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.

Just a squirrel tryin' to get a nut...

“Cherry” was brown, a deep mahogany brown with a warm auburn hue, and a rash of wrinkles and cracks. Alternately smooth then scratchy under your fingertips she had a glorious fragrance. She was about three feet long and made of leather. Her brass buckle settled into a rich patina and made a delicate tinkling sound. Two delicious sets of red cherries, still on the branch, flanked her namesake embossed on her sinewy hide. She was a source of power and pain. Her presence brought a tingling sensation to the tender skin of my bottom before she ever made contact. In the hands of my mother, “Cherry” could leave her mark in the form of two sets of dancing cherries, one set on each cheek, a “CH” and “RY” leapfrogging the valley. She was an often brutal extension of my misguided and angered mother.

It was “Cherry”’s fault I ended up in the tree. The very tree was a large decrepit oak. Two giant sections trying to escape each other succeeded approximately fifteen feet up a massive trunk with too many exposed roots thanks to our lack of grass and wealth of soil. Our predecessors had begun the project of building a tree house for their sons. Unfortunately they had only managed to construct a platform that straddled the divide and small sections of two by four screwed into the gnarly bark to form a precarious ladder. From this platform you could see over the chain link fence fitted with green slats to create privacy. This same fence bordered the rest of our yard as well which was pretty much comprised of a large patch of dirt, an old hot tub that clung to rainwater now green with algae, a crooked swing set with peeling decals and rusted chains, and an old doghouse. Over the fence to the south was a vacant lot, vacant save for an abandoned tractor trailer that had been used for B-B gun target practice.

My sisters and I had specific chores to accomplish when my mother left that day. I can’t remember what mine were but I was the youngest so it was usually something pretty easy. We had an allotted amount of time in which to finish them. If we didn’t finish by the time she returned we would get a visit from “Cherry”. Our pants and underwear at our ankles we would lay face down on the bed and absorb the punishment only to let it out elsewhere later.

I was a good kid. Cute and obedient, most people considered me a mama’s boy. Maybe I was before I was smart enough to know better. Thankfully for me I was still young enough to be doted on and believed when I told a lie. I was six then and decided that I didn’t need to do my chores. There were cartoons and Sea Monkeys in the living room demanding my attention. As the day wore on my sisters continued to tell me I needed to do what I was told or I knew what would happen. It wasn’t very often that I disobeyed my mother; I knew “Cherry” well and hated her. I was clever though, or at least I thought I was clever. My plan began to take shape in my mind as the hour of doom approached.

It was on the news all the time; A missing child discovered, safe after hours away from home, would return and be coddled by people thankful they had been found, teary eyed parents rejoicing. I was sure it would work but I had to find a place to go. Actually running away was a little too scary for me so I need something close. Then it dawned on me, the tree house! Nobody would think to look there. A sudden rush of excitement had taken over and I was confident I could pull off this massive coup.

When you have a secret plan you should not tell anybody else. What did I know? I was six. So I told my sisters that I was going to be in the tree house and not to tell mom. I would come down when I was ready. In my plan they feigned stupidity.

As I worked my way up the tree I was nervously excited to be outwitting everyone. I couldn’t stop smiling. When I reached the platform I rested against the scratchy bark and waited, and waited. I had probably been up there for an hour when I heard our car pull up in front of the house. Sure, that hour could have been spent taking care of my chores but at this point I was determined.

The screen door slammed shut and it was quiet for about one long minute. That is when I heard her yell,

- What tree?! Why isn’t his shit done? NICHOLAS JASON! If I find you up in that fucking tree, I swear to god!

I panicked, this was not the plan! What was I going to do? I had been double-crossed. As I scrambled across the platform, I heard the backdoor open. I had no time to climb down and find another hiding place. In a matter of seconds she would be around the corner and the tree would be in full view. Think! Ah ha, I had an idea. It was a stupid idea, but an idea nonetheless. I lunged to the side of the platform furthest from view of the door. In a moment of sheer genius I hooked my upper lip over a piece of bark. I had done it! How on earth could someone get in trouble for not doing their chores when they were actually stuck, by their lip, to a tree?

As she came into view I began to sob. Crying is a good way to garner sympathy. Her look of anger quickly subsided and gave way to confusion and fear. Seconds later my sisters came out behind her surprised to see how far I had taken this whole scenario. My mother was too large to climb the tree and discover my deceit. I was in the clear, except for the fact that I had no idea how to get out of the situation without uncovering my lie.

