Tag Archives: dating

65. James Stays the Same if You Do the Same

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How many times can I write a blog about dating?

I tried it all again; I put myself out there. First I told all my friends that I was looking and to set me up if they knew any eligible, drug-free bachelors. Then I consulted my mother…

Mom: I just feel like you need to date a doctor. Or a lawyer…
Me: Got it, Ma. Loud and clear. Totally agree. Though, quick side note, it’s not like I’m turning down offers left and right from lawyer-doctors. I promise if they come along, I’ll give them a chance.

Then I downloaded a dating app to find a man for my mother…ahem, excuse, to find a man my mother would approve of. I chose to go with OkCupid, because my Facebook survey showed that it had the LEAST amount of fuckboys. So I created a brilliantly eccentric profile that was described by my friends as an “accurate depiction of who James is” and “intimidating”. I decided to go with the screen name “Asskitty”. It felt equal parts fun and daring. I created a profile with excessive use of CAPS  lock and Fetty Wap references, all brought to you by COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE. But I had some pretty good luck! I went on dates with some really awesome people, and I was pretty honest whenever I wasn’t interested except for one specific person, and I apologized. Not perfect, but I tried. All in all, it ended up working out NOT A BIT for me. To oversimplify my dating woes, I met someone and the interest to pursue a romantic relationship wasn’t mutual. Yes, it was all more complex than that, and it ended in a mature, amicable manner. But I couldn’t help but ask him, “Honestly, is it something about me? Was it something I did? You can tell me.” He kindly assured me that it had nothing to do with me, and I know he meant it. But that didn’t stop that insidious thought from continually detonating in my mind: “What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? WhatdidIdowrongWhatdidIdowrongWhatdididowrongwhatdididowrongwhtdddwrng?”

The following week, a friend of mine experienced the same thing: they were interested in something serious with someone who was NOT looking for the same thing.We were texting about it, and they texted me: “This always happens to me. What am I doing wrong?”

Nothing. You’re doing nothing wrong. It’s not you.

Then I had ANOTHER friend go through the same thing. And they said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why is this happening to me??

I said…

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with you! How can you put this all on yourself? Dating takes more than one person’s effort. If the success of a relationship depended on just one person’s solo effort, you would be fucking married by now! But you can’t take full responsibility for the dissolution of the relationship. They have to meet you halfway, and you can’t convince someone to want to try; they have to come into the relationship with the desire to make something work. And it’s not your fault that they weren’t inspired to give a shit. You can’t say to yourself, “Oh, if I had been more interesting, they would’ve wanted to date me. Or if I had been prettier or funnier or more self-assured or more laid-back or this or this or this. It’s not your fault. This isn’t on you. Sometimes it’s just not a good match, and that’s real-life, sucky-ass adulthood. Sometimes you don’t mesh; you’re looking for different things. That’s okay. It’s not personal even though nothing could FEEL more personal. It’s just life. So stop beating yourself up. You did your best. You showed who you were and you were honest about your feelings. As far as I’m concerned, you succeeded on your half. And if they weren’t prepared for something serious, it’s not your job to wait around for them to be ready for you. Their fear of commitment isn’t your fault; they were that way before you came along. You can’t MAKE someone emotionally available. That’s not on you. And it’s not your job to fix the parts of them that need healing. You’re not Bob the Builder; this isn’t a Coldplay song; fix yo damn self! We all need to recognize our baggage, address how it’s holding us back, and then move forward. We’re not going to get anywhere sitting around feeling bad for ourselves, and there isn’t a Prince Charming who is going to come along and fix you UNLESS your therapist just happens to be called Prince Charming which is equal parts fucked up and amazingly cool. Not everyone needs to be ready for the heavy, serious, committed relationship. But those same people also don’t need to be Hurricane Hot Mess, sucking in other people in and hoping to feel something. You won’t absorb wholeness from someone else. Don’t take my others down with you. Because if you’re the Titanic, I will NOT go down with this ship #Dido ! I will be Miss Rose and I will cling to that floating door with my dear life and I won’t save NOBODY, not even no god damn purple Leonardo DiCaprio. BYE GIRL. GETCHO FLOATIES AND DOGGY PADDLE, BISH!

