Tag Archives: dating in nyc

66. Dr. James’ Diagnosis: The Trouble With Love Is


Dating is hard blah blah blah. I talk about it a LOT. But then again, so does EVERYBODY. Everyone talks about how hard dating is. Everyone. Everyone talks about how fed up they are. And everyone is like, “Why can’t I find someone?” Ok. So then if everyone here and everyone there and everyone everywhere is frustrated, you’d think that we’d all be ready to cut the bullshit and get serious about dating. Right? WRONG, BISH. Because it takes work and we don’t fecking WANNA.

In NYC, the dating pool is HUGE with a population of almost 8.5 million people. That is a FUCKLOAD of daddies #daddiesgalore. Knowing that there are so many single, eligible hotties, we feel like the world is our oyster. We go on a date with someone who seemingly fits the profile of what we’re looking for except for that ONE thing. “Oh man, he would be PERFECT if he didn’t drink.” And then we meet someone who doesn’t drink so we drop Guy #1 for Guy #2 who happens to be PERFECT if only he didn’t live in Brooklyn! But then we meet someone who lives in our actual neighborhood so we can just skip home after a night of blowjobbing so we drop Guy #2 for Guy #3 who seems to be PERFECT except he happens to paint his fingernails. But then we meet a masc bro who crushes beer on his forehead so we move on to them and so on and so on and SO ON. We’re told “NEVER SETTLE” so we don’t! We live in a city where we can have Thai food WHENEVER the fuck we want it. “It’s 2 AM and I fegging NEED panang curry with imitation duck. I’MA GIT IT.” You can literally have whatever you want whenever you want it. They even fucking deliver alcohol. You can pay someone else to do your laundry and fold it and then DELIVER it to your front door. You can order your groceries online. OR you can go to the grocery store, buy all your groceries and then LEAVE THEM THERE and they’ll deliver them to your house later after you recover from a day of adulting. You can go out to a restaurant here and tell the server exactly how to cook your food and what sauce to put on the side and you can sub your kale salad for a quinoa parfait while the chef in the kitchen slams his head in the fridge door repeatedly out of utter frustration for your lack of class. We’re conditioned to believe we can have exactly what we want. We believe perfection exists. So we search for it in the people we date. Everyone does it. Tinder is no longer to blame, Assholes. It’s us. It’s our fault. Let’s own up to it. We write people off for a variety of reasons. “Oh, he’s too femme. BYE.” “Oh he’s a bad speller. What a fucking idiot. BYE.”Oh, he’s too eager. He wants this too bad. Desperate? BYE.”

And you know what, I am fucking eager. And that’s what makes me undateable by NYC standards.

There’s all these fucking weird rules to dating, and I don’t get it. Basically, it sums up to being “COOL” ALL the time, which I fail MISERABLY at. I go down in a blazing ball of glitter when I attempt to Keep It Cool.

Here are the rules to being cool:

1) First of all, your Tinder should only be flattering pictures of yourself looking SO Cool.
2) On Instagram, you need to delete any picture that doesn’t get a sufficient amount of likes. (Sufficient amount of likes= Enough likes that it stops listing the individual people who liked the picture and instead lists the number of likes.)
3) Never make the first move. If they’re interested in you THEY will talk to YOU. Because being Cool gives you the right to also be entitled.
4) NEVER send more than one text in a row to a boy you like. NEVER. It must be a volley of texts back and forth, and sometimes it’s fair to respond with just a stupid emoji. And remember if the conversation dies, LET IT. If they want you, they’ll keep talking to you, even if you respond with monosyllabic, noncommital texts like “K,” or “Cool,” or “Yeah.” Be entitled. It’s like, you could actually die in real life and they should keep being like, “You okay?” for like DAYS, even as your body rots. They should stick around. Because your’e Cool. And Cool people deserve that kind of deranged commitment without any reciprocation. #Coolpeoplerights
5) Keep conversation light. Cool people don’t experience difficult emotions, and they DEFINITELY don’t talk about them. You may discuss breezy topics like: the weather, celebrities, TV shows that aren’t too femme, your favorite places to throw up, etc.
6) You may creep through their Instagram/Facebook but don’t you DARE like any of their pictures/posts. Being Cool means remaining disinterested and aloof.
7) Do not dole out specific compliments. You may say things like, “You’re attractive.” But you’re NOT allowed to say something like, “God, your smile is dreamy.” That is not something Cool people do. Don’t show them your whole hand. Stay in control. Keep a sense of mystery. They should always be wondering, ‘God, does this person actually like me or are they just killing time by sending me inconsequential emojis and making meteorological observations?’ Mystery is the MOST Cool.
7) Most importantly, at the exact moment that the hottie starts to show clear, obvious interest in you, you MUST drop him. Because being eager makes him UNCOOL. And Cool people can only date other Cool people.

I fail at being Cool. I send five texts in a row. I tell men exactly why I think they’re hot. I resurrect dying conversations by asking questions like, “If you could slap anyone in the world right now, who would it be?” Or “What Britney lyric most describes your life right now?” I post pictures of me looking absoLUTEly foul. (See below.) I tell them that I crept through their Instagram. I am honest about what I’m looking for in a relationship when people ask. I check in with them throughout the week to see how they’re doing. I show interest. I make an effort. I put myself out there. I BREAK the quintessential rule of being cool: I’m eager.


My sexiest Instagram post, by far.

