Tug of War

My boyfriend and I are currently embroiled in a silent clash of wills, an intense battle on the position of the two vases in our bathroom window. I move the vases, he moves them back. This has been happening for the past two weeks, neither of us mentioning a word to each other.

We had just bought the vases from Pier One, on a fabulous after-Christmas sale. I almost creamed in my pants then, but I thought if I waited, I could do it in my boyfriend's face instead. I ran through the store grabbing everything that was marked down 40% or more.



I mean, decorating is what defines gay people. I once broke up with a guy because I couldn't stand his apartment. The guy was pounding me from behind. I should be enjoying myself but all I could think about was how bad the sponge-painting was, especially right where my face was pressed against the wall; the sponging was too far apart. If one were planning to skimp on paint, I suggest that one shouldn't attempt any of the faux finish techniques. The results are just too pathetic and cruel.

I am a slave to decorating. I so enslaved, the Thirteenth Amendment couldn't set me free.

Once, in a fit of self-loathing, I decided to check out the Ex-Gay ministry, which is a group of people who claim that they have successfully de-gayed themselves and are now living "normal" lives. I went through a month of intense prayer. As I knelt down and bowed my head, it made me think. This feels strange, to be in this position and not have a gloryhole in front of me.

I became introspective. What I found when I was looking inside myself was not pretty: there was a ball of lint inside my belly button. How long has that been in there? The introspection made me really think about life. I found that I was vain and incredibly self-absorbed. I made a promise to myself that when I got out, I would change my life. I would start by getting plastic surgery on my belly button. I never realized how ugly my semi-outie was.

A month later, I was out. I felt changed, free.

However, that night, as I was preparing the garnish on my coq au vin, I realized--waitaminute--I'm still gay! That was garnish in my hands! Watercress! There were scented candles burning! Even if I didn't have sex with another man ever, I'M STILL GAY. I realized then, if Jesus wanted them to be straight, he would have taken away my power to carve a carrot into a flower; remove my ability to artfully arrange fruit in a bowl; suppress my desire to redecorate when I walk into a room.

Yep, decorating's in our blood. Our lesbian sisters are probably content to put up a movie poster of Bound or Ani DiFranco records or frame the license plate of their first pick-up truck and be done with it. I am jealous of their ability to use a kitty condo to decorate any space.

And we know who's in charge in married couples. When they move in together, women keep their men in thrall using sex. It is quite awhile before the men realize half of their shit's gone. The men wake up one day and ask their wives, "where's that little [atrocious piece of furniture] that I used to have?" "Oh, it's in storage." What she really means is that it's permanently stored in a landfill.

But for gay couples, decorating is a constant tug-of-war, especially if you have different tastes. There are just so many possibilities, so many aesthetic directions and only one living room to express it in. One must bend to the other's will or there will be a hissy fit of incredible magnitude.

And those gays in three-way leather relationships, or as I call it, Two Men and a Free Housekeeper--they're doomed. I'd like to be a fly in the wall when the houseboy/love slave/bootlicker, decides that he's sick of just dusting and paints the dungeon a nice, sunny bright yellow. There will be massive hair-pulling.

It's no different with me and my boyfriend. Every time I go into the bathroom, I notice that the two vases sitting on the window sill have moved. The change is very subtle, you wouldn't notice it unless you've been scrutinizing them for the past week. These vases have no practical purpose, there's no reason for them to move. It's not like we're talking about my penis pump.

My boyfriend likes the vases side-by-side, symmetrically placed. I prefer them to be slightly overlapping each other, like valentine hearts, chopsticks or Siamese twins.

Yesterday, when I walked into the bathroom, I noticed that the vases have moved yet again. Fine, I thought, you win. Even though I'm not happy with it, I left the vases unmoved. I figured, I'm in a relationship. I really should pick my battles.

As I sat there taking a shit, I noticed the three blue jars lined up in a row on top of the linen closet. I thought it would look better if I moved the two of them closer together and the third slightly apart, like a guy cruising a gay couple for a three-way. Even though I wasn't finished shitting yet, I stood up and moved the jars.

Game on, I thought. Game on.

Dearly Departed

The Top Bunk

My friend Scott spent the past weekend bitching about how there were so few "quality tops" in town for a ravenous bottom such as he. I am not really sure how he defines "quality." Since he’s already fucked everybody in town, I think all he’s looking for is a cock to stuff his ass--personality or personal hygiene be damned.

I made a comment that maybe he should consider a change and be the top for awhile. His panties got all in a bunch; he said that he was a bottom through-and-through and he was damn proud of it. If anybody needs to change, it was me and my scornful attitude towards bottoms. He commented that my attitude towards bottoms was thinly veiled misogyny because bottoms are commonly viewed as the "feminine" partner.

Some of you, as Scott did, may point out that my 'panties in a bunch' comment is proof of this, since it is disparaging of women. But I defended my position by saying I have nothing against women, just those who wear underwear. Panties are so uncivilized and unsanitary, next thing you'll be telling me is that women are still having periods (although probably not Terri Schiavo because she was in a coma*).

However, it did make me consider my position on this issue, philosophically and literally.

But before that, for those of you who are unfamiliar with these terms I will briefly explain them here:

Top – the insertive partner, the "fucker"
Bottom – the receptive partner, the "fuckee"

There are also some claims about the existence of the all-powerful Versatile Ones, where they can be tops or bottoms at will--although mostly it seems to be like myth or legend or rumors of Anna Nicole Smith's career.

To add some more confusion here, in sadomasochistic circles, a top is defined to be the dominant one and the bottom, the submissive, regardless of insertion. I think we can safely say that Dubya is Cheney’s bitch and I mean that in a totally un-ironic way.

Some tops seem to think that being a top is some sort of career. Let me tell ya, sticking an appendage into a hole is not a career. Besides, the closest job was already taken by a little Dutch boy who stuck his finger into the dike and saved his village (although I hear he grew up near the Warmoesstraat). Hell, I didn't see any tops come forward when Katrina hit Louisiana. Maybe New Orleans wouldn't have been flooded.

Bottoms aren't any better, especially the ones who call themselves "aggressive bottoms." They are so demanding. It's "fuck me harder, fuck me hard, FUCK. ME. HARD. DER." all the time. All the screaming and moaning seriously makes me go limp. I'd like for you to shut up when I am fucking you. And if you could shut up when I am watching TV and eating dinner too, that would be just peachy.

People also argue about whether it’s the guy on the top bunk or the bottom bunk who is in charge in sex. Tops feel that they're in charge, well, quite simple-mindedly, because they're on top. Bottoms think they're in charge because they have to give the "permission." Plus, they can bitch a lot longer. I happen to think it's the one whose name is on the lease.

Me? I’ve been a top and I've been a bottom. Once, a guy asked me which position I preferred. "What business is it of yours, motherfucker?" I replied. "This is a $25 blowjob. If you want conversation, that will be another $50."

If I were honest, I would say that I liked the position where I am not paying the rent, whichever position that would be.

But I think we all agree that top or bottom, there are benefits to being either. I mean, it's a good thing anal sex feels sooo good because, you know man: shit? It's disgusting.

In matters of love and lust, what does it matter which position you play? You do the dishes; he walks the dog. You're in charge of all things plumbing; he supervises the gardening. You cook him dinner; he cleans out your bank account, kidnaps your dog and runs off with the gardener. Of all the daily battles you have with your beloved, being the fucker vs the fuckee soon fade into insignificance.

In either position, we have our crosses to bear, even though we may not like them. A close friend once complained to me about how his partner was a big ole nag, and I said to him, "well that's what you get for being in a relationship with a horse." He was into bestiality.

You do what it takes to make the relationship work. And it's hard, man. They don't tell you this stuff in gay Charm School; all they teach you is how to color-coordinate your outfits. You have to learn this the hard way, just like the way you learned how to give a proper blowjob: through experience, and the pain of knowing what it feels like to have teeth scraping on your cock.

You learn that you make compromises. You learn new roles, new ways to make it work. Even if that means you have to take it in the ass once in a while.

Just don't forget to douche.


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*Comma, get it? :P

The Freedom to Fart

I once dated a guy who forbade me to fart. I had to hold my fart and go to what he deemed to be an authorized farting location, you know, like a bathroom or downwind from any human being or 15 feet from the state line.

I felt like how smokers must feel nowadays: shunned, frowned upon, a second class citizen. I imagine what it's like to be a second class citizen; it must be hard. They must suffer from low self-esteem. I make a mental note to myself that the smoking section would be a good place to try to pick up guys, if I ever became single.

True Love isn't the flowers, the diamond ring or a generous pre-nup agreement. You know you've got True Love when you have the ability to freely expel intestinal gas through the anus. You know you've found the right guy when you can fart freely and often.

I think most straight guys don't even think about this in a relationship. They watched their fathers fart loudy in front of their mothers; guffawing as their wives futilely admonish them. They grew up, walking around, kings of their castle, a dark, smelly cloud trailing behind them, the peasants--I mean, their families--choking in their wake.

And women, I don't know how they can hold it in. Women are not allowed to fart EVER. I feel like we need to tie a string around their ankles, because eventually, they would float around like a balloon from holding in all those gases. Or better yet, use the string hanging from their tampons.

Can you imagine if a woman was allowed to fart? It would change the world. Of course women complain that their husbands or boyfriends don't understand them! How can they? Maybe if the women put a cork in their men's asses for one day, maybe men can begin to understand women.

I think the reason why Muslim women are happy to wear a full burqua, a garment which covers them from head to toe because underneath it, they can fart freely. Think of it, a burqua muffles the sound of a fart and the odor doesn't escape. Underneath those veils, those women must be smiling.

But gay men, we're in that middle zone where you're not a straight man nor a woman. It this middle ground, we are trapped by society, by prejudice, by the heavy weight of our accessories. When we fart, we must do so artistically. Our farts have to play a tune, from a hit Broadway musical, an opera or maybe a little jaunty ringtone. In fact, I knew a guy who told me he could fart in a pitch-perfect E. You could tune a guitar to it. Or a skin flute.

Having the freedom to fart is a wonderful thing. Suddenly, the world is your oyster--and the world can smell the oysters you had for dinner.

Of course, there are unfortunate (or fortunate) side-effects of having the freedom to fart: it becomes harder to remember when it is impolite to fart. You begin to forget your manners.

I remember when my boyfriend and I were first allowing ourselves to fart in front of each other, we would apologetically say "oops, sorry!" when a fart escapes. Now it's more like "Thaaar she bloooows!"

It becomes even more difficult in public. The fart is out of the bag, so to speak, how does one stuff it back in? You find yourself unconsciously farting and trying to escape the stench even as it follows you around as if it was a begging dog and you had a treat in your pocket. A real dog though, would die within seconds from even a small whiff.

Why is that? Why can't we leave farts behind? Why do they follow us? No matter how fast I try to run away from a fart, it usually follows me for at least until somebody is within whiffing distance.

I pray I don't ever have to be single again. The pain of having to hold in a fart could be more painful than that of a broken heart...