(Wow, James/Asskitty really uses CAPS lock a lot, he sure is intimidating but oddly…dare I say, sexy?)

…Then I realized I should probably take my own advice.

Someone once told me that in the initial stages of dating, you should just see if you could even be friends with this person. Because essentially a boyfriend would be my best friend that penetrates me. Currently, my best friends penetrate my soul with their kindness but unfortunately they don’t penetrate my anally with their wangs. So in the meantime, I’m looking for a male best friend to love me and STICK IT IN.

Therefore, if I start treating a prospective boyfriend like a new friend, I start looking at everything differently. Usually when I’m dating someone new and learning things about them that don’t mesh well with my personal values I ask myself, “Hm, is this something I can deal with? Should I just sacrifice little pieces of me to make us fit together better?” But my friends would never DREAM of making me do that. NEVER. My friends wouldn’t ask me to change. Kelley hates my fashion sense and she REALLY hates when I say the word “pussy”, but she still loves me. (PUSSY!) Caity rolls her eyes every time I yell, “IT’S BUTT O’CLOCK,” but she wouldn’t have me any other way. Friends see you as the cuckoo daddy-mess that you are and LOVE you that way. My mother gave me the best advice when I was in middle school. She said, “Wipe front to back James; you’re getting shit all over your balls!” I’m just kidding. She never told me that; I STILL get shit all over my balls. But she DID say, “James, your friends are who they are. Don’t try to change them. You need to decide if their personality traits are something you can deal with or if they’re deal-breakers.” Dating should be the same way. When I meet someone new I need to say to myself, “Wow, this quality of theirs irks me. Is it a deal-breaker or is it something I can accept?” For example, I can deal with someone who doesn’t love flossing or someone who asks too many questions during movies or someone who loves Halloween or someone who wasn’t valedictorian. But I CAN’T date someone who likes punting babies or someone who’s racist or someone who’s an alcoholic or someone who hates men in heels because of deep-seeded latent homophobia which also leads to crippling sexism or someone who uses #gayboy on Instagram for the gratification of likes from an absolute stranger. You shouldn’t change to accommodate someone else, and you shouldn’t ask that of them either. You HAVE to take someone at face value. No person is a fixer-upper. You can’t go into a relationship thinking, “Well I would really like them IF they changed this thing about themselves. But we’ll work on that. They’ll change.” No. That’s not how it works. You take who you get when you get them. It is extremely damaging to tell someone you love them ONLY under specific conditions. That’s selfish, and love isn’t just about your needs. Conditionally love ain’t real love, booboo.

And when it isn’t a good fit you have to walk away. You acknowledge your irreconcilable differences, you shake hands and you cartwheel away. For me, every time a relationship ends it feels like someone just took a sledgehammer to a ten-foot tall Jenga tower. It takes me a while to regroup. I know there’s nothing wrong with me, but the sting of rejection never loses its punch. So I need to lick my wounds for a bit before I jump back into the Dick Party. So I go home and tell my friends I want to be left alone for the night. And then they all come over anyway, because they’re a bunch of soggy assholes who don’t listen. I cry while they listen intently, blow raspberries on my belly, poke me in the penis and repeatedly flash their waxed vagina at me. And I hate them for making me laugh when I’m so determined to be devastated, but I lay in bed that night thanking Whoever-The-Fuck-Is-Listening for sending me this whorey handful of people who genuinely care about me. And I know that they, my Chosen Family, have set the standard of what to expect from a boyfriend. They tell me not to change. They encourage me to be my true self, even when my true self wakes up at 7 AM hyper AS FUCK, starts speaking flirtatiously to the closet door and then humps said closet door because the chemistry was just ELECTRIFYING. They pay attention when I tell them my shame stories, and they tell me, “I’m sorry that happened to you, but one bad action doesn’t define you. This does not make you a bad person.” They lie on my bed before I go on a date and tell me how gorgeous I am, and then I flounce down the street with the MOST inflated self-esteem, the MOST offensive coffee breath and a STRONG panty line. But most importantly, when our relationship isn’t working, we talk about it. I can say, “Hey, you’re hurting my feelings,” and we work through it. I can ask for the things I need and receive them, because they know I would do the same for them. My Chosen Family is the ULTIMATE boyfriend. I have found these incredibly functional relationships with HIGHLY dysfunctional people that I plan on spending my whole life with. And I know in my heart that these will be the most meaningful and fulfilling relationships I will ever have. These relationships shouldn’t be discounted or ignored while I’m sifting through clearance piles of fuckboys in search of a boyfriend who will one day call me HIS TRAP QUEEN. #ZOOGANG. Because these people will always be there, no matter how many times I fuck up. And if my best friends have displayed such beautifully imperfect examples of what a relationship can be, WHY would I settle for anything less from a boy just because he’s hot and he got MAD fingerbangin’ skills? Why, James? Why?