Yes, I’m eager. I know that I have my shit together. I feel very comfortable with where I am artistically/personally/financially, and I’m ready to bring in a significant other. I want a relationship. But is that a bad thing? Is it wrong to be honest and openly state that I’m looking for something serious? Am I supposed to pretend I don’t want it? Am I supposed to stop looking for it and then it’ll come? IS THAT AN ACTUAL THING IT’S NOT STOP SAYING IT. No one ever got something they really wanted by not pursuing it. That’s stupid logic. No one tells you, “Oh, you want a job? Just stop looking for a job! Then you’ll get one. Someone will recognize that you’re unemployed by your sharty clothing and they’ll offer you a job. But when they offer you a job, PRETEND YOU DON’T NEED IT THAT BAD. Because wanting something is WRONG.” No. No bitch. No. It’s not like that. It’s like this:

I’m ready, and I’m realistic. I recognize that perfection doesn’t exist. I recognize that no one will have ALL of the qualities that I want. When someone asks what my Perfect Guy looks like I just laugh. Because to me, that doesn’t matter. Yes, ideally I would date someone my height. But if the guy is shorter than me, I’m still gonna give him a chance because PERSONALITY, Y’ALL. I don’t care if you’re tall; I care that you call me back. I don’t care if you’re skinny; I care that you are real with me if you lose interest. I don’t care if you’re younger than me; I care that you are emotionally available. Because I hope that someone would do the same for me. I know that I will never the most anything; there will always be someone out there who has a better body than me, someone who is smarter than me, someone with better skin, someone who is funnier than me, someone who is cooler than me. That’s fine with me. But no one is my combination of things.

And I think I deserve a chance, God damnit.



“And my hopes, they are high, I must keep them small. Though I try to resist I still want it all.”
~”Fools” by Troye Sivan


My attempt at a 420 look at the ripe old age of WHAT AM I WEARING, MOTHER?!




62. James and His Search For Love: Falling Victim to the Fuckboys


A little more than a month ago, I started an internet campaign to find me a boyfriend. I posted these pictures with this description: “Hey friends. I’m turning this into a Facebook campaign. I’m looking for a man. If you know someone who won’t pick their nose at the dinner table or ask to see my butthole on the first date, send them my way. Share this post, and Jesus will be a biscuit and sop you up. This is not a joke. ‪#‎comethru‬

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photo (7) - Copy

I had many friends that helped out by sharing my internet campaign on their own Facebook pages. I was in awe of how many of my friends came through to help a bitch find a man. I think a lot of people were really excited to see how everything turned out. At the time, my friend turned to me and said,  “James, you should really blog about your search for love.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever written about anything else.

So here goes; a blog about my search for love:

After my post started getting circulated around Facebook, I started to get lots of responses. There were some guys that I honestly wasn’t attracted to, but that’s okay. And then I had some guys that I thought were really cute that expressed interest. I started to get excited and hopeful about my search for love so I redownloaded Hinge, a dating app on my phone.

I’m just gonna let you know that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

I was messaging back and forth with some people who had reached out to me either directly or through a mutual friend. But any sparks that were ignited in these new interactions were swiftly extinguished and it wasn’t for wont of huge romantic, earth-shattering conversations. Some people are insanely busy; we live in NYC, I get it. But for some of these guys it was as if maintaining any sort of conversation was a monumental effort:

Me: How was your day?
Them: Good.
Me: Did you kill anyone?
Them: Just one person.
Me: Who?
(Two days later..)
Them: A coworker.
Me: What was the crime?
(Three days later)
Them: Huh????
Me: Why did you kill your coworker last week?
Them: I don’t remember.

Jesus Christ, didn’t anyone ever tell you how to conduct a conversation like a human being? Does it cause you physical pain to have a personality? It’s like it takes too much effort to type more than ten fucking characters. I’m not asking you to be interesting; you can be the most boring motherfucker in the world. Clearly, I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point anyway; I’m putting forth effort to participate in a conversation with this Australopithecus son-of-a-fucker. Be boring all you want. But at LEAST ask me about myself, because I will spice this shit up like sriracha in guacamole, motherfucker! I’m like a piñata full of glitter; crack me open and you will NOT be disappointed. But Heaven forbid you express any interest, because we may both be queer but we will NOT be so feminine as to care about anyone but ourselves. HELL NAH! You’re so boring that I’m becoming a boring person just by electronic association. You know what, I would probably have more fun peeling lead paint off the wall and eating it because it would KILL me, and death would be a kinder fate than this torturous conversation with someone who is “interested” in me. You just keep being too cool for school; let me know how that goes for you.

Which brings me to my next point. Yes, a lot of my friends shared my post after they saw other people sharing it. But I actually personally asked a lot of people to share my Facebook post. I made it extremely easy; literally all you had to do was click the “Share” button and then “Share Now”. It would take two clicks. Yes, probably too much effort for the fuckboys who can’t be bothered to have an intelligible conversation, but I knew my friends could handle it. And after asking them, almost all of them shared it without hesitations or dick-pic bribes. Truth be told, I know a lot of them would’ve seen my post and just ignored it without sharing. But I knew that in directly asking them they had to take a clear stance: yes or no. And if they said “no”, then they had to have an explanation. One of my friends responded, “Why are you doing this?” My response was, “Because I’m a fucking go-getter”. This friend didn’t end up sharing my post, but they weren’t the only one. Listen, you absolutely aren’t required to share my post on your personal social media page. That’s your prerogative, and that’s totally fine with me. I’m not gonna hold that against you as long as you know why you wouldn’t share it. There’s this stigma about publicly announcing that you’re looking for love. Yes, some people will judge you and say things like, “Wow, James is really desperate. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I would never do that. That’s embarrassing.” But fuck those people; they’re not your friends. And I don’t always love this part of myself either. But there’s a line in the book I’m reading that says: “If you truly love someone, you will cherish what they despise most about themselves” (The Book of Life by Deborah Harkness). In a nutshell: your friends won’t judge you and everyone else is a fuckboy.

In a nutshell, the campaign was mostly a bust.

Then it all started to go downhill after that.

I went on some Hinge dates, and not all of them were successful on my end. But whenever I had a bad date that I wasn’t interested in seeing again, I always made sure to send them a text to let them know that I wasn’t interested. Yes, it was uncomfortable for me, but I knew that it was the right thing to do. And every time, I received a response saying, “Okay. Thank you for your honesty.” Of course they could’ve responded rashly and called me terrible names, but that didn’t happen! It didn’t happen, okay? The world will not end if you are honest with people. Yes, you might let them down, but isn’t it better to know? I know how it feels to be on the other end of that situation, and being ghosted just sucks. For those of you who don’t know, “ghosting” is when you’re talking to someone regularly, and they suddenly stop responding. They disappeared; the Rapture took them away but left their social media accounts running at full speed; they ghosted you. I got ghosted by people I went on actual dates with! I know you exist; I fuckin’ met you, bitch; you can’t claim the Rapture as an excuse cuz I JUST SAW YOU.

