kip.

God, do I hate those sappy love tales about people who find each other despite life getting in the way. They're annoying and the people who find each other are annoying. Do I sound jaded? Sure, I know I do, but I don't really give a shit. My own love story isn't really romantic, it was actually just a huge mistake.

It started in May of 2000, we had survived the new millennium despite Preacher Jim's prophecies and summer was flashing its gnarly, gnashing teeth in an attempt to scare the entire state of Kentucky indoors to the comfort of iced sweet tea and whirling ceiling fans. Temperatures were already reaching the high 90s and after a full day of caring for the livestock my body was as limp as the wilted blue grass. We were used to sweat-drenched humid summers but we liked to ease into it. It's like my mamaw says, "You can't just throw a saddle on a unbroke filly 'less you wanna get yer neck broke". Our heat tolerance was being pushed to its limits.

Time moves slowly in the sticks and, while it was the pace I was used to, it was also the pace I was beginning to outpace. I had just turned 22 and the prospect of getting married to Janelle, my incredibly naive girlfriend, and working in a factory until death do us part, was not a particularly tempting one. Sure there were the random hookups with guys I met online, one was even older than my dad. After sex, he held me for hours and didn't want me to move, I ain't gonna lie, it creeped me out a little. But beggars can't be choosers. And I could occasionally drive up the highway a few hours to Louisville, get a room at the Super 8 on Interstate 150, get blasted on Jim Beam at some big city gay bar and take a guy back to my room so he could jerk me off before passing out. There was little pleasure to be found in that the one time I actually had the nerve to go through with it.

No, the decision was made the day I got his last letter in the mail. My pen pal's name was Tommy. Tommy lived in Baltimore with three roommates. He was 29 and worked in a hair salon. All of the guys in his house were gay and the way he fussed over me in his letters made me feel real special. I had received one picture of him. There was a lady in the picture with a gigantic pile of shiny blond hair that dwarfed a chiseled face plastered with gobs of make up. Compared to her Tommy looked downright butch. But compared to Jim down at the feed store he was a fading purple Lily, you could almost smell his perfume when you looked at the snapshot. God, I would have done anything for Jim to look at me with the slightest inclination, but it had never happened and, it never would, the way he was dedicated to the Pentecost and all. Jim's body was so strong it put oak trees to shame and when he talked to you it was enough to make you swoon if anybody did that kind of thing anymore.

NO, my best odds were to go for the sure thing. The sure thing with streaked hair, bright orange glow and pencil thin eyebrows frozen next to a towering Nancy Sinatra female impersonator. When I looked at that picture of Tommy, and I did so often, I would swell in my pants just for the mere fact that I knew he wanted me. It was a different kind of feeling from the one I got when I picked up the feed and Jim's strong fingers would wrap around my hand. I had to rush into my truck to hide my excitement and each night I stained the sheets thinking about the cherry tobacco on his breath.

I met Tommy through a magazine. I had managed to snag one from the bookstore the last time I was in Louisville. There was a section in the back where men advertised for pen pals. Tommy's ad read -Young professional in Baltimore seeks a pal from the country. I look like a refined David Hasselhoff you should look like a young Burt Reynolds. LTR desired but not required for fun! - According to the top of the page, LTR meant Long Term Relationship. I could do that and I had seen David Hasselhoff on the TV plenty of times and he was pretty alright. I don't really look like Burt Reynolds but I sent him a short letter and a picture. I told him that I too wanted a LTR and that I was 6' tall. Whatever else he wanted to know he could just ask. The picture was nothing fancy, it was from the summer before. My Jersey heifer had won her class at the open show down at the fairgrounds so I had our celebratory picture taken with a stupid grin, my faded green John Deere hat and a blue rosette the size of a dinner plate.

His reply was received only two weeks later. My mamaw had a puzzled look on her face when she pulled the letter from the box.

"This'n here's for you Kip... postmarked Baltimore"
I grabbed it with moist fingers and rushed out through the rusted screen door. As it swung shut, I heard mamaw, "Imagine that, someone in Baltimore sendin' YOU a letter."

I tore up the ladder to the hay loft and carefully opened the envelope. There in flowery script my ticket out of here unfolded before me. He loved my picture, said I was the spitting image of a young Paul Newman. Sweet, I thought, I had no idea who Paul Newman was. Then, to my surprise, as I unfolded the last portion, a photo slid out and tumbled gracefully to the floor. I let it be for a minute or two, staring back at me, before I had the balls to pick it up. Upon closer examination, he did not in fact look very similar to the David Hasselhoff I had imagined. Maybe he knew of a different one, a more fey one. Either way there was a sudden surge in my groin and with a fistful of spit I splattered sin across my crusty muck boots.