“Nobody touch me ya not righteous.”
~”Work” by Rihanna (feat. Drake)

#CHOSENFAMILY

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#DONTGIVEUP

JAMES

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

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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.
Me:…Cool.

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.

62.4

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.”
“#canIgetamopforallmycum”

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*

JAMES

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

50. James Gets Fingered In Public

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Yep. It finally happened. It took me about three years of New York life until someone tried to finger my party hole in public. Let me start from the very beginning, a less horrifying place to start.

So the other day I was doing some thinking. It was depressing, and it required much binge-eating afterwards. But before the massive crying and cake-eating I realized I haven’t had sex in over a year. (Note: My scientific definition of sex is the peepee in the pooper with vigorous in-and-out humping.) It is currently the end of September in the year 2014. The last time I had any D in any A was approximately June of 2013. When I relayed this information to my roommates, they responded calmly with: “ON PURPOSE?!?!” The answer: no, not on purpose. It happened by accident for a little while. But about a month ago, when my Dry Spell Epiphany came uponst me, I decided that I didn’t want just sex; I decided I wanted to be anally penetrated by someone for whom I had deep adoration, equal to or greater than the love that I have for waffles covered in ice cream. After I came to this traffic-halting realization, I decided I would stop pursuing the things I didn’t want and I would start pursuing the weiners that I wanted to be in love with. So I promptly and politely ended all sexting conversations; they were very amicable and understanding (even sex-crazed gays know that sometimes you just want someone to care about you after they jizz all over your eye), and I started pursuing dates.

Tonight I went on a date. The prospect seemed promising. He and I had great chemistry. He’s a Leo; I’m a Cancer. (I get along FAMOUSLY with Leos.) We have similar values: eating too much and having all the feelings. We’re both silly and kind. What could go wrong?! Oh James, you are so naive… because EVERYTHING can go wrong.

We went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant followed by eating waffles at Wafels and Dinges. (Guess which portion of the date was my idea!!?) But at dinner, I slowly realized that all of our conversations seemed vaguely familiar. Then it hit me: he’d asked me all the same questions the last time we hung out. Now, I realize that I have an elephant’s memory but COME ONNNNN, BRO! I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. But I felt way more annoyed…. similar to the way I feel when I WATCH Groundhog Day. Literally ALL the same questions. Then he started telling some of the same stories. I was like, “Am I on a date with a Stepford wife?” I laughed politely to the same jokes while I inconspicuously leaned to the side to check for loose wires sticking out of his ears. I answered all the same questions politely as I would if I was talking to a senile friend of mine: “My favorite restaurant is still Wafels and Dinges. Yes, dessert counts as a meal. My favorite feature on a guy? Yep, it’s still his wallet.”