When I say I would rather suffer the vicious attack of a rabid squirrel than face the beating I would get from my mother if she found out the truth about what I was doing in that tree, I am serious. That fact was proven when a particularly curious squirrel made its way down to where I was. As I watched it descend I grew increasingly nervous. There was a choice to be made as it clung to the bark with its little claws and twitching tail. I began to wail when it came within a foot of my face. My lip was still on the bark and my mouth had begun to dry out. Still I screamed with all my might which not only scared the squirrel sufficiently to send it fleeing but it evoked audible gasps from the peanut gallery below.

This is where it got interesting. From what I could see my mother had disappeared leaving only my sisters who were still amazed at the spectacle I was able to create with a lip and some bark. The squirrel was just a twist of fate in my favor and I couldn’t have planned it better. Then I heard them - sirens. Sirens were a pretty common occurrence in our neighborhood since our house was a block from the projects. It wasn’t until the pitch and loudness became too much to bear that I saw the lights; a fire engine, bigger than I had ever imagined, pulled into view. Holy Shit! Bolt cutters were used to gain entrance to the vacant lot next door and the chain was slung to the concrete.

As they pulled the truck up to the fence and hoisted the ladder to the tree I almost wet myself. With the siren turned off I could hear the ladder being maneuvered into place but could not see it lest I move my head and the jig would be up. Then rubber boots climbed, squeaking nearer one rung at a time on the other side of the tree until I felt the extra weight on the platform and then a voice,

-Are you ok son? We are going to get you down? Are you hurt?
- Y wip hurths a wittle.

I felt his gloved hand on my back and his face came into view as he surveyed the situation. He was very quiet as he looked at my lip resting gingerly on the bark. The dirt pooled on my tongue and the dried moisture around my mouth. My eyes were puffy and red and my cheeks were streaked with moisture. And he smiled. He removed his glove and made a show of separating my lip from the tree. He scooped me up and moved over to the ladder. I asked,

-Are you gonna tell on me?

He responded with a laugh and made his way backwards down the ladder with me in his arm until we were close enough that he could hand me off. I was welcomed into my mother’s arms. We bid thanks and farewell to the firemen as their giant truck rattled out of the empty lot and onto real emergencies.

My chores didn’t get completed that night. In fact we all ended up making a barefooted pilgrimage to Dairy Queen for Dilly Bars and cherry-coated soft serves. The contempt my sisters felt quickly evaporated with their treats and I was doted on and coddled the way every six-year-old child should be. I did not go back up to the tree house again. I am pretty sure that squirrel had it out for me.

It’s a little more than two decades later and I am not as cute or as obedient as I used to be. I need next Wednesday off, there is nobody I can sweet talk, and I figure if it worked once it can work twice. I need a treehouse and a boost; I am not as young as I used to be.

Angel Among Us

It was the summer of 1986, Denver was as hot as Hades. We were living in an apartment just off Colfax. I was six that summer, waiting for fall to rush in and drag my lanky limbs to my seventh birthday. The hair on my head was remarkably blonde, made even more so by our frequent trips to the public swimming pool. I became addicted to cherry Chapstick that summer and began eating tubes of the stuff at a time. This made me sick and perplexed my chap lipped sisters, delicate skin dry and cracking from sun and chlorine with no relief to be found in the tiny purses I had raided.

It was upon returning from the pool that we first met an Angel. Where my mother met her I have no idea. How they became friends is even more confusing. She found her way into our lives nonetheless. An exotic flower unlike those common carnations that currently sprung up around us, she came with an air of glamour and refinement. Black jeans that seemed to be painted on were worn with high heels and very small blouses revealing, at the very least, a glimpse of her stomach and tattooed back. Hair jet black, stark in comparison to her startlingly pale complexion, it reached down past her butt with straight cut bangs teased and curled. Her nails matched her lipstick in a drowsy romantic red; they adorned ring-clad, delicate hands that were almost as small as my own.

It was beyond me to understand that Angel was a stripper and prostitute. The idea of such things does not exist to a child and so I thought she was actually sent from heaven because with a name like Angel, she must have been. She always had money with her in great wads of ones, fives and tens that she kept in her purse next to a small gun and shiny foil packets. Aside from the money she possessed a talking parrot, lots of empty promises, and a son named Joey.