Ten months and 23 letters later came the invitation. On the front of the card a hunky genie held a small gold lamp over his crotch, inside "Rub my lamp and at least one of your wishes cums true this Valentine's Day!" I blushed and chuckled to myself. There was also a cashier's check for $300. Tommy had written that Baltimore was just dying to have a real live cowboy and that I should come out for a visit. I could stay with him as long as I wanted.

That night I barely slept a wink. Papaw woke me up at 5 and as we sat around the table eating breakfast, I broke the news to them. I was leaving for Baltimore and I probably wouldn't come back. As I stormed out they hollered that only wicked people lived in cities like Baltimore - faggots, druggies, whores and all sorts of other deviants who had never been baptized. I was bound to get murdered, or get AIDS and everyone in town would find out. How would they be able to face them at church? Who would do my chores? They demanded.

I cried the entire hour it took to walk to town. There the bus would pick me up and everything would change, once I climbed the Greyhound's steps, I would no longer be Kip the redneck from Pointwell, Kentucky. I would call Janelle once I was in Baltimore. She would hate me but she had the biggest tits in our entire high school class so she would find someone real easy. Maybe Jim, no, I'd be too jealous.

It took three days to get to Baltimore. At a truckstop in West Virginia I found a Culture Club cassette tape for $3. My walkman sopped up the power of ten AA batteries playing it on repeat.

As the bus pulled up to the terminal I began to feel sick. I was going to hurl. Tommy's address was written on a small piece of paper crammed in the back pocket of my Wranglers.

I managed to find a pay phone. It smelled like whiskey and vomit. My quarter dropped in and I punched in the digits. My heart was in my throat as the phone rang. After six rings, an answer. The sugar sweet lisp and that strange Baltimore accent that sounded so foreign to me, seeped from the stinky phone.

- Hello?
- Um, hi. Is Tommy there?
- This is.
- Um, it’s Kip.
- No way! Where are you?
- I’m down at the bus station, in Baltimore.
- No way! Ok, I can’t believe you’re here! I’ll be there in ten minutes cutie.
- Ok, and Tommy...Tommy?

He had hung up. I don’t know what I was going to ask him. Suddenly I was fixin’ to vomit myself. Then I caught a whiff of that damn phone and I did. Lord, I know people saw me throw up, I just know it, I didn’t look around. I just beelined it for the bathroom. My head hung low over the sink. I splashed a handful of warm water into my mouth, sloshed it around and spit. When I saw my reflection I hardly recognized myself.

Work in progress...

Incoming call... Mike's iPhone... Why is he calling me now? Ugh, and why haven't I changed this damn ring-tone?

-Hey, what's up?
-Gurl, we have to talk!
-What happened now? And I told you, don't call me gurl!
-Whatever you butch queen, you still take it up the ass! We have to talk! What are you doing RIGHT now?
-First of all, taking it up the ass does not make you a gurl, second of all I am versatile and I am walking to Starbucks.
-I'm there in two minutes.

The boy behind the counter is on the verge of being cute, in an alternative, going against the norm, but trying too hard kind of way. He's giving me a large iced coffee instead of the medium I ordered. Fine, I'll drop a dollar in your little Plexiglas box, I know you can't pay in trade at Hot Topic.

I will sit, and wait, as usual, for Mike. Mike I've known for what, six years now? We dated, briefly, when I first moved to Philly from Tennessee. He was a mild mannered, Italian mama's boy from South Philly who had never been to a gay bar. He also happens to be my height, incredibly hairy, and has a very big nose. And hairy guys with big noses are my weakness. Somehow he has evolved into the mascot of Philadelphia's gay community, thanks in no small part to me. You can't turn a corner without seeing, or hearing him and he somehow manages to host every event in the city. When he came out his mother started a chapter of PFLAG in South Philly. His father bought a Pomeranian and started taking photography classes. People either love him or hate him and he is my best friend despite the fact that his flip-flop wearing ass can't be anywhere on time.

Mike is on his phone when he walks in, he considers himself a celebrity and wears huge sunglasses and a hat in order to avoid being recognized. I get air kisses from three feet as he wraps up his conversation. He doesn't slide his phone into his pocket but keeps it in hand, waiting for a call from somebody, anybody.