Eventually dinner ended. Now, for the record, this is the second date in my life where I have prayed for a piece of ceiling to come loose and decapitate me. After dinner, I decided we would go eat Wafels and Dinges. More specifically, I decided that I would eat Wafels and Dinges. I mean, what better way to follow up a spicy meal of too much Indian food than a waffle smothered with whipped cream and ice cream?! I mean, can you ever be too lactose intolerant?? Probably not! But on our sojourn over to my favorite restaurant, I encountered some unusual behavior from my beloved.

First, as we’re crossing a busy street, he stops me in the middle of the crosswalk to kiss me. I try to keep walking because I value my life. But he stops me again for another kiss. After we exit the crosswalk and narrowly escape a speeding taxi he asks me, “Isn’t kissing in the street romantic?” And I said, “I think kissing is more romantic in non-life-threatening situations”. So we keep walking. But apparently he wants to feel closer so he puts his hand on my lower back. But apparently he wants to feel even closer so he puts his hand on my butt. But apparently he wants to feel even more close so he puts his fingers in my crack. But apparently he wants to feel the most close so he tries to weasel his fingers into my butthole. … INTO…..MY BUTTHOLE. And as we’re walking down the street, him the ventriloquist and me his dummy, I think to myself, ‘Well I sure do hate this.” So I start to walk faster towards my heavenly waffles. But he just keeps on putting his fingers into my wow hole. This continues for some time. In fact, when we arrive at Wafels and Dinges I start to order and I realize that he’s still elbow deep in my poop chute. I suddenly realize that he’s just scrounging around in there for extra dinges for his waffle. So I think to myself, ‘Party on,’ and I complete my waffle order.

At some point at Wafels and Dinges, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom to execute several tasks. First, I expel several 20-second long curry-flavored farts. I feel slightly better but something else needs to be done. Second, I search around the bathroom for an effective way to electrocute myself to death but nothing seems fatal enough. So I decide it’s time to call it a night. I return to the table and let out some pretty dramatic yawns. He offers to share a cab, but if he’s gonna finger me on a public street I am absolutely terrified of what he’ll do to me in the dark backseat of a NYC taxicab. #WillIBeDoubleFisted?! I tell him I’m an independent woman, and I can get myself home. Luckily, we walk to the same subway station. Thank God, because I don’t think I could’ve gotten there myself if it wasn’t for him tickling my prostate with his grubby little fingernails. When we got to the subway platform and it was time to say goodbye, he gave me a goodnight kiss. And then a goodnight grope. And then a goodnight fingering. And it lasted for too long. I figured my unenthusiastic kissing would signal that I was not interested. Nope. So as his tongue was foraging through my teeth for lose scraps, I tried to inch us closer to the subway tracks. Although I’m sure if I had been hit by a subway, the biopsy would have discovered at least three of his dismembered fingers lodged in my rectum. But in the real world, our sloppy kisses were coming to a close. He was done rubbing his boner against my knee, and we parted ways.

As I sat on the subway riding home, I was fuming. I hated everything about my night. I felt totally used, disrespected and objectified. This will not happen to me again. I will not be fingered in public while my stomach fights to digest a frightening amount of Indian food and dessert waffles. I am a god damn princess. And why were his fingers all over my butt? He told me he was a bottom (for the record: I didn’t even ask)! And I wasn’t encouraging him to keep grabbing all of my butthole. I mean, sir, is there a brain in your head or is there just an empty cavity begging to be filled with your handfuls of my curry farts? I don’t want this to happen to me. You like my ass? Cool. You like my body? Cool. But I don’t care. I wish you would spend less energy mapping the geography of my insides and more energy remembering the things I say to you. I don’t want a formal first date to end with excessive public dry humping. It makes me feel like you don’t care about who I am. This is why I can’t do fuck buddies. Because it makes me feel used. I’m more than a dude with a dick and a cavernous asshole. I am super funny and cool and smart and gassy and kind. And I don’t wanna have sex with someone until they realize that there’s more to me than a genetically-created, aesthetically-pleasing exterior.

