Gay Bloggies

It's 2 AM on Monday, slash that--TUESDAY--and I may or may not have been out drinking. I can neither confirm nor deny this allegation. Thank GOD for Spellcheck or this post would be a hot mess.

Maybe it will be anyway.

The topic for today is "guilty pleasures." So I'm going to take this moment to discuss...

America's Next Top Model.

I want to be Ebony. I want to have hair extensions that make me look like I am dressing up as Cher every day. I want to be confused as to why people think I am mean, since I can't help the fact that I am superior. I want to hide my insecurity about my teeth by saying my look is just my model-pout.

I want to be Victoria. I want to view every evaluation as an attack, and respond by personally insulting the judges. I want to constantly inform everyone I am far too smart to be a model. I want my final round in the competition to come to a glorious end because I cannot, during my final photo shoot, properly emulate the spirit of a cactus.

I want to be Bianca. I want get a bright red $19 weave, then enter a televised modeling competition, and have the nerve to look into the TV cameras and say "Don't let the red hair fool ya. I can do couture."

I want to be Heather. I want to scream at my roommates when they are in the shower, because I "called dibs" on it and that gives me the right to always, always go first. I want my fury to temporarily make me find my inner lesbian, and climb in the shower with them. And generally speaking, I want to make a habit of losing my mind while everyone in the room, including myself, is totally nude.

I want to be Sarah. I want to pull paper out of my nose and think it's cute. I want to be encouraged to be as fat as possible, even while I am forced to pose for modeling sessions while wearing body suits made entirely of fishnet. I want to be cut from the competition mainly because I am the only normal one in the cast and of course that's no good for the show.

I want to be Ambreal. I want to give names to all my different types of "signature walks." I want to cry every time I see a camera near me, as I know that will get me edited into the show. I want to insist, whenever I make it to another round in the competition, that it is not because the producers want to create drama--it is the work of Jesus. Because yes, Top Model is that important.

Lesly: This is how you raised them?

Mrs. Pascal: People “raise” cattle. Children just happen. This one has blue eyes, and that one is insane.

--The House Of Yes

This is me.

It's a small picture because it was taken by a paparazzi, but I couldn't afford to buy the whole thing so I had to steal the thumbnail image off the internet. I’m quite sure the photographer never made any money off of it anyway, no one ever buys these paparazzi pictures if I’m in them.

I remember this picture, I was at a party. I had just straightened my hair and I felt very fancy.

When I was a kid I wasn’t attracted to women, so I thought I wasn’t attracted to anybody. I never knew there were other options. Instead, I considered becoming a priest. I thought I had the celibacy thing under control.

Never mind the fact that I held tap dancing recitals in my driveway. Why would a parent question such behavior? Granted, there was never anyone in the audience, unless you count the neighbors who would stare from a distance. No matter, the voices in my head always have always kept me company anyway. And the garage was smooth cement, perfect for the shoes to go clickety-clack.

The other boys in my neighborhood wanted to grow up and be baseball players; I wanted to be Darcel Wynne from Solid Gold.

I watched Solid Gold like it was my own little church service, showing me the way to salvation. I imagined heaven was filled with angels dressed in sequins and lamé. They'd stand around the pearly gates and spin and make jazz-hands, all punctuated with seriously pouty faces, and Darcel would be there with her fog machine, doing her signature move: she'd swing her head down in a loop, swoosh her long black hair around, and then flip it back when she stood up again. To make hair just like hers, I'd wear pajama bottoms with the elastic waistband around my head, so the legs fell down my back, and I would swoosh them around just like Darcel. I loved Darcel. I wanted to be Darcel.

On the weekends my frustrated parents would use my time away from school as an opportunity to de-nelly me, and force me into becoming a little more "normal;" part of this involved being kicked out the house and told I had to stay outside until it was dark. But with no interest in playing baseball in the middle of the street like the rest of the mouth-breathing heathens on our street, I would walk a few houses down and watch the neighbor kid mow his lawn. I’d pretend I was talking to him, but really I was watching him…just watching him, mow his lawn. He walked around his yard without wearing a shirt and I thought it was fascinating.