I’m juggling all sorts of man-fuckery in my life, and then I’m walking down the street and some kids yelled out their car window, “YOU GAY ASS MOTHAFUCKA!!!” We can make all sorts of jokes about it. “I mean, were the wrong?” “Well what did you expect wearing that outfit?” “They were just talking about your hot ass!” It’s easy. Making jokes is what I do. I understand why these assholes say stupid shit to me, but it still hurts.


This is the outfit I was wearing.

I understand that those kids don’t have to take accountability for their actions, because they could just drive away after they yelled hurtful things at me. I understand that the fuckboys don’t have to take accountability when they ghost me because of their foolproof out-of-sight-out-of-mind reasoning; “If I don’t see the damage I’ve done, then I haven’t done any.” I understand that it has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with their own fucked up issues. But it still fucking hurts god damnit.

So I went to the gym to take out my aggression against everyone and then I took a picture with this caption:

Bitch I don't know how to photoshop; I'm just a gay ass mothafucka.

“Bitch I don’t know how to photoshop; I’m just a gay ass mothafucka.”

Then one of my friends commented, “You seem angry.”


I AM ANGRY. And here’s why:

After I posted this picture, I got some really amazing comments from my friends. Here are some examples of their amazing comments:
“You are fucking fierce! I cannot even!!!”
“You are classic movie star gorgeous.”
“You need to be on a CW show.”

But then I had some fuckboys come crawling out of their filthy cum-dens due to the utter thirst. So for all the fuckboys, this is my ode to you…

“Oh, Stupid Fuckboys who come scuttling when I post a picture of my abs. No bitch. No girl. No sir. You don’t get to just disappear whenever you like and reappear when I yell ‘SOOOOEEY!’ It may be dinner time for some, but bitch, tonight you’re going to bed hungry. If you didn’t want me when all you could see was my inner beauty and my killer personality then you DEFINITELY don’t deserve to drool over my outer beauty. Go join the other fuckboys. Because while I’m here being a fucking 26 year-old man, you’re just a 14 year-old boy who yells at his Super Nintendo and slams his controller on the ground because of prepubescent rage. Grow up. Call me when our relationship wouldn’t be statutory. Girl bye. Go slam your dick in a door; it’ll be kinder than anything I would do to your golf-pencil dick. But still that would cause you less pain than all the emotional and mental torture I’ve experienced with the fucking fadeaway and the ghosting. Girl bye. Fuckin scrubs. And yes, I realize I dodged a bullet in the long run, but it’s impossible to avoid all the shrapnel flying through the air as I sprint blindfolded through this fucking minefield that is Looking For Love In The 21st Century. I don’t know how to play by your rules, Fuckboys. I don’t know how to be “sort of interested” or “neither here nor there”. I’m either in or I’m out, and bitch, you are OUT. So yes, sure, you did me a favor. Give yourself a big ol’ pat on the back for circumventing giving me the full brunt of your adolescent fuckery, but don’t for a second think that you caused me no pain by ‘letting me off easy’. You’re a coward, and they don’t have no reward for that. Oh, and Fuckboy, if you have time to post a Facebook status about some sort of assery that narry a fuck could give two shits about, then you have time to send me one of your painfully inane and succinct text messages saying, “not interested sorry #toocoolforpunctuation”. But you seem really busy sucking on a binky that’s twice the size of your own personal penis. It’s not hard to respond to a text message. I promise it’ll be easier than ignoring that annoying homeless man asking you to spare some of the plentiful change you have clanging around in your backpack. So girl bye. But no, you don’t deserve to be likened to a girl cuz women are far cooler than you, because they did you the insurmountable favor of pushing your sorry ass out of their vagina. So bye, Fuckboy. Good-the-fuck-bye.”

*mic drop*


“Tell me what you know about love”
~”Tmwykal” by SoMo

60. James Is a Nasty Fucker


It’s 10:36 on a Saturday night. Yesterday the Supreme Court ruled that banning same-sex marriage is unconstitutional. I got a lot of happy texts and phone calls from people saying, “Hey, James! Congrats! Now you can go get married! #lovewins” And I thought, ‘Oh, cool! Time to get married….” Then I looked around my apartment… ‘Hm… who can I marry….Stacy? Nah, she’s a girl. Kaylee? Nah, she’s got a straight boyfriend. Caity? Nah, she’s my homie. David? Nah, he’s way too hot.’ And then I saw my extra-trenta cold brew from Starbucks and I thought, ‘Well, hello Daddy….’

I could be The One...

I could be The One…

And then I thought to myself, ‘Hey. But, like, I really can get married. I should really get serious about finding a husband or a cute butler that won’t leave because I pay him and maybe if I pay him extra he’ll love me. That would be cool! But, like, why can’t I meet someone?’ …Why, James? Really? Maybe because it’s now 10:41 on a Saturday night of Pride Weekend in New York City and you’re peeling all the skin off your feet and marveling at how big the pieces are. Just some food for thought…

Oh, don’t worry; I didn’t eat my foot skin. I mean, I haven’t hit absolute rock bottom. Wait, unless rock bottom is flirting with every guy that ever makes eye contact with me ever because I think, ‘Well, maybe he’s the one. Oh, no, wait, no, it’s HIM! That one! HE’S the one! Is that a knife? Whatever, he’s a chef or some shit! No, no, no, wait! HIM! It’s him. Sure, his whole dick is hanging out of his shorts and he’s staring at me with a half-crazed look in his eyes but I have Resting Bitch Face so nobody’s perfect!’

