I ate a back street boy!

There are in my opinion several variations of the gay gene. Some gays are born with looks and style and a drive to maintain physical perfection. I hate you bitches. There are some that just have a charm and finesse that they just get everything they want. They usually need minimal effort to maintain small waists and possess just enough definition to attract everyone. Then there are those who have all the wit and cleverness that they become the beacon of what is culture fashion theatre or other wise. Then there are the unfortunate averages like me who toil to be on of the attractive side have a decent pinch of the wit.
I believe I'm in the average category. I know I'm witty and can be charming and I am intelligent but I've never really had the fashion sense nor the body. I did at one point and I worked very hard for it. I'm naturally just average but I discovered that high protein, low carb diets with 2-3 hours of cardio a day gave me a 31" waist. I threw in some push ups and a couple hundred crunched and sit ups and viola I had a washboard stomach. Now I know my good featured, 2 years on my HS fencing team (unsheathe gay joke here) gave me great legs and the half Rican half Italian packs quite a caboose on me but the chest and waist is a struggle. More so due to the fact that I was rather heavy when I was twenty, I think I ate one of the back street boys. The funny thing is that when I discovered my 1 drug of choice exctacy I didn't have to do as much cardio during the day. I would just dance from Friday to Sunday and not eat. Then I discovered I could eat whatever I wanted because it was never more then 4 days away till my next fast.
Even though I'm no where near as big as I once was nor as emaciated as I once was I have a hard time seeing myself as anything but fat. Now I get the bug to exercise but the addict in me that wants to check out knows that if I really push myself I can feel all sorts of great effects from over doing it. For instance the runners high, I love that high but my left hip and knee does not.
This is to remind myself that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to like losing eight inches off my waist without the use of drugs so if you hear me complaining when I get back from Tennessee just tell me to shut up and take a walk! I continue to accomplish my short term goals and I need to acknowledge that a acceptable waist size needs to be a long term goal that I can do!

The Velvet Rope/A Stir of Echoes

This is a journal entry I made in Jan or 2003 while at the Manhattan Family Court Building getting a ‘Restraining Order’ against my mother.

There are repressed memories, and there are memories you simply choose to forget. Today has made me wish they were repressed. Maybe then this flood of history wouldn’t be drowning me. I remember as a child sitting in the Bronx Family Court House while my mom would make attempts to force child support arrests on my Father, or sometimes taking matters into her own hands for my grandmother to get “Orders of Protection” against my uncle.

When I was younger they still had the red velvet ropes, just like the movie theatres, but even when they switched to the more functional nylon pull cords it didn’t change the ending. A subpoena that was never served an ‘OP’ that got lost in a drawer; court date forgotten. I can still walk the halls of that court house and not get lost. The layout the procedures never left me. The first floor was ok I knew the guards; they were always nice to me. Adults always noticed me as a child. They knew I was to quiet to calm. I think it must be unsettling to see someone so small and young and know they’re studying you. I know as an adult when I see children do this it scares me.

After passing security we would reach the giant lobby/waiting room that to my five year old height was big enough to play baseball in. However the tall ceilings and marble floors were covered with wooden benches and filled with women and children and some men. The voices carried and echoed in this giant room so everyone always seemed way too loud. (Maybe that was just due to being so low to the ground) I always made sure to bring a toy and learned to just bring one as to not have to share. I would think to myself in a 5 years vocabulary ‘why does she have to subject me to this? I can’t stand these people I can’t stand these other children all you are too rambunctious, don’t you know I’m above all this?” I would always wish that one of the nicely dressed lawyers would find me and decide to take me home to what I imagined was his big colonial house with a picket fence and his photographer wife, where she would always take pictures of me running and playing in the yard with our 2 German Sheppard’s and I’d have a awesome big brother that would teach me sports or a little brother that I would be awesome to. Then while I was sitting around that big lobby if anyone asked I could just tell them “Oh no I’m not like you I’m here with my dad he works here, he’s a Lawyer you know the one that just sent your crazy mom or dad to jail!”

