Tag Archives: jamesfollowshisdreams

65. James Stays the Same if You Do the Same


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)






53. James Struggles With Authenticity


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

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

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

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

So I’ve been having this struggle lately:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. I’ve learned that communication is vital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



50. James Gets Fingered In Public


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



47. James is Josie Grossie


I don’t necessarily want to even write this right now, because right now I wish I didn’t have this to write about.

I was watching the most recent episode of Girls today (Season 3, Episode 11 “I Saw You”), and by the end of the episode I was extremely frustrated. Caity was sitting on the other couch, and she paused her TV show to ask me, “Are you okay?” And I responded with, “WHY CAN’T ANYTHING GO RIGHT FOR ANYONE?! WHY CAN’T THEY JUST GET WHAT THEY WANT?!” I shrieked and ranted for a while longer until I reached a crescendo, and then I laid my head down on the couch. And I cried.

You have probably deduced by now that I was not just upset about Girls.

Alright, hoes, buckle up for story time.

I went on a spontaneous date. This person invited me out to get a milkshake at 1:30 AM. Um, anyone who knows me knows that I am ALWAYS down for disrespecting my body with artificial sugars, but anytime past midnight is BEDTIME. He asked me twice; the first time I said no, and the second time I said yes. We had milkshakes, and then we went and sang karaoke for each other until four in the morning. I DON’T DO KARAOKE. I hate karaoke. I think I’m a great singer, but I don’t think karaoke meshes well with me; I sound awful. But I sang “The Nearness of You” (the Norah Jones version), and he watched me the whole time. When I finished, he stood up, walked over to me, kissed me and said, “I could listen to you sing all day.” Well, then I died. After I died, we walked the streets of Manhattan until 5 AM. I got home at 6 AM, and I went to bed all aglow. Absolutely one of the most magical dates of my entire life.

This is the conversation we had while we waited for my subway to arrive:
Him: You should sleep over.
Me: No way.
Him: Why?
Me: Because then we’ll have sex.
Him: No, we won’t.
Me: Yes, we absolutely will.
Him: No, I don’t want to have sex with you.
Me: Well, that’s rude and you should never say that to anybody.
Him: No, I mean, I do but not tonight.
Me: Well. I’m still not spending the night.
Him: Are you always this much of a gentleman?
Me: No. Depends on the person.
Him: What do you mean?
Me: Well, if I don’t really care about seeing them again then I’ll probably mess around with them. But, if I want it to go somewhere, I don’t want to mess it up by having sex right away.
Him: I get that.

AWESOME; I told him this disgusting truth about myself and he understood. Just. Awesome..

We hung out the next night, but it was significantly less magical. He said he wasn’t feeling well, so I forgave him for being weird.

The next day he didn’t respond to my texts. A couple days later, I texted him again; no response.

And I was cool about it for a while; I decided to be cool: ‘Oh, he’s totally busy!’ ‘Oh, I totally don’t care about it, either way. Whatever is fine with me!’ ‘Oh, I totally just want to be friends so, like, when a friend gets busy, I totally don’t mind.’

That plan was going really well until today I realized that it was NEVER GOING WELL.
And that’s when I cried on my couch.

This is what frustrates me:

I DON’T KNOW THIS PERSON!! Why do they make me cry?? Why does this stranger make me question all these things about myself that I once believed whole-heartedly: ‘Wait….am I attractive?? Am I awesome?? Would I do me?? Am I fun to be around??’ I don’t like feeling like there are certain parts of myself that I should have edited for our first date. And why the fuck do I care so much?? I mean, this person clearly doesn’t care about me so why do I care about him?? Oh, because I’m sensitive. I know being sensitive is a beautiful thing, but it feels like such a burden; I have a very hard time loving this part of myself; I struggle with loving the part of me that is so easily wounded by a stranger; I struggle with loving the part of me that hopelessly hopes that this is still going to go somewhere, the hopelessly hopeful part of me that deletes his number from my contacts but then SAVES IT in a note on my iPhone. WHY, JAMES?! WHY?! You should just let dead things die, ok? Kapeesh?

Love makes me unstable. I go gaga for the Love. But right now, I’m at the end of a NOTHING, and I’m experiencing symptoms of heartbreak. I can’t sleep. I’m kept awake with thoughts like: ‘What did I do wrong? What did I say?’

Caity says I shouldn’t be self-blamey. She’s probably right, but I can’t ignore that part of me that keeps saying, “James, you should know better. This is your fault. You pick the messy ones, and you dive in head-first. You run full-speed towards a dirty bomb with your arms wide open and you expect to walk away not only unscathed but happy? In the words of Yara Sofia: “Pull jourself together, darlin’.” And it’s not like I’m a blameless victim; I’ve done shitty things to people who were into me in the past. I can’t help feeling like this is my comeuppance.

More than anything, I wish this whole thing didn’t happen. I opened myself up to someone who deceived me into thinking they were someone that they’re not. I know there’s something beautiful about being vulnerable and putting yourself out there, but there’s something awful about feeling the egg on your forehead drip down into your eyes.

