Tag Archives: james follows his dreams

68. James Gets Cold Sores of the Bum

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Last time we talked, I said I didn’t want to talk about it. Well now I want to talk about it. Put your fork down cuz this about to get nasty. Mom, this will be too much for you. Dad… you still have a flip-phone so nevermind.

Last August, I had unprotected sex with this dude who showed me all the paperwork from his doctor’s visit saying that he was absolutely STD-free. Five days later, I shit my pants at work and slept with an ice pack shoved up my asshole having sex dreams about being sodomized by popsicles. (I didn’t read The Secret but I heard from someone who read the cover synopsis that if you will things into the universe, the Universe will respond. So I stood on my bed with my eyes closed and arms outstretched like Princess Elsa and screamed, “UNIVERSE I WANT FROSTY THE SNOWMAN TO LICKY-LICKY MY MAN PUSSY!”) #bussy

The next day nothing was better. Every time I had to shit, it felt like shards of glass were passing through me. I had been going through this for a couple days, but I thought it was just hemorrhoids so I was just using some god damn witch hazel which was not doing ANYTHING. So Kelley came with me to the doctor.

The doctor made me lie in the fetal position with my pants pulled down while she made small-talk with me about golf. Honsetly, I would’ve rather talked about Serena Williams’ splits,but the doctor was in charge. It struck me that I had been in this same position earlier that week, and it had been MUCH more enjoyable.

Finally, after whispering into my post-apocalyptic asshole about the world’s quietest sport, she said, “Oh, you’re not gonna like what I have to tell you.” At that moment, I thought to myself, ‘You could literally tell me I have three days left on this earth, and I would still kiss you on the mouth just MAKE IT HURT LESS.’

“You have anal herpes.”

…Divine.

The next week was pretty awful. They gave me medication to treat my outbreak but nothing for pain management. I kindly declined my friends’ offers to score me pot or something stronger from the WASPy people they knew. It took three more days until I started feeling even marginally better. Every time I had to go to the bathroom I told my roommates to crank the volume on the TV cuz I was going to SCREAM on the toilet. It still felt like shards of glass coming out of me, and I would bang my head violently on the wall until I was done. At this point of the story, I would like to thank the rapper Desiigner for the songs “Panda” and “Tiimmy Turner”, because I listened to both of these songs every time I took a dump learned ALL the words to both songs. I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve heard this, Desiigner, but you made my first outbreak of anal herpes much more tolerable.

Before the meds started kicking in, I went back to the doctor to get some painkillers. They gave me an appointment with a male doctor. ‘I hope he’s not hot.’ He walks into the room. He’s gorgeous. “What seems to be the problem?” I tell him about my broken asshole and how I wasn’t given any painkillers and I was definitely face-to-face with my pain threshold. “Alright, just pull down your pants and lie on your side.” ….’I really don’t want to do that. He’s so hot, and I’m so…herpes. Well maybe he’s not gay.’ As I pull down my underwear, I catch sight of Hot Doctors pink socks. Defeated, I lie down in the fetal position and pretend to disappear as the Hot Gay Hot Doctor spread my ass-cheeks apart.

Now, if you’re ever diagnosed with the Sexiest Virus ever (formerly known as ASS HERPES), DO NOT GOOGLE IT. I was v depressed at first. The doctor told me I would have this virus for life. So I figured I should find some sort of support group to learn to grapple with this. Well the internet is NOT a friendly place for people who are monumentally terrified. All the threads were people posting things like, “Why did this happen to me? I’ve never had unprotected sex. I feel like my life is over. I don’t feel comfortable having sex again. Maybe we should just only date each other. Is there a website solely meant for herpes-infested people to date each other?” My friends thought that this last comment would be a BRILLIANT new dating app entitled”Herpes Ever After”. They even researched to  make sure the domain hadn’t been purchased yet. They were very excited. I have since murdered all of said “friends.”

Here are the things that you are thinking about me since reading this far:
“Well you got herpes because you had unprotected sex.”
“Herpes is gross, and I don’t want it so I’ll never date you.”
“I’m so glad I don’t have genital herpes. That’s disgusting.”

I thought all of these things, too. I was pretty devastated, because I felt for the first time in my life I was involuntarily disgusting.

After the test results came back from my orgasmic swabbing, CityMD made me come in for my official diagnosis. I met with a very awkward male doctor who didn’t know how to sugarcoat any facts. For this, I am eternally grateful. Because by this point, I just needed some numbers and facts and shit so I could realistically prepare for my future with my new bff ANAL HERPES. Here’s what he taught me:

