Men seeking men

I am obsessed with the "men seeking men" section on craig's list. I also read "missed connections" on the daily. While I often find the hetero posts heart warming, it's the gay ones that fascinate me most. So many closeted men on the prowl. I find myself wondering if the man behind the bar is one, or the guy at the stop light next to me, or my part-time lover. I broke up with my ex because I had a hunch there were some homosexual fantasies he needed to explore. Fantasies I wanted NO part of. I will admit that straight acting men, who's mission is to fool the world, absolutely positively disgust me. Openly gay men don't bother me (as much), they've the courage to BE. Yet, the whole gay thing confounds me. Do they follow the same rules as us (meaning hetero people)? Who calls who first, the man or the man? The girl or the girl? Everything I've gathered, from literature and pop culture, says that masculine and feminine roles are assumed. So does the manly man pay for the girly man's drinks? I've had gay friends, and why I didn't ask these questions then is beyond me. I realize how ignorant I sound, but this blog is for me, my tortured conscience, and I write it without fear of reproach. SO be kind if you comment.

It was around the time I started dating my ex that my obsession with "men seeking men" hatched from the semi-fertile womb of my internet addiction. I'd type in key words that described my man: height, hair color, eye color; those things straight people rattle off when they detail their perfect mate, the very same qualifications gay men find so important. People like what they like it seems. I'd select cities, parts of Los Angeles, where my man might meet his man... I was convinced my ex was on the DL.

Now, that relationship is over. I miss him. Yet, I'm happy to be freeeee. He gave me stability, affection, a work out partner, but he also unleashed this uncanny suspicion I can't seem to shake. How do I differentiate between healthy male bonding and homosexual overtures? Why do I care? Why does the thought of someone I'm sexually interested in, secretly jacking off to the same sex, disgust me so? Am I chained by a catholic upbringing? Or some inner urge to reproduce that feels threatened by what seems an overwhelming number of "straight acting" men sucking each other off in random restrooms, which ultimately means less "cum" for me, therefore less chance to give life? Am I a jealous bitch who knows she can't compete with a man? These are my deepest most honest thoughts on the subject. Love seems to be seeping quickly out of sex every second I open my eyes. Is it really all about pleasure? Fuck whoever you want to fuck. Let your urges take you there.

This is the rocky sea of my thoughts. Let this blog me my life boat. Here I will tell the whole truth, take the PC of me, wind it tightly into a scroll, then slip it into a bottle that I'll throw out into that sea. Since the sea is me, PC will be there if I need it.

I think aspects of homosexuality are abhorable. There. I said it.

27 and not much has changed

It's been over a year since I've posted and not much has changed. I'm still broke. I'm still single (after a year long relationship that fizzled in the most confusing way). I'm still searching for side gigs to make a quick buck (while working 3 completely opposite jobs). I'm still in grad school (cept' I've gone from law to psych and back to law). I'm still scouring the internet for adventure and true love. I'm still awesome. In fact, I might actually be getting more awesome and hotter, yes, hotter, as the years go by. I'm still friends with the gigantic neighbor boy I met in traffic back in 2006. In fact, I'm house sitting for him while he's off in Japan playing basketball and paying the bills of his blonde bombshell girlfriend. Best of all, though, I'm still in Los Angeles: battling side street traffic, getting ulcers in my nose from the pollution, looking out my window at the yellow stained horizon and thinking, "Ahh, my city, it's as if the sky decided to coat you with fake tanner." What's an la summer with out the tan, right?

Tomorrow, a week ago

It was 5:30 traffic time. I was having a "I can't believe he did that" chat with my friend J, who just migrated to Boston (she's one of Harvard's research goddesses).

While stopped at a light, I looked to my right. A gleaming blue BMW with just enough tint to tantalize the imagination sat beside me. I could make out a large hand gripping the stearing wheel. Able to distinguish the beginnings of a massive forearm attached to that "have your way with me" hand I squealed in delight: "J, my darling, I have a feeling there's a very tall and very hot man in the car next to me." I'm almost 5'10 so, well, enter my fascination with men over 6'2.

J giggled. Yes, I was being silly (nothing new you'll discover).

Just as I turned to mouth "Will you marry me" to the tint and the forearms, his window rolled down. Gulp.

I'd be lying if I didn't feel a rush of "love at first sight." He was, is, beautiful.

His eyes matched the blue of his car. His hair a strawberry blond, adorned a very masculine and very sexy face. He flashed me a half smile and tickled the air between us with an "I'm too cool for you wave," just as the light said go.

Laughing (and yes, driving, paying SO much attention to the road), I recounted it all to J. "You should've seen him. G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S! But the wave said it all. 'I'm rich and hot and entirely too cool for Y-O-U.'"

Ha! Just a few streets to go and I'd be home. Home to pee stains (my roomie's dog is still a puppy) and my 8 lb. son, Hercules. Gone was the blue beamer, but J wasn't. We continued our convo until I made a quick right on my street.

We talked of her new roommates, my poor study habits, and the amazing spot I found directly in front of my house. One defines the term "Beverly Hills Adjacent" when they look for parking on the, gasp, street. No 3 car garages for this twentysomething.

As I was attempting to gingerly parallel park my aging C-230 the beautiful man in the beautiful car sped past.

"Shit J, beamer man just passed me." J and I laughed. I imagined he was off to some mansionesque model's house in Beverlywood.

After unsuccessful attempts at parking, I finally sprung out, still talking to J, in order to move a pesky garbage can obstructing my primo spot. I wasn't going to let a trash can stand between me and court side parking.

Grappling with the can and a convoluted conversation, the blue beamer whipped around and whirred towards me.

"J.... he's coming back," I murmured frightfully.

Stopping his car in the middle of R St., I gaped in disbelief. From the guts of this incredible car immerged the tallest man I've ever seen. "Are you my neighbor?" he asked, peering down from the heavans (enter cheesy dun dun DUN music).

As my eyes went from huge feet into the sky, scanning this massive man in front of me, I managed to stammer, "Um, let me call you back J."

After a mini traffic jam, wherein P and I exchanged the basic info: you know, me in the shittiest law school in Los Angeles and he having returned from a 6 month hiatus playing basketball in Japan, we agreed to a phone call minutes later and early evening cocktails.

Cocktails turned to dinner with P and my roomie M. It was one of those nights were NOTHING goes as planned. The sushi place we headed to was booked, so we ate Italian. Later there were cigarettes and a moonlight walk home combined with some not yet formed regrets. P had told me about S his roommate, who sounded perfect. S was just as tall, but a reader, writer, and thinker. Had my kiss with P ruined my chance with a man I'd never met, but who seemed like my John Galt?

25 and considering a new career: exotic dancing

When I was 15, I remember talking to my girl friends about the future. We all agreed that by 25, we'd be married with children, making more money than our parents, and happily cracking the spatula at the house keeper. There'd be private jets and tennis bracelets and stables and trips to Paris. Doing MUCH BETTER than our parents. In fact, we might even be famous.

But here I sit. In Beverly Hills adjacent. That's right, "adjacent." With a bank account no where close to the size it'd take to get me out of adjacent and into the 90210. At the lowest tier law school possible, making $13 an hour listening to stories about botched boob jobs and dirty surgical instruments, with quite a few romantic possibilities, but no contenders for "married with children," 25 is nothing like it used to be.