I feel like this:
47.1Josie Grossie. I am Josie Grossie. (Never Been Kissed with the incomparable Drew Barrymore)

I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to feel like the cute football jock played a prank on me by pretending that he liked me. I don’t want people to feel bad for me. I don’t want to remember any of it. I delete this motherfucker’s number every other day. Every time I see our text thread, I delete it because I can’t help but see myself as an over-eager loser.

I really want this to all go away. I would love to be able to just pluck this whole memory out my head and light it on fire. I wish that someone would just conk me on the head and I would forget everything that’s happened in the past week.

Usually at 11:11 I make a wish for people in my life in need, but lately I just keep wishing to be better equipped to deal with this. Because I have no idea how to deal with this, which is extremely unusual for me. I have rules and plans and guidebooks for every situation. Break-ups? A CINCH. I know how those go; I could do it blindfolded. The timeline of how a relationship should go in my mind? After 3-6 months: I love you. After 2 years: move in. After 3-5 years: get married. BAM. But HOW do I deal with someone convincing me that they’re SO into me and then not speaking to me? Oh, and for the record, this human is still living and breathing cuz I just saw/spoke to him. So, he’s not dead which is quite possibly the ONLY allowable excuse.

I just wanted something to go my way. I know that makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but in these past few months I’ve really been struggling. Last year was the first year in my entire 24 years of existence that I not only missed Thanksgiving but also Christmas. I’ve been with my family for both of those holidays for my entire life. But last year I had work conflicts so I couldn’t go home. Then my grandmother passed away in January, and I didn’t get to say goodbye. That was really hard for me. And it still makes me fall apart. Like when I was watching Girls: Why can’t these characters have it easy for a few seconds? Why couldn’t I have gone home and spent one last Thanksgiving with my grandmother? Why can’t this guy just like me? Of course this stupid boy dissing me is much less painful that the unexpected passing of my grandmother, but it all hurts. It all hurts. I’m a Cancer. It all hurts.

I’m trying really hard to integrate the Four Agreements into my life. Right now, I’m working on taking nothing personally. I’ve been working on this for a couple months. It’s extremely difficult. But following in this practice, I have tried to see everything through his point-of-view. And I get it; he was lonely, I was there, I fulfilled his momentary need, he went home, realized that he didn’t want anything serious and he proceeded to push me out. That’s all fine. I get it. But. Be a fucking man for fuck’s sake and tell me you’re not interested. I even gave him an easy exit. I texted him: “One question. Are the dates over? It’s fine, either way, just let me know.”

….no response.

God, nothing gets me hard like a coward.

Maybe this is something that Unavailable Gay New Yorkers do. A friend of mine said that he had gone a couple of amazing dates with a guy, and then the guy just stopped communicating with him. Maybe this is a thing? Is this something I need to get used to. Because there is no way I can do that.

I’m an intelligent guy; I’m good at taking a step back and seeing the big picture. I understand that someday this moment won’t be so painful. I understand that someday I’ll be grateful for this occurrence. I understand that I didn’t do anything wrong; all I did was open myself up to an assassin in disguise. I understand that vulnerability is necessary and, ultimately, beautiful; I’m just waiting for it to feel beautiful.

I would like to reiterate that this guy isn’t a terrible person; he just isn’t mine.

“I can take so much
‘Til I’ve had enough.”
~”Only Human” by Christina Perri



38. James Waits Tables and Flashes Nipple


Y’all. I haven’t flashed a nipple….yet. BUT I WOULD. Cuz I work hard for the money.

So let me just rewind a little bit.

I haven’t blogged in awhile. And I’ve been feeling super lost lately. But tonight, I helped this young lady carry her two heavy suitcases up two flights of stairs today and I thought, ‘This is me.’ So I’m trying to get back to me. I’m gonna start blogging every day again. Perhaps this blog project will end when I am successful artistically. Until then, I will be blogging about my life and my trials and tribulations, Jesus, until I get there. So what I’m trying to say is: this blog may be a little rickety. Like a dick pulled out of a dirty butthole, I’m a little rusty. So please bear with me.

Back to the hot mess that is my life:

I’m not telling you what restaurant I work at. But I will tell you it is in New York City. It is near Times Square. We get lots of tourists. We get lots of foreigners who pretend to not be able to read and pretend to not know about tipping.

Ok. So. If you’ve never waited tables, you better THANK GOD. But. You also be a nice fucking person. Because if you HAVE waited tables, then you have dealt with the rudest of bitches, and you know how awful people can be. You know that people can make you feel like less than a person. If you’ve waited tables ever, this is me giving you a long-distance hug. Or a long-distance blow-job. Whatever would be more comforting for you. If you plan on waiting tables in NYC: this is the blog for you. If you never plan on waiting tables but you constantly hear how waiting tables helps you be a more appreciate person: this is the blog for you.

First: tips for people who want to make tips.