  1. “Cold sores of the bum” is WAY less threatening than the term “anal herpes”.
  2. There are two types of herpes: HSV-1 and HSV-2. HSV-1 is commonly known as “cold sores” where HSV-2 is commonly known as genital herpes. I had HSV-1 on my asshole. Yes, the “cold sore version” in my anus.
  3. 4 out of 5 people have HSV-1, but many people don’t know because they don’t present symptoms.
  4. Some people who never show symptoms of HSV-1 never see any reason to get tested for it. And many doctors don’t even suggest testing patients for HSV-1 because they don’t want to scare them. Yes, your run-of-the-mill STD/STI test does not include a herpes test.
  5. You can learn if you have HSV through a blood test. If you test positive for HSV-2, then you know you have genital herpes. But if your blood tests positive for the HSV-1 antibodies, you still don’t know if you have cold sores or genital herpes. You would only learn this from swabbing the infected area while your body is shedding the virus.
  6. Both types of herpes are transmitted through skin-to-skin contact, NOT through bodily fluids. And you’re not going to just get herpes from touching any part of my body. You would have to have intimate contact with the infected area.
  7. If you have HSV-1 in the form of cold sores, you can transmit it to someone else’s genitals through oral sex even if you aren’t presenting symptoms.
  8. Both HSV viruses are transmittable right before an outbreak, during an outbreak, during the healing process after the outbreak, and randomly when the virus is present on the skin without symptoms (which is called asymptomatic shedding).
  9. A person with HSV-1 experiences asymptomatic shedding about 5% of the time. So if you have HSV-1, whether you’re aware of it or not, there are 18 days of the year when you could be transmitting the virus to others even though you aren’t showing symptoms.
  10. There is no way of knowing whether I contracted HSV-1 through the unprotected pound session I had or if I had received it through oral sex on my butthole earlier in my life from someone who has had cold sores at any point.
  11. In my first two years with HSV-1, I can expect anywhere between two and ten outbreaks.
  12. I have only experienced one in my first year.
  13. I take one pill every morning with breakfast. Her name is valacyclovir, and I am very grateful for her. I will take this pill every day for the rest of my life. I am grateful that I had Obamacare at the time of my diagnosis, and I will need to have health insurance for the rest of my life.
  14. Medical friends have said that I don’t need to take valacyclovir every day, and I don’t need to be insured forever. But HSV-1 presents itself when the body is enduring stress. I never want to experience that kind of pain ever, ever again in my life. Thinking about that kind of pain puts stress on my body, and I’d rather be safe than sorry. Yes, I experienced a more extreme outbreak, and yes, they decrease with frequency and intensity over time. But at this time, I plan on being insured/medicated until I’m dead.
  15. Unfortunately, you can still contract HSV even while using a condom. The virus is spread through skin-to-skin contact. If the condom doesn’t entire the infected area, there is still a possibility of transmittal. Thankfully, daily doses of valacyclovir dramatically decrease chances of transmitting the disease to my other sexual partners.
  16. There is a huge stigma surrounding “genital herpes” while no one gives two fucks whether or not you’ve had a cold sore before. They’re the same fugging thing.

I feel like these are all things I should have been taught in health class in high school. But either we didn’t learn any of that or else I was too busy slamming my boner in the desk and then fucking it. It’s impossible to tell.

I’m dealing with my diagnosis much better now. I’ve since started using a gay app called Grindr in which men meet up to pork each other in private and then the next day one of them ignores the other in public and then the ignored one goes home and skullfucks the voodoo doll he made of the man who ignored him. I asked my doctor if disclosing my status to my sexual partners was necessary, and he honestly told me it was up to me. He said herpes really isn’t that big of a deal and it’s highly probable that my sexual partner already has the virus and doesn’t even know about it. I’ve decided to disclose, because it’s the responsible adult thing to do. But I only disclose if we’re going to have anal sex, because that’s the only possible way they could contract the virus from me. I don’t let guys eat me out or finger me. So if we’re just meeting to 69, then it’s none of their business. I’m very responsible about it. Still, after sharing the information, some dudes decide to ignore me. The more kind dumbasses just tell me they’re no longer interested, and that’s their prerogative and I clearly have no hard feelings toward those losers.  And then I’ve had more frustrating encounters, like this one:

*Me and Dipshit are making out. He pulls away to ask me in his sexiest whisper…*
Dipshit: Do you have any incurable diseases?
Me: (Whispering back) Yes. But it’s none of your god damn business.
Dipshit: What do you have?
Me: Nothing that concerns you.
Dipshit: What is it?
Me: You’re not gonna get it today.
Dipshit: Today?! WHAT IS IT?!
Me: I HAVE ANAL HERPES BUT YOU CAN ONLY GET IT FROM EATING MY HOLE OR BAREBACKING ME WHICH WE’RE NOT DOING SO IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

That got him REALLY horny for my juicy-juicy so I sploojed everywhere and I left. AND THEN he started texting me and apologizing for being so intrusive but he’s SCARED THAT I GAVE HIM HERPES. Literally minutes after I left. He thought he contracted my herpes by letting me half-heartedly fuck his fist. Boy, bye. I told him to stop texting me and to educate himself. He told me he thought I was cool and wished me success. Well. All I have to say to that is I AM COOL AND I WILL SUCCEED. SO THANKS FOR not SUCKING MY SEED.

Is that too much? Perhaps that’s overboard. Well if Overboard is good enough for Goldie Hawn IT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.

Funny enough, the only two people from Grindr who have consented to safer sex with me after disclosing my status has been doctors. Yes, that’s correct bitches, the only two people who have let me sit on their condom-clad weiners have been EDUCATED-ASS DOCTORS. Just think about that.