Joey was three and almost my spitting image. Hair so blonde it would make a cotton bale shame at its color, round cherubic cheeks to match his demeanor, and our main difference was his deep brown eyes that contrasted the blue of my own. To see us together you would have thought us brothers and in fact we loved each other as such. Shortly after we were first introduced to Angel, Joey became a fixture in our home. It was a welcome change for me to have another boy to play with, particularly one who held me in the regard one normally has for an older brother at that age. We were inseparable for the most part, retreating often into our own little make believe world of dinosaurs and jungle adventures in the overgrown yard behind our building. I don’t really recall how long Joey was with us. As a child there are times when a day feels like a month and an hour feels like a minute. We are not good judges of time when we have not lived long enough to truly place value on it.

Summer surrendered to the chilly pitch of fall and brought along a host of issues for all of us. Namely what were we going to do with Joey? He was spending more and more time with us and his mother had stopped paying for his keep. We already lived welfare check to welfare check and another mouth to feed was growing difficult.

Heated words were heard emanating from the living room where my mother spat angrily into the phone. Joey and I were in my bedroom playing with my plastic dinosaur collection when I heard her slam the handset back into its cradle. When she stormed into my room, red-faced, she told me to take Joey home. Home for Joey was quite a distance away. Past the middle school, tennis courts, Lutheran church where the weekly flea market was held, and the nice yard with the thorniest rose bushes and prettiest blossoms.

I obeyed and we grabbed his backpack of belongings. What my mother was thinking sending a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old out alone is beyond me, but so it was. We arrived at the three story walk-up, in which Angel’s apartment was situated, approximately an hour after we left. I removed a key from Joey’s bag and we unlocked the door to the small cramped stairway that smelled of cooking food and mildew. We reached the top floor; I knocked on the only door. Joey held my hand as we waited. Annoyed whispers were followed by hushed footsteps. She flung the door open creating a small vacuum of air that swept my hair into my eyes. As I brushed it from my face she turned and took a few steps back into the apartment then faced us. Her look was pleasant enough but she forgot to get dressed. Barely covering her was a black see-through negligee with lacey borders and tiny red bows. Her normally smooth hair was tangled and not nearly as shiny. Even the lipstick normally applied in a manner of perfection was outside the lines making her appear clownish when she smiled. She was barefoot, propped against the door.

-Joey go to your room.

She said and he let go of my hand, ran quickly through the door and disappeared. Her small hand grabbed my arm, pulled me into the apartment and directed me to the sofa that sat in her nearly empty living room. The heat was stifling, I sat down, the scratchy upholstery rubbed against the back of my exposed thighs. Then a man’s voice came from another room asking how much longer, to which she replied,

-Don’t worry baby I will be right there, this will just take a minute.

Then she looked at me and I at her. My eyes were level with her crotch and I thought how peculiar it was that she had so much hair. It was coming out of the sides of her negligee. She laughed as she retrieved an envelope from the small coffee table and handed it to me, on the front was written a word I didn’t yet know the meaning of, Bitch it said.

-Now get outta here, I got stuff to do. And give that to your bitch mother.
-Can I say bye to Joey?
-Make it fast.

I had never been inside before and wasn’t sure where I was going so I just went through the only doorway. It led to the bedroom and her bed was the first thing I saw. Sprawled there was a man with an exposed torso. Under the sheet rose a protrusion that caused me to stare. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He smirked at me causing the long ash to drop onto his chest. He matched my gaze while he wiped ash from his chest and the protrusion bounced. He chuckled, then retrieved a fedora from the floor beside the bed and placed it over his crotch. I turned around and saw a closet. Stuffed animals surrounded a small crib mattress and Joey sat on the floor. This was his room, a closet. I reached down and hugged him before pushing past Angel in the bedroom doorway and running out of the apartment.

I walked home confused and angry. My mother took the envelope upon my arrival and ranted for some time. She said Joey was never coming back. It crossed my mind to go back and get him. To rescue him from what he was being forced to see from the closet he lived in. But I was only six. Days of my asking if Joey could come back ended in a spanking more brutal than normal. There was a lot of anger behind each strike.
What ever became of that little boy? I don’t know. There are times in my life that I am grateful to have had the childhood I had despite the ever present bad memories. Leaving Joey there is an image I will never be able to be rid of and it serves as a reminder that it can always get worse. In a desperate world, full of desperate people, it can always get worse.

a lyrically bloated blahg.