I proceeded to sitting in my living room and watching him through my binoculars, as he worked up a sweat. My father gave me those binoculars as a gift, they belonged to his dad; they were part of a wilderness package, also including an utterly-lethal Buck knife, and a canteen. He told my mother he thought it would toughen me up. Meanwhile, I used the knife to cut my jeans into cut-off shorts and the binoculars came in handy when spying on the shirtless boy down the street. I would have brought him my canteen filled with icy beverages to quench his thirst, but I figured that might have made him suspicious. So instead I just sat inside, watching him and resisting the temptation to run up to him and pick off all the little blades of grass that were stuck to him, one-by-one. At the time I had no idea why I spent my time doing this; I didn’t see anyone else watching him. Then again, I was hiding behind the couch, so I presumed no one could see me either.

I have always been loud. I have always been dramatic. I have always been flamboyant, even before I knew what being "gay" meant. I have tried to butch it up, but it lasts for about 15 minutes before I let something slip. This really is as socially-acceptable as I can get. And you learn, from a very early age, that just because no one is sitting in the chairs you set up it doesn’t mean you can’t open the garage door and perform your recital anyway. These are the choices we must make in life. You’re born with the homosexuality; it’s your choice what you do with it.

It's all just...there. From the beginning.

Do you have kids? Tell them they are exactly the way they're supposed to be.

Children just happen.

Thanks for reading. Hugs.

I think I'm pregnant.

Surprising, I know.

I'm not exactly sure if I am, but consider the symptoms:

1) I have been experiencing odd cravings for foods. The famous "ice cream and pickles" craving of pregnancy lore has been an especially problematic foe, I'm afraid. Except I'm not so much craving the pickles. Just the ice cream. As I type this, the delicate chocolatiness of fudge brownie ice cream dances upon my lips, tickling my memories of what was just eaten. But control my cravings, I cannot. After all, I am eating for two.

2) You should see my belly. It's huge. I need to start wearing those maternity pants with the elastic in the front. Before long I expect my belly-button to pop out like the turkey tester, signaling the baby is cooked. Although all this may have something to do with #1, I'm not sure.

3) I experience wild mood swings, and I have a slight tendency to become irritable. Just yesterday I yelled at my gentleman-friend because he showed up to my apartment wearing jeans shorts and crocs. Although really, it was absolutely unacceptable, in hindsight I'm glad I sent him home to change. Never mind, I was right about that. Nevertheless, I must say he is a peach. Too bad he's not the baby's father.

In fact--who is the father? There have been so many men.

So many, many men.

I am the Blanche Deveraux of my neighborhood: so many gentleman callers, yet I value and cherish them all.

Hmm. That does bring me to...

4) I don't exactly still possess an intact hymen.

But that's enough about that.

5) My breasts are tender.

Although this may have something to do with the extracurricular activities involved during the process of #4.

After all, one must utilize his/her entire body as a sexual organ, not just what's located south of the border. How unfortunate that our own bodies are often such mysteries. Have you explored your self with your hand mirror? Let's all be in touch.

I will be an excellent parent. My child will attend the finest schools, learn to strengthen his/her soul by volunteering for the less-fortunate once a month, and blossom with the love of a parent who accepts him/her for whomever s/he wants to be. And God help the poor soul who stands in my way of becoming President of the local PTA. I will bake-sale that organization into the stratosphere.

In fact, while we are sharing secrets, allow me to provide the recipe for my special cupcake icing. I'd like you to have some practice baking.

* 2/3 cup sugar
* 1/4 cup flour
* 1/8 teaspoon salt
* 3/4 milk*
* 1 cup butter
* 1 teaspoon clear vanilla extract

Place sugar, flour and salt in saucepan and mix thoroughly. Stir in milk. Cook over medium heat and stir constantly until very thick. This process will take several minutes, but keep stirring. Remove from heat and pour into a medium mixing bowl. Cool to room temperature. Add 1/2 cup butter at a time (cut into several pieces) and beat at medium-high speed until smooth. Add vanilla and beat well.

Chill icing for a few minutes before decorating. Iced cake must be refrigerated until serving time.

For chocolate: Add appx. 3 tbsps Hershey's Cocoa, and one additional tbsp of sugar; add sugar first, then add cocoa slowly. You can adjust cocoa to taste.

Yield: 2 cups.

*Increase liquid, 1 tablespoon at a time, to reach piping consistency

There. That's two secrets: I am pregnant, and I've given you the recipe to cupcake icing that will get you laid too. Unfortunately I'm not sure of my due date; I've been experiencing weight gain and irritability for approximately 15 years, but I'm hoping my big day will be soon. Wish me luck.