Oh, also, to all the guys on Grindr who have bareback sex just because they’re on PrEP, you are very, very dumb. HIV isn’t the only lifelong disease you can get from unprotected sex. You could get herpes in your bootyhole and then cry on the toilet as your feces slide past your open sores. Poppers won’t help you through that.

Anyway, I’m much better now. I don’t cry myself to sleep due to my diagnosis anymore; now I just cry myself to sleep because of my unbearable loneliness. And I don’t have to sleep with an icepack under my hole which is nice because now when I wake up and my bed is soaked, I just have to lick it to figure out if it’s human urine or nocturnal emission. And my friends have helped me concoct the best pick-up line ever which I have yet to use:

“Hey daddy, you want some anal herpes?”

God how PERFECT would it have been if this were my 69th blog. Oh well, life is hard and so am I.

#DONTGIVEUP

JAMES

“Tiimmy Tiimmy  Tiimmy Turner
He be wishin’ for a burner
To kill everybody walkin’
He knows that his soul’s in the furnace.”
~”Tiimmy Turner” by Desiigner

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This is me giving no fucks about my herpes-infested anus.

Here are some articles to reference. And please don’t be afraid to talk to me if you have questions. But I, Ms. Kitty Marvin Hansen, reserve the right to be frustrated over stupid questions. Lucky for you, I’m the nicest person I know so I will probably answer inane questions with an immense amount of patience.

http://www.npr.org/2011/04/15/135442942/even-without-symptoms-genital-herpes-can-spread

http://www.thestdproject.com/hsv1-resources-info-herpes-simplex-1/

http://www.herpes.org/protecting-uninfected-partners/

http://myprepexperience.blogspot.com/p/what-is-prep.html

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

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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:

HOW TO BE 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.

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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.

#DONTGIVEUP

JAMES

“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

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

 

 

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

64. James’ Defense For Not Knowing What the Fuck You’re Doing

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“A Bitch and His Hoe” or “How To Hook A Man In 3 Seconds” or “How To Make A Man Blow His Load With One Look”

Lemme give you a brief history of James-Up-To-This-Point:

When I was little, I would watch Ace Ventura when I wasn’t feeling well. I thought Jim Carrey was the funniest bitch there ever was.

Then in middle school, I did this weird play, but it was super fun because all of my friends were in it. I had a blast. I got to see my friends every day, and we got to be freaks on stage.

Then I saw Moulin Rouge, and I thought, ‘This is the worst piece of shit I have ever seen. WHY won’t they stop singing?! STOP SINGING AND DIE, SATINE!’

Then I realized that I actually really liked singing. My best friend Dalila and I used to listen to my cassette tape of “My Heart Will Go On” on REPEAT. I would go over to boombox, press play, lay down on the ground next to Dalila and we would SCREAM along with Celine Dion. And when the song was over, I would get up, rewind the tape, and do it ALL over again. I’m sure my babysitter was somewhere in the house begging God to please explode my boombox.

Then in intermediate school I was throw into the school musical where I got the leftover parts. Well the JOKES ON YOU, because the leftover part was Buzz Lightyear, and I got to sing, “You’ve Got a Friend In Me” with a complete fucking stranger. This was my real first foray into acting as I pretended to be able to care about anyone but myself and Kit-Kat’s.

Then in my middle school choir we sang “My Heart Will Go On”, and I auditioned for the solos because CELINE FUCKING DION GOD DAMNIT. I don’t remember if I got it, but I’m positive that I sounded like a fucking superstar in my audition. A gay-ass, prepubescent, definitely gay, someone-please-love-me superstar. God, I was a fierce fucking alto. #neverchange

Then my friend (read: friends, plentiful and bountiful, for I was super popular at all points in my life) and I would sing the high soprano part at the end of the song “Phantom of the Opera”, and I used to be able to screlt those high notes (note: “screlt” is a portmanteau of “scream” and “belt”, which is a word for “to sing as high as Jesus”). I would screlt those notes ALLLLLL the time. Again, I think this was another point in my life where my mother begged God to please send a chupacabra to ravage my voice box.

When I was 14, I started dating people over the internet, because I was gay in my head but not out loud and I needed to talk to SOMEONE about it so I did the logical thing: I turned to complete strangers. I used to go to gay chat rooms and talk to other people like me. Sometimes we would become boyfriends, and that was pretty cool. But one day spikyblueeyes88 stopped logging on to AIM, and that was the first time that I had ever been ghosted. I’m sure I handled it appropriately: opening my journal, picking up a pen, calmly pushing my bangs out of my face, and then SCREAMING into my journal until the pain went away/ I fell asleep out of utter exhaustion from having so many feelings come out of the hole in my face. My heart said, “Rest, you weary son-of-a-bitch. It won’t get better, but someday you’ll have a blog to put ALLLLL your emotions in!” (Yeah, I end sentences with prepositions, because I’m a boss-ass bitch (with).