Actually, true story: I was down by the Christopher Street pier, and I was like, ‘Wow, look at all that water! I could pee that much!’ And then I had to pee. So I went into the bathroom to the urinal, and I started to go. Someone came in next to me and started peeing, but I think it’s rude/pervy to look at the person standing next to you while they hold their weiner. So I was making some solid eye contact with my wee-wee like I was being hypnotized by my urine stream. I finally finished so I blew my weiner a kiss, and I put it away. As I was walking up to the sink, the guy that was standing at the urinal next to me quickly scurried over to pee at my urinal. It was weird, but I didn’t really fuckin’ care; maybe that’s his favorite urinal. Whatever! I still didn’t want to make eye contact, because now it’s his turn to stare wide-eyed at his pee-pee. But as I was washing my hands, I could feel a strange energy coming from him. So finally, I turn around to look at him. And what do I see? This man is facing away from the urinal, his whole body towards me, and he’s staring me down like we’re in a Wild West Shootout. Except he’s already got both hands on his pistol! I look down, and he is stroking the biggest, fattest dick I have ever seen, and he’s looking me dead in the eye. I yipped like a dog that just got stepped on, and I skittered out of the bathroom trying to erase the memory from my mind.

But now, with my 20/20 hindsight I can’t help but think….  was he The One? Shit, I just blew my chance with him! I was doing so well when I was peeing all coy and then washing my hands all sexy like. That seemed to really get him going. But I TOTALLY fucked it all up when I let out my little effeminate scream! He absolutely lost his hard-on after that. And to think, THAT could’ve been my knight in shining armor with the biggest, fattest fire hydrant sword in all the land!

Oh no… is that rock bottom?

I redownloaded a dating app on my phone called “Hinge”. Basically, it makes you put up 16 pictures so people really know what you look like. I mean, you can still Catfish someone but you gotta work really hard; you really gotta want to deceive a bitch. So Hinge let’s me know what someone honestly looks like. Even if they’re a master of deception with their selfie stick and their Morningdew Haze Beer-Goggles Sleepy-Eyes filter, I can still get a better sense of what they look like. I don’t have any requirements for “my type”. You can be whatever you want; just don’t be short. My criteria is basically this: just be taller than 5’8″. I mean, you can be shorter but you gotta really wow me with your profile! Like, you’ve gotta be funny as fuck or you have to have really great taste in music. But if your profile is really douchey, you gotta be like 6′ tall. Once you’re over 6’3″, you can look like Shrek for all I care; I’ll still swipe “yes”. Well, with this criteria, I have had zero responses. I figured I was being too selective. So I started swiping “yes” to short people; they’ve denied me, too. I’m being turned down by short people. They could climb onto my shoulders at concerts. They could tote me around like some sort of trophy: “Yeah, I’m a tiny troll, but look what I caught!” They could ride on my back whenever their little legs are too weary to carry them. But no, even these tiny humans have started rejecting me.

Is this rock bottom?

I’ve starting checking my Facebook like 8 times a day, because I’m somehow convinced I’ll have a message from some hot stranger that’s like, “Hey, James! Oh my God, I saw you across the room today and after you finished flicking that giant booger you picked from your nose, I just knew you were the one! You are beautiful and hilarious, and I don’t even care if your dick is normal-sized! If you give me a chance to take you out for a vegan meal that lacks pretension, I promise to not talk about taking a pee on your leg or sucking on your big feet or any of the other fucked up shit that people think is okay to discuss! Also, I have money and I want you to have it! You’re the one. Be my queen!”

…I don’t receive any such Facebook messages. Also, sometimes I fantasize about receiving a Facebook message from any of the guys that truly fucked me over. And in these imaginary messages, they grovel and beg for my forgiveness. Then they’ll ask me if I ever think about them, and I’ll laugh maniacally and write “ROFLMFAO”. And then they’ll ask if I’ll ever be able to take them back after they ravaged my heart with a screwdriver, and I’ll tell them to go fuck themselves. And they’ll ask if I really feel that way, and then I’ll say, “I’m just kidding, I love you, and I’ll always love you! Also, GIMME DAT DICKKKKKKKKKKKK!” And then they’ll reject me again because even my imagination can only stretch so far.

Rock bottom?

Today I was riding the train with some friends, and we were talking to this really hot guy. The four of us were asking him a million questions and making him laugh and shit. I was being charming as fuck, and I was leaning back just enough to look coy even though I was quarantining my halitosis. I was nailing it, and Stacy was being the perfect wing-woman. Hot Guy asked where we all live, and Stacy told him how we share a bed. He said, “Oh, how hetero of you both.” She retorted with, “Oh, no. We don’t even touch. We just lay there having fart wars.” And I said, “Oooooookay….” After he got off the train and I started beating Stacy senseless with my pimp hand, she let me know he had told her that he had a boyfriend but I just wasn’t listening. So. I was just flirting senselessly with someone who was absolutely unavailable. Good sir, I held in my coffee farts for you.

Rock bottom?

It’s 11:12 pm, and now I’m sitting here plucking my wanton nose hairs until it makes me cry or sneeze. Is this cute, daddy?

The other day, I was peeing at the urinal, and I thought that I was all done so I retracted my penis. I guess I wasn’t done, because then so much pee filled my underwear that my shorts starting dripping on the ground. I laughed out loud, washed my hands and then walked back out into public.

When I’m on the toilet and I fart too loudly, I just sit there and say, “Ohhhhhh” loud enough to be heard. It feels inappropriate to not acknowledge such an eager piece of flatulence. It’s like, you wouldn’t go to the symphony and refuse to applaud after the final movement; that’s just fuckin’ rude!

I wear my gym shorts so many times without washing them, and I’ll only throw them into my dirty hamper when the stench of my dick sweat is so intense that I can smell it while I’m standing upright.

I’m single as fuck, but I’m writing about how foul I am while I dig around in my belly button for God-knows-what.

It’s 11:40 pm on Saturday of Pride Weekend in New York fucking City, and I’m posting a blog about being undateable yet authentic. I value humor over the facade of being flawless. Hm. Guess I haven’t hit rock bottom after all. At least I’m still me. Proud, disgusting, farty, incontinent James.