Don’t get me wrong there were some people I would meet that I was able to tolerate. We’d find each other; all you had to do was look for it. I called it the gleam of despair. That loud wish in our eyes to be anywhere but here. We were the ones trying not to speak too loud so that the stupid people didn’t try to converse with us or even worse want you to play with their even dumber children. Like I said for the most part I just tried to stay to myself.

Nothing is as unproductive as a day in family court. It’s a day in your life you never get back; if you’re late arriving you wait till the judges return from lunch and you except defeat. Defeat always left a bad taste in my mouth. As everyone exits to grab a bite you’re left with three types of stragglers. The new arrivals that got there very late and had already ate, the truly pitiful that can’t afford to go buy lunch and worse of all is the category I fell into; the people that snuck in their lunch, either out of laziness to take a walk or like my mom conniving and manipulative. She would try to flirt with a guard of court officer to be pushed up on the list so that she would be next. Now while she would stroll around with her shoulders arched back to make her already arousing figure even more noticeable (she was quite the fem fatale in her day) I would be left eating a sandwich and an apple in front of the lady with three kids and no lunch. I was suffering from ‘onlychilditus’ would not eat so that I didn’t have to be stared at or worse share. This backfired a few times, when my mom would return from flirting she’s find my uneaten food and donate it to the unfortunate as a way to thank who ever was supposedly keeping an eye on me.

My mother always seemed to get along with these ladies; I think because she truly believed she had it just as bad yet she seemed to love knowing that they thought she was better then them. Then again my mother has the ‘ism’ as well so I supposed that was just her way of needing to feel ‘part of’.

Crystal Clarity

Isn’t it weird that for most of the world the word crystal means something beautiful, glamorous and mystifying? I still think that all that holds true still. In fact I have a ball of crystal right here on my desk. It’s my quartz crystal ball from Brazil.

I used to tell myself that crystal helped me focus and accomplish my goals. It did at first. It helped delay the night terrors and gave me a false sense of everything. It even was beneficial of helping overcome my fears. I was convinced I could do anything I set my mind to. “Brain surgery anyone?”

Through out my youth I have been recognized for my writing skills many times. I’ve won awards in elementary school, praise from High School teachers that tried to get me to submit my essays to competitions, I have even had work published in highly respectable newspapers under other peoples names. The people pleaser in me is always more then willing to give away my skills for a simple ‘thank you’ and pat on the shoulder. (How else did you think I filled up these buckets with resentments’ I carry?)

I’ve always known I’ve had something to say just never really sure what to say so instead I lived my life adventure after adventure each destination leading into another and so on and so on... Well most adventures turned into calamities and all the stops along the way have been the cobblestones on my path of good intention, and we all know where those lead.

In my recovery I’ve had sober eyes to look back on and see that I’m more then the footprints of my past. I’m the conscience choice of every step plus the sum of them. Many lead right into the next but I have made a lot of course alterations. I always say “Gravity Obstacles’ & Destinations” but I have lost count of how many times have I rested on the rocks of difficulty out of laziness only to find out that I was closer to an previous path. My history is littered with me throwing in the towel or better yet not even putting up the effort of the fight.

I don’t regret every choice I’ve made, I don’t think I’d be human if I didn’t regret some things. Either way I choose to go forward. There is a saying “a thief with no opportunity to steal considers himself an honest man” I interpret that to mean that people can ignore they’re character defects if there is no opportunity to act out on them. I am an addict I make a conscious decision everyday to not get high. So what does that make me?

I can look back now and see that I have quite a tale to tell. I’ve lived many lives and worn many hats. Sometimes my memory is hazy about details but for the most party my recall is pretty accurate. I may mess up a date or the chronological line of events but I remember the feelings I had and a lot of the things I’ve done and that’s a burden in and of its self. They say one of the curses of addiction is a great memory!

Psycho some addict! I'm out of control!