Anyway, back to internet dating. So I was 14 years-old, and my prospective internet boyfriend was 17 or 18. I had to woo him to be my One True Love. We were chatting, and it came up that he was a singer.’I’m a singer, too!’ I thought to myself. ‘I scream along to EVERYTHING I hear on the radio. I love singing; I’m a singer, god damnit!’ Well, Prospective Internet Boyfriend wanted to hear me sing. So he called my home phone and I picked it up on the first ring. He had a hot, sexy adult voice. I had a closeted, insecure 14 year-old boy voice. He sang first:  “Amazing Grace”. It was the most amazing thing I had ever heard. He was a professionally-trained angel, and he was going to take me to the Promised Land. “It’s your turn,” he said. Well, I had to pick a song I knew all the words to. At the time, I was SUPER into Evanescence. I knew every god damn word to every song, and it was my favorite music to cry to. So I decided to sing “Going Under“. If you don’t know it, go listen to it. It’s tragic. It starts with her growling these super depressing lyrics. I gave my Future Boyfriend my best Amy Lee:

“Now I will tell you what I’ve done for you
Fifty-thousand tears I’ve cried
Screaming, deceiving and bleeding for you-”
*CLICK*
“….Hello? ….Hello? Are you there? ….”

Yes, he hung up on me. And I didn’t even get to sing the chorus which is the best part and the part that really shows off my vocal ability! I sat there blinking, clutching the phone to my ear for a few minutes, and then I calmly replaced the phone on the charging dock.

‘He hung up on me because of my singing voice…’

So I recorded myself singing, and then I played it back to myself. I was DISGUSTED with myself. ‘JESUS CHRIST, JAMES, YOU SOUND AWFUL! I WOULD’VE HUNG UP ON YOU, TOO! YOU SOUND TERRIBLE! NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU SINGING LIKE THAT, YOU GAY IDIOT BITCH.’

Then I realized that I even hated my speaking voice. I was hitting the “s” consonant too hard, and THAT’S how everyone at school knew to call me a “faggot” and throw batteries at me! Eureka! Mystery solved! Also, I kept finding myself walking around with limp wrists. ‘HIDE YOUR SECRETS, YOU GAY T-REX!’ So I trained myself to walk with my arms glued to my sides as if they were stapled there. ‘Ha, now they’ll NEVER know!’ Then I spent HOURS recording myself talking and trying to adjust my voice to sound less gay. I dedicated so much time towards trying to figure out where to place the consonants in my mouth to sound less gay. Recording my voice, playing it back to myself, banging my head on the desk hoping my tongue would fall out so I would never have to say “s” again, and then doing it all over again. Funny enough, I feel like my “gay speech” calmed down after I came out of the closet. Alright, Jesus… I see you.

Also, after this experience, I saw Evanescence in concert FIVE times. I would go to their concerts and jump up and down with the biggest smile on my face screaming, “I WANNA DIE, TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Also, this story about the “Amazing Grace” guy hanging up on me singing “Going Under” is Kelley’s favorite story, and if we are EVER on the phone and I start singing she will ALWAYS hang up. She’s REALLY funny….

Also when I was 14, I auditioned for a production of Seussical the Musical. I was cast as a panther, and I was surrounded by so many talented people and that was the moment I decided I wanted to pursue musical theater.

So I went HARD. During Seussical, I met Miss Sara, and she started an all-men’s beginner tap class. I started tapping with her when I was 15, and I’ve been tapping ever since. I started auditioning like a motherfucker. I would go to the library and check out every CD for every musical they had and I would INHALE THEM. I knew every lyric to every song. I would do all the school shows, and I would audition for musicals in the community as well. I started taking voice lessons with Wendy when I was 15, and she changed my LIFE. (More on her later.) By my senior year, my schedule was jam-packed. I joined the Madison Youth Choirs, I played bassoon in the Wisconsin Youth Symphony Orchestras, I took voice lessons, I took tap class, I took an acting class through UW-Madison, I worked at a bakery, I worked at the movie theater, and I performed in shows. There was a point where this was my schedule: School 8:15-3:25, School musical rehearsal 4:00-6:30, Madison community theater musical rehearsal 7:00-10:00. I was eating, breathing, sleeping musical theater. I felt like I was finally doing something I really cared about with people who really understood me.

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Word of advice: don’t every try to out-do Katie in a selfie. Just be blessed to be in her presence and do your fucking best.

When I was auditioning for colleges, I went all in once again. I auditioned at NYU, Carnegie Mellon, University of Michigan, Western Michigan University and UW-Stevens Point. While I was auditioning, I was so scared and I felt suddenly inadequate. I was having a breakdown in one of my voice lessons, and Wendy listened to doubt myself and cry. When I was done, she had the best fucking response ever. She started singing Evanescence to me: “Fear is only in our mind, taking over all the time. Fear is only in ours minds, but it’s taking over all the time.”

*MIC DROP* BY WENDY. Did I MENTION that she’s the coolest ever?!