Yep, I'm the sailor next to the blue-tongued Statue of Liberty

Yep, I’m the sailor next to the blue-tongued Statue of Liberty

59. James’ Charm School for What-The-F*ck Gays OR “James, Why Are You So Prickly?”


A while back, I was having lunch with my friend Jian Li. I was telling her about a date I had gone on where the guy grabbed my hand and kissed it, and I immediately responded with, “Stop it, stop being nice to me, you don’t even know me.” Jian Li laughed and asked me, “James, why are you so prickly?” I’ve been putting some thought into it. I pulled myself aside and asked myself, “James, why are you so prickly? Why wouldn’t you just be nice to the guy who was really nice to you??” Well, hookers, that’s a complicated question. First of all, it’s really annoying to be put on a pedestal. It drives me nuts when a guy just goes goo-goo-gah-gah over me. Like, seriously, bro, you don’t even know me. You just know that I’m cute and funny and tall; I cover your basic list of needs and you just jump in headfirst. That’s so dumb. To these guys, I’m a good fit, because they only have basic needs. But what about what I need? Why don’t you take a second to ask yourself, “Do I have the things that James needs from a partner?” Unfortunately, the answer is usually “no”. But I’m also prickly, because I’ve had so many terrible fucking dates. From the guy who stuck his fingers in my ass in the middle of the street, the guys who drop all their heavy shit on me on the first date and every crazy fucker in between, I’ve had it with these crazy hoes. I’ve even thought of opening up an education center called “James’ Charm School for What-the-F*ck Gays”. So yeah, I’m prickly. Cuz when you’re nice to me, I’m just waiting for you to start doing loud, inappropriate impressions of your Latino neighbors having sex (true story). I always get too excited when a first date goes well, and then something crazy always happens on the next date.

Let’s revisit some of these moments, shall we?
1) The numerous guys who tried to get me to cuddle before the first date. Bitch, I wasn’t born yesterday. You wanna press your weewee against my caboose in the dark and see what happens. Besides, who cuddles before a first date? “No, no, I’m not like that. I just wanna hold somebody.” Well, bro, sorry to break it to you, but that’s fucked up. Get a body pillow! Or call a friend! Wouldn’t you rather press your weiner against someone you know? I could be a serial killer for all you know! I could steal all your shit. Wait, do you have stuff worth stealing? You got some Olive Garden gift cards? Yeah, fuck it, I’ll come over and “cuddle”.
2) The guy who tried to connect with me over “Keeping Up WithThe Kardashians”. I will never know what you’re talking about. I will never watch that show. I’d rather cuddle with a stranger. And then you talked about going to a gay bar for a singalong night called “Musical Mondays”. I WOULD RATHER DO ANYTHING ELSE. I’LL CUDDLE NINE STRANGERS IF YOU STOP TALKING.
3) The guy who asked me what my dick looked like. I was tempted to respond, “You know how when you put a hot dog in the microwave too long and it explodes on one end? It looks like that.”
4) The guy who told me I was losing my hair. Yeah, it’s whores like you that make me pull it all out.
5) The guy who after we hooked up pointed at my body acne and said, “Are you okay?”
6) The guy suffering from word-vomit and couldn’t stop talking. Here were topics he covered: he told me what steroid testicles look like, he showed me his AmEx card, he told me how much his rent was, he told me every show he’s ever done. I asked him to be quiet for a moment, and then I looked upwards and yelled, “GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS TORTURE?!” Then I said, “Sorry, keep going. This is riveting!!”
7) The guy who kept rubbing his weiner against me while we were cuddling. I turned over so he would stop, but then he started rubbing his weiner against my spine. Then his roommate came home. Thank God; some respite! I started to talk to her, but then I felt him reach his toes across the couch until they were tickling my balls. Sir, must I tell you that it is inappropriate to fondle me while your roommate watches in horror? Also, toes?!
8) The guy who told me the elaborate story about how he took a straight guy’s gay virginity. I think he thought I was laughing at his “hilarious” story when I was actually intentionally trying to choke myself with my dinner so I could pass out and go to the hospital and meet a hot doctor who would peek under my hospital gown. Oh no, that last part is fucked up….
9) The guy who told me on the first date that he was still married. To a woman.
10) The guy who was short.
11) All the guys who I had “good” first dates with, and then we hooked up at the end of the date and they were suddenly “busy” for the rest of their lives. You know what, guys?! My mom says I’m a great kisser, and everyone loves when I scream with their dick in my mouth! They say it feels awesome, and it always makes me the most popular boy at EVERY work party!
12) The real kicker. The guy who told me I would never succeed in my career and that I should pursue a different path. You think that after he said that I would’ve gotten up, delivered a self-rigethous, “How dare you,” or a “What nerve!” And then I would’ve dramatically slapped him and left. Right? That’s exactly what I did except that I dated him for an entire year.
13) This wasn’t a date. My old friend was visiting the city, and he sent out a mass text letting everyone know that he’d be in town. I got super excited, because I really missed seeing this person and I wanted to catch up. I was feeling a little down, and I felt like hanging out and giggling would be the perfect remedy! This was our text interchange verbatim:
Him: This is James right? I’m in les [lower east side].
Me: You’re a les. Yes it’s me.
Him: Where are you? Let’s go out!
Me: I’m going somewhere to the upper west side later.
Him: Fun. Well I’m horny are you free after haha
Me: Are you kidding me
Him: Not really
…you motherfucker. You are the fucking worst. I was genuinely excited to see you. I had a bunch of fucked up dates, and I was sick of feeling like a piece of fucking meat. So I thought catching up with an old friend would be soul-soothing. BUT I WAS SO WRONG. Do I want to have sex with you? Absolutely not. I’m not just a hole to be stuffed, you whorebag bitchlicker. I needed a fucking friend, and you wanted to spit on my butthole. Also, we hooked up one time in college. ONCE. And it was so awful that I threw you some tissue and told you to have a ball. If I wanted to endure that immensely enjoyable experience once more, I would just go to my kitchen and slam my barely semi-hard dick in the refrigerator door eight times. I suggest you do the same.
Alright, Jian, you win. I’m prickly. But do you blame me? I’m looking for some retribution from all these wretched dates, and I just get crazier and crazier people! And then when I go to a male friend for comfort, they offer me their Twizzler-dick to dry my tears? It’s all bullshit. So yeah. I’m prickly. I’m a fucking cactus. SO STOP TRYING TO STICK YOUR DICKS IN ME.
“All the bullshit’s for the birds. You ain’t nothin’ but a vulture.”
~”Deuces” by Chris Brown


Dear men: be more like her. Thanks.