A familiar knocking came from inside this morning. As I tread the cobblestone walkways littered with browning leaves and end of season grass clippings on my way to work. The boy of my adolescence began rapping on my bones. Pushing against the very skin that has betrayed him and to which he has become a total stranger. Urges to ride recklessly from a fading white-washed barn with the sweating speckled white steed beneath me, fleeing stables in need of a good mucking for the overgrown pastures encircled by rusty wire fencing, trailing the docile White-tail deer lapping up the last of the cool dew clinging to the remaining foliage through which we trot. Finding a shady spot near a small grove of trees and letting loose the reigns, releasing my glistening mare to graze as I gorge myself on the wild berries deep in thorny bushes; small spots of blood from my ravenous fury into the tangle of vines mixed with sweet juice of the bloated blackberries. Blazing flashes of white and rare rainbow reverberations of wild ring neck-pheasant and bobwhites dashing through the undergrowth giving a momentary start to my horse as she whinnies a small side-step in my direction. It is in this moment I feel the world could stop spinning and the light wind taking the burn from the sun is with me this ten year years later as I traverse the day-to-day that has changed immensely but little in the end. I still seek escape and solace from the muck in my life and find it in such glorious bright shining things around me as I wind from here to there.

Me, myself and Ty

The Smurfs almost got my ass kicked, seriously. As a result of the first day inspection at summer camp and a Smurf sleeping bag splayed on the grass for everyone to see I was instantly labeled as a fairy. It wouldn’t have been so bad were it not for the fact that is was Smurfette in all her golden haired glory emblazoned on the front. This did not bode well for the little towheaded blue-eyed boy who was a bit too emotional. In my defense it was not my sleeping bag. It belonged to my sister’s best friend Keisha. A girl whose family was strikingly similar to the Huxtables until they changed religions, started going by names that involved several clicking sounds and stopped talking to us.

They lent me the bag because I did not have one of my own. I never needed one before because I had never been camping. Had I known what lay ahead I would never have let Miss Plott down at the Boys Club talk me into it in the first place. She suggested to my mother that I might benefit from the social interaction with the other boys.

How fun it would be to go swimming every day, shoot bow and arrows, roast marshmallows, go on scavenger hunts and sit around bonfires. The one thing she forgot to mention was that the soul-less bastards who designed the campground forgot to make individual showers and toilets. Mind you I grew up in a house full of women and learned at an early age to cover my nakedness. One of my favorite childhood pictures is of me in the sink being bathed. Surrounded by sudsy water with my two little hands cupped over my penis I was a study in coyness and shame by the time I was three. I had no problem with the nakedness of women and saw it often but at some point I learned to be afraid of my own body and that of other men.

Ty was a short, fat black boy with a small afro and a big mouth. From the moment Smurfette made her opening day debut he was out to get me. Thankfully we were in two different troops and resided in two different cabins but every time I saw him he got in at least one or two good jabs. Not physical jabs but he had a very extensive vocabulary for a boy of five. I was a pussy, cunt, faggot, fudge-packer, ass-licker, bastard and the list went on and on. I didn’t know what half of these things were; after all we were only five. I did know what a bastard was and had been called one before. It was true though so what did I care?

Camp only lasted four days. It was four days from hell though. Most of my time was spent dodging my antagonist and avoiding the bathroom. On the second day we were required to shower. How in the hell was I supposed to shower with twenty other people in one big room? I will tell you how, in my underwear. That’s right, I walked in with my underwear on and quickly rinsed off while enduring the taunts of the other boys proud of their nakedness. The shower heads that lined the walls blasted out lukewarm water that quickly made my white Hanes transparent embarrassing me even more and causing me to run back to the cabin dripping wet with muddy feet.

I still hadn’t gone to the bathroom after two day and a half days. I was eating plenty and the cramps were starting to affect me in a serious way. The second night proved to be painful but there was no way I was going to crap in an open room with everybody watching. If anything I was waiting for a moment alone to scurry to the woods and steal some privacy. Never did that happen though because we were known mostly as problem kids from the ghetto and were not let out of sight for a moment. They don’t tend to let poor people have free reign anywhere, even in the middle of the mountains where the only things up for grabs are pinecones and deer droppings.