-Buy me an iced coffee? Please? I'll love you forever!
-Why am I buying you an iced coffee? How do you never have any money?
-I do! But I had to buy these hot shades at H&M... do you love them?!
-No.
-Shut up! Yes you do, anyways, you know glasses are my signature look.
-Everybody wears sunglasses.
-Not the way I do.
-Fine, I don't know what I would do if you didn't love me forever. Bring me my change though.
-Mwah, I promise I'll pay you back when I get paid for that party I hosted last night. Um, PS, why weren't you there?
-PS, because I had a date.
-OMG! For real? With who? Wait, not yet.

What feels like a lifetime later...

-OMG, did you see the barista? So cute! I think he's on Manhunt, into threesomes and water sports and he has a huge dick.
-Ew.
-Don't ew! I gave him my number. I'd piss on him.
-Ok, really? Have you ever done that? Don't you have any limits?
-Yes, and yes, any more than three guys is just too many. Oh, and poop.
-What'd you want to talk about?
-No, you first, you had a date? With who? I thought you worked your way through every guy in the city?
-Funny. You don't know him. Anyways, it wasn't great so I doubt I'll see him again.
-Is he hot? Would I like him? I mean, if you don't go out with him again.
-No, and stop making eyes with the damn coffee guy! You have sunglasses on, he can't even see you staring.
-Shhh! Ok fine, your story sucks. So, I got a job.
-And?
-Get this, I get to hire hot boys to work at pride events to promote underwear! Could it be more perfect?!
-Who would hire you to do that?
-This guy came to my party and he owns this big, gay underwear company.
-Ah, well I guess if anyone can spot a hot body, it's you.
-Speaking of hot boys in manties, I have a favor to ask.
-No.
-I haven't asked yet!
-I know, but the only kind of favor to follow that news is not something I'm gonna want to do.
-OMG, give me some credit, I was just going to ask if you would work my first event.
-See? No.
-Why not? I'm short one guy and I know you've been going to the gym and you're not ugly!
-Thanks for that.
-Seriously, please? You get paid and all you have to do is walk around in underwear and possibly a little bit of body glitter and be friendly.
-You're not gonna stop until I say yes are you?
-No.
-Fine, but no body glitter and I'm making no promises of being friendly.
-Yay! I love you. Ok, I have to jet, I need to see if I can find spray glitter with SPF.
-Try Modell's, I'm sure they carry it.
-OMG, really?
-No.
-Shut up, and wear a cock ring so your dick looks huge. Love you.
-When is this thing anyway?
-Tomorrow, 10 am.
-I hate you.
-Bye! Stay pretty, kisses.

And just like that, I'm left with my book and iced coffee. I don't feel like reading though. The gym is calling my name now. When was the last time I was in my underwear in public? Oh, that's right, never! What kind of shoes do you wear with underwear? Should I tan? Shave my balls? It's been a while since I had the need to do any real manscaping. Not counting this weekend I haven't even been on a date in what, three months? The only man that's been in my pants recently is me and I am even getting bored with myself.

Oh my god, why did I go out last night? Damn gay pride! Everybody will be out, he said. Don't you want to see everybody, he asked. Sure, I'm the last person who needs an arm twisting but sometimes I don't know my own limit. Now I'm puffy, bloated, and I don't know where the underwear went that I had on when I left the house. And I have to be at Penn's landing in 20 minutes. MOTHER FUCK BABY JESUS HOLY SHIT! Don't shave your balls in a hurry. I repeat, do not shave your balls in hurry!



- Hello?!
- Where are you?!
- What do you mean, where am I? It's only... 9:50?
- It's 10 you hillbilly, where are you? Tell me you're on your way!
- I cut my sac.
- Ew, what?
- My sac! Coin purse, scrode, balls, tea bag!
- How did you do that you freak?!
- Stop laughing! It hurts like a bitch.
- Ok, ok, sorry. Dip your nuts in vodka, get on your broom and fly your happy ass over here pronto.
- You do realize I'm doing you a favor right?
- I know, love you for it.
- Save me a color that won't show blood.
- Ew. It's like you're on the rag.
- ugh, you're a disgusting pig, bye.

Neopsporin with pain relief, my ass! The streets of Philadelphia are suspiciously quiet. Even the normally crowded Independence Mall is still. The clip clop of the tortured horses, forced to carry overweight midwesterners through our country's cradle, are waiting patiently for their first passengers of the day. I love it, no throngs of Asian tourists trained on a rainbow umbrella to slow my stride. I wonder how many pictures I have made it into, the lone gay boy in the background quietly humming to his iPod.