53. James Struggles With Authenticity


Hey. How are you. I don’t care. Let’s get down to business, shall we?
#letsgetcracking #thegoddamnedshowmustgoon #shesfucked #imready

So I’ve been having this real struggle with authenticity lately. Clearly, I’ve been reading a lot of Brene Brown. She talks about the relationship between vulnerability and authenticity. She defines authenticity as “the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are” (Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown #readit). Authenticity is about letting people see who you really are, imperfections and all. It’s about cutting away all the bullshit and courageously showing the world your true colors. I feel like I do a good job of showing my true self because I wear fur vests in public, but I do know that I struggle with speaking my heart when I fear negative consequences. I’m not great at expressing my feelings when they are anything but positive; I don’t particularly enjoy telling people that I feel uncertainty, insecurity, fear, anger, sadness, disappointment, etc. I’d rather tell people that I feel awesome all the fucking time. But that’s not real life. No matter the emotion, telling people how you feel requires vulnerability. You are making yourself vulnerable when you say, “Hey, you were the best part of me day today (I’m Irish in this example),” the same way you’re making yourself vulnerable when you tell someone, “Hey, you really let me down today.” God, just the thought of saying that aloud made me want to vomit up all my iced coffee, but that would be a waste of caffeine. Unless it means I get to taste my coffee twice. Hey… that doesn’t sound so bad.

Okay. So Brene gives a gameplan for practicing authenticity. She says that when you’re venturing into vulnerable territory, if your only goal is to be authentic then you can’t be disappointed. But if you dive into a vulnerable situation with the intention of receiving approval or acceptance from someone then you have the possibility of feeling shame when you don’t receive those things. If you’re going into a situation thinking to yourself, ‘Hey, I’m just gonna speak my heart and be myself, and all I seek is the pride of courageously showing my honest, imperfect, vulnerable self,” then you can’t be disappointed! Because you don’t need approval from the listener to feel okay.

The thing about vulnerability is that it sounds immensely gratifying in theory. “Oh my god, I would love for someone to see my true colors… as long as I don’t have to go first.” But that’s the even more courageous thing to do, to be the one to open up first. And all those “firsts” in a relationship are terrifying, because it’s all uncharted territory where both people are fumbling around a jagged obstacle course in the dark. But remember whether it’s the end of the first date and you’re the one to ask for a second date or it’s the end of the second date and you’re both naked and you don’t know who’s gonna take it up the ass, someone’s gotta go first.

So I’ve been having this struggle lately:

If you have read any of my blog posts…. or if you have read even half of a blog post, you know that I am a person with MANY feelings. I know that people think that EVERYONE has many feelings. Okay, maybe that’s true. But I talk about ALL of them. All of them. If a friend gives me side-eye even for a split second, I will want to ask them if we’re fighting. They might respond with, “Oh, no, my contact was sliding around in my eye, and I was just looking for it.” But I feel like everything needs to be said.

Let me repeat that:
I feel like everything needs to be said.

In my life, I have had a few lots of many relationships with the menfolk. And of these relationships, the ones that burnt to the ground were incinerated by a lack in communication. So. All of the relationships that I have had have gone up in flames. Cool, right? But let me define lack of communication. Because it wasn’t always the same. At times, one of us was feeling a certain way but didn’t feel comfortable sharing the information with the other. For example, I have been known to tell myself, “Oh, this thing is really bothering me, but I will fix it all on my own. No one will help me. This thing will be fixed by me and me alone. The Bible says, ‘This too shall pass’. So I’m not sure if that particular verse is referring to kidney stones or heartache, but I’m going to assume that it applies to all things. And I know that there’s that saying about accepting the things I cannot change, but instead I’m just gonna assume I am omnipotent and I can fix all things, including the things I cannot change. So. Suck on that, Life!” But there were also times, when I just didn’t want to make myself vulnerable by sharing my feelings with my partner. I thought to myself, ‘Why should I have to open up? Why do they get to know everything about me, and I get to know nothing about them? Because then they get to hold all the cards while I sit here naked?! Hell fuckin nah!’

(Clearly this is the part of the blog where I’m halfway through my jumbo iced coffee, and all the caffeine is starting to hit me. The man next to me stares at me in bewilderment, wondering how I can possibly type a blog this fast with my eyes closed and drool careening from my mouth-hole. [He just looked over and read this. I wonder what he thinks. I would turn and wink but my fur is too big, and it’s blockading my face. Blockading. Yep.])

Withholding my feelings from my partners was very, very bad. Very bad. Because those small things that started off in my head as “inconsequential, petty things that I could either fix on my own or just get the fuck over” eventually snowballed into “humongous, non-negotiable deal-breakers”. Yes, some of my relationships were fucked from the get-go. But some issues could have been resolved if I had said something. I’m not crying over spilled milk…that would be a waste of tears because I would just lick my spilled milk off the ground. But really, I’m just mindfully reflecting on my past.

But there were other breakdowns in communication. Sometimes when I would be texting a boy that I had the hots for, we would be texting like madmen, sending 9 million texts a minute. The text thread would be growing exponentially while we both sent text messages like we couldn’t possibly be bothered by real life happening around us. And then. AND THEN! The boy stopped rapidly texting, and maybe the next response came ten minutes later. And then I read the response and thought to myself, ‘Well, I’m just gonna wait ELEVEN minutes to respond to this text. That’ll show him! HOW DARE HE HAVE OTHER CONCERNS BESIDES TEXTING! Yeah, that’ll really put him in his place.’