Lately I've been eating all my feeling. All my emotions are in correspondence with a 'Ben & Jerry's' flavor (my fav chubby hubby) I was at a meeting last night that focused on relationships intimacy & sex in recovery and the speaker (a good friend of mine) repeated something that I have been dealing with. Where do we recovering tweakers’ seek out safe consensual partners? The speaker and I agree that we feel that we get all the intimacy we need from the rooms. I can say that there are few subjects that are off topic with me and most people know my story. Let's face facts if you're reading this blog you know I leave little to the imagination. (Terence would like me to go into detail about our sex life but I think that's an entirely different blog) unless of course I declare myself a sex addict. As much as I identify with the 14 characteristics of sexual compulsion I can't say that I'm a sex addict. Don't get me wrong I LOVE SEX but hey I still got 10 days left to 'NO SEX' and I've made it this far, no point of quitting now. Besides I think you have all come to love the love I give you via my blog.
Back to the dating pool; so what pond do I dip my worm in? I went to meeting last week In another fellowship and the first was great the second scared the shit out of me. It was just a different exp then what I'm used to. Both were full of recovery but I'm pretty well known in the 12 step circles so I think that was why at the first one I didn't get that new comer welcome with a billion numbers and business cards being handed to me as though I just walked in looking like porn star, smiling naked, lubed and ready to go. (Sweet fantasy rescues me!) Nope instead I ran into several people I know that know me and ended up surrounded by women. I love my gurls but maybe it was just a bad call on my part. I don't plan to abandon my fellowship I totally owe my life to it (trust me I was a mess) but I love my fellows too much to risk spoiling the healthiest relationships I've ever had. Now I won't pretend like I don't have my crushes trust me I do! There are quite a few hottie pataties' and I'd love to do some cardio step work with. One thing I've managed to do very well is keep a distance from anyone I have romantic interests in and keep a safe distance from people that I've had "relations" with while I was still active. There is one in particular that I see all the time and we both have really done well in the program putting time together. And yes I was totally crushing on him for a long time after so I knew for my own recovery I needed to keep a safe distance. Especially since he was my go to fantasy whenever I found myself, Mono Han Solo. The funny thing is as much as he was my fantasy future husband it was totally based on the hot sex we had. Granted I think I've been very capable of picking out some diamonds in the ruff and he totally falls into that category. I can always tell who are good people, that are just sick and suffering when I was out using. There is something in people’s voices and eyes I could see (when my eyes weren't crossed) and hear (when I wasn't hearing helicopters). So yes I've watched him recover and become this beautiful sober person that now I actually love for who he is and I know that he is more of a brother then a husband. Not that I'd say no to some incestual behavior ;) Ok 1, 2, 3, now back to me! A saying I picked up from a friend I recently made from another fellowship.

So I realized that maybe it’s not something I'm missing in my soul but possibly my diet. When I started my 90 in 90 no sex I was taking a multi vitamin and trying to be active and eat healthy. I also started attending a 4 week class to assess where I was at to go back to school. When I started the class I stopped taking the vitamin and I think that in the last week I must have depleted some mineral complex and that was what triggered the massive appetite and the hunger triggered a sense of loneliness cause I started taking the vitamin again and I'm starting to feel much better, but maybe that's just the addict in me needing to know I'm ingesting something that will make me feel better. I'll tell you what though if in 15 months sobriety I've learned to pop a multi-vitamin instead of popping out a pipe and it takes a brain freeze detox to realize I'm eating too much ice cream I'm doing pretty damn good!

‘X’ things I hate about U2

Where do I begin to express how nauseas I am at this moment? Is it due to the void I keep trying to putty over with ice cream? I know Misery loves company, and why is Joy so obnoxious, are they the epitome of ‘frenemies’? They are the salt and pepper one reserved table of bitterness I sit at. I just want some sugar in my bowl some sweetness down on my soul! What’s the matter Daddy? I’ll tell you my neighbor and his boyfriend are celebrating their ONE MONTH anniversary with an ice cream cake. (You’re damn Skippy I cut a big fucking piece off for myself.) Now again I love them I’m happy they are together. I think they are good together and good for each other but I think I’m allergic to them.