Day three should have been exciting but turned out to be excruciating. We got to take the canoes out on the pond and go on a scavenger hunt. It didn’t take long for the pond excursion to turn bad thanks to my canoe mate who thought it was funny to rock the boat and sent me over board into water. It seemed to go on forever but was probably six feet deep in reality and I was convinced there was something down there waiting to eat me so I flailed for my life. The pain in my stomach, made worse by my life jacket straps, hindered my doggie paddle and I was saved by a counselor with an oar. I was left searching for my inhaler and humiliated too early in the day.

Our troop was set to leave for about two hours with a small bagged lunch. We set off down a trail into the woods. I had never been on a scavenger hunt and would not make it far on this one. The goal was to perform trust-building exercises with the other kids in order to uncover a clue for the next item on the list. It was at a small obstacle course just after a rope climb that my stomach launched its un-ignorable revolt. Hundreds of punches to my abdomen is what it felt like. Tears began to stream down my face as I squeezed my cheeks and hobbled to the counselor and told him I had to go to the bathroom. I ran and ran amazed by my ability to find my way back through the half mile of woods while trying to contain myself. On sight of the campground I kicked into high gear racing to the lavatory building. There was a blindness to my mad dash as I ripped off my pants and plopped onto one of the many porcelain toilets lined against the wall. In what may have been one of the most glorious moments of my childhood, I let go. Wheezing and panting and smiling it was the singular moment of relief I had looked forward to.

That is when I heard laughing. Not just a giggle or a chuckle but a guttural belly laugh, the kind that involves uncontrollable bouncing jowls and makes your eyes water. My bubble had burst and my surroundings materialized once again. I looked over and perched like a gluttonous king on his own thrown was Ty, his robust chocolate thighs spread over the side of the seat. Where did he come from? How did I not see him? I don’t know and I don’t know. But there he was cracking up with his pants around his ankles. Empowered by my monumental release I spoke, looking past him at the tile wall sure of my impending doom,

-I couldn’t go with everyone else in here.

I had been caught literally with my pants down. Then a loud distinctive splash echoed across the room from his end of toilet row. On somewhat of a delay as though waiting for approval we both began to laugh uncontrollably at this. Moments later when our smiles had faded we began talking. Neither one of us had gotten up which kept us on the same playing field. Total exposure and total humiliation meant total understanding. After some time we found that we weren’t so different. Our families were exceedingly poor and we were both paid an allowance of food stamps. We were even both scared to poop in public. He was so embarrassed by his weight which led him to lash out at me. So it turns out while we both reacted to our problems differently we would discover that together we would find more fun in our commonalities.

We left the lavatory best friends. We had bonded over a turd and there was no going back. With him and his willingness to expose his oversize body beside me I found the strength to shower without my underwear the next day. Nobody made fun of me and while it would have been easy for the other campers to exploit the odd ebony and ivory couple in miniature that we had formed no one did.

So I guess that earlier when I said it was four days of hell I was telling a lie. There was one day and he was one person who looked and acted nothing like me but he understood me completely and we accepted each other for the dysfunctional five year olds we were.

Oops I did it again.

Oh Britney! I adore her. I adore her antics and shenanigans. I adore the fact that we are all so obsessed with her and her antics and shenanigans. The gasps of shock and dismay every time she takes a shit or drops her baby or flashes the paparazzi serve to prove the fact that it is us, the audience, who are the monsters in the cage and not the other way around. Given the way some of us were raised and the things we do it is no wonder we are infatuated. The easiest way to divert attentions from our own stupidity is to shine a light on someone else’s.
I am going to do Britney a favor and shine a light on myself. Expose something revolting, disastrous and ultimately entertaining.

My revolting disaster’s name was Tommy. I had just moved out of my mother’s home to live with my middle sister an hour away, leaving behind the tiny town of Amish baskets and collapsing businesses. My sister is something of a fan when it comes to gay men. She discovered a couple of gay magazines in my room and the rest is history.
Enter Tommy, her “If he were only straight!” best friend. Really who was I to question her? She knew more gay people than I even thought existed.
He was thirty-one. I was not yet eighteen when he came to pick me up for our first date. I was a virgin and had never kissed anyone in a romantic context.

I heard a lot about his car. It was an expensive model with leather seats and power windows. A far cry from the farm truck I was accustomed to.
The doorbell rang and before me stood my first big mistake in life. Pleated pants and a pressed polo with matching belt and shoes, parted hair and arched eyebrows that looked as though they were trying to escape were perched on taught dewy skin.