Now, stop gawking at me and thinking, ‘Wow, James is totes a crazy person.’ Because I know you have done it, too. I feel like I have a pretty solid head on my shoulders, and yet I have done this a MILLION times in my life. I’m a very mature person; I wear lots of black and I only shit in my pants once a year, but I still act like a child sometimes.

So. I’ve learned that communication is vital.

Now here’s the current struggle. I always know how I feel. 99% of the time, I know exactly what I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it. And I always want to express my feelings. To everyone. But it’s hard with someone new. With someone new, there’s all this uncharted territory; no one really knows how everything works yet. And someone has to be the first to open up and be vulnerable; someone’s gotta take the giant step on the New Frontier currently known as Authenticity. For example, if I miss a Someone New, and I want to share this information with a Someone New. But before I vocalize my feelings, I need to solidify my intention. Am I saying, “Hey, I miss you,” because I want to hear it back? Or am I saying, “Hey, I miss you,” because it’s how I feel, and I simply want to practice authenticity? Because I have to be okay with not hearing it back. Also, it doesn’t mean as much if I’m only saying the words to hear them back. I mean, honestly, how many times have we all told someone, “I love you,” just because we needed to hear it back in that moment? And if that’s the intention, to feel love, then the purity and honesty behind the words, “I love you,”  are diminished. The real act of courage is opening yourself up without the guarantee that they will return the sentiment. Coming face-to-face with the queasiness of uncertainty; that’s vulnerability.

So it’s been a real struggle for me. Because I want to actively practice authenticity. I want to be courageous enough to open myself up without needing the other person to reciprocate. But how do I practice patience and kindness with myself while I sit in the wasteland of terror in my moments of post-vulnerability? How do I become content with speaking my heart without waiting for the approval of the listener? How do I keep myself from banging my head against the wall until exhaustion after I’ve bared my soul to somebody? And at what point do I stop practicing courage, vulnerability and all the other horseshit and just put my hood over my head and drown myself in the couch cushions??

I really should have started this blog with a joke. This is some real shit, huh? Ok. Two guys walked into a bar. Then they hugged each other, gave each other butterfly kisses and lived happily ever after. Get it?! It’s funny, because TRUE LOVE DOESN’T EXIST.

….that was a joke, get it? Alright, back to our regularly scheduled programming: Vulnerability Hour with James Marvin Mayo Hansen #holdthemayo #XtraMayo

So I was really mulling over this predicament last week while I was flying home to surprise my family for Thanksgiving. Stacy and I took a cab to my mother’s office and we waited for her to come back from her lunch break. She walked in and exclaimed, “What are you guys doing here?!?!” And she gave me a big, strong, back-breaking, I-love-you-I-mean-it hug. Then we were like, GIVE US YOUR CAR WE’RE GOING TO SURPRISE MARVIN (my father).

Stacy and I drive over to Home Depot to surprise my father while we laugh maniacally about how brilliant we are. Then we discuss how hard it is to drive again after being in NYC for so long. I propose that the hardest thing about driving is remembering to put the car in park before turning it off. We nod together thoughtfully.

We arrive at Home Depot where my father works in shipping and receiving. We promptly find a woman named Stephanie who we wrangle into helping us surprise my father. Then we find my father’s boss, and he excitedly decides to join in the surprise. They page my dad over the intercom while Stacy and I hide behind a stack of poinsettias. Stephanie finds my dad and tells him he’s in trouble with Boss. Clearly, Stephanie got carried away, because now my father thinks he’s getting fired. So my dad is standing in front of Boss who says, “Marv, you can’t take all day. The thing is….” then me and Stacy jump out and surprise my dad! “SURPRISE, YOU’RE NOT LOSING YOUR JOB IT’S JUST JAMES YOUR FAVORITE SHITHEAD I DIDN’T TELL STEPHANIE TO TELL YOU YOU’RE GETTING FIRED I DON’T KNOW WHY SHE DID THAT YAY HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!”

When my dad saw me, he looked at me with the same fear in his eyes that he used to get in my childhood when I would wander into his room in the middle of the night like a “tiny” spectre because I was afraid of monsters under my bed who wanted to murder me for my amazing fashion sense. Then my dad gave me the same kind of hug my mom did while Stephanie and Boss laughed devilishly and high-fived over their Tony-award winning performances. When my dad pulled away he was wiping tears from his eyes. In front of his co-workers. And in that moment, I decided who I wanted to be. I want to be my dad. I don’t want to hide my vulnerabilities. I don’t want to pretend I’m not moved to tears by something that makes me super happy. I don’t want to act like nothing can penetrate my shield of Cool Guy exterior. I want to be fiercely, unapologetically passionate. I want to tell people how I feel. I want to get giddy and excited about drag queens without worrying about compromising my masculinity. I want to lipsync to that one song on my iPod that just GETS ME while I stomp the pavement while Harlem children point and laugh at my red harem pants. I want to be authentic and vulnerable just like my dad.

Also Dad, I’m sorry they made you think you were getting fired. That situation just snowballed out of control. Stephanie and Boss are amateur actors, and they raised the stakes a bit to high for that particular scene. But they’re committed to their craft, and they will learn someday. I love you a lot, and I want to grow up to be just like you. Because you’re awesome, and your children are super hot. Especially James.

“Bang my head against the wall. Though I felt light-headed, now I will not fall; I will rise above it all. Found what I was searching for. Though I felt light-headed, I should’ve fell and hit the floor. Instead I rise above it all.”
~”Bang My Head” by David Guetta feat. Sia



53Here is a picture of my niece, Ava, wrecklessly practicing a handstand while I sit idly by and take pictures.



51. James Gets Fingered In Public: Part II: A Million Maybes


Alright. So I had a LOT of responses to my last blog. Click this beautiful blue hyperlink if you have yet to read it and you haven’t recently eaten a full meal that you don’t want to barf up.

