The Odd Couple

Vivi pops her head up as she hears a key slide into the lock of the front door. She thinks about getting up, but she's too comfortable and knows that the person on the other side will come to her. The door opens and a sweaty Francis walks through, plopping his messenger bag and camera onto the ottoman that doesn't belong next to the door.

“Hey, guy. I thought you'd be out a little later,” Gino says without looking up from this week’s copy of National Geographic.

“I forgot my water bottle at the office and didn't feel like going back. My Instagram followers can enjoy my pictures from Pride a little while longer.” Francis walks over to his boyfriend and squats down to rub Vivi’s head who's sitting on the couch next to him. “Did you feed her yet?”

“She didn't come running to the door, did she?”

“I guess not.” Francis reaches for the PlayStation controller on the coffee table. “I'm gonna see who's online real quick. Do you wanna order food and watch a movie later?”

“Sure. Whatever you're in the mood for.” Gino knew he didn't mean it, but he enjoys making his partner guess what he really wants.

Francis rolls his eyes and avoids the trap, scrolling through his short friend list. Only two people are active, and they both watching shows as usual. They might as well have bought a Roku instead, but he enjoys seeing their avatars all the time. “Actually I think I'll just catch up on American Gods.”

“You're not going to rewatch Drag Race or Battlestar Galactica for the sixteenth time?” Gino teases. Francis flashes his tattoo’d middle finger. “Can you hold off on that, though? I wanna watch it with you.”

“You just make complain about it the entire time.”

“Yeah, and I can't do that if I'm tryna finish up this article.”

“You're the worst.” Francis walks to the kitchen to grab a sparkling water and Vivi follows him. She wags her tail and waits patiently by her bowl. Francis notices her and smiles. He takes a sip from the can first before pouring a tiny bit into her empty water bowl. If he deserves the light taste of watermelon and cucumber in his hydration, why doesn't his little black terrier-mix?

“I heard that. Stop spoiling her,” Gino calls out.

“Go back to your printed media, old man.” He walks back into the living room and grabs his tablet from his messenger bag, pulling up his comics app. He strolls to the couch and stretches out across it, resting his head on Gino’s lap.

Gino looks down and rests his magazine over his boyfriend's face. “I thought you were going to stop bring work home.”

“Excuse me for liking my job. Besides, I didn't get to read everything that came out this week. I really wanna see if Ultron can take Squirrel Girl.”

“I'm sorry, Squirrel Girl?”

“Yeah. Just know she's the best and no one can't beat her.”

Gino continues to look puzzled. “So you know that Ultima can beat her then.”

“Ultron. And hey, comics love pulling twists. You never know,” Francis replied. Not caring to investigate further, Gino goes back to his article on South Africa. “So calzones for dinner?”

“I love you,” Gino leans down and kisses his partner. Vivi returns and jumps onto her master’s stomach. Francis pets her. The couple reads their material. The dog begins to float. “You really do spoil her.”

Crafty Monks

I always wondered what would have happened if I kept up with my Lego collection. They inspired me to become an architect for a year or two, but I never followed through. It would have been easy to fall into. During an art class my freshman year, I noticed a class on a ledge above the art studio being taught by a monk. They were using graphing paper and protractors and multiple types of pencils. They were designing but I couldn’t make out what of, perhaps just simple blocks, bridges, that sort of stuff. I never made it up to ask about the class; it honestly didn’t cross my mind. By that time, I started to use my Legos less. In fact, I had even given away half my collection to my best friend’s younger brother in hopes that they would inspire him more than they did me. Passion. I realized I didn’t have the passion to devote myself to such a wonderful field of math and design. Which is odd; math came so easy to me. I basically taught myself algebra and geometry. I even remember doing my pre-calc homework in class the same day it was assigned because I understood the concepts so quickly. But just because something comes easily doesn’t mean it’s worth pursuing. Some would argue that’s exactly what makes it not worth your time. Even the laziest person looks for challenges in life (like seeing how much work they can avoid doing).

