I have something to tell you… I’m gay.” And she said, “….I know,” with a kind, omniscient smile on her face.

Cue the record screech: “ERRRRRRRRRRR”.
Um…. way to steal my thunder, hoe! (I was gonna write “bitch” but I can’t imagine calling my mother that. But her immense sluttiness more easily lends her to the word “hoe”.)

And in that breathless moment, I remember wondering, ‘How the hell did she know?!!? How long has she known? Did I come out out the womb winking at the male doctor? Did I have a penchant for phallic nookies?’

But now I know: No, it was none of those things. It was mothers’ instinct… and also the fact that she had two functioning eyeballs in her head. And it’s the fact that moms really do know everything. I remember when I was in second grade my mother was helping me with my homework (because even at the ripe age of seven I couldn’t be bothered to do homework on my own). My mom gave me an answer to one of the questions, and I asked her, “How do you know that?!” My mother answered, “Because moms know everything.” Well, that was enough reason for me! The next day I went to school, and we were reviewing the answers for the homework. Finally we arrived at the question which my mother helped me with, and I was extremely eager to answer the question since I was absolutely POSITIVE that my answer was correct. My hand shot into the air, and my teacher called on me. I gave her my answer with a proud smile on my face. She replied with, “And how do you know?” I smugly answered, “Because my mom told me, and mom’s know everything.” I distinctly remember her breaking out into laughter, but she, too, was satisfied with the reasoning.

There’s nothing I would change about this memory…. well except for one thing. I wish I could go back and tell my SUPER GAY 7-year-old self to remember this: moms really do know everything. So then when I was older and I was blatantly aware of how gay I was that I wouldn’t try so hard to hide it from my mom. Because she knew.

What were the signs?

Let’s revisit them, shall we?

1) I LOVED SPICE GIRLS MORE THAN ANYTHING. More than I loved Johnny Bravo… which is really saying something. I always wanted to be Sporty Spice. My sisters and I would watch Spice World on REPEAT and we would dance along. Clearly, I knew all the words. Clearly, I knew NONE of the dance steps, but show me one little gay boy that NEEDS choreography to bust a move! Please, I was dropping it like it was hot all over the carpet. But that’s not it; the story gets GAYER. For my birthday, I asked my mom for platform shoes like the SPICE GIRLS. On my birthday: I opened my presents and found BLUE PLATFORM SHOES. (My mom has been pro-gay for a LONG while.)

2) I have three sisters, and I’ve always thought they were all so cool. They always got to do fun things like paint their nails. Well, I wanted to paint my nails, too, god damnit! So my mom helped me paint my toe nails one night after school. And the next morning she helped me take it off before I left for school.

3) I ran into a wall once while deep-throating a plastic tent-pole. I went to the emergency room where they ended up giving me a frozen popsicle to deep-throat. Looks like I WON that WHOLE DAY.

4) I used to lie on my bedroom floor with my best friend Dalila and SCREAM along to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”. (There was no singing; just screaming.) When the song ended I stood up, rewound the tape, pressed play, lied back down, cleared my throat and continued screaming.

5) I loved the Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. I would regularly say things like, “If I was a girl, I would totally like this JC Chasez. Reeeeeeeal smooth, James.

6) I looked at gay porn on the family computer, and I’m the only boy. Cool. It also took me a while to learn how to delete the history, and I’m pretty sure my mother was certain it wasn’t my father. This was back when we had that landline internet, and once the computer called Africa… while I was trying to look at more porn. I guess I wanted to be well-rounded; I didn’t want to discriminate against African porn. My mom was pretty mad when she saw the bill. My explanation: “I was trying to play an online game…?!?!” Lying has always been one of my strengths.

7) I can’t say with 100% certainty that I didn’t scream with joy every time a Bowflex commercial came on.

8) I brought boyfriends home and they were HUUUUUGE fags. I’m totally kidding; just one of them was a huge mo. I’m totally kidding. They all loved the dicks. Alright, that’s enough.

I’ve been gay for the loooooooongest time. Forever. Of COURSE my mother knew. I was terrible at hiding it, and it was written all over my face. I started as a young fairy who dated boys, and now I’m an older fairy who runs from boys. And my mother has loved me the whole time, even when I slander her name on my blog by falsely accusing her of being a harlot.

For the record, my father is totally cool with it, too.

But this is a love letter to my mother.

I’m grateful for you, mommy, for cultivating my inner-gayness. That you for loving me so fiercely that I could grow into the skanky mess I am today. Thank you for loving me even when I blog about cleaning out my asshole. Thank you for loving me even when I don’t love myself very much.

I love you, mom.

Also let the record show that my father has this picture of my mom on his CapitalOne credit card. He is very proud of it, and he shows it off often.

Also let the record show that my father has this picture of my mom on his CapitalOne credit card. He is very proud of it, and he shows it off often.

James

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45. James Wants to Make You Cream

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I want a 6 pack more than most people want to draw their next breath.

Wait, ok that was a little dramatic. Let me start over:

I would kill 90 endangered whales for a 6 pack.

…There. I think I really hit the nail on the head without using hyperbole. I find it’s really important to be accurate and to never embellish details.

Let me be the most accurate: I want a body that makes dudes cream their panties when they see it. I want men to get a glimpse of my rockin’ bod and I want them to have a cum-splosion in their underoos.