1. They are a cute interracial couple (Can we be more cliché?)
2. They pout when they’re not around each other
3. They have no idea what the either one’s name is. “Baby” “Yeah Baby”
4. They feel the need to tell me how much they care about the other
5. They are still in that lets just be naked all the time faze still
6. They think PDA’s are completely appropriate on the subway (the whole ride)
7. They pity the single people “you’ll meet someone”
8. They don’t know what white noise is (music to drown out the moaning)
9. They are using my lube and I have no reason to demand it back
10. They can eat as much ice cream as me and actually burn it off!

I know love and relationships always look good from the sidewalk when you’re window shopping. I used to have a hard time picking outfits out. I would find a cute top or bottom and not know what to do with it. Then I discovered I could find the said top or bottom on a mannequin and find the matching counterpart. This sounds good but the mannequins are plastic and are designed so that everything looks good on them. So the cute piece you pick out from your own taste may not really work on you with anything where you’re shopping. So as hard or as easy as you try to look like everyone else it just may not work.

Can you believe that in the late ‘90’s in NYC someone thought it was a good idea to deliver boxes of wine to college dorms?

So recently via conversations with strangers I was reminded of how often I try to decide which of my toes taste better. If you couldn’t figure that out let me elaborate. I have a proven track record of putting my foot in my mouth. Sometimes I choose to mumble just because I don’t even comprehend what I’m saying. Now its not that I’m a ‘Timmy’ a ‘Helen’ or a ‘Mental Midget’ I’m just me, a very well balanced version of the three. I speak without thinking; I can be completely blind to my surroundings, and sometimes how no idea what’s going on around me.

This was abundantly clear to me after Y2K. I had turned 21 and discovered the Kozmo’s and Urban Fetch services and spent a large portion of time in my ex’s dorm. I being the first one in the group of age would order boxes of wine. Three white wines, and three red. Till this day (even though I haven’t drank in over 15 months) red wine always gives me a hangover. I always had to drink as much as possible to get just a little loose and feel on even playing ground with the Fordham kids. Paul put a quote wall on his door and every time someone said something worth writing down up it went. Now there were some really good one liners considering we were all watching Dawson’s Creek and Felicity and arguing over Fiona Apple versus Annie DiFranco. (Sorry Jen I still stand by my Fiona I think I could write a short story from each of her songs and parallel it with my own life.) BTW Tori Amos’s new album so far so not worth the wait. For the record I never liked Dawson’s Creek, a bunch of 20 somethings pretending to be 15 walking around with thesauruses (Don’t even get me started on Katie Holmes) arguing over virtue and false virginity.

Back to the quote wall, I know I made it up there more then once do to comments like "Its not that I mean to say stupid things, it's that I don't mean what I say to sound stupid!" Now this insanity was very common from me when I was sober and can you imagine what I sounded like with a box of wine? I am very glad that I can use the “I can’t remember I was drunk!” excuse on a lot of the shit that came out of my mouth. I vaguely recall going out drinking with co-workers one night and getting shit faced. I just needed to numb out and before I knew it I was in Terence’s dorm room tasting that metallic flavor you get in your mouth after puking. The next morning I did recall opening the cab door as it was driving and up chucking a trail of liquor from 9th Ave to 10th Ave. I even remember the cab driver yelling at me. The thing is when you’re inebriated things sound fine in your head it’s that when they come out my mouth they’re all garbled and don’t make sense. More then just not being comprehendible I get mean and nasty. I’ve been referred to as a real CUNT when I’m drinking. I’m not even gonna repeat what I said to Paul cause in my mind three sheets to the wind mind I was convinced that something else was happening so I said something in an attempt to be funny that came out rude crude and just wrong. (REALLY SUPER SORRY PAUL)

Here’s why I’m always putting my foot in my mouth. I am constantly running an inner dialog and sometimes I say things not realizing I didn’t verbalize the thought process I had just before coming up the comment I make. So if I say something that doesn’t make sense to you don’t take it personal. It’s really a compliment, it means I’ve included you in my thoughts and thought I shared them with you before I spewed my nonsense.

Did you know I have my own Gerbil Story?

‘C’ is for cookie its good enough for me! We’ve all had our first pet and I’m sure we all have very fond stories to go with them. How they were named the funny tricks they did or in my case how blatantly they pegged you as a flaming homosexual.

Let me take you guys back 25 years ago. The year was 1984. The original Terminator: staring Linda Hamilton and Arnold Schwarzenegger. BTW I just saw Terminator: Salvation AWESOME!!!

There are two defining moments of moments of my life when I turned 5yrs old in March of ’84. The first is that I decided that I would no longer call my mother Mommie because I was a big boy now. I said “Mom I can’t call you Mommie anymore. I have to call you Mom now cause I’m a big boy!” And till this day the only time I say “Mommie” is if it is followed by “Dearest”. You know what? It’s funny cause its true. Ask anyone who’s met my mother she’s the love child of Fidel Castro and Joan Crawford. And she suffers from Stockholm syndrome and tries to pass it on like it’s a freaking ginger snap. But I digress!
The second right of passage for turning 5 was that I got my first pet. My Aunt Lu got me the cutest cuddliest creature any gay man could want, A GERBIL!

I loved my Gerbil. I named him Cookie Monster after my favorite character on Sesame Street I just wished he was Blue. Now we all know about the perils of gerbil asphyxiation in the gay culture. Urban legend or not, I can honestly say I killed my Cookie Monster within weeks of turning 5, but it’s not what you think. Okay so it was due to a lack of air but not the way you’re thinking.

My Uncle Mike told this little 5 year old “Gerbils loved the water and could swim really well. You should fill up the bathtub and throw him in there. He’ll love it!” (BTW I still hate my Uncle Mike and this is just one reason why) So one Saturday morning I wake up while Joan Castro was still asleep and I decided to give Cookie Monster that bath. I filled up the bathroom sink and gently released CM in the warm water. He flailed around and swam from side to side back and forth with no way to pull himself out of the water. I only filled the sink halfway. After a few minutes he started getting tired and dunking under the water only to start thrashing again, till finally his tired little legs could not tread water anymore.

My five year old mentality had no concept of death or drowning or that I had even put his life in peril. I thought he just fell asleep in the pool. So I scooped him out of the water and placed him on the bathroom rug. I poked him and nudged him attempting to wake him back up but nothing worked. Starting to panic about how I’d explain this to my dictator I grabbed a box of band-aids and tightly suppresses CM to the rug. Then as diplomatically as I could I stirred the beast all while retaining my dignity. “Mom” I said. “Mom, Cookie Monster fell asleep when I gave him a bath.” Finally after a minute or two of nudging she woke up. “What! You gave him a bath? Did he get loose?” not quite following what I was trying to explain to her. (Funny 25 years later and she still doesn’t listen to a word I say!) “No! Look!” I say as I pulled her towards the bathroom.

Now here’s one of Mommie Dearest’s shining moments in my life, so as much as we don’t get along I have to give her credit how she swung into action. “OMG Tommy what did you do! I think he’s dead. You drowned him.” She said to me as she peeled him off the rug. “But can’t you wake him up, Mommy?” (Ha I’m good aren’t I the master manipulator) I say this to her with the most child like manner I can muster. I really don’t know what drowned or dead means at 5 years old but I could tell it wasn’t good, but I think the ‘mommy’ really got on her good side. Before I knew it she was resuscitating CM. pressing his little chest up and down and I think she even blew into his mouth. Before I knew it he was coughing up water and starting to blink his eyes. “HE’S AWAKE!” I squealed. Joan Castro to the rescue.

“You can’t keep CM” was the next thing she said to me. He was dried off and put back in his cage. My Aunt Lu came over the next day and took CM home with her. He lived there with my Aunt and Nana for the rest of his short life. About a year later he got out of his cage and one of my Nana’s cats killed him. So either way I killed him once and the cat got him the second time. Who knew gerbils’ have 2 lives?

Till this day when ever I smell cedar I think of Cookie Monster and wish he would have caused some internal bleeding in my Uncle.