So I went to UW- Stevens Point, and I STILL went hard AF. I took the maximum credits allowed. I took some of my pre-requisites over the summer at a community college so I would have more room during the year to take theater and dance classes. I took every class I could get my hands on. I weaseled my way into modern dance, jazz dance and tap dance classes usually reserved only for dance majors. I auditioned for everything, even the dance shows that I felt underqualified for. And in the summer, I would do summerstock theater. I worked my ass off.

I graduated college in May 2011. I lived at home for the summer and performed in a musical while waiting tables. Then I hosted a benefit concert to help me raise money to move to NYC, and I moved here in September 2011.

When I first got here, I went to every damn audition. There was one time where I went to five auditions in the same day. I hustled like a motherfucker. It took me a while, but I finally started getting cast. I’ve been here for  four years now.

Now here’s the one event I can’t quite pinpoint. There was a moment where I didn’t want to eat/sleep/breathe musical theatre anymore. I started putting on Eminem instead of Sweeney Todd. I wanted to talk about music and comedy instead of my favorite Elphaba riff or which role I could play in Wicked. I wanted a life outside of musical theatre. To be frank, I didn’t want what I had always wanted. I didn’t want to do the things that I should do anymore. I didn’t wanna take ballet class or acting class or classes with casting directors, and I didn’t want to go to auditions for shows that I wasn’t right for just so I could get seen by a prominent casting director. I didn’t want to hang out with actors anymore. I didn’t want to sit in a holding room anymore. I didn’t want to do any of the “shoulds” anymore.

Last week, I was on a bus to Boston and since no one was around me, I started listening to the Hamilton soundtrack again in private. I listened to “Wait For It” three times in a row, and I started crying to myself. I thought to myself, ‘What happened to the Old James? Where did he go? Why don’t I love musical theater as much as I used to? Why is it no longer my life source? It used to be my EVERYTHING. I was on this path with my nose to the pavement for the past 12 years; what am I supposed to do with myself? What am I supposed to do when I wake up one day and realize that I don’t love this thing like I used to. I don’t want to spend my time and money on things I don’t love. I don’t wanna network for something that doesn’t fulfill me. I don’t want to know the lyric to every Broadway show. I don’t care to know every actor in every musical. I don’t care to know the career paths of musical theater stars. But why?! Where did Old James go? GIVE HIM BACK TO ME. I NEED HIM.’

Loss of clarity is horrifying. It’s scary. I don’t want to think, ‘Well I’ve spent 12 years becoming someone I don’t wanna be anymore; what now?’ I don’t want that. I want my certainty back. I want my fire back.

But I can’t have certainty, because it doesn’t exist. Certainty exists in the same imaginary world as control. But I don’t want to wander aimlessly. I don’t want to be lost. But then I looked around at my friends. One of my friends knows exactly how I feel: went to school for something completely different than what she’s currently pursuing. Another one of my friends worked at a job she fucking hated, and now she’s doing something she loves. One of my friends studied psychology, and now she works in finance. So. Okay, James. You’re not alone. Actually, you’re in the perfect company to be lost. But if “lost” terrifies you too much to be included in your vocabulary, then choose something else: curious, wandering, interested, well-rounded.

I’m letting go of the “shoulds”. I started taking tap class regularly, because it makes me happy. I only audition for projects I want to be a part of. I let myself listen to whatever music I want, and now I have a music soulmate at work and we could talk about FKA Twigs and Rihanna and Jai Paul for hours, and it’s some of the most fulfilling conversations I’ve ever had, because I don’t feel so alone. I’ve accepted that I’m good at hospitality, but that doesn’t mean I need to be a Career Server. I’ve looked into classes at Upright Citizens Brigade. I bought a guitar so I can start learning to play Evanescence/Celine Dion mash-ups. I went to a Zedd concert, because I felt like it. I spent a week in San Diego by myself. I stopped auditioning for an entire summer, and let myself have a life outside of theater. And the most exciting thing? I’ve started writing a comedic web-series with a friend. We meet about once a week and we sit and we write and laugh so loud that people stare. And when we don’t want to write our web-series, we write comedic sketches. I feel like I’m finally doing something I love. Oh. And I write my blog. Because I love writing.

I’m letting myself be who I am, and I’m not trying to make myself fit into whatever the Successful Musical Theatre Professional mold is. I’m letting myself exist, and it’s terrifying and liberating and I’m so proud of myself.

My baby sister recently told me she was jealous of me, because I knew exactly what I wanted and I’m finding success in doing exactly what I wanted to do. Leah, I would like to apologize to you for fooling you so fabulously. I wrote this blog to set the record straight. Some people dabble in different things, looking for something they care about and freaking out that they don’t have some fiery passion that “everyone else” has. And some people are me, and you’ve been working your tits off for 12 years for your passion only to realize that maybe you don’t want it anymore. Both are horrifying. But both are okay. Just do things you fucking like to do. Work at a job that either fulfills you or pays you enough that you can do things you enjoy doing. And don’t judge yourself for the things that you like. There is value in doing things for pure enjoyment. I promise you. Don’t judge yourself for listening to Fetty Wap twice a day, everyday, for two weeks. It’s okay. It’s okay to take a hip-hop class once a week even if it doesn’t further your career. You are more fun to be around when you’re having fun.