Sometimes I feel like I’m far too sensitive for this dog-eat-dog world of gay dating. I wish my chest had a million pounds of padding like that bad guy from Ghostbusters so no one could puncture my fragile heart. (Oh my gosh, wait, maybe he was TRYING to get to my heart and THAT was why he was so eager to shove his arm up my ass!!!)
50.1This is me coming to terms with a devastating night. I make things funny to make them tolerable. I’m finding the joy in a night gone awry, and I’m telling myself, “James, at least you tried, god damnit.” This won’t happen again. I promise myself.

“I am see through, baby. So take a look inside. I am see through, baby. And I don’t wanna hide. For the very first time.”
~”See Through” by Pentatonix

#DONTGIVEUP

LOVE,
JAMES

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

44. James Resolves: Dating Rulebook

Standard

Let me preface this blog with a warning: If you have ever dated/courted me, you may not want to read this.  Because I’m bout to talk about the things you’ve taught me… and the manner in which you imparted your lessons.

About five months ago I went through a really, really bad break-up. Near the end of our relationship, we were having Skype conversations where I would actually start hitting myself in the face and ripping out my hair. I once went to the shower, turned the water up until it was scalding hot, took my loufa and start scrubbing my skin as hard as I could. It was a toxic relationship, and it was eating me alive. I wasn’t myself. It brought out the worst in me. He’s not a terrible guy, but he was terrible for me. By the time he wanted to work on us, my heart had shut off. It was a bodily function as natural as puking when you drink too much. Your body says, “This is too much alcohol. TIME TO EXPEL.” Your body goes into survival mode and takes over for you. Well that’s my heart did. It said, “We’re done.” And I couldn’t even make myself try again. My heart wasn’t in it anymore and, like the body expelling vomit when it’s had too much alcohol, my heart expelled all feelings of love that I had for this person.

Gruesome, I know. But bodies do some nasty shit.

I got so mad at myself during that relationship. I was experiencing fuckery that I had vowed to never go through again. I was having deja vu. And I kept having a flashback to a specific moment from a previous relationship:

I was dating this guy, and I was in LOVE. I was in love so hard. I was in it for the long haul. And it seemed pretty mutual. We said romantic/terrifying things to each other like, “If this doesn’t work, it will break me.” I mean, this dude made me so happy. I still can’t quite figure out why. To properly describe our realtionship, here was my happiest moment with him:

It was nearing Christmas. He asked me what I wanted as a gift. I listed a bunch of stupid shit: a hug, a slow dance, food, a high-five. I said, “Just don’t get me anything. Make me a CD. Don’t spend more than $5.” So that was the deal. We weren’t gonna spend more than $5 on each other. (We were both poor as F-holes.) When it came time to exchange gifts, we went to my room in my college apartment. I plugged in the multi-colored Christmas lights that were hanging around my room, and we sat on the ground in the glow of the Christmas lights as we exchanged gifts. I don’t know what I got him, but I do remember my present from him. It was a CD! I was so happy! He didn’t spend money on me, and I knew I would be listening to that CD all winter. “Put it in! Let’s listen to it,” he said. I put in the CD, and the first track starting playing. It was a slow ballad that I’d never heard. “Get up,” he said. I stood up. He held out his arms to dance with me and said, “Merry Christmas.”  We slow-danced, illuminated by the Christmas lights while it snowed outside. That’s one of my favorite memories of all time.

Clearly, I thought this guy was the one. I had never felt this way before. So I made room for him in my life. I made little sacrifices for him. I didn’t like the thought of spending every night together, so we decided that I would have Mondays and Wednesdays to myself in my bed. But then I found out he couldn’t sleep on the nights when we were separated. I took a deep breath and said, “Fuck off” to my paralyzing fear of intimacy, and I decided to spend every night with him. There were times when I would be really tired, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Sometimes to help him out, I would rub his neck, and sometimes I would “rub his neck”.