As I settled into the passenger seat I realized I was trembling. What would I talk to him about? Only weeks before I was slopping hogs and gathering eggs, now here I was in a fancy car with a man wearing makeup and wait are those really footprints on the windshield? No! Yes.
Strange I thought, thankful for the distraction. Conversation did not come easily and my talk of books was cut short at my mention of “The Ultimate Guide to Animal Husbandry for the Small Goat Farmer.”

The footprints he said were left by a “friend” he had given a ride home (plan to revisit) and left it at that.

No expense spared we found ourselves at Pizza Hut after a stop at an ATM which was exotic to me. I had never used one before and was amazed that it was spitting out money. We quietly enjoyed a thin crust pizza and orange sodas.

I was taken back to his place, still full of pizza and nervous enough to vomit. It was on his overstuffed black leather sofa I first kissed a man. My nerves kept us from anything more. I needed to go home and process the evening.
At that point my attraction was based on the fact that he had a penis and that he wanted to play with mine and it was overwhelming.

Date two, Evita and a roommate named James.

James came in halfway through our viewing of Evita. I was lost. Trying to get a seventeen-year-old gay boy on only his second date with a man to get past Madonna and understand the life story of a dynamic political icon must be much like training an alligator to separate the yolk from the white with his jaws.

James was my first lesson in gender ambiguity. The conversation between him and Tommy went something like this:

James: Hey girl, I just left the bookstore.
Tommy: Who was there?
James: Just some tired old queens. Adam was there and she was blasted trolling the booths.
Tommy: That girl needs some help.
James: Who is this?
Tommy: This is Nick, Allie’s little brother.
James: Nice to meet you. Don’t let Riva take advantage of you! She’s a dirty old man. -cackle-
Tommy: Bitch.
Exit James.

Problem one with the interaction was that there were no women or girls in the room. Problem two I wondered why this “bookstore” that evidently catered to royalty had booths. Problem three; Who the hell is Riva?

As the credits rolled and Evita continued to confound me, Tommy told me he had gotten me a gift. He led me through the kitchen to his sunken bedroom and sat me down on the bed. On the night stand sat a small brown bag. Cookies? I thought.

As I unrolled the crumpled paper bag he looked on with a knowing grin. Inside was an assortment of condoms and lube packets. No cookies. I had never touched a condom or lube. As I examined the contents of the bag he pushed me back into his plush pile of beaded pillows and we had sex. Rather he had sex and I fought back tears. Who knew this was involved? This was not in any of my magazines. My stomach hurt, my ass hurt and my legs were cramping. I didn’t know what was happening until it was over and I was in the bathroom.

When I returned to the bedroom he was smiling, sprawled on his bed like Nefertiti. I crawled over him and faced the wall trying to disappear. I felt him climb out of the bed and I was immediately dragged back to reality by Diana Ross. The music was just low enough for me to hear the rustle of fabric and shoes on the rug. My curiosity forced me over to what I can only describe as an unexpected spectacle, Riva, in a white dress, opaque stockings and ivory pumps transforming her self in the floor length mirror next to the bed. I was horrified. The man had just taken my virginity and was now lip syncing to “Stop in the Name of Love.”

As he sashayed and strutted, flung his arms about and cooed almost silently, I rolled back over. A small chip in the paint on the wall became my focus until my mind gave up and surrendered to my tired body.

If I had known that he had once lived as a woman and adopted the name Riva, or that he performed in a weekly drag show, I still wouldn’t have known better. We did not have sex again; in fact I never thought I would have sex with anyone again. I thought he had broken something.

A few weeks later he dumped me. On my birthday. I was now eighteen. He was going to return to his ex-boyfriend. As it turns out his were the footprints on the windshield, left after vehicular sex only a few days before our first date.

Tommy now works as a waiter in a gay bar in Indiana. He is 42 and those eyebrows have finally given up. They will never escape just the way he has never escaped. His skin is no longer dewy and he is wearing the same pleated pants and polo.

When he told me our tryst was over he asked me,

-So if it doesn’t work out with my ex, can we still continue to see each other?

I answered,

-Not on your life Tommy. Not on your life.

As I said, this story is for Britney. Really the day pictures of her in post-coital confusion, swaddled in a satin duvet as a forced audience at a private drag show ever surface I will be the first to sympathize and the second in line to by the magazine.