Now excuse me, Trap Queen is calling.

“Baby girl you’re so damn fine though. I’m tryna know if I can hit it from behind though.”
~”679″ by Fetty Wap

you’re okay.

JAMES

P.S. After posting this blog on Facebook my mother commented: “Clearly I didn’t know all this. But I’m relieved to know that when I suspected you were surfing porn sites in your teens, you were only attempting to find a boy friend.”

NOTHING’S CHANGED MA. STILL SURFIN’ THE WEB LOOKING FOR THAT WIFEY DICK.

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Her only goal every day is “Be 7 years-old” and she’s doing just fine. #selfieinception

56. James Is Down For Fat Dudes

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So I am back to online dating. It’s an interesting topic to talk about, because when I mention it in a conversation, I can see people actually get embarrassed for me. I literally see them blush. Sometimes they even ask me to repeat myself, as if they can’t believe that I actually just confessed that not only am I looking for a (sexual) partner in crime but that I’m doing it using a social media app. People get squeamish when I bring it up as if I’m casually discussing how I like to fingerpaint with my terds or that I like to drink all fluids through my anus. I was unaware that online dating was supposed to be a taboo topic, and I don’t really understand why it would be. I mean, isn’t everyone secretly hoping to magically find a mate? Why is it wrong to talk about it? I’m the same as everyone else except that I’m not choosing to wait with bated breath and fingers crossed for someone to come into my life; I’m actively pursuing it. Plus it’s a great way to meet people that I wouldn’t encounter organically in the real world. My friends could all set me up with their other single pals, but then I’m inevitably dating somebody’s sloppy seconds. And do I really need to date another actor? ABSOLUTELY NOT. So this is a useful means for me to meet people outside of my social circle. I’m not the type of person who’s going to go out to a bar to meet someone, because I don’t really drink/ I hate bars. My friend asked me, “James, why don’t you just go to a bar, drink club soda and talk to people? That way you can meet someone in real life!” Well, I could do that, but then I couldn’t be upset later on when I discovered that this person was an alcoholic. Or if we became an item and they asked me to meet them at a bar for a night of heavy drinking, I would have to explain two things to them:
1) I shut down when I go to bars because I feel like a piece of meat, and as a result I stare at everyone with dead eyes a la Carrie right before she murders everyone at the prom.
2) I only was at that bar in the first place, because I was on the prowl, lurking for prey to snag.
But mostly… do lasting relationships start in bars? Or do you just take someone home to go buck wild for the night? #fuckbeingpolite

So online dating. I’ve done it a few times so I know how this goes. Clearly, I’ve never had a lasting relationship from Tinder, OKCupid, etc. but I’m willing to try it again. This time I’m trying something other than Tinder though, because that was a debacle for me. Let me explain Tinder really quickly to those that are unfamiliar: Tinder is a dating app. You upload like six pictures of you looking the BEST you’ve ever looked in your entire life, and you write a short blip about yourself that makes you sound casual, irresistible and clever with the LEAST amount of characters possible. The app then uses your GPS, and it shows you the profiles of people who are near you. It then presents you with a match, you look at their pictures, you read their info, and then you swipe “yes” or “no”. If you both swipe “yes”, the app allows you to message each other. Then a storybook romance ensues. Tada! Back to the story: The first time I had Tinder, I deleted it because it was giving me anxiety. A few months later I was convinced that I would be able to use Tinder while also keeping a tight-fisted grasp on my sanity, so I downloaded it for a second time. This time, I gave myself some guidelines. At first, I told myself, “James, hello, it’s James. How are you? Lonely? Perfect. So. Here are your rules: We will only do five swipes per day. Got it?” I did that for a while, but then I realized these guidelines were too strict to really yield me any viable options. So then I modified my rules and said, “James, you can swipe until you swipe ‘yes” to five different people.” Still, I found those rules to be too rigid so then I told myself that I could have unlimited swipes for five minutes per day. Well, friends, you can probably guess that it took a remarkably short period of time for this situation to escalate out of control. Eventually, I reached a point where I was waking up randomly in the middle of the night, grabbing my phone and swiping until I passed out again. But I really knew I had hit rock bottom when one night at 3:00 AM I was swiping deliriously with a blazing madness glowing in my half-open eyes, and all of a sudden Tinder told me, “You have no more available matches in your area.” Well that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Or DOES IT?! Do you know what Tinder was actually saying to me?? “Hey, freak. You live in New York City, one of the most populated cities in the United States, and you have swiped through EVERY GAY MAN IN MANHATTAN. You should be ashamed of yourself, you psycho bastard! So put your phone away, cuddle up with your shame, flip over your drool-drenched pillow and go the fuck back to sleep. In the meantime, I’ll be…’refreshing matches in your area.”