It surprises me just how gay Old City has become. There are banners, tents, flags and people teeming with excitement setting up booths and piling fliers on folding tables. And there is a thumpy thump beat already ringing through the air. Why do we like this music?

My ribbed tank is sweated through thanks to my hustle. It takes me no time at all to spot Mike. He is directing four other guys, already in their underwear and trendy high-top sneakers, on how to properly pose for pictures. This incredibly obscene underwear has a huge logo printed directly on the pouch and needs to be prominently displayed in all photos.

As I approach I find myself fighting nerves. It's unlike me to get nervous but these other guys are ripped. It's not that I'm not in shape or anything, I just don't spend all of my free time at the gym. I have a fuzzy two-pack at most and I can hold my own in the pecs department but those classy little "cum-gutters" have managed to elude me no matter how many crunches I do.

- Girl, it's about time!
- Shhh, don't call me girl in front of these guys!
- Fine, stud.
- That's better, where's my outfit?

From his pocket he produces what is clearly a handkerchief, black in color and entirely too small for a grown man.

- What's that?
- Your uniform. Did you wear a cockring? Wait, are you still bleeding? Ew, never mind, go change and make it snappy.
- No, I am not still bleeding and no I did not wear a cockring, it hurt. Where am I supposed to change?
- That port-a-potty.
- Seriously? I'm wearing flip-flops.
- I don't care, just don't touch anything.

Sure I notice the other guys checking me out, probably wondering what I'm doing there. Thank fortune the day has not started so the port-a-potty is pretty clean. But just to be on the safe side, upon entering I squirt some hand sanitizer on before I disrobe. I guess I shouldn't have been so hasty because as I adjusted myself in the patch of fabric covering my balls, some of the wet sanitizer I hadn't rubbed in, came in contact with my cut.

- Jesus Christ! Mother fuck!

As I bounce and flail my hands, trying to dry the alcohol, someone pounds on the door.

- You ok?
- Um yeah, just a sec, I just have a little situation.
- Can I get you something?
- No, I'm good thanks, I'll be out in a sec.

I decide to take a leak while I am in there. Of course it splashes out of the damn urinal onto my naked toes. This day is off to a rip-roaring start. At least it was my piddle. I open the door and find I have an audience of one. How long has he been standing there? He's gorgeous. My face instantly reddens. At least he is in underwear too but I didn't notice him before. Talk about a body, geez.

- Hey, sorry I took so long, I was changing but, it's all yours.
- Oh, it's cool, I was just waiting to make sure every thing's ok.
- Um yeah
- I mean, I heard you yell.
- Nope, I'm fine, thanks.
- (He extends his hand) Todd.
- Paul.
- So, you're working for Mike too?
- No, I just thought this was what everyone was gonna wear.
- Oh.
- Just kidding, yes, Mike roped me into this. I don't know how.
- (With a sheepish grin) Oh, well I can see why he asked you.
- (Embarassed grin) We should get back before Mike starts shrieking.

As we approach, Mike is trying to convince the other three guys that body glitter is a good thing. When he points the can in my direction I give him the look that he has come to know as the "you do it, you die" look and he quickly retreats.

We sit and wait for the crowd to roll in. The other guys are all students at the Art Institute. Todd is studying fine art with a focus on pottery, yes, pottery. His nail beds retain traces of red clay and a slight discoloration is creeping slowly toward his wrists. As he talks to me he looks directly in my eyes. People don't do that anymore, look each other in the eye.

- Mike, come here.
- What's up puddin' cup?
- I think I'm in love!
- Ugh, what? With who?
- Todd.
- Todd?
- Todd! The cute boy you're paying to be in his underwear.
- OH! Todd! He's cute.
- It was like love at first sight.
- Oh god. You know I don't subscribe to those overly dramatic romantic notions.
- Subscribe? Romantic notions? Why are you saying these words? Who talks like that?
- Shush, I do. Well I am trying to sound smart... I met this guy, a professor of English or something.
- So you're trying to speak like something you aren't? Not that you aren't smart, but.
- Shut up! Why are we friends? Oh that's right, because you've never met anyone more amazing.
- Precisely.
- Are you ready? People are starting to show up.
- Mmmhmm, ready as I'm gonna be.

The next few hours pass much faster than I thought they would. And when our shift was finally over, my belief that men are pigs was concrete. I have never been grabbed, groped, poked or verbally molested so many times in my life. Then again, it was hot, beer was flowing, and I was in my underwear so my expectations should have been lower.