That’s why I write. Granted, I hear I’m good at it. My teachers have been praising my storytelling abilities since middle school when I was inspired by medieval role playing games, but I have to consistently try. There’s no formula to good writing or stories, despite what anyone tells you. Every writing rule is meant to be broken but only at the right time, when it’s necessary or service a purpose stylistically. I have to try to get pass the voices telling me a tale I’m spinning is crap. I have to distinguish whether that voice is right or trying to hold me back. It’s a fun game, honestly. Draining but fun. Like today, I scrapped a short skit because the characters were underdeveloped, and the plot device was actually just a prop. Though, I do love the prop, so I’ll come back to it eventually. In the meantime, I think I’ll start workshopping a fantasy world featuring a mystical monk that teaches students how to craft objects with spoken math equations. It could work.

MAGA Carta, Holy Grail

Everything is black. That is until Theo busts in from the living room into the bedroom blasting Jay-Z’s apology track to Beyonce. An odd choice for a wakeup song, but I indulge him by pulling my arms from under the covers to wave them in the air like a wacky inflatable flailing tubeman.

“Yo, turn that shit off,” Fernando says with his back towards us. Theo responds wordlessly by jumping on his bed, bouncing along to the track. I can’t help but laugh as Fernando tries and fails to wrestle Theo off. “Why do you have this much energy in the morning? Shoulda never let you niggas crash on my couch.”

“Come on, get up! I’m hungry, but I’m not actually staying here. I ain’t tryna go down there by myself.” Theo was staying with our friend throwing the cookout this weekend, but when our host went home early from the bar last night Theo followed us back to our hotel room. I’m still not sure how his wife managed to book us a room at the Embassy for $54 a night, but I am eternally grateful to her. Wanting to take full advantage of this golden opportunity, I reach for my glasses on the nightstand and prop myself up. “See, Greg’s ready for this free breakfast.”

“Free for you. This included in our--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Theo interrupts. “You getting up or not?”

“I’ll meet ya’ll downstairs.”

“Yeah, ok,” I say over Jay-Z’s bars. “These beds too comfy. I think you need to drag him out.” Fernando immediately pops his head and glares at Theo with “don’t you dare” eyes, but he’s already in motion. Theo grabs his ankles and proceeds to pull. “Yaaaas! Drag him! Wait… oh shit, stop stop.” But by then it’s too late and Fernando’s on the hotel floor butt naked. “I always forget you’re a nudist when you sleep. Well, you’re up now. Put on some clothes, Tarzan.”

Fernando curses us out until we reached the breakfast bar in the lobby. Only the fresh pineapple at the start of the table is able to soothe him. From the look on his face, it seems to be a religious experience, like the juicer communion we all yearn for. He piles his plate with the fruit, barely leaving room for anything else. When we find a table to sit at, he immediately leaves to grab a bagel from the table in the corner. As I watch him throw his carbs in the toaster, I notice a white kid in a backwards red hat walk by. I gasp. “Theo, get yo manz.”

“Hey, if Fernando just wants fruit and carbs, I say let him rock. More meat for the rest of us. I know how much you love sausage.”

“That was a lazy gay joke, even for you. No, I’m talking about that kid over there next to him.” I point with a glass in my hand trying not to be too obvious, but I’m sure I failed.

“Is that…”

“A fucking Make America Great Again hat? Yeah. It’s my first time actually seeing one in person.”

“Mine, too,” Theo responds. “Damn, white people. They keep making me look bad. How long you think until Fernando notices?” And as if in a summer blockbuster comedy, it is at that moment Fernando and the kid both reach for the same packet of cream cheese. The kid immediately recoils his hand - out of fear or disgust, I’m not sure - and turns his head away, revealing the message on his hat. Fernando’s eyes bulge out in surprise. “Aw shit.”

“Ayo, my man, “ Fernando calls out. “What’s that on your head?”

It’s hard to hear the kid from so far away, but from Fernando’s over-expressive face, I decide to draw my own conclusions. “I think he just said, ‘You know what is, you fuckin’ beaner.’”

“Naw, that kid would be through the table by now. It was probably something more like, ‘It’s a hat you’d never be worthy of wearing.’ Yeah, no, he’d be through the table if he said that, too. Honestly, I’m just surprised that kid is down here by himself.”

“Especially in that hat. I mean, it’s not like it ain’t diverse down here. Actually I think we outnumber ya’ll right now. Don’t worry, I know your face so I won’t punch you by accident if a race war pops off right now.”