I haven’t made up with Tinder since then. Instead I’m trying a different dating app now, but I can’t help replaying in my mind a certain situation that played out a few times while I was on Tinder. On multiple occasions, I met up with people who were 20 pounds heavier than they were in their pictures. Listen, I’m not upset at you for being heavy. Honestly, I’d rather date someone who has some meat on them than someone who is just a bag of bones; I’m a big guy, and I’d like to be with someone who is also of great physical substance. Seriously, dudes, if I look at you and there’s even the slightest inkling within me that if I lay on top of you that you will stop breathing and cease to exist, I’m not down. You’ve gotta be able to support my body weight without eking our your last wheezy breaths. Let me reiterate: I’m not mad at you for being a big boy; but I am upset that you felt like you needed to misrepresent yourself in order to be found desirable. I’m mad at you, bro! I’m mad that you felt like you needed to bamboozle me into thinking you were skinnier in order to get a date. Look, maybe I’ve never been overweight, but I know what it feels like to hustle for worthiness. I know what it feels like to conceal the undesirable and seemingly unlovable parts of myself in an effort to woo somebody. I know what it feels like to seek approval from others before giving myself permission to love me. I have my own shit of which I am ashamed, but if I make a big deal out of those things, I give them the power to become the Kim Jong-un of my life! If I allow shame to become my supreme leader I will always be thinking, ‘What will this dude think when he discovers this shameful thing about me that I’ve tried so hard to hide but still exists within me, making me unworthy of love?’ NO! NO NO NO NO NO! No! Let me speak to the weight issue specifically: skinny is NOT synonymous with “attractive and lovable” and fat is NOT synonymous with “unpretty and undesirable”. I think Kevin James is so fucking handsome. I have the biggest fucking crush on Zach Galifianakis AND Seth Rogen, just the way they are! You don’t have to be someone else in order for me to love you, and that is the root of the problem. The problem isn’t that you’re fat or that you’ve misrepresented yourself; the problem is that you aren’t confident that what you have to offer is plenty and that confidence alone would make you sexy as fuck. And that’s what frustrates me.

Everyone has body struggles. I know. But I also know that sometimes being overweight is genetic, and for some people it will be a lifetime struggle. But I THINK YOU’RE HOT RIGHT NOW. Not just cute. Not just adorable. BUT HOT. And I am WAY more likely to swipe “yes” to someone who is thick than someone who’s a stick. So please know that and just show me you. Show me the real you. Because YOU, just the way you are, ARE WORTHY OF LOVE AND BELONGING.

Big boy, you are beautiful.

#dontgiveup

JAMES

“Yeah, this one is for my bitches with a fat ass in the fucking club.”
~”Anaconda” by Nicki Minaj

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Here. I’ll be me, the Christmas llama, as long as you be you, whoever you are.

 

55. James Is Not That Kind Of Gay

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So I’ve been realizing lately that I’m a bit different than many of the gays around me. Let me give a few examples:

Sex Parties: Someone was telling me about this sex party that they attended. My first question was, “Now… what makes this party a ‘sex’ party? Does everyone wear party-hats on their wieners? Does everyone use glitter as lube? Does everyone throw confetti when they ejaculate? Or like…. Ooooooh, a sex party; like sexuality, like a celebration of the broad spectrum of sexuality where all persons are all welcome? Oh okay, I’m down!” But then I was informed as to what a sex party really is. This same friend, recovering from the all-night sex party, said, “I am so full of cum that I could vomit.”

My response was a long silence followed by some very violent vomiting. I could not relate to the way my friend was feeling, but, using my powers of empathy, I’m assuming he felt similar to the way I do at the end of a free buffet dinner or when I’m at the movie theater alone finishing my third bucket of popcorn. Also, I know someone else who went to a sex party and got some juice in their eye! And no, I’m not talking about fruit punch… although it was technically punch from a fruit, if you catch my drift. Listen, I don’t need to be losing my damn eye sight for no sex! And I definitely don’t need to be basted like a Thanksgiving turkey until stuffing is pouring from every orifice! I mean, my thirst is real, but DAMN, y’all! A Costco-sized package of Gatorade couldn’t QUENCH your thirst; that’s how real it is!!! I applaud you all on your bravery and sexual gumption, but I just couldn’t! I would be asking everyone if they’d been tested recently while they impatiently pistol-whipped me with their peepees. Or asking everyone if they had a pleasant day while they hurriedly put on their… “party hats”. It’s just not my scene. But party on, friends!

Grindr: Okay. So I have never had a Grindr ever. Ever. If you are unfamiliar with Grindr because you are so old you sneeze dust or you don’t have a smartphone because you’re afraid the government is tracking your every move, Grindr is this app for gay dudes who want to get laid. You make a profile, the app uses your location and shows you where the closest horny gay dude is. It literally tells you how many feet away they are from your current position. And then you can message each other and meet up and then pound each other like you’re tenderizing a chicken breast. Or whatever. So this is all secondhand knowledge, because I’ve never had it. Again, it freaks me out. So I made a Gay explain it all to me a la Clarissa:

I said, “So, do they just come over and you just bone?”
He said, “Sometimes.”
“Wait, please explain it to me. Like, do you have a conversation when they come over? Or do you just get naked and wrestle like sweaty pigs?”
“It really depends. Sometimes they come over, I’ll ask about their day and then we’ll go to my room and turn off the lights and then do it. And then sometimes they just come over, we say hi and then go to my room.”
“But like, afterwards… do you keep talking? Like, do you see them again?”
“Eh, sometimes. But most of the time I don’t talk to them again.”