And this is the moment I kept coming back to in my most recent relationship: there was one night when I couldn’t sleep. I started to put the moves on my man. But as I started to do my sexy kissing, he said, “I’m not really horny,” and he rolled over to go to sleep. I sat there in his dark room and I felt like somebody had just swung a sledgehammer right into my stomach. I thought to myself, ‘What about all the times I wasn’t in the mood? What about all the sleep I lost over helping you fall asleep? What about me surrendering all my personal space to you?’ The shift that happened inside of me was so monumental that it was audible. I couldn’t talk myself out of this downward spiral that I was riding, and I just started crying in his bed. He asked me what was wrong, but I was inconsolable. I couldn’t be helped; there’s no helping someone who’s just realized their life isn’t what they thought it was. A simple “there, there” wasn’t going to assuage me. He kept trying to get me to talk about it, but I just sat there on the edge of his bed, trying to drown us both in my tears, repeating, “I gave away too much. I gave away too much.”

It ended shortly after that. I was a hot mess for a long time. And then I resolved: I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER put up with that again. I know the red flags. I know what I deserve. I won’t settle for less ever again.

And the Universe heard me make this promise to myself and it retorted with, “Oh, reeeeeaaally? PROVE IT, BITCH!” And a few years later, It sent in ___________ as my test: “Will you really stand up for yourself this time, or will you put up with it all over again?”

Obviously, I failed the test. It was worse than a 7 out of 47 math test score. It was a -5 out of 47. I did so poorly I was booted from the class. It was taught by Bob Marley. It was called “Stand Up For Your Rights”. He said, “GET OUT, MAN” [read with Jamaican accent].

Since my last break-up, I’ve been on a hiatus from dating. I feel like I need to make a rulebook for myself: Shit I Won’t Put Up With. Or…. The Moment to Walk RUN Away. This isn’t a metaphor. It’s real:

James’ Rulebook for Dating  
Violate these rules at your own expense. But James… DON’T VIOLATE THESE RULES.

1) I will not put up with derogatory comments about my body, my voice, my talent, etc. (If it’s a joke, and I’m not laughing… then it’s not a joke.)

2) I will only date people who are Team James. (When you date someone, they should always be in your corner. They should support you in the pursuit of your wildest dreams, because they want to see you happy. They can put aside their own insecurities and support you because THEY BELIEVE IN YOU.)

3) I will communicate honestly. (“I feel under-appreciated when you don’t thank me for washing the dishes.” “I am grateful to have dinner with you tonight.” “I’m not ready for that.”)

4) I will not sacrifice my career for a man. (“Some women choose to follow men, and some women choose to follow their dreams. If you’re wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn’t love you anymore.”  ~Lady Gaga)

5) I will not settle for someone to avoid feeling unpretty and lonely. (I work really hard to be a good person, and I deserve the same from a partner.)

6) I won’t date someone just  because they think I’m pretty. (That’s selfish of me.)

7) I will never do long-distance again(It’s extremely hard. Some people can do it; I’m not one of those people.)

8) I will take my time. (I rush things, because I get excited. We won’t spend every night together if I’m not ready. We won’t move in together if I’m not ready. I won’t say the L word too soon. I won’t sit on it on the first date.)

9) I will not date someone with a nasty temper. (Temper tantrums are for children.)

10) I will look for someone who brings out the best in me. (And vice versa.)

11) I will know the difference between a compromise and a sacrifice.

12) I’ll know when to stay and when to walk away.

Right now my current mantra on dating is: if you aren’t the sweater I need to have, then I’m gonna pass.

I was once told my standards were too high.  To that person I say: see the last five years of my life.

I’m still optimistic. My biggest dream is still to be proposed to with a flash-mob of my friends dancing to “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction. I still make the same wish every time the clock hits 11:11. I still have a lot of faith in the idea of all-consuming love. I still believe that two people can be married forever and be happy with each other forever. I don’t care if animals don’t do fidelity or whatever that stupid biology argument is. It’s bullshit. I’m not just another victim of biology; I’m a romantic god damnit.

And I believe in love.

JAMES

This Queen.

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