I survived my first-ever WYSIWYG Talent Show! I stressed out majorly before going on but I really had a great time up on that stage. I think my story went over well. Um, I also think that there's a whole new crop of people out there who think I'm a complete bitch based on my scathing critique of dates gone bad, but hey, them's the breaks. People are bound to find out sooner or later that I'm a real asswipe, no?A big thank you to Chris, Andy and Dan for allowing me to get my WYSIWYG on. It was an honor and a pleasure to share the spotlight with Rod Townsend, The Spinster, Greg Walloch, dj:ayden, Joe.My.God and Joel Derfner. What illustrious company I keep!!! Thank you so much for the opportunity. You were all amazing!
For those of you who couldn't make it, here's the piece I read last night:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Thanks to everyone who came out to support me. Last night was a whirlwind so if I didn't get to properly thank you face-to-face, I promise I will do so. Extra special thanks to The Lovely Jess who served as therapist, cheerleader, wardrobe consultant, personal manager and so much more. You're the best. Thank you.
Sometime last year, my fellow WYSIWYGer tonight, Joe.My.God, sent an email to a bunch of us homo bloggers and posed the question: What is the gayest thing you've ever done?
I thought it would be easy enough to answer. After all, I'm one of The Homosexuals and therefore can easily rattle off a list of things that make me a big ol' lez.
For one, there's the whole aversion to cock thing. Secondly... actually, wait... I guess that right there makes it an open and shut case, no? I don't like dick. Simple.
But believe you me, there are a litany of ways in which I earn my Sapphic stripes so I felt like I was more than up to Joe.My.God's challenge... until I started trying to write about it. As I sifted through my memories trying to find something that demonstrated my over-the-top dykedom, I couldn't find shit. I had not a single, salacious story to share so I just ended up slapping together some lame nonsense about the overly-schmoopie things my ex-girlfriend and I used to do for each other.
For example, she wrote me tons of free-verse poetry and gave me lots of dolphin brick-a-brack and in exchange, I adopted us a whale and made her dozens of mix tapes which, in retrospect, were quite heavy on the 10,000 Maniacs. Now, that might seem like an odd and incongruous musical choice but it was a two-pronged approach really. I felt like I could not only woo this girl with some of Natalie Merchant's more syrupy lyrics, but I could also raise her level of awareness of things like child abuse, illiteracy, corporate greed, the Great Depression, teenage pregnancy, freedom of choice and oil spills.
But, as I fully expected, my less-than-tawdry tale barely ranked as queer next to some of the others in Joe's compilation. And I'm not sure how my account tonight will stack up on the Way Gay meter so, instead of trying to outgay anyone, I'm opting instead to stick with what I know best -- making fun of people.
So, without further ado...
I went out with a woman last year and how do I put this delicately? I banged her on the second date. A day or two later, after said banging, I received an email from her that went a little something like this:Curly,OH.MY.GOD. I wasn't even that freaked out by the level of intimacy she had assumed about us. No. No. I was more concerned that I had just fucked someone who actually used the term "making love" in all seriousness. As well as the word "lover." Without irony. Or a funny accent.
I just wanted to thank you for the other night. It was wonderful spending time with you... and making love with you. You are a gifted and amazing lover.
Now lest you think I'm an ingrate, I must say that I appreciate a nice thank you note as much as the next person but well, in this case it's a bit unnecessary. The screaming orgasms -- note the plural -- and the scratch marks down my back were all the thanks I needed, really.
About two years ago, while perusing the online personals, I came across an intriguing profile. I was immediately taken with her cool name. It was the same name as a rather crunchy city in Arizona, which I just assumed was where she was born or conceived or something. Actually, I had envisioned quite the back story for this woman based solely on this name. I theorized that her parents were hippy-dippy academics and she was their free-spirited daughter who favored peasant blouses, flowing skirts and bare feet and probably always had a good stash of weed on hand.
We hit it off over email and agreed to a date. I was really looking forward to meeting her. I arrived first and nervously waited for the beautiful hippie of my imagination to appear. I was all atwitter over the possibilities.
A few minutes later, in bounds a woman with stringy brown hair, pale, dull skin and the same build and carriage as Jar Jar Binks.
When she thrust out a bony hand and introduced herself to me, my heart which was so puffed up with hope and expectation deflated and shot around the room like an unsealed balloon.
Instead of the envisioned bare feet and a flowing skirt, she was wearing lug-soled shoes that were far too large and clunky for the tapered-ankle high-waisted Mom jeans she was wearing. And in place of the delicate peasant blouse was a thick black Champion sweatshirt. Actually, I could tell it used to be black but by now, it was more of a charcoal gray because of age and repeated exposure to detergent.