Well, I clearly couldn’t grasp this concept. I can only imagine how this would go for me…

I would invite them over with a message FULL of inappropriate emoticons, including, but not limited to, the poopie emoji. When they got to the door, I would try to greet them with a kiss. Remembering that that is an inappropriate greeting for a hookup situation, I would play it off by biting their ear while honking on their dick too hard. They would gasp in pain, and I would smile back seductively, not knowing that a piece of their earlobe is stuck in my front teeth. I would try to take their coat to hang it up. But they would be confused by my generosity so I would overcompensate by throwing their coat into the kitty litter over my shoulder. The cat (that I don’t own) would promptly shit all up on it. I would slowly lead them to my room, stubbing my toe a minimum of three times. Limping into my dark room, I would close the door behind them. I would be too eager in the pitch black, and I would attack them with kisses, attaching myself like a koala bear going in for some juicy eucalyptus. Of course, it would take me a minute to realize that I was making out with the coat rack. I would recover by crawling all sexy over to them. I would try to pull their pants down, but they would confuse me for my feral cat and they would kick me in the face. I would lose conscious for 5 minutes, tops. Eventually, we would make it to the bed, and it would be so, so, so….awful. So awful. I would accidentally say, “I love you,” a few times, and I would try to cover it up by giggling their name aloud. But there’s no way I’d remember their name. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m positive that I would call them one of my ex-boyfriend’s names anyway. They would look perplexed so I would make some very scary, guttural gorilla sounds to simulate me reaching climax. But it would suddenly hit me how bad I wish this person flopping on top of me would just love me. I would burst into ugly tears with all the snot a la Viola Davis in the movie version of Doubt. I wouldn’t want them to know that I was crying, so I would tell them that my face is ejaculating and that it’s a New Age thing. It would finally end. There would be a deafening silence while the wreckage from our colossal car crash smolders on the abandoned highway before anyone’s registered what’s really happened. I’d be covered in snot, tears and regret; he’d be covered in… “fruit punch”. I would ask if he wanted to stay and watch a movie. He would try to make a hasty exit. I would try to salvage it by wooing him with my singing, but the only song I would be able to remember the words to would be “I Can’t Make You Love Me”. He would run out the door with his shoes in his hands while I howled out my sad ballad, the whole time my imaginary cat peeing on my face in an effort to make me shut the hell up. And I would lie there, staring at the ceiling, smelling like ammonia, wondering if I could get a second “date” with that mysterious man who left me alone with my persnickety pussy.

I can’t do casual sex. I can’t. I would be terrible at it. I’ve actually tried it. I’m pretty sure I cried. I just want something substantial. I feel that there was a window of opportunity that I could’ve learned to be good at relationships based on sex, but I don’t want that anymore. I want some sort of stability in my hectic life. My whole career is based on flexibility. Sometimes I have less than a week’s notice to prepare for an audition and to find someone to cover my shift at work. Most theater gigs happen outside of New York for just a few months.  I leave my job and all my relationships to learn an entire show and cultivate brand new friendships in an excruciatingly short period of time. I’m grasping at stability like straws, man. I’m already bopping around from city to city and relationship to relationship for my career; I can’t be hopping around from dick to dick, too. I would love to be with the same dick for an extended period of time. Like a long time. Like, 3 weeks or so… Or 3 months. Whatever, I’ll take whatever.

I’m 25, man. I don’t wanna do the “sexually adventurous” thing. That’s not my gig. I wanna do the “go to dinner and smile across the table” thing. The last time I went to a gay bar, I pushed a dude who tried to grind up on me. Perhaps if he had presented me with a rose, I would’ve responded with more courtesy. But instead, he decided to rub his weird little boner all over my leg, and my Hulk rage took over. I’m not that kind of gay. I’m looking for somebody to stick around and have dinner. Or go walking. Or just be my friend who I have sex with. Repeatedly. Isn’t that what a relationship is, a best friend that you have sex with? I mean, we can turn it into a sex party. As long as it’s just the two of us. I’ll bring a cake. No, I’ll bring three cakes; one for me, one for him and one emergency cake. And we’ll eat our respective cakes, and then just have sex with each other. Or we can sleep off our sugar hangovers. And we won’t do the Grindr but we can grind—Never mind. That’s just filthy, James.

I’m just not those things. I’m this thing. And I’m totally okay with that. I’m sure there’s another gay out there who is horrified by the thought of a sex party that doesn’t have an emergency cake…

And I’m gonna find you.

#dontgiveup

JAMES

“I could tell you was fantasizing that you would come slide in me and confide in me.”
~”Buy a Heart” by Nicki Minaj (feat. Meek Mill)

55.2

I wanted to use this really cute picture of my grandparents when they were younger, but I realized that I talked about someone vomiting out cum…. so it didn’t feel appropriate.

 

53. James Struggles With Authenticity

Standard

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

#dontgiveup

JAMES

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