“Much appreciated.”

Without noticing, Fernando’s already back at our table but without his bagel. He doesn’t look too upset. “Hey… ya’ll see that kid over there in the MAGA hat?” We nod. “Well, he’s down here by himself, so I invited him to eat with us. I figured this could be a teaching moment… but then, I remember I’m fuckin’ tired. So if ya’ll could entertain his questions, that’d be great.” Before we could respond “Bruh!” he turns around and walks back to retrieve his bagel as the kid comes walking our way.   

“Five bucks this kid’s name is Timmy,” Theo whispers.

The kid sits down and doesn’t say a word to us. He just starts eating his bagel, the only thing on his plate. I decide to break the tension, “Well, hello there, you… preteen?” I look at Theo begging him to take over, but he’s not biting. “I’m Greg. This guy that looks like you is Theo. What’s your name?”

“Tommy,” he responds.

“Gotdammit,” Theo slams his hand on the table, startling Tommy. “I was close, though.”

“I know,” I say. “Who would have guessed he’d be the loud one?” Tommy laughs, letting me know he already knows a few stereotypes. “So, what’s up with your hat?”

“It’s my dad’s. He’s upstairs asleep. I’m wearing it so it’s like he’s down here with me.”

“Ah. If that wasn’t such an awful hat that’d be kinda cute.” I notice he’s starting to feel uncomfortable, so I change the subject. “Umm… hear any good music lately?”

“I’ve been listening to the new Jay-Z.”

“Whatchu know about Jay-Z, youngblood,” Theo said finally jumping in. “And more importantly, how’d you listen? I feel like your dad ain’t exactly the Tidal having type.”

“My mom put it on my phone. She likes doing things that make my dad mad. I just like listening to music. His beats are pretty dope.”

“Your mom’s pretty cool. Where’s she at?” I ask.

“She’s in New York. It’s my dad’s weekend, and he decided to show me the first state. I think I’m supposed to be learning something,” Tommy says as he eats the last of his bagel. “I should get back upstairs, though. He told me to bring him back some eggs and a coffee.”

“Oh, ok. Well it was cool talking to you, Tommy. Before you go, what’s your favorite track off that Jay’s new album?”

“The loud one. The one with him apologizing and stuff. It’s my mom’s favorite, too.” He walks to the breakfast bar. Fernando finally returns to the table.

“I’m mad you actually stayed away that whole time,” I call out. “That kid wasn’t that bad, honestly.”

“Yeah well, it was more so my payback for dragging me out of bed,” Fernando retorts. “Don’t do it again.”

“Funny enough, that kid likes the song Theo woke you up with.”

Theo throws his hands into the air. “Yes, for I am all knowing. Bow down and appreciate my music taste!” Fernando throws a piece of pineapple at Theo, but he catches it in his mouth. “Thank you for your offering, my child.”

New House, New Writing Challenge

For the past year, I’ve lived in a 10-person household. The four years prior, I lived in what was basically a 5/6-person post-grad frathouse. While I love all of my friends who have been my roommates over the years and the 10-person house’s beautiful, the whole situation was too much. 

It’s not that we were constantly on top of each other. With nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, and wildly different schedules, the common rooms were dark and quiet most weeknights. If two people were there, however, soon half the house was there. I missed the intimacy of being able to just hang with two or three people without being interrupted or feeling like I needed to exude more energy. It’s a very frustrating situation for an extroverted intervert to navigate. But honestly, that was only the surface level of my annoyance with Hotel Multiverse, as we tried to call it.

Even with all the space available, I wasn’t being creative enough. That frustrated me. I’ve come to accept that I’m easily distracted. Any time I attempted to write in my room, I’d hear voices downstairs and wander down to investigate. As the year went on, I found myself less interested in what was going on in the living room. However, instead of returning to my room to write, I’d just watch something on Netflix to assure myself I was allowed alone time. 

My main motivation for moving out of the 6-person house - commonly known as The Castle - was so that I could branch out and become more productive. When my friends found Hotel Multiverse, my stomach dropped. I should have done more to lead the charge to find a smaller home, but at the time, the recently renovated corner brownstone was too nice to pass up as all the players and pieces fell into place. Luckily, I have started to branch out into the community thanks to Baltimore in Conversation.