And there was no killer weed to be found on this girl. The only type of drug paraphernalia on her was an EpiPen. Turns out, this chick was allergic to her own snot. And her allergies were so bad, she couldn't risk eating or drinking anything that she didn't prepare herself so she brought a small cooler bag containing quite the nut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free assortment. Oh, and some orange shit in a Poland Spring bottle that I didn't even want to know about. And then she offered me some of her hypoallergenic stash with the same ease and expectation as if she was offering me an Altoid.
The outlook was not good but I held out hope for some stimulating conversation. I don't know what I was thinking. There was a better chance of monkeys flying out both our butts. Actually, that's probably not the best choice of expression because knowing her allergies, monkeys flying out the butt was probably a side effect she suffered as a result of eating, I don't know... soy or something.
So, needless to say that stimulating conversation never quite materialized. Instead, she spent most of the time talking about her various reactions in gruesome and excruciating detail as well as the life-saving benefits and properties of epinephrine. Um, in case you were wondering, talking about anaphylaxis on a first date? Soooooooooo NOT hot.
But her name still interested me so once I got her to stop yapping about her freakish swelling and violent vomiting spells, I inquired about its origin. It turns out that after one visit to, uh... for the sake of protecting her identity, we'll call it... uh, I don't know, Flagstaff... she decided that she liked the "energy fields" and the "unique aura." So much so that she needed to rechristen herself... Flagstaff.
Now, I don't know about the rest of you but when I really like a place I visit, I just buy myself a nice magnet or a coffee cup or something. Granted, I realize I don't have much sway in arguing against renaming oneself as I stand before you as Curly McDimple (not my real name) but then again, I'm not demanding that family, friends, coworkers and random people I meet on Nerve address me as such. Uh, just you guys here.
And the thing is, Flagstaff's real name was, like, Elizabeth or whatever. And well, the whole thing is just silly especially when you consider that there's a perfectly good city bearing her Christian name right across the Hudson over here. I mean, one could argue that Elizabeth, New Jersey also possesses "energy fields" and a "unique aura." Sure, the "energy fields" will most likely give you inoperable cancer and that "unique aura" possesses a smell that's akin to a dirty diaper hitting you in the face shit-side up, but still, Elizabeth's not without its charms.
I didn't always rely on online dating. When I first came out, I tried to meet people the old-fashioned way. I enlisted the help of my dear friend from high school, Filomena. Unfortunately, I think she took the whole "old-fashioned" thing a little too literally. In one of my first ventures out into the scene, she took me to a dance... sponsored by SAGE.
For you breeders in the audience, that acronym stands for Senior Action in a Gay Environment. In other words, it's for old people. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but massive amounts of gratitude and respect for our elder statesmen. I just don't necessarily want to slow dance to "Always and Forever" with them.
And while I really appreciated Filomena's efforts, it was just a bit much for my first time out. Seriously, we were there not five minutes before a woman closely resembling Leather Tuscadero hit on me. And then right after that, Donna Summer's English-version remake of that Andrea Bocelli song blared from the sound system much to the delight of the aging throngs and it suddenly turned into motherfucking Soul Train in there. I saw one old lady using her walking stick as a go-go pole of sorts and a bunch of old biddies engaged in some hard-core bumping and grinding and I got all overwhelmed and started to cry right there in the middle of the dance floor. So we left.
But Filomena was trying to be supportive and didn't want the night to be a total wash so she suggested that we go to Rubyfruit but then she couldn't remember where it was and I had never been there so I was of no use, so after wandering around the West Village aimlessly for a bit, we just went home. In retrospect, it was a good thing because I've since been to Rubyfruit and the clientele is not that much younger than at a SAGE dance. In fact, there's a lot of demographic overlap.
I finally braved Rubyfruit about a year or two ago and it looked like a fucking softball clinic in there. One woman gestured to me and I wasn't clear if she wanted me to dance with her or lay down a nice bunt. Had we gone there that night after the dance, I would have been permanently scarred. Primarily because a lot of the women in there looked like Ms. Neuschwander, our scary freshman-year gym teacher who favored polo shirts tucked into pleated, khaki shorts and was prone to slapping young girls on the ass as they got on and off the pommel horse.
So, after all my name-calling and ridiculing is said and done, it should perhaps come as no surprise to you that yes, I'm still single. Yup, I'm available and ripe for the picking, ladies. Not sure that's an enticing proposition because by now you might be thinking I'm judgmental, a bit immature, a tad obnoxious, slightly shallow perhaps, emotionally stunted even. And to that I say... uh, well, nothing, because you're right.
But hey, I'm not without merit entirely. My time is up so I can't go into my finer points at length. But allow me to leave you all with these four words: GIFTED AND AMAZING LOVER.
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