Let us take a photo journey to document my progress from Lanky Twink to… Older Lanky Twink…
(Thankfully I’ve been slutty since the birth of the Facebook so finding shirtless pictures of me wasn’t terribly difficult)

2007. A homemade slutty photoshoot. Oh the joys of being prepubescent.

2007. A homemade slutty photoshoot. Oh the joys of being prepubescent.

2008. Rocky Horror. Standing next to someone with a killer bod... just to REALLY drive the point home.

2008. Rocky Horror. Standing next to someone with a killer bod… Cool.

2009. This summer I earned a nomination for Best Supporting Actor in my breakout role: Greasy Bacon.

2009. This summer I earned a nomination for Best Supporting Actor in my breakout role: Greasy Bacon.

2010. The year I started wearing skanky swimsuits. This is also the year my integrity died.

2010. The year I started wearing skanky swimsuits. This is also the year my integrity died.

2011. A slut is born.

2011. A slut is born.

2012. There's far too much fabric on my underwear. Can we make this smaller?? I want it to floss my ass so deep that it gets plaque out of my teeth.

2012. There’s far too much fabric on my underwear. Can we make this smaller?? I want it to floss my ass so deep that it gets plaque out of my teeth.

2013. We took some steps backwards. I like to call this: The Hungry Years.

2013. We took some steps backwards. I like to call this: The Hungry Years.

And now. DRUMROLL PLEASE….. TODAY:

Today. The left is me not flexing. The right is me flexing.

Today. The left is me not flexing. The right is me flexing.

And I am still NOT satisfied. All jokes aside, I literally did an ab workout while listening to Beyonce’s “Pretty Hurts” and crying. CRYING. Just in case you were wondering, crying makes a workout much harder.  I’m already wheezing from the physical exertion, and then you add me choking on my boogers… not fun. It’s about as fun as sticking your weiner between the box spring and the mattress 😉

But I am not satisfied. I am aware that I’ve come a long way. I am aware that some people would KILL to have the body with which I am dissatisfied. But all I can think is: I WANNA LOOK LIKE THIS:

2014 if only

Note: I AM THE CREEPIEST. My friend showed me this picture today and I found it again and I saved it to my phone like a STALKER. But his body is SICCCCCCCCK.

I would literally do anything to look like that. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve been brainwashed by the media’s definition of beauty. Maybe I’m destined to always want what I don’t have. Maybe I’m convinced that if I had this body that I would get whatever I wanted; I’d never get cheated on; no one would ever leave me, etc. The craziest thing is that I get SO MAD when I’m treated like a sex object but all I want is to look LIKE A SEX OBJECT. I’m nuts. I’m cuckoo for cocoa varts.

I realize my insanity. But I also know lots of people feel this way: I tell myself, “I’ll be satisfied when I look like this” or “I’ll be nicer to myself when I look like this.” But there will ALWAYS be something that I’m punishing myself for. Always. I’m not buff enough. I’m not flexible enough. I’m not a good enough dancer. I’m not a good enough actor. When my friend showed me this model today, I had to stop myself from crying. That’s how badly I want to look like this.

And you know what the CRAZIEST thing is??? I bet this guy pictured above has body issues, too. That BLOWS my mind. Because I think to myself, ‘Man, if I looked like that I would NEVER feel insecure about my body.’ But I’m sure he aspires to be something else. More muscular, more cut, more toned, tanner, taller, etc.

So what the fuck do I do? Do I keep shaming myself by looking at pictures of models with “better” bodies than mine? Do I keep working out 6 days a week, harder and harder, until I look like this guy up above? Do I torture myself until then?

Or do I come to terms with who/what I am today? Do I just tell myself, “Hey, James, you’re beautiful now, and you need to wake up. Because there is surely someone out there who sees you and tells themselves, ‘Man, if I looked like that, I would never be insecure about my body”? Maybe I just start giving myself credit for the work I’ve done. Maybe I admire the hard work it takes for people to get crazy bodies without discrediting all the hard work I’ve done on myself.

Instead of beating myself up for not being able to do the splits like the other dancers in my show, I should look at this picture and remind myself that 6 years ago I couldn’t touch my freakin’ toes:

Yesterday

Yesterday

Maybe instead of beating myself up for not nailing every tap step in the show, I should remember this: I saw 42nd Street at the Overture Center in Madison when I was in high school, and I couldn’t buffalo to save my life-alo! I watched 42nd Street in AWE thinking, ‘Holy fuck, I wish I could tap dance like that…..’

7 years ago. I WORE JEANS TO TAP CLASS. I mean, REALLY James?

7 years ago. I WORE JEANS TO TAP CLASS. I mean, REALLY James?

AND NOW I’M TAP-DANCING IN 42ND STREET PROFESSIONALLY, GOD DAMNIT.

The Wick Theatre in Boca Raton, FL

The Wick Theatre in Boca Raton, FL

So.

Maybe I’m not the greatest tap dancer.
Maybe I’m not the most flexible person.
Maybe I don’t have the most muscular body.

But I’m working my fucking ass off, and I deserve credit for that.

(I’m talking to you, James. Be nice. Be your own best friend. There are plenty of people out there that are gonna be mean to you. Don’t be one of them; be one of the good guys. Ok?)

#dontgiveup

“Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worse
Perfection is a disease of a nation, pretty hurts, pretty hurts
Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worse
You’re tryin’ to fix something but you can’t fix what you can’t see
It’s the soul that needs the surgery.”
~”Pretty Hurts” by Beyonce

James.