When the time arose to talk about renewing the lease on the Hotel, I was up front and said I wanted out. For better or for worse, nearly every other roommate was at a turning point in their 20s; it was agreed that we would disband. 

This week, three of my closest friends from Hotel Multiverse and I move into a place a few blocks down I’m temporarily calling Nerd Row. It’ll be my first time living in a row home, my first time sleeping in a bedroom that isn’t huge. Those negatives aside, I’m excited. It’ll be small and quiet, despite the beagle across the hall from my room. I foresee a good balance of work and pleasure being accomplished in my new place. Having survived the age of 27, I feel confident now to become a successful writer. (I had a dream and discovered I had a fear of the 27 Club, thanks in part to one of my best friends.) 

Recently, a new friend has been pushing me to write more. He believes in me. A lot of people believe in my abilities, but it’s nice to have a stranger give you the confidence you need to get back in the game. However, I can’t keep relying on him. I have to be a self-motivator. With that in mind, I’ve set up a challenge for myself.

Over the past year, I’ve jotted down half-baked ideas on my phone or in my notebook. Some have been expanded upon. None ever got as full a treatment as the show I wrote about my time in The Castle. So, for the entire month of July, I’m implimenting a writing challenge for myself. Let’s call it Pilot Season. Every day, I’ll be posting a new short story or script or essay based on one of my banked premises in an effort to show myself that I do have good ideas to write about. There’ll be some duds, obviously, but I think that’s part of the fun.

I have faith in this challenge mostly because I won’t procrastinate until the day-of to write everyday. In fact, I actually wrote this post two days ago. I even revised it. I know, look at me. It’s like I’m trying to be taken seriously or something.

I hope you enjoy my process during the next month. Remember, I’m like Tinkerbell: I need your applause to keep going or else Eustace will tell me I ain’t shit again and I’ll stop posting. Don’t worry; I’m working on that, too. Baby steps, you know? Til tomorrow, my good friends (and associates).

Word

I Want to Live, I Promise (Mental Health Awareness Month)

I honestly forget not everyone thinks of killing themselves. For me, suicidal thoughts are as frequent- but not as consistent - as menstruation. Maybe if it were, I'd have a better grip on it.

I forget whether it was during high school or college, but at some point, my cousin filled the gap in my hip hop knowledge with Notorious B.I.G.'s Ready to Die. She told me her favorite song was Everyday Struggle which starts with the chorus "I don't wanna live no more/sometimes I hear death knockin at my front door/I'm leaving everyday like a hustle, another drug to juggle/another day, another struggle." Beside the pusherman aspect, I related to the song as well, and it quickly became my favorite.

Everyday is truly a struggle. Some more so than others. Like knowing you should get out of bed and go to work but recognizing that even if you do you'll be useless or a danger to yourself because you might have to handle a piece of machinery and have a quick second of weakness. It only takes a second to die, you think, you can't stop yourself if you just do it fast before --.

So you call out of work and lie in bed on your phone until you get enough strength to watch self-aware cartoon characters.

But like I said, some days are easier. Those lightly days you just quit in the middle of a game with your close friends because you figure this is pointless, I'd rather do something productive like sulk in my room until I can be around people again.

I can't say I understood what I was doing until I watched FX's Legion. Without giving too much away, the main character is one of the strongest mutants ever but is convinced he is mentally ill. Whether he is or not is still to be determined, but it is discovered that he actually has a "parasite" burrowed into his psyche that has been trying to take over. Occasionally it tries to get the main character to kill himself. That's more or less what depression/suicide feel like for me.

So, let's give my parasite a name. This is actually a new exercise I'm trying out live [recorded on delay] with you all, my dear friends (and associates). Let's see, I'm gay and it's trying to screw me out of existence, so it definitely needs a male name. Eustace. Yeah, that works; I don't personally know any Eustaces.