1) When there is a party of at least 6: ADD THE FUCKING GRATUITY. For most restaurants, when there is a party of 6 or more, you can add gratuity to the bill automatically. I say: ADD IT. I don’t care if you think the table is gonna tip you more than the automatic gratuity (also known as “auto-grat”). ADD IT. Cuz I have been fucked (in the bad way) by tables that I trusted. You’re not waiting tables to make friends; it’s business. So be a good businessperson. And make dat paper. You gotta take care of you. Add the grat.
2) Don’t take it too seriously. It’s just food. And your table is just a table of crabby bitches that you’ll never see again. Don’t run. Don’t pull a James and cry in the kitchen when you can’t find clean glassware. Take a deep breath, find the object that most resembles a cup, and deliver it to your table with the sexiest, toothiest smile you’ve got, baby. It’s just a job. And if you get fired, you’ll just get another one that makes you less suicidal.
3) Be nice. To everyone. The nicer you are to the bartender, the faster your drinks get made. The nicer you are to the food runners, the faster your food gets delivered. The nicer you are to the busser, the cleaner your tables are. The nicer you are to the host, the better your section is maintained. The nicer you are to the manager, the more accommodating they are to your fucked-up schedule. The nicer you are to your table, THE MORE YOU CAN MAKE IT RAIN AT THE END OF THE NIGHT. It’s money.
4) Do what it takes to make that paper. Flirt. Just flirt. I don’t care how nasty your table is. I get foul people all the time. And they flirt. But girl, it’s MONEYSSSSSSS. No, I don’t want to suck your dick. I don’t even want to smell it. But I will pretend that I do because I know you’re gonna leave me a bigger tip. Do what it takes y’all. It’s business. Waiting tables can be soul-sucking. But you can also make really good money. Is it worth it? It’s up to you. But in the meantime  put your dignity in a box and play the game. And pull out a nipple. Or a ball. Whatever makes your table wet.
5) Make your table feel special. Try to accommodate their special requests. And when you do, make it know that you went out of your way. Say something like, “I’m not supposed to do this but…. here you go.” Or, “Don’t tell on me! Sh!” They love it. They love feeling special. And they might even leave you a few extra dollars.
6) Look pretty. It may not be right. But it’s business.
7) Ask for help. If you are slammed, ask another server for help. My manager’s have helped me before when I have suddenly exclaimed, “I’M DROWNING,” in the middle of a brunch shift. Ask the host not to seat you until you catch up and get out of the weeds.
8) Don’t steal from the tip pool. You may think it’s your money. But you’re fucking over everyone else. Cuz you may be keeping “your money” but you’re still getting all the money that the other servers are bringing in. You’re stealing from their pockets.

Alright. Here are a few pointers for people who go to restaurants:

1) Tip, god damnit. Your server is literally living off your tips. In NYC, the minimum wage for a server is $5/hr. I can’t live off that. You are literally paying their rent. Maybe it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. And when you don’t tip your server, you’re basically fucking them over. They basically just worked for you for free. And that’s not fair.
2) Here are a list of things that aren’t your server’s fault:
Your drink took too long to make
Your food is cold
You food has a hair in it
Your server has too many tables and doesn’t have enough time for you
There is no more champagne
There are no clean forks
You can’t take boxes home at an All You Can Eat
Your drink isn’t strong enough
Your food is taking too long
You don’t like how your food tastes
It’s not happy hour
Alright. Understood? So. If these are one of the reasons that you don’t tip your server, that’s wrong. Because unless your server sucked, there’s no reason for you to not tip.

3) Be a nice fucking person. Because I can shit in your food. And it’ll still taste delicious. Maybe you had a bad dinner experience. But I’ve been dealing with buttheads like you for 6 hours. So pull it together for like 30 minutes and be nice.
4) Don’t rip up your napkin into a million pieces and then leave it on the table. What the hell y’all? Literally. What the hell. It’s a mess. And I don’t have time to clean up after your strange obsession with shredding your soiled napkin into a million fluttery pieces. Just don’t do it. And if you do do it, clean it up. Eat it. I don’t care. At least you’ll shit it into a toilet in one confined mess.
5) Don’t grab your server. They will turn into the Hulk. Or they will move slower. Either way, you won’t like it…
6) Educate your friends about tipping . I was hanging out with a girl from France and she was about to leave the crappiest tip. I told her that 20% was appropriate. Her response: “TWENTY PERCENT?!?!?!?!?” Yes. Yes. So I’m glad I saved her server that day. TWENTY. If you’re eating in NYC: TWENTY. FUCKING. PERCENT. 15%??? Ok. Remember this: after you tip me, I have to share that money with the bartender, the food runner and the busser. So if you tip me 15%, you’re actually leaving me much, much less. TWENTY. Say it with me: TWEEENTTTTYYYYY. Because lately, I’ve been making about $13/hr waiting tables. That’s ridiculous for a server. Caterers make $20/hr and they don’t do ANYTHING. I should be making $30/hr AT LEAST. So. Pull it together. If you can’t afford twenty percent, don’t go out to eat. I’m sorry, it may hurt your feelings. But it’s business. And if you can’t afford to pay me for my services, go to McDonald’s. Boom. I said it. Drown your sorrows in a McFlurry. You may shit yourself on the way home, but at least you didn’t fuck me.

Alright. I hope you learned a lot. I hope you were touched by this. And if you weren’t, go touch yourself. I hope you giggled. I hope you farted. I hope you’re currently farting.

Fart away, you weird bitches.