*Please note: I really can't be pregnant, as I am a licensed HIV counselor, and I do not--except in monogamous relationships--condone sex without condoms.

So I'm supposed to introduce myself. Hi, my name is Dan, my blog is called How Was Your Day, Dan?, my favorite color is blue and I like long walks in the gentle rain and I started blogging to blah blah blabbity blah. No one cares. If you want to get to know me, check out my profile on Adam4Adam.com. That's where you can find the good stuff.

Instead, let's discuss why I date older men.

Last night I go out with this guy. He's, like, mid 40's, I think?...okay, maybe late 40's. He's tall, great-looking, the little laugh lines around his eyes betraying his age on his otherwise fantastic skin. Great body, flat abs and nice arms and all the things I try to obtain by going to the gym once a month. Lots of smiles, lots of interesting things to say.

And then there's his hair: silver, shiny, lovely. I kept imagining running my fingers through it, the soft gentle waves pushed back from his brow. I love it.

I've given this a lot of thought, this whole "older guy" thing. I prefer guys with a sense of maturity; with maturity comes a certain element of wisdom, making them more easy-going and easier to deal with. Their priorities are in order. They have something to talk about, simply because they've seen more and they're more aware of the world around them. And the sex is better--it's not this rush to an orgasm, they take their time.

But I think it is the hair...specifically, silver-white hair. I can track my obsession to when I was in third grade, and I discovered X-Men comics. All the coolest heroes and villains had that silvery-white hair. Magneto? Storm? They could kick your ass. And they'd do it while strapped into full-body spandex, with their big heads of white hair flying all over the place.

Even when I was a freshly-hatched gay in my young 20's, I chased after the guys who, at the time, were old enough to be my father. But it's not a daddy thing, I don't like to be bossed around or "taken care of," and I don't like for them to be TOO old. These days I'm finally catching up to my dating pool, which at least makes the whole situation more socially acceptable. Although it doesn't really matter; when you're a generation younger than your date, people automatically presume you're for rent.

I dated a "Mr. Big" kind of guy for about a year, a relationship during which we traveled together on lots of his business trips to Paris and Las Vegas and wherever, and I'd stand behind him in hotel lobbies and smile as he'd request a room with one bed. Then room service would arrive--we NEVER ate in the hotel restaurants, God forbid--and I'd get the looks from the servers, who just knew why I was there. But even though his company paid for our trips and our meals and all the glamourous lifestyle, I never took money from him. In a weird way, it was fun...this illusion of tawdriness, like I was this naughty jet-setting hooker sexing an older man to the edge of his life so I could steal all his money. Meanwhile, in reality we were just a boring couple, watching movies and reading in bed together. And he'd lay his head on my chest so I could run my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

My God, the day I met Anderson Cooper I literally had shaky knees. Cute, smart AND prematurely gray? Forget it. I was a mess. We were both working on an episode of that FX show Son Of The Beach, which for some reason had on a bunch of TV people playing guest roles on a particular episode. Anderson took a break from cradling orphans in the minefields of war-torn countries, and he came by to hang out on set that day. At the lunch truck--which they call "craft services," if you'd like to know the official lingo--I wormed my way into line behind him just to have an excuse to sit at his table.

Y'know, we were all working on the same project, everyone else was very friendly and talked to each other; I really wanted to introduce myself and engage him in a real conversation, I wasn't trying to get his autograph or something. But when I tried to strike up a chat, he wouldn't even look at me. It wasn't just me, he didn't speak to anyone at all. Turns out, Anderson Cooper is not the friendiest guy. Granted, it could have been because we were also sitting with Adam Carolla, who was babbling on endlessly with stories about smoking pot and bowel movements and the other idiotic garbage that fills his brain; listening to him was enough to kill the mood with anyone. I like to think my Anderson and his gray hair would like me very much if given the the chance. And if he was A LITTLE MORE PLEASANT next time.

So that's me. I like walking in the rain, Anderson Cooper ruined my life, and I think guys with gray hair are sexy. And when people judge me for it, I get a twisted sense of excitement.

Thanks for reading. Bye.

PS: My scene in Son Of The Beach? I was totally edited out. FX can suck it.