One of Eustace's favorite pastimes is making me lose friends. He first did this the summer/fall of my college senior year. He told my high school best friend that we didn't need his moppy IMs/texts because we had other gay guys to talk to, and he exposed another close friend as a cheater knowing it would forever drive us apart. He was successful in both endeavors. Although I had other friends, they were - at the time - the two I talked the most openly with. And with my mother already shut out, also his doing, I was alone with my thoughts the way he wanted. Because Eustace is my thoughts, at least an extension of them. It's easier for him to direct me with no one else to sway me. And if everyone's upset or doesn't care about me, it's easier for him to tell me to fall down a flight of stairs or stab myself with a pair of scissors I'm using to design a prop for a karaoke performance.

I realize how alarming the last paragraph is. Don't worry, I've been admitted to a hospital before I could inflict damage upon myself (see: blog post).

I'm impressed that I'm this self aware of the hold Eustace has on me with having any professional help. I'm glad I've developed strategies to keep me alive. I'm appreciative to the friends I have around me, especially the ones I've talked to about this. Obviously he still takes hold of me. He almost kept me from blogging today. But if I sit still and breathe long enough, I can usually get through the blockades he sets up.

Thank you to all of you reading this now. I think giving him a name will help me scare him away. I guess I have a real personality to add to all the fake ones I made up as a high schooler.

Word.

The Friendzone Doesn't Exist, So How Do I Keep Finding Myself There

As a gentleman, I've never believed in the Friendzone. From its inception, it sounded as if you'd been denied something that was owed to you - as if being someone friend's entitled you to an opportunity to "shoot your shot." In reality, that's all you have: an opportunity to court someone. It's on the other person if they'd like to take you up on that offer. So if by the Friendzone you mean the feeling of dread and misery you feel while still hanging around the person that rejected you because you still feel a sexual bond with them, then I believe in that. Not only do I believe in it but I've owned several properties in this Zone.

Soon to be completing my ninth year of bachelordom, I'm no stranger to one-sided games of courtship. Let us not forget that as a gullible gay man, I've chased after an embarrassing amount of straight men. They were all so pretty and kind and interesting, how was I supposed to distinguish their openness from advances towards me? Looking back at it, very easily, but queer college kids have a hard enough time dealing with the same pool of out-people they know; it's very easy to peek back into that walk-in closet to see if there's anyone else in there.

I wish I could say these instances of sexual incompatibility were my only trips into The Zone, but you know they weren't because whining about being single is my "new" favorite pastime.

The queer gods have always played a cruel joke on me: giving me interest in guys that see me as a blob while allowing others I deem unworthy of my product to see my value. There are many reasons why a guy might say no to my advances. The classic "I'm just focusing on myself" has long been one of my favorites, for I've used it earnestly and to avoid confrontation. "You're not my type" is a harsh one to hear, but when the sexual chemistry isn't there, it's not there. Surprisingly I've never heard nor used "I just don't want to lose your friendship." Actually, that's a lie. I've used that line after a guy has told me no and I don't want him to pull away out of awkwardness.

So how do I keep finding myself in this newly accurate description of the Friendzone? Am I just overly emotional? Do I get attached to a fantasy of how our relationship could be? Am I the reason for my permanent residency? Nah, couldn't be me. For some reason, guys can't see my amazing personality or my devilish good looks or my new semi-amazing body. Why don't men realize I can make them better?

Well, I think I found the answer. Sort of. Last week I watched a comedy video from a black Frenchman on the subject. Spoiler alert: his "theory" is that we put ourselves in the Friendzone, which honestly doesn't sound too farfetched. He goes on to explain that we make ourselves too available and friendly to the person we wish to court. People enjoy mystery from a potential love interest. The more they have to work for it, the more likely they'll want to pursue it.

While I don't totally agree with the video, I can see its merits. My main tactic - after getting past my "Are you gay?" pickup line days - has always been to become someone's friend first and then see if romantic tension will arise. That's what Boy Meets World taught me to do; how could Cory and Topenga be wrong?

I've also realized that I don't leave much mystery, either. Granted, I'm fairly quiet on a day-to-day basis, but my closest friends know how much I actually talk and like to reveal about myself. As I've discovered from a recent first date, if I really like a guy, I'll divulge information I don't even discuss with my friends. It was an oddly freeing sensation. It led to the fellow asking us to just be friends, however, I got that energy from him during the date as well. That's right, my dear friends (and associates). I can feel impending friendship. It's a gift and a curse, honestly.