If you’re like, “Fuck, James, reading is hard; I already read it but I can’t remember jackshit cuz I’m malnourished and ambivalent,” here’s a quick summary: I went on a date with this guy, and after dinner as we were walking down the street, he tried to finger my butthole. That’s the quick and skinny (just like his finger, #shiv).

Many people that I talked to about my last blog had this to say: “James, why didn’t you do anything? James, why didn’t you say anything?? If that happened to me, James, I would have smacked his hand away! You need to tell people that they’re bothering you, James; otherwise how will they know that you don’t like it? James, you need to stand up for yourself. James, you need to put a stop to people like that; now he’s just gonna go do that to someone else! James!!”

Now. Listen. First of all, everyone who had these sort of responses, I have talked to them calmly and explained my side of the argument to them. So if you’re reading this now and thinking, ‘AH MY GAHD! I WAS ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE!! DOES JAMES HATE ME?! IS THIS BLOG TARGETED AT ME?! I THOUGHT JAMES WAS ONE OF THE NICE FAIRIES, LIKE ELLEN DEGENERES! BUT HE’S JUST A MEAN OL’ QUEEN LIKE THAT BIANCA DEL RIO!” No, I’m not mad at you. We’re good, bro. Now read this with an open mind and an open heart, and know that this isn’t a personal attack on anyone.

Now let me address all the kinds of responses that I received:

1) “James, why didn’t you do anything?”
I did do something; I walked faster, and I prayed HARD to Jesus that my asshole would chomp his finger off.

2) “James, why didn’t you say anything?”
Have you ever tried to clamp your asshole shut while talking at the same time? Try it now. You’re holding your breath, aren’t you? Now try to talk without breathing. Do you sound like someone who is being crushed by a massive bookshelf of encyclopedias? Yeah, talking is HARD while consciously closing your anus (read: ah-noose).

3) “James, why didn’t you smack his hand away?”
Well, children, have you ever opened a bottle of champagne? Well, if you haven’t, I’ll tell you what it’s like: you need to ease the cork out really slowly or else it will explode and champagne will spew everywhere. Now, while his finger was clogging my hole, my stomach was digesting an exorbitant amount of Indian curry (I don’t know when to stop eating so I just stop when I feel nauseous). Well, pretend his finger is the cork in the champagne bottle that is my poop chute. Now, if I had smacked his hand away, this champagne phenomenon would have occurred… but replace the beautiful, buttery, effervescent champagne with my red-hot, spicy, dark brown diarrhea-spray. Now, I was embarrassed  enough that this gentleman was elbow-deep in my rectum; I didn’t need to be even more embarrassed by sharting out my whole life in the middle of the East Village. These things need to be handled much more delicately.

4) “James, you need to tell people when they’re bothering you; otherwise how will they know something is wrong?”
Alright, out of context this is a very valid point. I absolutely believe in communication. Once, someone was clipping their toenails in my bed, and I politely asked them not do that again because it is fucking disgusting. When people responded to this blog saying, “Why didn’t you do something?” I calmly explained to them why that statement hurt my feelings (which I will get to later on when I’ve exhausted every single poop joke). But in the context of this blog, I shouldn’t have to tell my date that what he was doing was inappropriate. Because we are taught certain life lessons when we’re being raised as well-mannered children. We learn that it’s rude to chew with your mouth open. We learn that it’s rude to walk around someone’s house while wearing our dirty street shoes. And most of the time, we learn that it’s rude to publicly fingerbang a respectable suitor in the middle of the god damn street. Clearly, this motherfucker learned at some point in his life that this kind of behavior is appropriate or acceptable. Maybe no one ever told him to stop in the past.

Maybe I should have told him to stop. Maybe I should have swatted his hand away. Maybe I should have said something to him. But don’t get it twisted: he should not have behaved like this in the first place. And I shouldn’t have to tell someone to not do something like this to me. And when people ask me, “James, why didn’t you do anything,” you don’t realize how hard that is for me to hear (unless something like this has happened to you in the past). Because when you ask me any of those questions, what I’m hearing is, “It’s your fault, James.” Maybe that’s not what you’re intending to say, but that’s definitely what I hear. It’s my fault, because I didn’t do anything about it. It’s my fault, because I didn’t say anything. And now, if this guy behaves like this in the future to someone else and someone else has to write a light-hearted, foul-mouthed blog post about their devastating date where they were sexually harrassed, that’s my fucking fault, too. But listen: you weren’t there. It wasn’t you. And maybe you would have said the perfect thing, slapped him in the face hard enough to leave a mark, and stomped away indignantly with a sense of pride and your head held high. But I didn’t do that. I’m not a superhero; I’m just James. I didn’t stand up for myself in that moment when someone was violating my body. I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say something that fundamentally changed him and made him realize the wrongs of his ways. I just walked away as fast as I could, tried not to cry on the subway and then I wrote a blog to come to terms with what had happened to me. This is how I stand up for myself. I make jokes, because it makes all of the pain of the thing so much more tolerable. This is all I’ve got. Jokes.

Now I don’t need your apologies if you had one of those responses; I just need you to practice empathy. Because in your head, maybe you would have done a million brilliant and heroic things. But maybe you would have responded the same way I did. And I pray to GOD that if this happens to me again, I’ll have something amazing to say or do. But if I don’t, I will be kind and patient with myself. Because it’s not my fault that this happened to me. And if this or anything like this has ever happened to you: it’s not your fucking fault. Some motherfuckers in this world will test you, because they had someone fuck them in the head too many times and they can’t tell right from wrong anymore. It’s not your job to fix them. And if they fuck you up, just leave. Just leave. You don’t need to say something witty. You don’t to do something righteous. You can just walk away. And if anyone says to you, “MEH WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY ANYTHING; YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING; STAND UP FOR YOURSELF”… come to me. Because I’ll say the only thing I wanted to hear:

“I’m sorry that happened to you. Some people are fucked up. But you can do better. He doesn’t deserve your breath, your time or even a handful of your chicken-tikka-massala diarrhea.”



here’s a hopeful picture of the Brooklyn Bridge to get you through your terrible days: