Rainbortion (Part 1: Bad Homo, Stop Thinking With Your Dick)

I have been between boyfriends now for more years than I can count on one hand. I wish this was a reference to the longest threesome in the world, but it's not. I haven't dated anyone this millennium. I've only been seriously interested in about four people. I've been amusedly interested in about a quarter million people.

There are certain types of people I could find attractive than I would never date: married or already dating men, serial killers, Clay Aiken fans, roommates, ex-gays, slam poets. In the seven years I've been actively slamming, I've been attracted to several poets, but never even considered dating one. Fucking one, maybe, but even that has repercussions. Do I really want a poet with an asterisk in their name reading poems about the size of my cock? Do I really want to spend a year making every audience member uncomfortable as I graphically detail the way asterisk poet squeals when I slide my---No. Nobody wants to hear that (well, ok, maybe you sickos, but not a slam audience). So, I don't fuck or date poets. Never have. Sure, I slept with Steggy at least a dozen times, but we were both fully clothed and trapped in either hotel rooms, or other poets' guest bedrooms.

I don't fuck roommates because I've had enough drama with roommates as it is. And who wants to wake up with an eviction notice and a sword hovering over your midsection, your hot Gay roommate saying "It's either you or your cock. One of you needs to leave this house as soon as possible and never come back."? Maybe Steggy, but he'd just be role playing.

I don't fuck Clay Aiken fans because they have terrible taste in "music" and garish taste in performance art.

Serial killers just don't return my calls.

Married or dating men? No thanks. I prefer to alienate people with my personality, not adultery.

Dmitri and his boyfriend are coming into town in a few days to check out colleges. No, this is not the beginning of a "what should I do, he's dating, and I'm interested" blah blah blah post. He's dating someone, I'm over it. I'm just really grateful he's coming to town because I'm in a quandary.

I'm attracted to a slam poet. Not just any slam poet, a TERRIBLY BAD slam poet. And, it's worse. Not only is his writing mundane, he's incredibly annoying. He talks constantly about things he apparently knows nothing about. He refers to Livejournal as "leej". He treats being a part of an online community as real life, telling me about comments he made to some woman who tried to get into some snobby ratings community he's a part of. He's slept with and been dumped by asterisk boy, and both have them have spent hours explaining why things didn't work out: because terribly bad slam poet is annoying. Some "fat, annoying kid" hit on him at a show, and HE GAVE HIM HIS NUMBER. He then played me the depressingly passive-aggressive voicemails that the "fat, annoying kid" left on his cellphone. All this, and I've only hung out with him once! Clearly, I should start avoiding him, fling rubber bands and Corona Light (which is the most redundantly named beer ever, and he drinks it) bottles at him when he takes the stage. I mean, the obvious solution is to stay as far away from his as possible. So I invited him to dinner tonight.

Will someone please kill me? At the very least, point at me in the streets and say "Bad homo, stop thinking with your dick!"?

Dmitri? Cheerio? Celeste? (On second thought, Celeste and Sir Trick are joining me on my not-date tonight, so I'd probably benefit from her NOT shouting "Bad homo, stop thinking with your dick" during the meal. Though it would amuse my favorite bartender. Oh, and Theryk is NOT NOT NOT allowed to shout this from the mic next time he hosts the open.)

I desperately need someone's help. I just have this horrendous fear that he will be so annoying tonight that I'll have no choice but to take him home with me.

A Few Minutes In The Life Of A Fudge Packing Fool (Part 2: The Little Lesbian)

At some point during the fifteenth century, a bunch of European artists thought it would be a good idea to start a movement. Donatello sculpted saints. Michaelangelo sculpted naked adolescents and painted God on ceilings, among other things. Raphael obsessed over The Virgin Mother. Leonardo daVinci chronicled Jesus's dining habits. Five centuries later we celebrate their influence by paying absurd amounts of money to dress up in outdated clothes and talk in pigeon middle english. If we're too poor to afford that, we rent Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle DVDs.

I always imagined that The Renaissance was a fictional era created just for the purpose of pissing me off.

I attended a small private middle school where we spent several weeks of our mandatory Latin class discussing various Renaissance artists. My attempts to point out that Latin was spoken primarily B.C.E. and not seventeen centuries later were ignored. The following year, I returned to public school where our art teacher obsessed over the human versions of the TMNT. When confronted with the fact that there were other art movements throughout the course of history, she was often heard saying "Andy Warwho?" or "I think I've heard of Norman Rockwell, didn't he have something to do with Stonehenge?" After a year of the under funded over drugged public school, I went to a boarding school where my humanities teacher spent the first two months going over, you guessed it, Medieval history.

When I was at Sulfur City College, I made sure to avoid any class that mentioned the peasanty time period.

Why then, when I was free from the shackles of enforced American education, did I take a job selling fudge at a bloody Renaissance faire? Was I trying to match my poverty to a time period?

Whatever the reason, after two years of spending weekends and occasional week long vacations traveling the country peddling candy in parks, forests, museum gardens, and college campuses dressed in blue and purple tights, I had developed an intense hatred for thees, thous and sheep fucking jokes.

I had just finished training Cute Straight Boy on the finer points of not killing fat children who tried to steal lollipops, when he told me he'd gotten a job licking dog shit off asphalt or some other job that had slightly more dignity than renaissance faire fudge cutter.

"Dude. I thought you were going to help manage this stupid thing so I could take some time off."

"Sorry," he said, "It's a great business opportunity. Nobody there has ever stolen my keys, put it in their cleavage and asked me to remove it with my teeth."

"I thought you liked women's cleavage. Are you gay now?" I didn't succeed in convincing him to stay.

I spent the next day working with someone who I can only hope had been dropped on his head several times as a child. I racked my brains trying to think of who I knew that had low enough standards but high enough work ethic to hire as a replacement CSB (Cute Straight Boy for those who have trouble figuring out acronyms). No one. This was during the great unemployed cute boy drought of 99.

That night I decided to join the fair monkeys at a local bar. As much as I dreaded being surrounded by people who refused to change out of their personas in public, I liked the fact that they often bought me drinks. I was on my third Midori Sour when Erin approached me.

"Hey." She said. "What happened to your sidekick?"

"You mean CSB? He quit yesterday in order to take a job as an elephant gynecologist."

"Is he a vet or something?"

"No, he just likes sticking his head into gigantic vaginas."

"I see." She said in a tone that indicated that she didn't. "So are you looking to replace him?"

"Yea, do you know someone looking for a job?" I asked, trying unsuccessfully to restrain my glee.

It turned out that Erin wanted to quit her job at the face painting booth, but didn't want to quit the faire. Score! I told her she could start working with me as soon as she was ready.

She showed up the next day. I gave her the intense How To Resist The Urge To Throw The Fudgecutting Knife At No-Teeth Having Women Who Complain About The Size Of The Fudge training, and watched her interact with the rabble. She was great. She had a short temper that she accented with a sharp wit, and she knew how to smile while threatening to disembowel you. If she was a boy, I'd have been in love.

At the end of the second day, she offered to help me throw the tarp over the booth, and drive the unsold fudge back to my house, which was about a forty-five minute drive. "Are you sure?"

"Yea."

I packed each of our cars with fudge pans, and was about ready to take off when I noticed her pink triangle on the bumper. I couldn't say I was overly shocked. She was a tiny, buzz-cutted, sassy chick who played Ani Difranco CDs while we set up in the morning.

She smirked when she noticed me noticing her bumper sticker. "Yea, I'm gay."

"Cool. I figured."

"And it doesn't bother you?" Note to readers: I was not in any way, shape, or form out while I worked at the faire...too many aggressive unhygienic gay guys in kilts worked there.

"Why would your sexuality bother me? It doesn't effect how well you cut fudge. Dykes cut fudge just as well as straight boys."

"Dykes?" Uh-oh.

"I didn't mean it as an insult. I'm gay, I'm allowed." There, now we were on equal ground. We were each out to each other, and--

"You think I'm a girl?"

"I'm sorry, are you transgender?"

"No. I'm a boy."

"Boi. Like with an i?"

"No. Boy. Like with a penis."

Erin. Aaron. Short hair. Boyish face. "Oh. Wow, I'm really sorry, I thought..."

"I thought you hired me because you were trying to get in my pants." she said.

"No, I... you knew I was gay?"

"Yea, I saw the way you looked at CSB. And the only reason anyone would hire that meathead, Brent, is if they thought he was cute."

To be fair, I hired Brent because my boss made me. I've never had a thing for cute dumb guys. But I'd hired Aaron because I needed another employee. I'd even hired someone who I thought was a woman.

I tried to think of some way to gracefully turn the tide of this conversation. Not a single word came to mind.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/61352.html

The 47th Day

Wake up at noon. Shower. Put appropriate books and work clothes in my backpack. Get dressed. Check e-mail. Eat bagel. Drive to college. Park car. Walk to class. Alternate between paying attention and doing homework. Check e-mail from computer lab. Drive to work. Eat dinner. Throw on uniform. Earn money. When the restaurant closes, drink heavily. Return home. This was the routine for the first forty-five days after I drove Seith out of my life.

On the forty-seventh day, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed, turned, masturbated. Nothing. When seven o’clock rolled around, I conceded defeat, and went into the kitchen to make a bagel. On the way in, I turned on the TV. “Mourners are gathering for Matthew Shepherd who died at 12:53 this morning, nearly a week after...”

Apart from hearing his name mentioned in psychology class, and hearing someone at work mention the tragedy in Wyoming, I had no concept of who Matthew Shepherd was. On October 12th, 1998 that all changed. I didn’t go to class that day. Like most of my "alternative lifestyle" (actor) friends I went about making the tragedy of Matthew Shepherd something tangible. Something we could squeeze in our fists until it bled.

My name is Adam Stone. You might know me as InSafeMode, an all-too openly gay writer/pseudo-political activist. You probably think I can't leave the house without a cock in my mouth. The truth is, until October 12th 1998, only a handful of people knew my sexuality. Ok, a few handfuls if you counted the people I'd hooked-up with over The Internet. Since then I've become outspoken in a way that annoys a number of my Gay colleagues. I do things like use labels like gay and Gay.

I see men who like to love/sleep with men, and women who like to love/sleep with women as being gay. We don't let our sexuality define us anymore than our politics, our diets, our favorite Smurf. On the other side of the equation are people I consider Gay. They wake up in the Gay morning, eat their Gay Cheerios, put on their Gay Diesel jeans, and go about their Gay day, informing everyone who thinks differently than them that they're homophobic. While Gay people annoy the hell out of me, I'm glad they're out their doing what they need to do. There are obviously people in the world who need to hear "We're here, we're queer, don't be a homophobe, buy me a beer." I'm just not one of them.

I saw Shepherd's death as a time for reflection, and horror. Some people saw his death as an opportunity for rebellion against homophobic archetypes. Still others, like that demon "reverend" Phelps, saw it as an opportunity to spread a hateful agenda. He was as entitled to picket Matthew Shepherd's funeral, as I am to picket his when Satan finally comes to collect the withered prune that was once his soul. I'm all about freedom of choice.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/65552.html

Slow Flashes (Part 6: Hanging Out In Public)

Michael Christopher had a mouth like a sewage volcano. He knew how to swear in English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Dutch, Portuguese, Turkish, and Japanese. And thanks to the two weeks I'd spent hanging out with Deaf kids in summer camp, he know knew how to make ten dirty hand movements in American Sign Language. "You're a lot cooler than you were in elementary school." He said.

I was grateful for his approval. Mostly because in sixth grade, he'd made it a semi-weekly habit to beat the everliving shit out of me, for no other reason than beating the shit out of me was much more entertaining than not beating the shit out of me.

Somehow, in middle school, he'd transitioned from unpopular bully, to extremely popular bully. He'd earned the nickname The Saint, because he only beat up people who deserved it. It was kind of an honor to have him smack you upside your head. But, despite the fact that I was smaller, weaker, and had the social skills of a shaved rabbit in a beehive, he went out of his way to be nice to me.

A few weeks into the school year, his mom asked him to move a couch from the basement to the living room on the second floor. I had no concept of why he called me to help him out. I suspected subterfuge. When I got there Michael and Bird Dick were giggling up a storm. I suppressed my fight or flight instinct, and asked what they wanted me to do.

"I am so fucken high right now." Michael said. "We just" giggling "we just" giggling "oh, man, so fucken high."

I grabbed one end of the couch while Michael and Bird Dick grabbed the other. When the job was finished, Michael hugged me. "Thanks, deeeeeeeeeeewd, we totally fucken owe you one. We're gonna go out on the powerline paths and smoke some more sticky stuff. Wanna join us?"

I remembered that commercial where little Gary Coleman says "Say no. Then go. And tell." But I couldn't remember whether that was about drugs, sex, or getting into cars with strangers.

"Yea, but I've got a doctor's appointment tonight, and I can't go stinking of pot, you know?"

"That's cool." Michael said.

I waited for Bird Dick to make a comment, but he was too out of it to speak.

Michael giggled out a "Later deeeeeeeeeeewd."

Later that week, we had gym together. It was still warm enough that the teachers were making us go outside and play soccer or run track. We were supposed to come to class wearing our school clothes, change into shorts or sweatpants for class, then shower, and change back into our normal clothes when class ended. Only losers wore sweatpants in ninth grade, so we were expected to show up in shorts. Usually, I packed a clean pair in my backpack, but on this day, I'd forgotten. But, I remembered, Saint Michael 'owed me one'. "Hey, Saint, I forgot my shorts at home. Do you have a pair I could borrow?"

"Sure," Michael said, pulling his off, "take these." I turned away as quickly as possible. His ass was exquisite.

"Stop looking at his ass, you fucken cocksucker." Said one of Saint's sidekicks. "I'm going to pound the fuck out of you."

I balled up my fists. I knew I couldn't take them, but I was determined to fight as long as it took to save heterosexual face.

"Yea, Bruno." Michael said. "My ass is no entrada, viado."

Oh, they weren't talking to me. Bruno was a kid named Liam Brunelli who'd moved to Cranberry Lake from Chicago at the beginning of the school year. He was chubby and red faced. His head was too large for his body. And, at the moment, his too large head was being slammed into a locker by a member of Michael's meatheaded fan club. I decided to risk detention by wearing my jeans, and ran out of the locker room before anyone remembered me.

That weekend, my father decided to play a round of golf at the local country club, and I screwed around at the putting green and the driving range while he played. I was on the green when I saw Michael drive by on a cart. "Hey, Saint!" I shouted.

He drove the cart toward me. "What's up?"

"Not much. I didn't know you worked here."

"Yea," he said, looking in the direction of the clubhouse, "my dad owns it."

"Cool." I said. "Listen, they closed the boathouse at Davis Pond for the winter, and Kevin Harris and I were thinking of breaking in next weekend and having a party. I was thinking, if you wanted to come and bring some beer or whatever..."

Michael looked at the ground. "Look." And then he paused doom. "You're a lot cooler than you were before you went away to military school or wherever, but. Look. You've got to stop hanging out with that Harris kid. Jeremy says he's a total fucken froot loop who used to, like, grab Jeremy's junk when he was just a kid. I mean, you do plays and shit so, you know, I get that you're probably a fag, too, but you're at least cool about it. But if you spend any time hanging out with Kevin Harris where people can see you... I don't know how much longer people will talk to you."

I froze. Bird Dick. That stupid, crying, faggy...Bird Dick. I started to say "I'm not gay, you know." when I realized that Michael was already halfway to the clubhouse, and he didn't look too pleased with himself. A look I wore later that day, when I told Kevin Harris I wasn't going to break into the boathouse with him.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/229750.html