What I'll do with this new information, I surely do not know. All I know is that I'll continue to be friends with those that only see me as a friend while I continue my search across this growingly trendy city of Baltimore.

Word.

I Thought You Were Bi

"Hold on, let me ask you a question? If she came up and threw it at you, would you smash?" This is the question a dear friend of mine asked me when I had to pause a conversation to look at an old college friend's live Instagram stream. (I wonder how soon that reference will become dated.)

Like most gay men, I came out as bi for the first year or two of my self-realization. I had a good reason for doing this, opposed to just using it as a crutch to lean into my homosexuality. My Facebook status literally read "Charles Clark is BIG minus the G." for a month; I wasn't messing around.

As I've told many people, I was heavily influenced by Boy Meets World as a child. I can remember searching for a Topenga of my own as young as four years old. This quest would continue into my high school years, an all boys private preparatory. But alas, we had a sister institution: an all girls private school.

My junior year - the first year I questioned and experimented with my sexuality - I entertained a girl from my sister school during our joint production of Guys and Dolls. My friends, not knowing the thoughts running through my head, called her my Big Titty'd Fling. Sadly, it turned out to be just that as I stopped talking to her after the show's run concluded. I felt an odd sense of jealousy when a friend started dating her a month later, but somehow I knew she wasn't actually the girl for me.

A year and a girlfriend later, I entered college and allowed it to be the playground of sexuality it was meant to be. I talked to a religious girl I instantly connected with the first two months until I revealed I was bisexual and she couldn't accept it. I slept with other gay men on campus because primal urges were real. I dry humped an older female friend because, again, primal urges were real.

This woman had always intrigued me. Though she was known for getting around, I didn't care. Early on, I knew a person's body count didn't define them, especially if they were smart and safe about it. We connected on a personal level. We shared many inside jokes, a few secrets. It felt as though the myth about sniffing out a person with an opposite immune system from you to build stronger offspring was true. But the timing was never right. Either she had a boyfriend, or I had decided I was full gay and didn't want to turn back.

That's right. I made a conscious decision after my sophomore year to just be a gay man. If I remember correctly, Kinsey and his scale proclaimed that no one is wholly heterosexual or homosexual. With this in mind, I settled on calling myself a 5 on the 0-6 scale. Why then, if I recognized I had some sort of attraction to women, would I shut myself off from engaging in coitus with them completely?

This is the part where I can hear my mother say, "Well, if you could choose to be straight, then why don't you?"

There are many factors that went into this decision, the most obvious being peer pressure. Not that they might have been fully outright in saying it, but the gay men I interacted with my freshman year of college thought bisexuality to be a joke. To them, all dudes on the "down low" were actually just gay men trying to seem more masculine and fit into society. I never dealt well with being in opposition - even less so then - so I quietly let my bisexuality fall to the wayside. Honestly, having dealt with the religious woman who dumped me before we technically started dating, I believed I was saving myself from future headaches.

To be totally transparent, the female anatomy never did much for me. Sure, I love a good pair of breasts, but the more worldly I become, the more I find that most people regardless of gender, sex, and orientation love breast. Besides, the first time I was a vagina in person, I labeled it as meat curtains (trademark pending); granted this was at a strip club, but still. The handful of women I've actually been attracted to, it was because of their personalities. I loved their brain and not in the N.E.R.D. way.

For a while, I considered myself a panromantic - someone not limited by gender or sex in the romantic attraction I felt for them - but I got enough random boners and crushes on men walking down the hallway to know that was a lie.

Still, I can feel my mother nagging at me, "Well, that could still be enough to make dating a woman work."

Sometime last year I met a trans man and wondered if he was gay. There surprisingly wasn't a curiosity about the unknown, just a genuine physical attraction I felt towards another man. Something about that moment made me sure about who I was.

After pausing for a second, I finally answered my friend who asked about the woman on Instagram. "You know, I would try. Honestly, I would; I just don't think my other head would cooperate. I suppose I'm just an appreciator of seemingly effortless beauty and confidence. And damn, she's got it." No, really what I said was, "She's bad (in a good way), but naw. I just recognize her diva." And with that, I continued my residency at the token gay of that group.

Word.